Chapter 22 – Lily
LILY
When I open the door and see Cass standing there, I forget to breathe for a second. For once he’s not covered in dirt from the earth he so loves to sleep in, nor is he wearing his usual leather jacket over a signature black tee.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him wear a real shirt—one with cuffs and buttons. Dark fabric clinging to his strong body like it’s been painted on. He swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs, drawing my eye to his throat where his elaborate cross tattoo peeks out from under his starched collar.
He’s combed the soft waves of his jet-black hair neatly, taming them, but a tousled section has escaped and is sticking up at an awkward angle.
It makes me smile. Drunk on how unbelievably sexy he is.
There’s no trace of the vampire. No hint of an ancient, dangerous creature.
He just looks like a good boy, dressed up for Mass, or ready to meet the parents.
Like all good boys, he comes bearing gifts. A huge bunch of long-stemmed white lilies, wrapped in brown paper and fastened with twine, draped across his forearms.
Except he’s not a good boy, is he? My mother’s warning still reverberates in my head.
Do not trust him.
I tried again and again to reach her, but she was nowhere to be found. Lost again in the tangle of voices beyond the window.
Fear prickles at the base of my neck, but I swipe it away.
She doesn’t know Cass like I do. She doesn’t see the softness in him.
She has no right to do this to me. No right to interfere with my life after years of not giving a shit.
When she was alive, our relationship was complicated. In death? It’s even more so.
I want to believe that her warning was about someone else, someone other than Cass, but I can’t get those images of violence out of my head. They only flashed through for a second, but it was long enough for them to sear into my subconscious like a hot brand of fresh trauma.
My mother’s face. Her mouth locked in a scream, the blood flecked on the dirty walls around her.
No, I can’t do this. Not right now. Nope.
For all I know, that wasn’t even her. It could have been another dead thing crawling inside my head.
Messing with my memories and showing me things that aren’t real.
Same with Paloma. I don’t even know her enough to trust her.
She could be spinning a lie to push me away.
How do I know she doesn’t want Cass for herself?
Tonight is real. Tonight is my opportunity to help find that poor missing girl. To seek out and save the living rather than play with the dead.
Cass’ mouth is open, but he hasn’t said a single word. The air hums with the chirping of katydids which buzz and fill the awkward silence.
When he inhales sharply and just stands there staring, I bite my lip to hide my smile. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Yeah, but you gotta give me a second. I feel like I’ve just been kicked in the chest.”
I laugh. “In a good way?”
“In a very good way.”
Mission accomplished. Kate was right about the sex dress.
It’s simple but sharp, a deep plum crochet knit that fits close through the top before kicking out in pleats at the hem.
The high halter-neck makes it feel put-together, even though my shoulders are bare, and the ribbed pattern down the front draws the eye.
Not fussy, just easy—and I feel good in it.
He offers the flowers, and when I lean in, he cups my chin delicately as if he’s afraid I’ll break and plants two kisses on my cheeks.
Che visione.
I direct a thought back. A vision? I could say the same about you.
“Do we have to go out?” I tease, draping my arms over his shoulders and blinking up at him through my mascara-coated lashes. “We could stay in. Practice listening with each other? I have a few ideas…”
He leans his nose against my neck and inhales deeply, his eyes fluttering as he pulls back. Then he runs his hand over my side, his fingers coming to rest over the soft fabric that skims my hips.
“As much as it pains me, amore, we must go. It’s time to put that beautiful gift of yours to the test.”
In the car, he does something he’s never done before.
He reaches for my hand, and when I offer it, he laces his fingers through mine and brings it to his lips.
Kissing me on the wrist and then resting it in his lap.
I keep it there for the whole ride, only letting go when he shifts gears.
Shivering every time his thumb strokes me absently across the knuckles.
We’re quiet the whole way, an intimate quietness in the safety of the car.
When we pull up to Sixth Street, it’s like entering a familiar dream.
The recent rainfall has transformed the asphalt into a liquid mirror, doubling the neon chaos—red devils and blue cowboys dancing in the puddles beneath my feet.
The air still holds that clean, electric smell of rain, but it’s already being overpowered by the familiar cocktail of sweat, smoke, and malevolence.
Cassini comes around to open my door, ever the gentleman. I take his hand and step out onto the slick sidewalk. Immediately, I realize I’m overdressed in my little burgundy dress. The fabric suddenly feels too clingy, like my whole body is on display.
“I’m overdressed,” I whisper. “But also…kinda underdressed.”
We’re walking hand in hand toward the bar, me crossing my free arm self-consciously across my chest when Cass’ voice fills my head like warm honey.
You look delicious. If you’re not careful, I’ll have to eat you later. Again.
I smile. That had better be a promise.
I’m definitely overdressed.
Everyone at the Jackalope is wearing ripped jeans and printed band tees, punctuated with the occasional flash of plaid.
The women propped up against the bar, or huddled together in small groups, are all so casually beautifully grungy with their smudgy eyeliner and imperfect lipstick.
My hair, that I spent ages meticulously styling into a bouncy bobbed blowout, sticks out like a sore thumb in this room of black dye and disheveled hair.
“I look like a fucking news anchor,” I mutter, sipping my spicy margarita. The jalapeno-laced tequila burns my throat in a strangely comforting kind of way, so I go in for a second gulp, almost draining the glass.
“You don’t. You look perfect,” Cass says, not really looking at me.
His body is draped casually over the leather-backed bench seat like he’s a confident regular, but his eyes tell a different story.
They dart around the bar, surveying every inch of the place.
“Hey, take it easy with that drink, okay? You need to stay sharp. Are you getting anything yet?”
Ever since I found out that my diet influences the taste of my blood, I’ve been eating thinking about how I taste.
I chose the margarita because it felt light and clean, but now I feel like an idiot.
I don’t know if Cass is ever planning to feed on me again, but all I know is I feel like I’ll die if he does, and die if he doesn’t.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a second, tuning out the drone of the heavy rock music that bounces off the exposed brick walls.
I need to concentrate, so I imagine myself standing at the window, my hands pressed against the pane.
I reach out to the sash and edge it open a cautious inch and get hit by a wave of energy rushing in.
When I open my eyes, it takes a second to adjust to the light.
The colors are sharper. The details of the bar are more vivid.
I take it all in, the way the neon beer signs crackle with electricity, humming and glowing like fireflies, and the way the black-and-red-checkered floor shifts imperceptibly under my feet.
Then I hear it. The voices. Tangled together at first, loud and different than what I’ve heard before.
These aren’t the desperate, pleading whispers of the dead I’m used to.
These thoughts are sharp, predatory, and alive with hunger.
A well of desperation and bottomless thirst. It’s like swimming with sharks, but the waters are bloody, and I’ve got no cage to protect me.
I think of the bolsita sitting at the bottom of my purse and feel no comfort.
A tiny bag of herbs does very little in a place like this.
I focus and start to pick out the words, pulling at the threads and following them, but I’m quickly overwhelmed. The words rush in like floodgates opening, and I have to grip the edge of the sticky table to steady myself as the thoughts come crashing through the veil.
Wonder if she’d scream if I bit her thighs.
Blondie smells damn good. I bet she’s a screamer.
You wanna come over here and sit on Daddy’s lap, cupcake?
I stare up at Cassini, my heart hammering. “They’re all thinking about…” I swallow hard. “About feeding. Some of it’s about me, I think. It’s fucking disgusting.”
Cassini’s jaw tightens. “Focus on one at a time. Block out the rest.”
I try again, this time targeting a couple at the bar who seem to be thinking about more than just a burning hunger.
The twins are gonna skin him alive. I wanna watch.
“The couple at the bar,” I whisper to Cass. “Someone’s thinking about the twins.”
Cassini nods approvingly. “Good. Try someone else.”
“He was thinking something about being skinned alive,” I say hesitantly, but Cass is dismissive, waving his hand and shifting his eyes to a group of suited guys huddled together.
“Don’t worry about it. Try them. Over by the bar.”
“Those guys? Seriously?” I wrinkle my nose and gesture toward the pack of middle-aged suits nursing their drinks.
With their polyester ties and department store shirts, they look about as dangerous as a PTA meeting.
Hell, I’ve seen scarier energy at a church potluck.
But Cassini’s dark smile tells me everything I need to know—sometimes the most lethal predators are the ones who look like they sell life insurance for a living.