Chapter 22
Oliver felt like he was walking on air. His feet barely skimmed the sidewalk as he left Clare’s apartment. No matter how often he tried to pull himself together, he was leaking sunshine from every pore.
Which, for a creature of the dark, felt kinda strange.
Happiness.
Was that what the feeling was?
He tried to be logical. Clearly her blood had rejuvenated him. It had tasted more beautiful and sustaining than any he’d partaken of in those long, dark years of misery. Or maybe it had tasted that way because he had changed. She had changed him. Given him hope, purpose, something to strive for.
What exactly are you striving for, man?
Her respect.
Her… love.
He tried to push away the feeling, tried to curb it.
This weightless, joyful sensation was alien to him, but it kept bubbling up inside him, making him want to laugh.
Around him, the world was suddenly multi-colored, no longer shades of gray.
Gods, he was never one for going out in the sun, too much made him come out in hives, but today, fuck it, he could bask in its glow with no ill effects.
He kept reliving that kiss.
When her lips touched his, it was like his body and soul had ignited. He recalled the way her leg had thrust between his, her belly pressing into him, her hands tugging at his shirt with such urgency.
Yes. She would have let him take her right there.
And he had been so close to doing so.
Except, a spark of sanity had held him back.
Because he sensed that if they fucked… no, damn it, if they made love— it would heighten his fears of losing her. He wouldn’t be able to think straight.
You already can’t. You mind is mush.
So is your heart.
Somehow, that thought merely made his smile widen as he sped along the cobbled streets to his house.
He let himself in, the door echoing as he closed it on so many empty rooms, so many ornate pieces of useless crap.
A mausoleum, when it could be a real home. The way Grayson’s was a home with Maisie’s sweet presence there each day. To warm his bed each night.
For all the gods’ sake man, cool your jets.
There was a crime to solve, more problems emerging than you could poke a stick at. Not just with the missing humans, but now a grimaald had broken through the security system they’d erected years ago, and worse, it had been almost invisible. Were the two things related?
He knew what he needed to do. Yoga and meditation would ground him, bring the energy up from his base chakra into his head, back to logic and rationality.
In his bedroom, he shucked out of his suit and bloodied shirt and found a pair of loose tracksuit pants and a soft cotton t-shirt.
Then he went to his meditation room, a quiet, austere space, and laid out his mat. For many moments, he stood in the tree pose and breathed.
For the next half hour he went through his routine—a dozen sun salutes, followed by warrior poses, then finally, he sat in the lotus position, legs crossed.
How long he stayed like this, Oliver was unsure, but the energy stabilized and became clear. His limbs felt loose, his spine relaxed, yet poised.
He spoke his mantra, the ancient words of the Hale clan.
Reventa ete carva
Respect before blood.
Amore conqua multu.
Love will conquer evil.
These were the ancient words of his clan, the royal mountain vampires, who had practiced self-control and held their desires in check.
Who showed kindness when they took a beast. Thanking the steers and cattle even as they slayed them, and with humans, negotiating a fair exchange of precious metals and jewels for blood.
Showing love and compassion, despite the prejudice folks often showed them for being vampire.
These words always calmed him.
Finally, he opened his eyes and stared down at his hands, clasped in his lap.
There was nothing to be seen.
No hands, no legs, no feet.
Nothing but an empty yoga mat.
He felt solid enough. Except… dear gods, he was in his vampire form, wasn’t he?
He hadn’t even noticed he’d shifted. And stranger still, he was invisible.
A gods damn invisible vampire. His wings were heavy on his shoulder blades, there were claws where he usually had fingers and toes. His fangs were fully extended.
He could feel it all.
And see none of it.
Oliver frowned, certain he must still be in a meditative trance of some sort.
With easy grace, he unfolded his legs and moved around the room.
He kept looking down at himself, but nothing materialized.
Holding his hands in front of him, he flexed his claws.
Nothing. Slightly exasperated now, he unfurled his wings and flapped them, feeling the bliss of them stretching for the first time in a hundred years.
But no, he couldn’t see them.
He skimmed over to the window. His wings squeaked, from lack of use, his shoulder blades burned from lack of practice, but still the muscle memory was there.
Staring out of the window across the roofs of Motham, toward the hills of the human lands, he frowned, perplexed.
“Great gods,” he muttered. The scene was much the same—yet not.
The surrounding buildings and streets shimmered, ghostly, ephemeral, unsubstantial.
Had his eyesight gone? He blinked, rubbed his eyes, cast his gaze to the distant hills.
In contrast, they were in sharp relief; he could almost see the blades of grass swaying.
It was as though objects nearby were far off, and the distance was a stone’s throw away.
He could detect every small detail, things that not even vampire vision should be able to detect at such a distance.
Cattle and sheep on the hillside grazing, their markings clear to him, the details of shrubs and trees way, way out on the edge of the valley lands.
Then he scanned the horizon and nearly jumped out of his invisible skin.
A huge rock wall surrounded dark stone buildings, topped by gleaming golden spires and turrets. The whole edifice stood out like a citadel.
Fuck, he really had to be dreaming.
He pinched himself. Hard. And winced. He felt real, no question of that.
He looked back at the horizon—that huge edifice was still there, the golden spires glinting in the morning sunlight. He needed to go and investigate.
And holy hell, his body was so ready to take to the air.
He hadn’t flown for a century, and yet his muscles were primed, strong and supple and poised for flight.
His claws grabbed the window latch and flung it wide.
Jumping lithely onto the stone sill, he stood for a moment, inhaling into his expanded vampire lungs, flexing his wings until he felt them spread out to his sides.
Then with effortless ease, he took to the air, skimming above the buildings, out across the jumbled soft-focus rooftops of Motham, carried by the slipstream in the perfect morning air.
His wings beat with a deep, satisfying swoosh. And now his investigative brain took over, spurred on by his curiosity and the sheer joy of being vampire again.
As he flew, Oliver noticed Tween had the same ghostly appearance as Motham City, as if shrouded in a shimmering mist, even though the air was clear.
How very bizarre.
His wings carried him on until he was in the hills, close now to the perimeter of this massive edifice.
As he looked for somewhere to land, he realized he could detect the outline of his clawed feet.
His body shimmered in a way that was not of the world he inhabited.
Even when he’d chosen to take vampiric form, it had not had this glamor to it.
He guessed he was caught between two realms. But he could potentially be visible in this world, and that held real and present danger.
He circled lower, surveying the scene. This area had once been a favorite summer holiday destination of vampires. With a jolt, he realized he was close to the regions where his family had farmed. A sickening sense of dread overcame him. Was this accidental, or was something more sinister going on?
His sharp gaze sought somewhere to alight. There were woodlands around the edges of the citadel; he decided to alight in one of the taller trees, where he could observe without being seen.
He settled into the massive oak tree some way away from the parapet walls, choosing to stay in an upright position, more hawk than vampire, a trait his family had acquired through years of practice.
A black building with turrets and golden spires held his gaze in thrall, a palatial edifice surrounded by high walls. A creeper with thorns and deep red flowers crept over the stone walls.
Blood Rose bush.
Known for its ability to put humans in thrall, drugging them, allowing the vampires to feast on their blood without their consent. But it was a rare plant, only growing in a few of the valleys in the mountains. Here, it was running rampant.
He crouched down, eyes narrowing as he realized there were many hulking beasts toiling away, hoisting blocks and great girders and wooden planks into place.
His laser vision homed right in. Oh yeah, he knew these creatures, with their gray hunched backs, scaled skin and wings.
Their snouts were broad at the forehead, tapering to pointed chins.
Huge ears and horns topped their heads, and wiry hair sprouted from their heads, the back of their necks, and the wrinkled bridge of their snouts.
Even from this distance, his nostrils detected the stench of grimaalds.
And unlike the one that attacked him last night, these grimaalds were clearly visible.
There was no doubt this place was going to be vast, a city in the making, being built by an army of demon grimaalds.