Chapter 17 Orfeo
Orfeo
The last weeks of January and the first weeks of February pass in the same haze that characterized my life before I met her.
One night shift after another, one Bowen lecture after another.
Only now the smell of her skin and distant quiver of her blood pulsing through her veins haunts me—like a ticking clock.
I start sitting as far back in the lecture hall as I can get away with, without drawing Bowen’s attention.
I know she is near me; I feel her. I miss her. But I told her no lies. In this version of my life, there is nothing for us.
The few days I venture out before class, there is no sun. I go to the art studio to work, and I find it is easy to blend in with humans. In fact, they barely look up from their canvases.
I paint the Tyrrhenian Sea as it appears in my memory.
Sun dancing on the placid surface. Toffee-colored sand.
A cerulean sky with no clouds from horizon to horizon.
I understand this is as close as I will get for many years.
And though summer heat and warmth will eventually return to Echidna, it will always be night.
In the quiet of the art studio, I hear students whisper.
…another body. Drained of blood.
What the fuck? Is there a serial killer?
…followed by some guy…fucking scary, almost dead…
I know I could turn around, glamour them, and leave with every detail about what they’ve heard.
But then what? Nisos is correct; I am powerless.
With this information, I’d only suffer more knowing that bad actors are consuming the people of Echidna.
However Alfo decides to torpedo Hades House and himself, I am strapped to him like an appendage.
And if he is too stupid to realize this is a suicide mission, then I would like to be too.
I wonder, in moments of weakness, if this suffering was worth having Paolo vanquished. Foolishly, I thought one hundred years would pass more quickly. Or Alfo would succumb quicker to his own idiocy.
I imagine Davìd, free and safe by the sea. This is a balm to my bruised soul.
The club’s popularity grows, and every night behind the bar, I turn myself numb to the carnage I see play out before me.
Young people stumbling in through the door, barely old enough to drink, have their entrance fees waived.
They stumble into the arms of an ancient vampire within minutes.
Some of them feed out in the open, blood dripping down the walls and onto the white couches.
Nisos hurries out with a mop soaked in bleach to clean up the mess so the others don’t turn feral.
And yet, I lose my appetite.
The thought of drinking Kat’s blood, knowing now that Leo does in fact wish to free her and knowing that I have failed him, turns my stomach. My hunger fades entirely.
My dick becomes a soft, useless lump. I can no longer move at an enhanced speed, but what does it matter? I am imprisoned behind Alfo’s bar, shaking out mojitos for girls in strapless tops who have no idea what the fuck they’ve stepped into.
I cannot speak her name—not even in my mind. And when Leo asks me if there is an update, I find myself turning to stone before him. My failure to pull us out of this world is more painful than the rumors of bodies being found lifeless and drained of all their blood.
Leo stops asking.
He focuses on security, recruiting more demons to work the doors.
He convinces Alfo to let Kat bartend with me—a temporary protection against the increasingly hungry vampires who roll in from everywhere between New York and Miami.
Kat still smiles in her coy way, but her eyes are skittish and her neck is covered in thick, white scars.
When a Mediterranean vampire with a flick of boyish surfer hair sidles up to the bar and leans into her orbit, flashing his fangs and trying to coax her with his twanging accent and glamour-filled eyes, I beckon Leo with a lifted brow.
That fucker never resurfaces at our bar again.
It becomes clear to me that word of Hades House has spread like wildfire, pulling in vamps from supernatural enclaves from places we can’t even fathom. They do whatever they want, whenever they want, protected by the anonymity of being just another strange face in a town far from home.
One night while I am chopping lemons and limes in preparation for opening, Leo lays a hand on my shoulder. We exchange no words as he passes me a tall, skinny aluminum can.
It’s covered in Korean characters. I turn the can over until I reach an English translation.
VITAMIN Pi - SYNTHETIC SUPPLEMENT - LAB GROWN PLASMA + ERYTHROCYTES - Not for human consumption. Shake well to heat.
“Black market synthetics?”
“You’re growing too weak. Even Alfo has noticed.” His voice is a deep, gruff whisper.
I arch a brow. “Has he now?”
“Said you look like shit.” Leo smirks. “I agree.”
“Great.” I shake the can and pop the tab. “Exactly what I needed to hear.”
The synthetic blood hits my tongue and I feel some of the gray clouds of dread lift from my body.
The flavor is mostly horrible—a sort of faux-lavender and vanilla meant to mimic the ephemeral florals and creams that make a happy human’s blood so irresistible.
But once I gag down the first mouthful, my muscles relax and the ache in the back of my skull dies down.
I drain the bottle and watch as the veins in my arms pulse back to life. I feel the distant thud of my heart in my chest. Under the dim barroom lights, the warm olive hue blooms back into my skin.
Leo watches me, brows pulled into a severe frown, enormous arms cross over his chest. “We will build something beautiful. Don’t lose hope—not yet.”
The VITAMIN Pi works. My appetite isn’t back, but I regain my strength enough to focus on midterm exams. Leo leaves me bottles under the sink in the filthy bathroom meant for human workers.
I even begin to crave the flavor. Maybe I’m more like my Nordic brothers than I realized.
Oysters and prosecco are thousands of miles away from this swill.
I’m just a bloodthirsty sadomasochist without the flaxen hair and Viking lineage.
By the second week in February, I find myself reaching for the cans of blood more than once a day, despite the horrible acrid flavor and bone-chilling mouth feel.
I find myself stashing extra cans in my bag before lectures.
When I attempt to venture out in the middle of an overcast day, it takes no time for the wide-eyed stares to send me back home until dusk.
And that’s when the dreams begin.
She sleeps, curled up like a cat, on the couch in the Paquet Manor library. Plush lips parted, brows slanted into a look of concern. Her dark hair pulled back while loose curls cling to her forehead and neck. Soft rain pattering against the tall windows makes a gentle soundtrack.
I’m not sure if I walk toward her or float, but soon I find myself settling on the couch.
Diantha blinks her eyes open. “You’re here again.”
I hesitate, my hand hovering just above her hair. “I’ve been here before?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Usually sleeping.” She sounds exhausted.
I brush a stray hair away from her eyes. “Shouldn’t you be awake?”
“I’m sick.” Her eyes flutter shut under my touch. “With a cold or something…”
“You’ve been working too hard.”
She shrugs a shoulder. “I see you here almost every night,” she whispers. “I was wondering…”
“What?” I ask.
“If you’d ever wake up.” She turns her eyes on me. “And if you did, if you’d speak to me.”
“Of course I would.”
“But you left me,” she counters in a half whisper.
“Don’t say it like that.” I try to take her chin between my thumb and forefinger, but it’s impossible to hold her. Her skin slips through my fingers like smoke.
She closes her eyes, leaning toward my ghostly touch. Her humanness—the thrum and pulse of her blood, the aroma her hair holds—is gone. “Fine. It wasn’t exactly like that. But I didn’t think you’d just stop speaking to me.”
I drop my hand back to my side. “I didn’t know you cared so much.”
“Of course I do.” She hits me with a severe look, brows puckered and eyes vicious. “I trusted you.”
“I didn’t realize…” My throat is dry, and these words catch. I try to speak again, but suddenly my throat constricts. The room begins to fade, darkness creeping in from the edges.
It’s like I’m falling backward into oblivion, my voice disappearing with me.
I startle awake.
I’m in the Paquet Manor library again.
Why?
Diantha is sitting in the wingback chair beside the fire, a small black kitten in her lap. She strokes the creature, kisses its head, then sets it down on the floor.
“A new friend?” I ask.
She smiles and nods, getting to her feet.
Time begins to move strangely again—I notice a blanket over my body.
Then, the blanket is on the floor. Diantha is kneeling beside me.
I smell her. I feel her arms around me. Her limbs are tangled with mine.
Her head is a heavy, warm weight against my chest. I weave my fingers in her hair and tell her there’s nothing to worry about.
Do I believe this?
She tells me something about Asteria. Her voice flickers like a candle.
Suddenly, the room is empty and the sun is high and hot in the sky. I stand behind the captain’s desk, watching it, weak and milky, break through the clouds and fall over the university’s grounds.
She crosses the room toward me, black curls pulled over her bare shoulder. She wears nothing but a black chemise, the fabric inching higher and higher up her thighs with each step she takes.
A fire burns in the hearth at my shoulders, casting her in golden light. The flames dance in her dark eyes. I settle deeper into my chair, relaxing into the soft material.
“What took you so long?”
I raise a brow. “Did you wear that to bed?”
Diantha looks down at herself, confused. “I don’t…think so.”
“I like it. Come here.” I pat my lap. “I’ve missed you.”
“Have you?” I make a soft noise in the back of my throat as Diantha crosses the room. “I feel like you’ve done everything in your power to avoid me.”
“Let’s not talk about that,” I reply.
She hums in agreement as she lowers into my lap. Her weight feels so real. But it’s been so long since I’ve dreamed that perhaps…
Her lips are on my neck. Yes, this is definitely a dream.
Her mouth moves with greed, her nails digging into my chest. I welcome that desperate mix of pain and desire. I gather her hair in my fist, feeling the tension of it as she descends.
“Slowly, amore,” I whisper.
She lifts her dark, wide eyes to meet mine and the hot, keen edge of pleasure flares in me. Her teeth nip at my flesh, her hands knead at my thighs, until she’s between my legs. “I’ve missed you too.”
My erection strains against my jeans and I shift, but it does nothing to alleviate the pressure.
“Really?” I ask, my voice husky.
She nods. But her dream-like touch is elusive. It glitches, here and then gone. I groan with desire, with frustration. I want to feel everything, every skim of her fingers over the planes of my stomach. Every whisper of breath as her lips make contact with the sensitive skin above my belt.
I watch her move lower, until her lips reach the fabric of my jeans. And then, I feel the pressing heat of her mouth against my dick. Through the fabric, the pressure of her tongue against me.
I tighten my hold on her hair. Is this real? It feels so…
Her fingers curl around my belt buckle. “May I?”
I can barely form a response. I grunt, watching my abdominal muscles flex and tighten. Her fingers pull the leather strap through the buckle while she keeps the heat of her mouth pressed to the base of my erection.
Maybe it takes minutes or seconds or eons, but finally she unzips my pants and pushes my boxers away. I spring forward for her, humiliatingly ready. Her tongue snakes out to wet her bottom lip, and then…
This has to be real. I can feel it all.
Her hair between my fingers, her breath on me, then her lips and her tongue.
Her sweet, hot tongue. Tasting me. Tracing upward.
The vibrations of her moans. The pleasure building and building in the depths of my groin as she takes me deeper.
Her eyes fixing me through those dark lashes.
That wicked mouth of hers coaxing me closer.
The sounds of my own pleasure growing louder, mixing with hers…
I awaken with a jolt.
Red numbers blink from my nightstand, my only company in the total darkness of my bedroom.
I take to wandering campus in the moonlit hours before and after Bowen’s class. Anything to keep me from going home, falling asleep, and finding myself back in that goddamned library.
It is beautiful this time of year, cloaked in fog and the soft light from nearby street lamps. The library windows glow like a beacon, calling me toward their warmth. One night, I concede. I push open the heavy, oak double doors.
The intricacies of the building stun me. I walk slowly through the atrium, my eyes trained on the stone buttresses that lead into the stained-glass dome.
When my eyes drop to the desk at the center of the room, my feet stall.
There she is. Looking up at me.
“Orfeo.” She sounds so shocked.
I am too.
My name on those lips.
Desire surges in my chest, alongside longing and pain. It all tangles together inside me, and for a moment, I remember the horrors of being human. The dull ache of guilt and shame; the sharpness of anger. Her dark eyes are flooded with that—all of that. The mess of being alive.
She makes me feel alive.
Raw meat dangled in front of a starving lion.
I have to get away.
I take a step back.
“Orfeo.” Her chair makes a horrible scraping sound as she jumps to her feet. “Wait, I have to—”
I turn on my heels and cross the room, but when I reach the doors, I can’t bring myself to push them open.
“Orfeo, wait.” Her voice strains under the weight of unsaid words. “Please.”
What if I turn around?
I hesitate longer than I should, cursing my own inability to be the monster I am meant to be.
I would fall to my knees at her feet for the promise of another night in her company.
But the pain of knowing I can never have her the way I wish will only hurt me more deeply, and that is to say nothing of the danger I would be putting her in if I brought her back into my world with Alfo still around.
I shove the doors open and let the cold air carry me to Hades House, a dead man on his way to the hanging gallows. But it’s not the demons and half-demons that hold the blade over my neck—it is the woman who says my name like a prayer.