Page 25 of Thicker than Water
“Celine,” Tudor says sharply. His words break me out of my reverie. He stands over the girl’s body, blood dripping from his fangs and chin.
“Yes,” I reply, kneeling down beside her. I pick a wound that’s already bleeding, close to her wrist. The delicious ambrosia of her blood is renewing, filling me up. But it only whets my appetite.
I can hear the thrumming of the bartender’s heart, beating quickly as she watches me drink. A thought crosses my mind that I wish it wereherblood I was drinking. With effort, I push the desire away. I have to focus on the task at hand.
Soon, the girl’s pulse is gone. She’s completely drained of blood. Lifeless. From out of the corner of my eye, I see the bartender put a hand to her mouth, but she doesn’t make a sound.
Tudor looks at me, his mouth stained red. Then he raises his wrist to his lips and bites, his fangs piercing the delicate skin. His blood is thick and smells rich and complex. It drips lazily from his vein. He takes the girl’s limp head in his other hand and puts his wrist against her mouth.
He’s deliberate and practiced, and the dark liquid quickly starts to fill her body. I sense a stirring within her, although her heart ceased beating several minutes ago. It’s a power outside the natural order of life. One much older than this hotel, this city, this country. A sort of magic that’s haunted mankind since the dawn of time.
I rise, circling my Creator and his newest progeny. The bartender turns to me, her eyes rimmed with red.
“How long will it take to work?” she asks.
“If it works, it could be several hours.”
She looks at me anxiously. “If?”
I shrug. “Most times it doesn’t take.”
“Mosttimes?”
Tudor takes his wrist from the girl’s mouth, and licks it. It stops bleeding, and the wound knits into a clean line. It will heal over the course of the night. Then he picks the girl up like she’s a rag doll. Her eyes stay shut, but her nose wrinkles slightly, and her lips tremble. The bartender exhales, putting a hand to her chest.
“I’ll go ahead,” I say. “And make sure no one is watching.”
“Good. And you,” Tudor looks to the bartender, “will tell no one what you saw here.”
She nods. Her fear is enough to convince Tudor that she’s not a concern. Besides, he’s got other things on his mind. Like the Hecate witches.
I can’tbelievehis suspicions were true.
This is going to change everything.
THE DAWN IS BREAKING
Amara
I keep dreaming about that night. The girl’s limp head, a halo of crimson blood staining the carpeted floor. Tudor’s sharp fangs, how they pierced her skin like butter. Celine’s eyes, watching me so stoically.
Is this what it’s like, the life of a vampire mafia boss? Such cold disregard for human life.
And yet, she saved Hallie.
Ortriedto save her. I don’t know what happened after they took her body away. And I haven’t seen Celine since. At least, I haven’t seen Celine when she’s not all tangled up around some sweaty customer. She seems to use the club as her own buffet. The next time I see her, even if she’s drinking from someone, I’m going to interrupt her and ask her what happened.
Otherwise, my guilt is going to destroy me. If Hallie is dead, I’ll never forgive myself. How could Lavinia have done such a thing, sending her personal guard to the hotel to capture Oana? She must have thought they could sneak in and out without being suspected.
I pray to Hecate that it hasn’t made Tudor suspicious, although I know that it probably has. I’m supposed to be undercover in order topreventconflict between the witches and the vampires, not to stoke it. I don’t want anyone else’s blood on my hands, or to escalate this situation into a full-blown war. I’ve got to be more careful next time.
After my last shift of the week, I find myself wandering the serene,empty hallways of the hotel again. Not to spy on Oana or the vampires, but out of a strange curiosity that’s planted itself in my mind. I wonder where Tudor and Celine live. It must be underground somewhere, but I don’t know where, or how they get there. Or do they live outside the hotel? Maybe they have some huge mansion somewhere, with a deep, dark crypt for their coffins.
How long have they been walking the earth? I heard someone say that Tudor Thornblade is four hundred years old, which seems impossible. I’m just over two hundred, which is fairly old in witch years. Old enough to remember the War of the Final Fire, and a time before quickness and brightness so thoroughly infiltrated everyday life.
That’s why I like my coven. It’s cozy, quaint, and simple. At least it has been, since the end of the Wicked Wars.
But I have to admit…there is somethingintriguingabout this new world. There’s an excitement, a wonderful thrill, that comes with being awake mostly at night. And there’s a power in the magic of the dirty, sweaty, hazy club, and the things that happen when the curtains are pulled.
