Nikolo #2
“Ah. So you know Egbert, too, then.” Kroy nods sagely, releasing the chain entirely and settling back on the creaking old armchair.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” I snatch the necklace to me, then remember that I should probably be less suspicious about it and oh so casually slip it into the pocket of my jeans. “How do you know him anyway?”
“Well, we’ve both lived and worked on the same street for a couple of decades now, did you really think we didn’t know each other?
” Remembering that I need blood, and he needs tea, Kroy gets up and walks heavily to the kitchen attached to the staff room, continuing to shout his story as he goes.
“But he dated my best friend's sister about fifteen years ago. Nice fella, bit strange. But mages usually are. We have a deal, I send his things down to him, and anything that finds its way into his shop that’s outta place, he sends down to me. But I think we can make an exception this time.”
He comes back with two large mugs. His has pictures of large empty bottles and ‘nice jugs’ in bold font, filled with tea. Mine with a clown juggling and ‘expert ball handler’ nearly overflowing with blood. I take it gratefully, snorting at the image.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” The blood is good. Kroy always stocks something decent for me. I’ve told him he doesn’t have to, but he insists. “The blood and the necklace.”
“You know I love some intrigue, but is this a secret thing or can I tell Egbert that I’ve wilfully just given away a charmed item from his clan to a vampire claiming to be his kin?”
I snort. “It really is just a glamour charm. With a hint of luck. Honestly, it won’t do anything for me, I’m pretty enough as it is.
” I flip my hair over my shoulder and preen, but the smear of pink on my teeth from the blood probably kills the illusion.
To Kroy at least. Some beings really go for that sort of thing. “I’ll show you.”
I pull the charm from my pocket and sit up on my knees to show him the engravings and explain how Damira was known for this kind of thing.
“Well, that sounds wonderful, but considering I don’t know shit about it, you could be talking rubbish and I’ll never know.” Kroy says, sitting back with a wave of his hand.
“If you’re that worried, take it.” Reluctantly I thrust the necklace in his direction. I want it, but not enough to ruin this friendship, but he waves me off.
“Keep it. Just blow nothing up.” Pulling biscuits out of what seems like thin air, he dunks them into his tea, resting his mug on his big, round belly. “But tell me more about this whole Egbert thing. You seemed mighty piqued when you realised I knew him.”
Kroy wasn’t lying when he said he liked intrigue. Like most beings, he’s a nosey-ass gossip.
“There’s not much to say really.” A lie as much as it’s not. After all this time, the stories feel stale. “I grew up in the clan, but shit happened, I left and I turned.”
“And now you can’t go back?”
I shrug a shoulder. “That would only really matter if I wanted to go back wouldn’t it?”
“Guess so. Does he know you’re here? In Osneau?”
“Yeah. Egbert knows. From the clan, only he and my parents really know where I am.”
“Ah. Well, I guess I shouldn’t mention you to the lad that works there now.”
“Who?” Along with the teachers they hire, Egbert always has an assistant from the clan.
As far as I know it’s Ulara. But she’s getting on in years, so it makes sense she’d have gone back to the mountain.
The shop and the clan are both topics Egbert and I have become really good at avoiding on our sporadic catch ups.
“Willan. Nice kid. Always polite.”
The floor drops out from underneath me and only Kroys’ fae reflexes manage to save the pool of vintage clothes around me from death by prey-shifter blood when the mug drops from my hand. The damned thing floats in front of me, the laughing clown’s face mocking me.
“Take it you know him?”
“Yeah, you could say that.” I shake myself off and snatch the floating mug, covering the stupid clown with the palm of my hand.
“Know him in a bad way or is it just a shock?”
“Just a shock. Kinda forgot he was gonna grow up is all.”
“You sure about that?” Kroy asks, looking at me more intently now.
“Yeah. Yeah, definitely.” I repeat, more sure the second time.
“Right, well then. Why don’t I go get my pricing gun and you get the computer and you do the thing with the thing on there to make the doohickey work.”
Kroy acts like he has no idea how the point of sale system I got the IT guy from the club to install for him works, but it’s all a front. Just like I’ve told him a thousand times he doesn’t have to stock blood to keep me coming back, he doesn’t have to act all useless to get me to help.
We work until Kroy can’t keep his eyes open. When he calls it a night and heads off to his apartment above the store, I finish hanging the clothes I’m not taking on the racks on the floor and lock up.
The clothes I am taking are heavy in the bag slung over my shoulder.
On the street I’m not entirely sure what to do with myself.
With the winter nights that bit longer, there’s still plenty of hours until dawn.
I look up the street, the way I usually go—the opposite way to The Magnifitestique Mage—and back the other way.
The building is dark, which is expected for one a.m., and feels more imposing than it should.
It seems to grow bigger the longer I stare at it from the safety of the Flimsy Sheath’s stoop.
It feels ridiculous to be scared to walk past a building, but I can feel my anxiety rising, my boots loud as shit on the pavement as I start in that direction. Thank the fucking Gods, my phone buzzes in my pocket when I’m only a couple of shops away.
Garret
U up?
Ah, Garret. Always reliable for a good time and a terrible decision. The accompanying dick pic removes any confusion about why he’s messaging.
Be there in 20.
I fire the message back and slip the phone back in my old leather jacket. Even if I didn’t have an excess of energy to burn off tonight, Garret lives in the other direction, giving me an entirely valid reason to turn on my heel and avoid walking down the footpath I’ve avoided for 5 years now.
Dawn is close. I feel like a kid sneaking back into my room, tiptoeing past Kai’s closed door.
I wonder if he’s got anyone in there with him?
Or if he’s managed to finally bring home that timid little baby vamp that’s always hanging around work.
I forgot to leave on a lamp, and the vamp-rated blackout blinds are permanently shut on the bedrooms—it’s safer than having an accident when the sun comes up—so my room is pitch black when I enter.
Rather than turning on the lights, I feel around on my dresser to find the remote for the LED candles covering the dresser top—another safety thing my maker, Laurence, insisted on after I kept leaving candles burning too close to dawn and almost burned our place down.
Soft light illuminates just enough for me to throw my haul in the corner to deal with tomorrow.
I tucked the necklace deep inside, and I leave it there while I go and shower.
Except it’s not that easy. Even though the magic’s long dead to me, it still feels like it's calling out until, irritated beyond all reason, I make my way back to my room.
I shouldn’t have brought it home, I grumble silently to myself, water dripping off my shoulders where I failed to dry myself in my rush. I should have just let Kroy give it to Egbert and forgotten about it. But I couldn’t.
The metal is just as cold as it’s ever been, and I hate the thrill that shoots through me when my fingers make contact. Wrapping the chain around my fingers, I pull it out angrily, shaking off the belts it’s become tangled in.
Anger is easier to accept than any kind of happiness about it being in my possession.
Standing in front of my dresser, the candles lighting up my reflection in the giant mirror hanging above it, I look stressed.
Stressed with a conflict that’s been rearing its head more and more often lately.
I should really call Laurence about it, but I can’t seem to find the words.
I watch the me in the mirror lift the necklace and carefully loop the chain over my head.
The medallion lies heavy over my slowly thudding, mostly dead, magically reanimated heart.
Out of place. Wrong. But still right. It sits almost perfectly over the astal spider tattooed over the centre of my chest.
The spider isn’t my only tattoo. Far from it.
Tattoos are another thing vamps just can’t do.
Our skin regenerates, forcing the ink out until we’re back the way we were.
They don’t last more than a single sleep.
Unless we’re turned with them. So before I turned, I was determined to cover as much of my skin as possible.
Looking back now I don’t really have regrets, but I probably wouldn’t have made all the same choices if I really understood that I’d be stuck with them for a good couple of centuries.
But they are a part of me. For better or worse.
Like my mage history.
I meet my eyes in the reflection and bite down on my lip until my fang pierces the soft flesh.
I shouldn’t do it. I should just turn around and slip into my bed and shut my eyes and wait for the dawn to come.
It’s straight up masochism at this point.
Just useless reminiscing and ruminating—pretty much the very worst habit to pick up with the extra long life of a vamp.
But still, for reasons well beyond my understanding, it’s irresistible.
Knowing that it’s inevitable, and that I’m just burning moonlight at this point, I slide open the top drawer of my dresser.
I do it slowly. Quietly. Like I’m doing something I shouldn’t.
The metal box is ice cold to the touch, with black undertones to the metal.
Slightly smaller than a shoe box, it’s nowhere near as heavy as it should be.
But that’s why corunonite is so highly sought after.
My fingers fill the shallow indentations made from the lacework pattern engraved on the sides.
One of my clan ancestors used the engravings to etch magic in the box.
Carefully I place it on top of the dresser and open the fastening.
There’s no lock—anyone who’s meant to have the box, a being with magic, would be able to ward it.
The knowledge taunts me every time I torture myself with it.
I never set out to collect this random assortment of things from the mountains I once called home. But every so often, there’s been things, small, seemingly insignificant things, I just couldn’t leave behind when they’ve crossed my path.
There’s a hunk of clear orange-red crystal that glows, almost like molten lava. Beside it is a dull blue rock, shot through with dark green gem stone. A thin candle, dressed in colourful dried flowers, that’s never been lit. A spool of silver thread spun from astal web.
And finally, a folded piece of cloth. It’s the only thing here I personally carried over from my old life—I left most of it behind.
The cloth is from a larger piece, a beautiful, thick shawl woven by my great grandmother in rich purples and blues and silvers, but it was damaged when one of my old friends borrowed it without asking and accidentally set it on fire. That was just before I met Laurence.
For better or worse, each item holds a significant meaning to my old life, the one I gave away when I asked Laurence to turn me. Really, it’s stupid that I even have them. It’s not like I can do anything with them anymore. They just take up valuable real estate in my knicker drawer.
I can’t get rid of them, though. Lately, I’ve been pulling the box out more and more often, to set out on the dresser, usually while I quietly plait the thin braid I keep hidden under my curls.
And now it appears I’m adding to my collection again. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I don’t just chuck them in the bin or mail them to Egbert. All I know is I can’t.
I should call Laurence, I know that. I also know that I won’t. Not yet anyway.
With uneasy hands I slip the chain from my neck and carefully wrap the medallion in the old cloth so the filigree edge doesn’t get damaged. When the box is secure back in the drawer, hidden away where it belongs, I put myself where I belong—in bed.
Only, there’s just enough time between now and dawn to think about the thing I’ve been really trying to forget.
Willan, my best-friend-turned-worst-nightmare’s younger brother, is in town.
Fuck.