Chapter 6
Archer
“No. Not happening, Quinn,” I say to the air like my goblin publisher is standing right here in my kitchen, which they are not.
I throw the note to the floor and pour myself another cup of coffee. If Quinn thinks they can shove me into co-writing with Colette, well, they have officially lost their mind. Quinn knows I work alone. Always have. Always will. Writing is deeply personal.
The coffee is as black as my blood, and it’s perfect.
I breathe in its familiar scent and take another hearty gulp.
The heat of the crockery mug chases the chill from my fingers.
I don’t often feel chilly, but I didn’t make it back to Honey Sands until near dawn, and the house is freezing.
The fire is doing its best, but a foot of snow fell during Moonglow’s and my journey, and the temperature has dropped to downright icy.
It figures, considering Snowlight is now less than two weeks away.
After refilling my coffee once more, I leave the small kitchen and find my desk in the living room.
The flames in the hearth snap and rise as I make myself comfortable.
My parchment sits in a neat pile, ready for words.
I dip my black quill into the ink pot and begin working on my next thriller.
I think this one will deal with a serial killer who falls from his horse.
The main character’s sense of ethics is almost magically awakened by the injury, and he must deal with the evil actions and plans he’s already set into motion.
Maybe he can save the person who was meant to be his next victim.
Yes. But once he reaches them, he learns the potential victim was a version of himself that never existed. Hmm. Yes, like a fever dream…
Once I have the premise down, I begin to carefully outline each scene.
“Archer!” Someone is yelling outside my front door.
I look to the fire and realize it’s nearly gone out. Sometimes, I focus so deeply that I lose track of anything outside of my work. I quickly set another log on the fire and blow to grow the smoldering bits to flames.
“Coming,” I say to the door.
I open it to a floating envelope. Frowning, I snatch it from the air and look around to see who was calling my name.
“Archer!”
I jump back. The shout is coming from the letter. I release it, and it begins circling my head like an unhinged bird.
“Archer! Archer! Archer!”
Stones, the matter surrounding messages is growing ridiculous. I grab the thing and take it inside. There’s no wax seal, but the writing inside is easily recognizable. Yet another missive from my publisher.
Archer,
You simply must do this. Your numbers are so low right now that only this will save your career. Just think of it as a promo. One short story with Colette and then you’re back to your thrillers, only this time with an audience to pay both you and me. This is not a request. You’re doing this!
Quinn
I collapse into the armchair beside my desk.
Can I push back? Quinn isn’t wrong; my sales are rubbish.
If I don’t make more money soon, I’ll have to sell this house.
I don’t have a family to go to. My father is dead.
My mother is a monster. My brothers aren’t comfortable anywhere near me or any vampire.
Standing, I throw up my hands.
“Fine! I’ll do it,” I say to nobody.
I pen them a quick note of surrender.
You win.
Your not-so-humble servant,
AD
I write Colette a note as well, telling her when to expect me.
I’d much rather be at her place than have her here.
That way, I can leave when I need a break from talking.
I sprinkle notewater on the message and release it from my front door.
With a shower of sparks, it takes off into the morning sun.
The rest of the day is spent writing poetry by the fire with a very large bottle of dark red wine.
Perhaps during the co-writing, I can shift Colette’s writing into something deeper.
Surely, she’ll see the point in facing pain in characters’ lives and exploring the shadowed sides of their personalities.
She is a writer, after all. Yes, I’m determined to open her up to appreciating the darkness of life and how fiction can mirror that and help us learn about ourselves.
Once the bottle is empty, and my hand is cramping from writing, I go upstairs to sleep.
Before the birds are chirping to announce the next day, I wake with Hunger.
The sensation isn’t one I feel often. I can’t remember the last time it hit me.
The Hunger burns through my veins in a way that demands action.
I lift my hand and see every line in my palm clearly, each mote of dust in the first hint of sunrise, and the details of the weave in my bedcovers.
When I’m Hungry, my eyesight improves even further for hunting, and my ability to move quickly only increases in its supernatural quality.
That’s not always the best thing for me, considering how clumsy I can be.
I am likely the only vampire ever to be clumsy. My mother said it was due to my father’s blood. He was a goblin, but he wasn’t clumsy, and that’s not a trait shared by goblins in general. They aren’t graceful like vampires, but they tend to be strong and as agile as any human or fairy.
Mother held an uninformed view of other creatures, and her heart was as cold as the winter wind, especially after she became involved with the Vampire Council.
They turned her against my father and all of her children, including me.
The brainwashing happened when I was too young to know what was developing.
I just recall my parents fighting, and then going quiet, which was worse.
By the time she left, Mother was very clear about holding respect only for fellow vampires.
I dress in my hunting clothes. A simple tunic in black and trousers to match. My scuffed-up boots work well in the thorny, darker parts of the forest outside Honey Sands.
The wind is salty and cold when I slip out of town and into the scrub beyond the road.
The sun will rise soon. I don’t have much time.
When I’m in this condition—the most powerful version of a vampire’s existence—I’m very sensitive to the sun’s rays.
The light will hinder my supernatural vision and sear my skin.
Vampires are meant to be night dwellers, but I was never at ease being nocturnal, especially when most of my family weren’t, so I trained myself to live during the daylight hours like the rest of the people in the Veiled Kingdoms.
The hunt goes smoothly. I find an aged stag that seems ready to let go of life, and I make his death quick and painless.
Once I’m sated, I hurry back to town. The burn in my blood eases in its intensity, and when the sun comes up over the horizon, I’m back to normal, and its rays do nothing but warm my face.
A conversation I had with another vampire years ago sneaks into my mind.
He was an older vampire—some of us live to 150 or longer.
He said you won’t know Feasting until you taste of your true mate.
The thought makes me shudder. I can’t imagine feeding on a person.
I’ve never tried. As much as I’m horrified by it, I must admit the darker half of me finds it alluring. And that’s what scares me.
The soft skin of Colette’s thighs and the smooth expanse of flesh across her chest blink through my head, and though I try to shake off the memory, my cock rises. Those ribbons tied at the top of her stockings and that arse of hers…
What in the name of the Blessed Stones? Why am I suddenly lusting again over Colette?
I swallow and try to focus on packing up for the trip back to Leafshire Cove.
I’m glad the Hunger is quieted within me.
Flirting with one’s co-writer would be completely unprofessional.
Besides, I need to keep Colette at arm’s length what with this big story about our kiss circulating.
If my betrothed hears about it… Well, I don’t want to think about what might happen.
Hopefully, she is no longer in the city and has settled in the mountains with the rest of the Vampire Council.