Most of the weapons that usually hang on the walls are missing, leaving only swords and daggers. I wonder if the old man has taken them back for maintenance.
“Mr. Farrier?”
I lean against the oak counter and wait. Mr. Farrier sometimes takes a while to shuffle through the door, but he always arrives eventually. The old man has crafted weapons in this store forever, and there’s nothing he can’t fix.
My eyes flutter closed, and I inhale a deep breath, thinking about the events of the day. Why on earth would Sister and Doctor Shevette make such a huge scene in front of the entire convent? Poor Evangeline had to be distraught. And I’ll need to do something about Jude if he continues trying to get my attention. Poppy’s curse needed him to feel true remorse—it was not conditional upon my forgiveness.
A long sigh huffs from my nostrils. With mind-reading vampires flaunting their ability to walk in the sunlight, it would be a challenging term.
The door opens, and I turn around with a smile on my lips. Instead of Mr. Farrier, a petite young woman with a cascade of black curls steps in through the back door.
I step back. “Is Mr. Farrier in?”
She presses her lips together and swallows hard. “He passed away last week.”
Shock courses through my veins and slams into my heart. “Oh, I’m sorry. Are you his…” I’m sure I would have remembered the old man mentioning having any relatives. “Are you his granddaughter?”
Her head bobs into one of those movements that isn’t quite a nod, but with her eyes so red-rimmed, it’s clear that she’s upset about Mr. Farrier’s passing.
“My name’s Galla,” she says. “What’s wrong with your hand ballista? ”
My gaze drops down to the mini-crossbow, and I wonder how she knew what the old man called it as I’ve never seen her at the shop.
Shaking off those thoughts, I push it across the counter. “I sent it from London via Mercury Mail, and it no longer fires.”
Galla picks it up and stares into its mechanism. “The enchantment that winds the cranequin has come loose. Whatever magic they used to move your weapon overloaded it. “
“Right,” I say, trying to remember if she’s talking about the round thing that moves its internal gears.
She reaches under the counter and pulls out the tiny toolbox Mr. Farrier used to inspect magical weapons, but not the magnifying goggles. She squints into the mechanism and hums. “The trigger pivot and spring have also suffered a lot of wear and tear. Do you use the hand ballista for training practice, too?”
“Only for testing new moves,” I say, heat creeping up my cheeks. It seems stupid to shoot such a delicate weapon at training dummies, but rule number three states that accuracy is everything. A slayer needs to hit their target no matter how fast it moves.
Galla gives me an absent nod and continues inspecting the crossbow. “I can’t fix this while you wait. It’s four-months overdue for maintenance.”
I gulp, feeling like a clumsy kid for misusing my toys. “When do you think you can get it—”
“Give me an hour.” She turns the crossbow over and grimaces. “Two.”
“Alright.” I step away, all doubts of her connection to Mr. Farrier evaporating along with my chances of hitting the library before jet lag pulls me under. My eyes linger on the grandfather clock that looks moments away from striking two. “I’ll return at four.”
“Five,” she says.
“Alright, then.” I take another step back and send a silent apology to Mr. Farrier for not dropping by to see him at the end of term. “See you later.”
Galla grunts in acknowledgment but doesn’t look up from the crossbow.
Behind me, the door opens, and dread trickles down my skin. I ball my fists and turn, ready to hit Jude in the nose if he’s stalking me—
A tall, athletic figure clad in an alligator-skin coat steps into the store and fixes his gaze on me. He tilts his head to the side and raises dark brows. “You owe me a suitcase.”
Chapter 4
A jolt of excitement shoots through my heart, sending a zing through my nerve endings. My pulse races, and all my senses notch to full alert.
Alaric stares down at me with eyes of liquid sapphire. Bright flecks of blue topaz glisten in their center and melt into the richest, darkest midnight blue. They’re eyes that could consume a girl whole and have her begging him to do it again.
My heart pounds hard enough to drown out my thoughts, but my hunting instincts override the magically induced attraction.
I grab him by his alligator-skin lapels, drag him down to my level, and snarl in his ear, “You owe me a fight.”
Alaric stares up at me through his long bangs, his brow crinkling with feigned confusion.
“What the hell is going on, Rick?” says Galla from behind. “What are you doing to my customer?”
Alaric raises both palms, and there’s no sign of rings, enchanted or otherwise, on his fingers. “Give your brother the benefit of the doubt for once. Can’t you see she’s attacking me?”
My grip tightens on his lapels, and I press my stake to his chest. “You’re siblings?”
“Unfortunately,” says Galla. “Please accept my apologies. My brother is intensely aggravating and can’t be trusted not to wreak mayhem.”
The stake slides back into my sleeve, and I run a frantic palm over his hard, sculpted chest. There’s no amulet—not even a chain.
“Not that I’m complaining,” Alaric purrs in a deep, smoky voice that makes my nerve endings tingle. “But shouldn’t you take me out for a drink before getting hot and heavy?”
Heat blooms across my cheeks, and I’m sure my pale complexion has become red and blotchy. I step back, my hands dropping from the annoying man. “What are you?”
“About to be thrown out of my store,” snaps Galla. “Will you both please leave so I can fix the hand-ballista?”
Alaric opens the door, letting in dry heat from outside, and steps out into the sun.
Turning around, I glance at Galla, who now stands in a stream of sunlight. Neither her hands nor her neck is adorned with jewelry, but her eyes are red and puffy with tears. The slump of her shoulders and the grief etched on her delicate features broadcast her anguish.
My chest tightens, and I murmur. “Sorry,”
I step out onto the sidewalk, where Alaric waits a few paces away with his alligator skin coat slung over a shoulder. Music blares from the Mage and Shake in the corner of the square, and Agia students dart from store to store, buying supplies for the new term.
Sunlight bounces off his black hair, turning the ends a deep shade of oxblood. He wears a black cotton t-shirt that clings to his prominent pecs and exposes defined biceps and strong forearms. His black jeans are slim-fitting and outline his muscular thighs.
Saliva floods my mouth and I snap my gaze up to his face. Alaric has one of those brows that appear constantly furrowed, and one thick brow rises in question. Alabaster skin stretches over high cheekbones and a straight nose that looks like it’s never been broken. His lips are full and pink with a square jaw ending with a dimpled chin. The effect reminds me of a Michelangelo sculpture made flesh.
I blink away my musings and focus on the threat at hand. Apart from his athletic frame and extreme beauty, Alaric appears different from Poppy’s boyfriend, Madoc. Maybe I was wrong about him being a vampire, and he’s just a warlock jerk who gets off on sending slayers and their conciliars wild by pretending to be a blood-sucker.
The corners of his lips twitch into a smile. “When will you invite me to your dorm room to get my case?”
My brows rise. “You need an invitation?”
“I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of your Magus by breaking in.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you a vampire?”
“You tell me, slayer.” He says the last word like an insult.
Before I can reply, Alaric strides away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk gaping at his broad back. Irritation fizzles acro
ss my skin, and I dig my heels into the paving stones. What kind of game is he playing? Every slayer instinct screams at me to drive a stake between his ribs, but I can’t attack until he’s coming at me with his fangs.
“How do you know my name?” I stalk after him with my fists clenched. My feet pound the paving stones, and I pass groups of Agia Convent students, who cast me curious glances.
Alaric turns his head a fraction, indicating that he’s heard my question, but he doesn’t answer, indicating that he’s either leading me to a private space where we can fight or he wants to see how long he can bait me until I snap.
A hot rush of anger powers my steps, and I quicken my pace so we’re walking side by side. “I asked you a question.”
“You made a demand,” he replies, sounding bored. “Return my case or I will lodge a complaint with Presbytera Driver.” He stops at the Black Bean, a mage cafe that serves all kinds of magical strains of coffee.
The windows are painted black with white sigils swirling around the sills. I only know the basics and can recognize they’re for protection against supernatural creatures that eat human flesh and drink human blood.
My gaze wanders to the series of symbols over the door frame, which I instantly recognize as those that repel vampires. Even though the monsters need invitations to enter a person’s dwelling, they’re free to step into places that welcome the public. There’s a luminescent glow to the symbols, indicating that whoever painted them is still channeling their power through those wards.
I turn my gaze back to Alaric, who reads the lunch menu. His chest rises and falls at the normal pace for a human, and he rubs his stubbled chin which was clean-shaven when I first noticed him on the plane. These signs show that he’s some kind of dark mage—the walking unaided in sunlight, the mage sister, the growth of his beard, and now the interest in food.
“Alright,” I say. “You can have your case.”
He turns to me with his brows raised. “Let’s go to the convent and get it.”
“Let’s discuss your terms over coffee and a snack.” Casting the anti-vampire sigils over the establishment’s entrance a glance, I push the door open and wait.
Alaric narrows his eyes at me for several heartbeats, and the beginnings of triumph rumble through my chest. If he’s a vampire, he won’t be able to cross that threshold. If he’s one of their kind, the fight is on.
We stand locked in each other’s gazes for what feels like an eternity, I’m breathing just as hard as him and the thrill of the hunt thrums through my veins. Maybe it's Theodora's blessing that has accumulated through generations of Augustine women, maybe it’s the fact that he got away from me at Jaeger airport, but I’m quaking for this kill, aching for it.
When I think my hands are going to move of their own volition, Alaric places his hand on the door, and all my theories about him being a vampire crumble to dust. No creature that feeds on human blood should be able to get a few feet within the establishment’s perimeter, let alone touch it.
This isn’t my first time in the Black Bean, but the first time was my last. I went there with Jude three years ago on a dare because he heard Grandma telling me to stay away from that den of iniquity. We were both fourteen, naive, and wanted to know the true meaning of the word.
I clench my teeth. Maybe this was where he got the enchantment that ensnared my emotions. Jude’s a talented mage, but not even a fourteen-year-old could concoct something so subtle and long-reaching.
Alaric pushes the door open, letting out a cloud of cool, coffee-scented air mingled with something decidedly muskier. I step in after him into a room with the ceiling enchanted to resemble the sky during the northern lights—deep indigo with a dancing swirl of green.
On the left is a barista counter illuminated with a purple haze, and what resembles four iron cauldrons bubbling and popping. They’re just for show, as the actual coffee machines stand behind the tall counter.
Half a dozen round, low tables take up most of the space with thick cushions beneath them that are more comfortable than they appear. Alaric takes a seat and stares up at me with a challenge in his dark eyes. I glance at the opening at the back of the store, where I see glimpses of mages clad in black leather lying on low chaises, sucking solid ether from long pipes.
I snatch my gaze away and lower myself into the cushion opposite Alaric. As long as they’re not taking ether from living beings, what these mages do is no business of the Order.
“How do you know my name?” I ask.
“Hugo talked about you all the time,” he says.
My brows draw together. “Mr. Farrier?”
Alaric nods. “He was so proud to supply weapons to an Augustine slayer.”
My chest tightens, and I swallow a lump in my throat. Mr. Farrier enjoyed hearing how I had used his weapons, but I hadn’t realized until now how much my stories had meant to the old man.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I mumur.
Alaric bows his head. “Thanks.”
“What will it be?” says a gravelly voice that belongs to a middle-aged woman with one half of her face covered in black runic tattoos. A thick, silver chain adorns her neck that holds more charms than I can count. Some of them are six-inch daggers, some dolls, and others are animal shapes. She’s a bone-mage who specializes in divination.
“Heliospresso,” says Alaric.
My brows rise, and I wonder if he chose a drink named after the Greek sun god on purpose.
The mage turns to me and raises a tattooed eyebrow. “And you?”
“Latte, please.” I scan the menu on the table. “Ares beans.”
“Anything to eat?” she asks.
Alaric frowns at the menu and purses his full lips. Without meaning to, I hold my breath and wait for him to speak. Vampires are corpses reanimated by blood and magic, which means they have the same anatomical parts as a human. Their digestive systems are so accustomed to a liquid diet that they can’t tolerate anything thicker than blood.
Our Supernatural Biology instructor once forced a vampire to drink lobster bisque, and the creature writhed about in pain for several minutes before the liquid spewed out from both orifices. If Alaric was a vampire, he would refuse the mage’s offer for food.
“Apple pie.” He turns to me with a smile. “And you?”
I narrow my eyes. “Apricot.”
The mage takes away the menus and disappears around the counter, leaving behind her patchouli scent.
Raising his brows, Alaric leans back on his cushion, with his arms resting on the floor behind him. Everything about his posture, including the way his shirt stretches over the contours of his chest and tight abdomen, screams that he’s not only relaxed in my presence, but he’s taken charge.
I clench my teeth, irritated at myself for following the annoying creature’s lead. Whatever happened to honest vampires who attack with claws and fangs?
“Let’s discuss your terms,” he says. “You’re going to hand over my case and offer an apology for the inconvenience.”
I lean across the table. “I counter that you fight me for it.”
“What makes you think I’m a vampire?” he says, feigning boredom.
“Do you deny being a darkblood?” I shoot back.
“Do you?”
I rear back, my emotions knocked off-balance at the unexpected reply. That phrase only applies to supernatural beings who rely on sentient beings to survive or work magic.
Straightening my features into a mask of indifference, I say, “As far as I know, I’ve never consumed the blood or ether of another person.”
“Yet.” He leans forward and rests his chin in a hand.
My lips tighten, and I clench my teeth. Did I say vampires were the ultimate predator? I still hold this as true, but Alaric is turning out to be the ultimate troll.
Throughout the flight and the long-winded landing, he got me thinking he was a vampire. I don’t know what kind of enchantment he used to simulate the mesmerizing vampiric gaze and th
e body-parts-into-smoke trick, but I won’t stand for the implication that I’m a darkblood.
Placing both palms on the surface of the table, I rise off my cushion and stare down into his dark eyes. “Sorry for taking your case,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’ll leave it with Galla when I pick up my crossbow.”
Alaric also stands. “Where are you going?”
“Back to the convent.” I turn toward the door.
The mage appears with a tray containing our coffee and pastries. “I don’t care if you stay or go, but someone’s paying for this order.”
My stomach takes this exact moment to rumble, reminding me that Poppy used up my reserves on the plane, and I really need to eat something if we’re going to fight. I lower myself into the cushion and accept a steaming cup of frothy latte. The mage places a plate of apricot danish in front of me that looks like two egg yolks floating in a golden, custard-filled basket. My mouth waters and my empty stomach clenches.
For the next few seconds, all I can think about is the warm, sweet pastry encrusted with streaks of white frosting. I take my first bite of the crumbly, buttery pastry that mingles with the creamy custard and tart sweetness of the apricot.
In this moment, all troubles of stalking exes and vampires dressed as mages dissolve into the ether, and it's just me and this intoxicating apricot danish. I wash down my mouthful with a swig of warm latte that’s not too strong and sigh as energy courses through my veins.
Alaric stares at me as though he’s never seen anyone devour coffee and a danish. Maybe in his centuries as a vampire, he’s never fed any of his prey. He takes a sip from his espresso and leaves his apple pie untouched.
My danish disappears quicker than intended, and my still-empty stomach grumbles for more. Alaric pushes the apple pie across the table. “It looks like you need it more than me.”
I push it back. “After you.”
His lips quirk into the barest of smiles. “Do you think I’ve poisoned it?”
Vampire Bonds (Darkbloods Book 1) Page 4
