Chapter 42 #2
He spread out his hands with a casual indifference. “It’s better to have too much than too little. Please help yourself.” He gestured with his head to the food. It seemed an excessive waste to me, one which was hard to fathom. Which made me think of the homeless man.
Beware of the one with red eyes, so much blood, so much blood.
A wave of cold rolled from the base of my neck to the bottom of my spine. Gooseflesh crawled over my body.
Karson glanced at my arms and got up to shut the glass door.
God, did nothing get past him?
“Is there something wrong with the food?” he asked as he sat down.
Monique huffed a laugh. “She’s too worried she is the food.” She took a bite of carrot, making sure to show me her sharp pointy fangs.
I shifted uncomfortably on my seat.
“Monique,” Karson said, lifting a steely gaze in her direction. “Must you?”
“Ignore her, Amelia,” Michael said, throwing her a pointed look. “You would think after all these decades she might have found some resemblance of maturity.”
Decades?
Monique responded with a sly smirk, forking a piece of crimson meat into her mouth.
I scooped some roast potatoes, corn the color of morning sun drizzled with lashings of melted butter, pumpkin, cauliflower, broccoli, beans, and carrots.
I took a bite of potato. It was crispy on the outside and marshmallow soft on the inside.
An awkward silence hovered all around us.
“What’s the plan with the vampires tonight, do you think we should wait outside The Bite and kill them in the alleyway to make a statement?” Monique said casually.
The food turned to lead in my stomach. I put my fork down and took a sip of wine.
“Really, Monique!” Michael said with that faint accent. When he spoke her name the ‘ique’ was emphasised. “I think the dinner table is not the time to make plans, especially when we have guests.”
Her bitter gaze hit mine.“Oh, I’m sorry Michael, I was unaware our plans to keep them safe would upset the fragiles.”
I glanced at Dahlia. She was unconcerned, she ate with gusto. I spoke quickly to change the subject. “Where are you from, Michael, I thought I could detect a faint accent—English, maybe?”
Dahlia arched her brows. “He crawled out of the sewers in Transylvania.”
His lips quirked up. “Not quite, Dahlia, you have good ear Amelia, I was born in England. My father was English, he was a professor of the arts, and my mother was French. We moved to Michigan when I was seven.”
“It’s a nice accent, I like it,” I said, “did you get any of his artistic talents?”
“I like to dabble on canvas.”
“He’s extremely talented, I have a few in the house,” Karson said, raising his glass to him.
“Perhaps you could show me sometime, Michael.”
“It would be my honor to show you,” he seemed pleased.
Monique sighed. I knew I’d inadvertently annoyed her again. I would have asked more questions about his parents, but I knew it would lead to vampire questions I didn’t want answered.
“And you, where were you born?” he asked as he sawed through the meat.
It was always an uncomfortable question for me to answer.
If you told people you were a foster child, they would inevitably look at you differently; either with sympathy or as if something might be wrong with you.
I wasn’t sure which look was worse, both were unpalatable, so I stopped telling people about that part of my life.
“I’m not sure, I was adopted, and I moved around a lot. I spent the last few years in Ohio.” A cotton-candied version of the truth, maybe, but there was no harm in that. Karson was studying me, like he often does, searching for the truth in my face. I dropped my gaze away and kept eating.
“Could you pass the salt please, Michael,” Dahlia asked after a few minutes of silence.
Michael held his hand to his ear and cocked his head to the side.“Sorry, can’t quite hear you from all the way up here.”
“Fine,” she said. With an arch of her eyebrows and the casual lift of one hand, the salt rose from the table and sailed through the air, like someone had it on a string to her fingers.
Startled, I dropped my fork—it landed with a clatter on my plate—carrot rolled off the end and splattered small pieces across the table.
Monique shot her chair out from the table and leapt to her feet. Breathing rapidly, she glared at Dahlia. “She’s a fucking witch! Seriously, Karson, why is that thing in your house?”
Dahlia raised her chin and didn’t take her eyes from Monique.
Confused, I glanced at Karson—there was no surprise in his eyes.
“Really, Monique,” Michael said with a disbelieving tone, “how did you not realise before now, you are slipping in your old age!”
“You knew, you both knew!” She threw up her hands in bewilderment.
“Yes, of course, Monique,” Karson said, taking a sip of his wine. “And need I remind you again, this is my house, and you will be polite to my guests.” He sat his glass down, danger radiated off him.
“Vampires and now witches. What else do I not know?” I croaked.
Michael gave me a curious look. “Suffice to say, Amelia, a fair bit.”
“Eat,” Karson said, waving his hand with an air of dismissal. “We need to go soon.”
“Karson,” I appealed, “you can’t just let me know there are vampires and witches in this world and then expect me to eat dinner and not ask questions.”
“I thought you didn’t want to know today Amelia. Is that not what you said?”
“Yes, but that was before I found out Dahlia is a witch.”
“So, you want to know about witches, but not vampires?” he retorted, looking somewhat offended. “Let me tell you, witches are by far the more sinister of species.”
Dahlia thumped her palm on the table. “Really—do we suck the blood from people and leave them dead on filthy nightclub floors?”
“You hunt and kill just like us, you are no better!” His anger flashed.
Dahlia’s knuckles grew white, as her fists tightened. “You of all people do not get to judge us.”
Karson picked up a white napkin and wiped his lips and sat the napkin back down.
Every movement was measured, leisurely. His face was blank, unreadable.
His body seemingly relaxed, perfectly still, but his eyes never left Dahlia, and there was a viperous edge to them.
“Oh, I of all people, am the one that is well enough versed to be judge, jury, and executioner of your kind.”
Dahlia’s jaw tensed. “Really and yet here I am at your table, eating your food.”
The air lit up like a pressure cooker. I couldn’t stand it.
“Stop it,” I said fiercely. All eyes turned to me, not so much in anger but more mildly surprised by my outburst. “Just stop it,” I said quieter this time.
“You can’t trust them,” Monique said, eyeing Dahlia with cynicism. “Why Karson? A witch, really—what would you be thinking.”
“Monique, I suggest you sit down.” If his tone was not enough to convince her, the look on his face should have been, but Monique ignored him.
“Are you insane? Send them back to their own people and let them take care of them,” Monique appealed, “don’t risk upsetting your people over a witch.”
Their people. Did she think I was a witch too? It was so ridiculous I had no words. A faint headache formed at the back of my skull, I rubbed my temple.
Dahlia threw Karson a sharp look.“My argument exactly.”
Monique stalked across the room and stood by the fireplace.
Karson took a sip of wine, holding the glass rested on the table in one hand. “And if I send you off to your people, Dahlia, and the vampires come, what do you think might be the outcome of a conflict?”
“He’s right,” Michael interjected, before Dahlia could respond. “We have had peace for years, it would be a shame to break it over something we can sort from the inside.”
“If the vampires come and attack then it’s cause to remove them. The treaty won’t be broken,” she spoke directly to Karson.
“Yes, well let’s just say my confidence levels of witches being able to handle vampires is not exactly overwhelming.”
“You have no idea,” Dahlia bit out.
“Oh, but I do Dahlia,” he responded, as patronising as it could get. “I have had centuries of dealing with your kind, far worse than today’s pathetic brew, and yet”—he threw out his arms—“here I am.”
Treaties? Centuries? I wanted to ask more, I opened my mouth and shut it again. Dahlia’s jaw clenched and she sat back stiffly as if she was perched on the cusp of exploding.
“I would recommend you reconsider whatever foolish notion you are thinking, Dahlia,” Karson warned, “no one wants to see anyone hurt.”
“How fast can you actually move, Michael?” I spoke quickly, in an effort to change the subject, which was heading nowhere good, fast.
Dahlia made a noise in her throat of anger. She took a few mouthfuls of wine, finishing off the glass.
“Not as fast as Karson, but fast enough to get myself out of trouble,” Michael answered.
Karson looked mildly pleased by his compliment.
“It’s a shame Karson’s common sense doesn’t match his physical attributes,” Monique sniped.
“Coming from the queen of ill-considered actions that has led us into many a pickle, near death being one, if my memory serves me correct. I will take your condemnation with a grain of salt.”
“None as bad as sheltering a witch in my home,” she shot back. “Do you realise the—”
“Perhaps!” Michael cut her off, raising his voice. “The two of you can continue your childish discussions at another time. I’m sure Amelia and Dahlia would like to have at least some peace over dinner.”
Dahlia glanced up, lifted a hand and sailed the plate of mashed potatoes down to herself. She grasped it, placing it on the table and began to dish up a spoonful.
“I can’t say I’m a particular fan of your species, but I do like your style, Dahlia,” Michael said, attempting to build on the peace. “I find your kind’s abilities most intriguing.”
“I’m flattered,” Dahlia glowered, like she wasn’t flattered at all, and kept eating.