Chapter 22
Florence | Edinburgh, present day
In all my long years of being a vampire, I’ve never revealed it willingly to anyone before or given them the choice of being one themselves. So understandably, I’m a little nervous about meeting Damian.
There’s not a lot I can do to prepare for it either. Hester suggested I take the subtle approach rather than going in all guns blazing. So I’m going to drop vague hints and let him work it out for himself. Hopefully, he doesn’t freak out too much. But I’m bracing myself for the inevitable.
But he said he would be here.
Then he is, standing in front of me with a half smile. My lip quivers as I return it.
‘Hey,’ I say weakly.
He rakes a hand through his hair nervously and glances at the bar. ‘I’m going to grab a whisky. Do you want a Bloody Mary?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m good, but thanks.’
He strolls off, and I let my gaze linger on his retreating form.
Drinking in the way he walks, the tilt of his head as he leans against the bar, the way his two-toned hair falls over his cheekbone as he speaks to the barman.
His long fingers digging in his back pocket for his wallet.
This could be the last time I see him, so I want to memorise every little detail . ..
‘Slainte,’ says Damian, clinking his glass against mine when he’s seated with his drink.
He takes a gulp of whisky. Up close, he has dark circles under his eyes and looks like he’s had a few rough nights.
I know the feeling. I don’t need seven hours of shut-eye, but I’ve been struggling on the two hours I normally have.
‘Slainte,’ I reply and swirl my water.
‘So’, he says, ‘there’s some stuff you want to tell me?’
His tone is neutral, but his shoulders are tense. I don’t need to read his mind to know he’s still weirded out about those photos.
I nod. ‘Yes, before we ... I mean, if you want to keep hanging out with me, you should know that ... I’ve had a bit of an odd life.’
Damian’s eyes meet mine steadily. ‘What do you mean by “odd life”?’
I shift in my seat. ‘Uh, I’ve had to move around a lot. And when I lived in London, there was some ... drama.’
‘Drama? You mean with an ex?’ he prompts. I can tell he’s really just wanting me to tell him outright, but it’s better for his mental health if I don’t.
I lean back against the padded banquette and steel myself to keep going. ‘Yes. My ex-boyfriend ... he’s looking for me. And there’ll be ... consequences ... if he finds me.’ Namely having my neck snapped.
Damian frowns. ‘Is he Russian?’
I stare at him blankly. ‘Ah, no. At least I don’t think so? But I’m not entirely sure of his background...’
‘Right. I think I get what you’re implying.’
My shoulders sag in relief. Thank goodness. He doesn’t even seem too upset about it. Perhaps I was worrying about nothing.
Damian leans in closer and says in a hushed voice, ‘I can see why you can’t say it outright. They may be listening.’
His eyes swivel right, then left like one of those comedy spyhole paintings.
‘Who exactly?’ I whisper to make sure we’re both on the same page.
‘The mafia,’ he whispers back. ‘Your ex-boyfriend is heavily involved, and you’re in a witness protection programme.’
He leans back in his chair and takes a sip of whisky, looking pleased with himself.
What? Oh no!
He’s so far off the mark it’s not funny.
I sigh inwardly. ‘That’s not it, Damian,’ I say, trying not to let my frustration show. ‘I’m not on the run from the mafia.’
‘Oh.’ His face loses the smug expression. ‘Well, what then? Just tell me. It can’t be that bad.’
I open my mouth, then close it again.
‘Perhaps I will have a Bloody Mary.’
‘Fine.’
He goes off to the bar, and I attempt to collect my thoughts. The subtle approach isn’t working. I’m going to have to give him a massive hint, maybe something I couldn’t possibly know unless I was there at the time.
‘Here you go.’ Damian puts the drink down in front of me.
I take a sip and try not to wince at the taste. Anything other than blood tends to resemble vinegar.
He’s got himself another whisky too.
‘So where were we?’
‘London, 1888,’ I blurt out suddenly. ‘You’ve heard of Jack the Ripper, I take it?’
Damian nods. ‘Of course. It’s one of the most famous murder cases in history. What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘He was my height. His breath smelled like fish. He was right-handed. The blade was going to draw from left to right—here.’ My eyes are closed, my palm perpendicular against my neck.
‘It was almost intimate, the way he whispered in my ear, telling me to keep still and it wouldn’t hurt a bit.’
I open my eyes to find Damian staring at me, white-faced. ‘What the fuck, Florence? Are you having a past-life experience?’
‘No, I was there. I was nearly one of his victims.’
Damian’s eyes almost bug out of his head. He takes a sip of whisky, then another larger one and returns the glass to the table with a shaking hand.
‘I’m not crazy, Damian, and I’m not into woo-woo mumbo jumbo.’
He jerks as I feed back to him what he’s just been thinking. ‘How did you do that?’
I shrug. ‘Mind reading is one of my powers. But only with you, it seems, and only within a certain range.’
‘P-powers?’ His face drains of colour further, and he fumbles with his phone. He brings up a photo, and I twitch. Here we go, he’s going to confront me with hard evidence. But it’s not the photo I think it is.
He brandishes it in front of my face.
‘Is this you? And your flatmate?’
I take his phone and look at the photo with nostalgia washing over me. Wow, I’d forgotten I had short hair in the 1980s. I was really into Siouxsie and the Banshees back then. Sadie looks badass too. That was when she was with Tim. But how the hell does he ... ?
I look closer at the teenager on the other side of Tim and see the resemblance to Damian immediately. I let out a surprised laugh. ‘Oh fuck! Seriously? Is this your dad? That’s so wild. He has got a good memory for faces.’ Shit, what are the chances? Now I’m going to have to memory-wipe his dad!
Damian groans and places his head in his hands and shakes it violently. ‘This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.’
‘Damian—’
I reach out to touch his hand, and he jerks away from me. ‘It might be easier to deal with if you have another whisky. It’s my round anyway,’ I say stiffly.
I leave him at the table and go up to the bar, trying not to feel upset by his reaction. It’s not surprising under the circumstances, but still ...
Maybe I shouldn’t have led with the Jack the Ripper story, it’s a bit extreme. But it’s also one of my defining moments, and I’m quite proud of the way I handled myself.