Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Alexandru
They’re about to cry again.
“That will do.” I take Ms. Renfield’s arm and drag her away.
“Sorry! Thank you!” she calls to them, and then we’re in the other room. She grabs my suit coat, eyes shining with excitement. It’s the thrill of the hunt. The thrill of closing in.
The pulse at her throat has quickened.
I cannot look away.
I am acutely aware that this is not hunger. Not entirely.
I want her mouth. It is absurd. Inexcusable.
It cannot be.
But the beat of her heart is relentless. Intoxicating.
“Seriously, I mean, KC?” she’s saying. “Right under our noses the whole time? But it makes so much sense!” And then, “Earth to Alexandru!”
“What now?” I growl.
A chime rings out. A man in a black suit gestures toward the next room. “The service is about to start.”
“Thanks! Be right there!” Ms. Renfield grabs my arm and pulls me against the flow of mourners shuffling into the service. “In here!”
We duck into a curtained vestibule—lamp, velvet chairs, high table.
“I don’t want to be roped into sitting through the service,” she explains, pulling out her phone. “We have to figure this out.” And then, “Serena? Hi! It’s Harriet.”
I should be paying attention to the call. I am instead watching the way her lips shape words. I have not fed in twenty-seven days. It is affecting my judgment.
“Can you tell me,” Ms. Renfield says, “what was Varla’s relationship with KC like?”
Her eyes sharpen as she listens. She paces three steps and turns, a hunter circling prey. I have seen this look on military commanders. Dangerous courtiers.
Her pulse drums faster beneath the edge of her jaw. I imagine pressing my face to that warmth, breathing her in.
She casts a glance in my direction and a pink flush climbs her throat. I find myself cataloguing these things the way I catalogue vulnerabilities—involuntarily. Precisely.
Her lips would be soft. Unbearably so.
“Who’s getting Varla’s job now?” she asks Serena.
Serena answers. Again Ms. Renfield lifts her gaze to mine and something passes between us. The pieces are falling into place behind those clever eyes.
“So KC is taking over Varla’s role,” she says slowly. “No. Yes. I’m sure he’s more than capable.”
She makes excuses and hangs up, practically vibrating. “Dude! KC applied for my job when I left. He resented Varla getting it. He’s been helping me investigate, positioning himself...”
On she goes. She’s magnificent like this. Alive with the hunt. Speaking rapidly, utterly focused. Pure perfection.
She is more intoxicating than blood.
My hands reach out to curve around her waist, fingers digging into flesh.
“What are you doing?”
I lift her onto the table and set her there. “Setting you at a convenient height.”
Her heart beats, a bird fluttering wildly against the bars of its cage. Her eyes gleam with defiance and something like pleasure. “Convenient for what?”
I lower my voice. “To kiss you, Ms. Renfield.”
She sucks in a shaky breath. “This is the twenty-first century. You can’t just kiss a woman.”
I go very still. A hunter does not lunge; a hunter makes the prey come to him.
I trace her jaw, feather-light. “Then you will kiss me, Ms. Renfield.”
“What?" she breathes, heat rising in her skin, her pulse spiking against my fingertips.
I lean in. My mouth hovers a hair's breadth from hers. I am aware of every point of warmth between us. The soft rush of her breath. Her hands motionless on the table edge, white-knuckled, as if she is fighting herself.
“Do as I say, Ms. Renfield.”
"You can't command such a thing," she says. But she has not moved away.
Heat rolls off her skin, as if she’s burning from the inside. I brush a curl behind her ear. My fingers linger on the soft skin behind her ear.
A shiver rattles through her.
I grate out, “I would like to kiss you now.”
Her breath comes in light pants. “That is a declaration; not a question.”
I growl.
Her fingers close over my lapels.
She leans in and presses her hot, soft lips to mine. “You are the worst.”
I feel the shape of each word against my mouth. It is a kiss and an insult.
So very Ms. Renfield.
“I am the worst,” I reply, lips brushing hers right back. “Do not forget it.”
My mouth finds hers again, harder this time. Her pulse hammers against my chest. My fingers slide into her hair, tangling in the curls at the nape of her neck.
She makes a small sound.
It hits me like blood.
I pull her closer, until there is no space between us at all. Her body is warm and alive and furious with breath. I can feel the rhythm of her heart everywhere—her throat, her wrists, the frantic beat where she presses against me.
Every instinct I possess is awake.
Not for blood.
For her.
A name rises in my mind from twelve centuries back.
I crush it.
She gasps against my mouth and clutches my shoulders, fingers digging into muscle as though she might anchor herself to me.
My hand tightens in her hair and I deepen the kiss. I am twelve centuries old and I have forgotten how to be gentle.
Another breath escapes her, half protest, half something else entirely.
Madness.
That is what this is.
The hunger is making me reckless.
A groan escapes her. She squeezes my shoulders, fingers curling into flesh. I can feel her pulse everywhere—her throat, her wrists, against my chest. Every predatory instinct I possess is screaming—and for once, not for blood.
“Wait.” She pulls back, dazed, lips swollen, heart hammering. “What—we can’t do this.”
“Can we not.”
“No! We have a killer to catch. Also...” She seems to shake herself clear of something. “Also you’re a murderous vampire who thinks humans are only good for foodstuffs.”
I trace my thumb across her lower lip. “I have never once thought of you as foodstuffs, Ms. Renfield.”
I mean it. That is the problem.
She grabs my wrist. "But you think of everyone else as foodstuffs!"
“They are foodstuffs.”
“Okay, okay.” She shoves me away and jumps off the table. “And there we have it, folks, exhibit A–Z of why this”—she points to me and then to herself, and then to me, and then to herself again—“will not be happening.”
“Fine. We will locate this KC and I will drain him.”
“All signs do point to him.” Her eyes go distant, that look she gets when the pattern clicks into place.
“He creates a puzzle for me, starting with a murder right outside my family’s antique store.
And it’s the Russian dolls, one on top of another.
Dooley looks guilty. Then Jerome looks guilty.
Then Varla looks guilty. And that horrible reenactment of the Cuyahoga Killer suicide. ..he knew that would get to me.”
I say nothing. I am remembering the taste of her.
“And meanwhile KC enjoys watching us drawing the wrong conclusion, and then he swoops in and takes my job, laughing all the way. Now that is Sherlocksmith.” She pulls out her phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Being sure.” She hits a button. “Serena? Hey, me again—I know, I’m sorry. Quick question: is KC still there? He is? Good. No, no reason. I forgot to give something to him earlier. No, don’t grab him, it’s not urgent.” She gives me a mischievous look. “Don’t tell him I called. It’s a surprise.”
She hangs up. “He’s there, enjoying his shiny new job. Which means his house is empty.”
“You wish to search his house.”
“I wish to confirm.” She’s already moving toward the door. “And if we happen to find a crossbow or some incriminating files or a shrine to my spreadsheet methods? All the better.”