Page 83 of Livewire Witch

“I wanted a little more control of my business. I didn’t sign up for vampires to rule tyrannically over the city.” He shakes his head. “Not all of us are soulless monsters.”

Oh. Shit. I have a feeling I really fucked up just then.

“Dante, I—”

He cuts me off before I can apologize for being an idiot and speaking without thinking. “I’ll be in touch if I hear anything. Let me know if you get a lead on the ghost’s whereabouts.”

“You could come back with us, if you wanted,” I offer.

He shakes his head. “No. I couldn’t.”

And we’re back to being awkward. “Look, Dante, we should—”

Talk about how the last time I saw you, you said some shit that left my underwear damp for hours. That’s what I want to say, but he won’t let me get the words out.

“I need to get back to the club.” He steps back, effectively dismissing my attempt to clear the air.

I don’t like things left unsaid.

I hate the awkwardness between us.

I like it even less when we hear back from Fabian’s contact.

And the last place our ghost woman was seen was heading into Second Circle just over a week ago. The same night we were all there.

It makes me wonder how close we were to ending up in that pile of discarded bodies.

23

Silver

Not too surprisingly, we’re all in a state of shock after Fabian’s revelation.

Fabian goes quiet after relaying the message. It’s like he’s gotten lost in his head as he sorts through everything that’s been going on. After maybe an hour, he pulls himself up, washes his cup, puts it away, and then heads off without saying a word to any of us.

Roscoe seems to be acting like nothing has happened. Like us all presumably getting drugged, then having a narrow escape from having the life drained out of us is no big deal. He cooks us all a massive dinner, including dessert, and every time he passes me, he touches me. My hand, my shoulder, a quick kiss to my lips, like he can’t stop himself.

And Zeph, well, Zeph heads off for another workout, although he spent two hours in the gym earlier. He’s gone another couple of hours before coming back still looking tense. The veins in his neck are bulging and his skin flushed with exertion. He then wolfs down a plate of food and barely makes eye contact with me or Roscoe before disappearing to his room without a word or even a glance in my direction.

I glance at Roscoe, who is humming to himself as he wipes the counter.

“How long do you think he’s going to be like this?” I ask.

It’s been almost a week since the incident at Second Circle and I’ve tried to talk to him over and over. But he won’t speak to me.

It’s like he’s shut himself off from everything and everyone.

It’s also been storming outside off and on for the past week. Right now, the wind is howling and a crack of thunder echoes through the air.

He’s like an angrier version of the guy I first met. The abused Chihuahua snapping at anyone that gets close, even those trying to feed him treats.

Roscoe shrugs and shoots me a sad smile. “He gets in these moods sometimes. It’s hard for him to break out of them. It’ll storm for a few weeks, he might punch a wall or something and he’ll be back to regular grouchy Z. Right now, he’s just stuck in self-protection mode.”

I eye the closed door as Roscoe’s words sink in.

“What’s the likelihood of him biting my head off if I go in there to check on him?”

Until now, he’s ignored every attempt I’ve made. But today seems particularly bad.

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