Chapter 5
Susie
“Yes.” I stared at him, my brain scrambling to catch up, to file that answer somewhere logical and safe.
I was pretty sure there wasn’t a place for it.
There was no neat little box labeled vampires are real that I could tuck this into and move on.
Because that was insane, completely, utterly insane.
I couldn’t believe I’d asked that in the first place, and what did I expect?
The man was delusional; he bought his own propaganda. Of course he was going to say yes.
My gaze dropped to his mouth, to his teeth, to be precise.
I’d seen what I’d seen, though, and he didn’t hide it now, either.
My eyes landed on the very obvious, very not-normal sharpness of his canines.
Those very real-looking, pointy canines.
“Okay,” I said faintly. “Okay, but like, actually though?” I’d done a Dorothy and landed in the land of Oz, except I’d done it by tumbling through a secret door inside a creepy bone tunnel.
He did not respond, but met my gaze, dark eyes steady, patient in a way that made something twist low in my stomach. Not only did he believe his own propaganda, I was starting to believe it too. Apparently I was doing this; letting the crazy sink in and actually believing it.
“Hold on,” I muttered. Before I could second-guess myself, I reached out with my good hand and grabbed his chin.
He went still, his skin surprisingly warm and the faintest prick of still-invisible stubble rough against my fingertips.
I leaned in, squinted at his mouth, then very deliberately pushed his upper lip up. “Susie!” he muttered, shocked.
“Shh, I’m checking.” For a split second, he actually let me do it, let me tilt his face, examine him as if he were some kind of science experiment.
I came to the shocking conclusion that those sharp, pointy bits were not fake.
There was no seam, no plastic edge, and definitely no glue line.
Those were sharp, clean, very real-looking fangs that definitely did not belong in a normal human mouth.
My stomach flipped. “Okay,” I breathed. “That’s…” I didn’t even know what to say right now, because it felt like my whole world had turned upside down. It was so shocking, so confusing, that I temporarily forgot how much pain I was in.
He caught my wrist, not the injured one, thankfully, and gently but firmly pulled my hand away.
“That,” he said coolly, “was exceedingly rude.” His hand was long-fingered, elegant, and surprisingly smooth.
Those digits wrapped around my wrist like a shackle and firmly placed my hand back in my lap, beside the other, terribly swollen one.
This man always seemed to say exactly what I didn’t expect. I blinked at him. Rude? I was rude? “You just told me you’re a vampire!” I exploded.
“And you responded by manhandling me,” he said haughtily. His head tilted in an infuriatingly arrogant manner, but the image was spoiled by the dust swirling off his ancient clothing.
“Well, excuse me for wanting proof!” I would have crossed my arms over my chest, but my aching wrist prevented me from moving much at all.
It was very tempting to poke him with my good hand, whack some of the dust from his ratty, if probably once-fancy, clothing—shake up that image of the aristocrat staring down his nose at little old me.
Not only did my wrist hurt, but he still held the good one; we both became aware of that at the same time.
“Your skepticism does not excuse your manners,” he replied, releasing me and quickly withdrawing his hand. Not quite as if burned, but still a little too much as if he felt he’d just touched something icky. “Though I admit, your behavior is becoming predictably uncouth.”
If that was supposed to be a compliment, he had another thing coming. I shifted forward, ready to go to battle with his smug face, whether I was injured or not. Uncouth? Who even said that? “Oh, I am about to…” I warned, but at that moment, the door opened. I snapped my mouth shut.
The man who entered, I was pretty sure Raoul had called him Teebow, looked like he had stepped straight out of a magazine.
Tall, looming over Raoul even though Raoul was not short himself.
He was impeccably dressed in a sharply tailored suit that probably cost more than my entire trip to Paris.
Dark hair, perfectly styled in that sleek way that was so popular right now.
Shorter on the sides, a little longer on top.
His features were almost too symmetrical, too precise, like they’d been carved rather than born.
Carved straight out of the finest marble.
It was his eyes that made me shiver, though; they were cold, so very cold. Not just the emotionally distant kind of cold; aloof. Cold in a way that felt literal, like looking into stone that had been sitting in shadow for centuries. That gaze was both beautiful and terrifying.
He carried a wooden box with him. It was smooth and fairly flat, no bigger than a shoebox.
Dark and polished, it was fitted with a small lock, a golden key with filigree decorations sticking out of it.
It was the kind of box your grandmother might have stashed somewhere in the attic, covered in dust and filled with mementos.
Somehow, I had a feeling this box held something far more sinister than a stack of yellowed letters and faded photographs.
This box gave me a shiver, the same as the eyes of the stranger, our host, did.
Without thinking, I leaned back slightly into the couch; Raoul shifted immediately.
It was subtle but unmistakable, how he placed himself between his friend and me.
The movement was so instinctive, so automatic, that it caught me off guard.
I was not alone in that; Teebow’s gaze flicked to him, then to me, then back again.
I began to wonder if they were even friends, or just careful acquaintances politely sizing one another up.
Still deciding whether the other would be friend or foe down the line.
“Here,” our host said simply. He stepped forward and held out the box, his eyes on my vampire companion rather than me.
I did not think he was trying to be polite or that he’d sensed my unease and was being nice about it.
I was pretty sure something was being conveyed in the stone-cold look he pinned on Raoul.
It made me glad I’d stumbled upon Raoul by accident, not this guy.
Sure, my sleeping beauty was dusty, grumpy, and seemed to think he was far superior to anyone else, but he was also surprisingly caring when it came down to it.
Case in point: he was infinitely gentle as he settled onto the edge of the couch, making sure he didn’t jar my awful, definitely broken wrist.
He took the proffered box from our host and placed it in his lap, his expression focused as he deftly ignored the hovering presence in the room.
His fingers moved with familiarity as he opened it, lifting the lid with care.
I held my breath as I waited for my first peek, half expecting medieval torture devices masquerading as a surgeon’s kit.
The box was lined with black velvet and held something that glimmered.
I leaned in slightly, curiosity overriding fear.
Nestled against the dark velvet lay a piece of—was that glass?
No, not exactly. It was a lens, maybe, but it was purple-hued, irregular in shape, and set in an intricate silver frame that curled around it like vines or claws.
It caught the light in strange ways, the color shifting faintly as it moved.
It reminded me of fluorite, or pale amethyst, except this was smoothed into a pane that was almost transparent.
It was really quite beautiful, but it also made absolutely no sense as a healing aid for a broken wrist unless you took that New Agey stuff way too seriously. Raoul was probably a real vampire, so I didn’t think he had even heard the term New Age.
“This will hurt,” he said casually, and he began lifting that strange crystal lens out of the box. It caught the light, looking pretty, useless, and definitely not like an object capable of hurting anyone, not even if you conked them on the head with it.
I gave him a sharp look. “Excuse me?” I was in enough pain already as it was; he didn’t need to add ominous warnings like that. My eyes flicked from him to the man now leaning against the unlit fireplace, observing us. Then back to Raoul’s dark brown eyes, dotted with little flecks of gold.
“It will also heal you,” he continued, as if that balanced things out.
“I suggest you remain still.” From the box, he withdrew a small strip of leather and held it out to me.
“For your teeth,” he said, offering it casually.
The leather was worn and creased, possibly by teeth that had bitten down on it before. Yuck.
I stared at it, then at him. “You’re kidding. Tell me you’re kidding!” I was so not putting that anywhere near my mouth! It made my stomach turn just looking at it.
“I am not,” Raoul said, deadpan. He jiggled the leather strap in front of my face expectantly, but I refused to grab it. That was definitely a bit too much of a trick out of the medieval butcher—I mean surgeon’s—toolbox.
“I’m not biting that,” I said, and I shoved his hand away with my good one.
He barely budged, but after a long second he lowered his fist, those dark eyes beginning to glow with a golden hue that was definitely not natural.
Oh God, he really, really was a vampire, and I still couldn’t believe I’d discovered vampires were real.
“As you wish,” Raoul drawled, and he tucked the leather strap back into the box. His eyes warned me that he would not be pleased with me if I proceeded to bite my own tongue during this painful procedure he’d planned for me.