by Bella Klaus
I peered through the tinted window in Souk’s door, waiting for it to slam open with a half-transformed Mr. Masood, but a large group of men approached the guards stationed outside, who refused to let them in.
I turned my attention to the backseat, where Beatrice sat beside me with her head bowed, seeming too tired to ask questions. If this had been a bar in Logris, Mr. Masood would have chased after us, raging that we had wasted his costly champagne.
Beatrice bowed her head and dozed off in the back of the car, making me wonder if she had gotten any sleep the night before. From the way her voice had cracked in the morning, it sounded as though she’d spent the entire night trying to decipher Christian’s dismissive behavior.
After crossing Oxford Street, which was still busy with double-decker busses and late-night shoppers, the Uber took the backroads and deposited us outside my building in Grosvenor Square. I nudged Beatrice awake and brought her inside to stay the night. Since she kept so many items in my closet, she barely needed to go home during the week.
The next morning, I awoke to the door clicking shut, followed by the nutty scent of freshly-brewed coffee. I sat up on the sofa bed to find Beatrice sauntering inside with a huge paper bag. She was already clad in a black suit and my hot pink tank top that looked a thousand times better against her tanned skin.
“You went out?” I croaked.
She shook her head and smirked. “I told the Deliveroo driver not to ring and met him downstairs.”
Beatrice walked to the table and set out plate-sized paper cartons, transparent cups of orange juice, insulated coffee cups, and some mystery items in white paper bags. Because of her long commute, she usually woke earlier than me and must have used that time to arrange this wonderful surprise.
“Thank you.” I placed a hand over my mouth to stifle a yawn. “How are you feeling today?”
She turned to me and paused, her eyes rolling to the ceiling. “Silly.”
“Why?”
“At our age, we should know there’s no such thing as love at first sight.”
“True.” I slid off the bed and padded across the studio’s wooden floor. “But it’s hard to fight infatuation.”
After extracting some disposable knives and forks, she lowered herself into the seat. “Combined with the most mind-blowing sex.”
“Yeah,” I said with a sigh.
Beatrice turned to me and frowned. “You still remember—”
“It’s hard to forget sometimes.” Not that I had anything to compare it to, but that first and only time with Valentine was also the first time he’d consented to bite me.
My throat dried, and a tiny flutter of desire pulsed between my legs. Vampire saliva had the power to make a girl beg, but vampire bites were as addictive as crack cocaine. They had ten times the explosive power of a good orgasm and the vampire’s saliva lingered in the bloodstream long enough to wreak havoc on the victim’s dopamine receptors.
At least that was how Istabelle had described it during a desperate patch when I had been tempted to return to Logris. I’d been suffering the most horrific withdrawal and hadn’t even known until she pointed it out. After realizing how deeply sex with Valentine had affected my body, I became determined to endure an intensive detox, no matter how much it would hurt.
I took my seat, watching my best friend crack open the packages and peer at their contents.
“Gosh, I love living in Central London,” I said, licking my lips.
“You’re so lucky.” She placed a polystyrene box in front of me. “But I suppose Wimbledon isn’t that bad. We also get all the restaurants down there or via an app.”
“If a person could afford it, they’d never need to cook.” I opened up the container to find poached eggs in hollandaise sauce with grilled tomatoes, portobello mushrooms, sliced avocados, and potato rosti, an upscale version of hash browns.
Beatrice hummed her agreement, opening her portion of bacon, sausage, and black pudding, which I found too heavy for a weekday breakfast.
“Thanks for this.” I sliced through the grilled tomatoes, watching its contents spill into the container.
“It’s me who should be thanking you,” she murmured. “How many times have you given me a place to stay when I’ve been too distraught or knackered to go home?”
I shook my head and smiled. It was a miracle enough that I managed to score this amazing little studio. Istabelle paid me enough to feed and clothe myself and I made decent tips from healing. Without Beatrice’s sparking personality and her international tax consultant salary, my social life wouldn’t be so glamorous.
“Baked beans?” She raised a polystyrene tub.
“Yes, please.”
She pulled off its lid and poured half its contents into my container. “How could I have been so…” She shook her head. “So—”
“Don’t punish yourself for trying to find happiness,” I murmured.
She turned her sad brown eyes to me and frowned. “He was just too good to be true.”
I exhaled a long breath and dipped a piece of mushroom into the yolk. What was it the humans said? “It was something to chalk up to experience.”
“Yeah.” She tore off a piece of sausage with her teeth.
My mind rolled back to how I’d felt seeing Valentine outside the store. Resentment, apprehension, and hope?
“What are you going to do about your ex?” she asked through her mouthful.
“Ignore him.” I bit down hard on a crunchy piece of potato and scowled into my breakfast.
Beatrice paused, waiting for me to elaborate.
I shook my head. There was no going back to him after such a cruel breakup. “Did you know he had the nerve to look confused when I didn’t fall at his feet?”
“Typical.” She pulled off the lid of her orange juice and took a large gulp.
Valentine reminded me of a movie I once watched—Dangerous Liaisons, starring Glenn Close and John Malkovich as a pair of jaded aristocrats who toyed with others for amusement.
One of their victims was a pious woman played by Michelle Pfeiffer, who John Malkovich had taken great efforts to seduce and then dump at the request of Glenn Close’s character. After he’d completely destroyed Michelle Pfeiffer, he proudly announced that winning her back would be his greatest triumph.
I shook off those thoughts. Valentine probably didn’t want me back—not even as a joke. Maybe he came to warn me about the Masood character prowling Central London for girls.
I took a long sip of my orange juice, letting the sweet liquid slide down my throat. Maybe I was wasting too much energy and thought on a man I wouldn’t see again for another three years.
After breakfast, Beatrice left to catch up with the work she’d missed the day before, and I hauled myself into the shower and prepared for a day at the crystal shop.
Jonathan was waiting in the doorway with his shoulders around his ears and his hands stuffed into his camel-colored Paddington Bear coat.
My heart sank. “What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t turn up for our eleven-thirty session.” Jonathan kicked a penny into the side of the shop.
My insides cringed. “Sorry about that, but I won’t be able to see you anymore.”
His gaze rose to meet my eyes, and he rocked forward, looming in on me like a specter. “Why? Because of that man?”
I shook my head. “You seem to want something from me I can’t give you.”
Jonathan’s mouth fell open, and his eyes went round with faux shock. “Sound healing?”
Irritation fizzled across my skin. I’d spent enough time reading the Cosmopolitan website to know when I was being gaslighted. And I could count on every finger and every toe the behaviors Jonathan displayed that indicated he wanted our association to extend beyond professional.
Pursing my lips, I exhaled an annoyed breath. What was the point of arguing with him when he would argue back to extend the conversation and change my mind?
Instead of playing
his game, I answered his question directly. “I can’t give you sound healing, either.”
He continued standing in the doorway, blinking rapidly as though trying to dislodge something in his eye.
A taxi stopped behind us, its diesel engine rattling. Someone opened the door and slammed it shut, and the taxi moved away. Jonathan’s eyes slid in the direction of the retreating vehicle.
“Who was that man you were with yesterday?” he asked.
“Please leave,” I said.
He raised his chin and scowled. “Mera, it’s a simple question.”
“And none of your business.” I curled my hands into fists. “For the second time, leave.”
Jonathan’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He licked his lips, seeming to want to say something but shook his head instead. “Give me a call if you change your mind. Do you want my number?”
“Mrs. Bonham-Sackville will have it somewhere in her archives, and I won’t change my mind.” I stepped aside, giving him ample space to leave.
Jonathan’s breathing quickened, making his thin chest rise and fall. I was about to threaten to call the police when he stepped out of the shop’s entranceway and stared down at me like a man committing a face to memory.
My insides writhed at the scrutiny, and I forced myself not to flinch. When he finally turned to walk down Upper Brook Street, I finally emptied my lungs with a sigh of relief.
That didn’t mean I would turn my back on Jonathan. Even though he’d never once raised his voice or indicated he would turn violent, the man’s behavior was becoming unsettling.
Jonathan continued down the road with his head bowed and his long feet scuffing the paving stones. I took a step back, wondering what had become of my promised vampire guard, and bumped into a large figure.
My breath caught. “Sorry.”
I whirled around to see a stern-looking man with slicked-back hair and charcoal-gray eyes. He glowered down at me and bared crooked oversized teeth.
“Watch where you’re going, girl,” he snapped.
“You, too,” I said.
He paused and glared at me from over his shoulder. “Pardon?”
The challenge in his voice made my hackles rise. I pulled back my shoulders and raised my chin. “You were walking behind me when I stepped backward. That meant you must have seen me coming, right?”
The man flinched and hurried down the road. Now it was my turn to glower at his back. I’d only taken one step back and that was toward the Crystal shop. Why hadn’t he walked around me or side-stepped?
I shook my head, letting him also disappear down the road. Maybe it was Samhain that messed with everyone’s minds or Mercury being in retrograde or the Ides of October. Maybe it was just me, attracting the wrong kind of attention.
I stepped into the doorway, unlocked the shop, and made sure to lock it. Istabelle emerged from behind the counter, making my heart leapfrog into my throat. I staggered back with my hand on my chest. “Bloody hell.”
“Sorry for frightening you, dear.” She placed her palms on the counter. “I simply couldn’t sleep, knowing you’d disappeared with King Valentine.”
A tight band of guilt wound around my chest and settled at the base of my throat. I’d been so preoccupied with the return of Valentine and with Beatrice’s heartbreak over Christian that I hadn’t considered what my boss might be thinking.
Istabelle was the only person in the world—natural or supernatural—who knew the effect Valentine had had on my body and soul. Istabelle had bloody healed me. Of course she would worry.
I crossed the shop floor, inhaling a long, deep breath and forcing it out of my lungs. “It should be me apologizing.”
“What did His Majesty want?” she asked, her voice breathy with concern.
“He says I’m in danger.”
Istabelle reared back. “Whatever from?”
I spread my arms wide in a shrug. “There’s a lot he wouldn’t say, but I met a shifter in a bar who sent over a bucket of champagne with enchanted glasses.”
“What kind of shifter?”
“I couldn’t tell,” I said with a frown.
She raised a hand. “Of course. At your age, I found it hard enough to distinguish between supernaturals. You’ve done extremely well to identify his species.”
The tightening of my chest loosened a little, and I told Istabelle everything I’d learned about Mr. Masood.
“Did you know why I didn’t feel his magic until after I’d left the bar?”
“That was probably his rage,” she said. “Sensing intense emotions in supernaturals is part of being sensitive to magic. It made his power bleed through.”
My brows furrowed. “Bleed through what?”
“Have you heard of the Cleopatra stone?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“You’ve heard of chrysopoeia, correct?” Without giving me a chance to reply, she continued. “Back when alchemists tried to transmute lead into gold, they developed a more noble substance than anything that occurred in nature.”
“The Cleopatra stone?” I asked.
She shook her head. “It’s not a single object but a manufactured substance that cloaks power while allowing its wielder to use their magic.”
I bit down on my lip, picturing the man from last night standing with a huge lump of rock in his pocket. “You think Masood was wearing it?”
Istabelle nodded. “How else could he have entered an establishment and observed you for long enough to select you as his target?”
“Me?” I placed a hand on my chest.
“Do you know how rare we are?” she said.
I raised a shoulder. About one percent of supernaturals were born without magic, but while I was growing up, I’d only heard taunts from people my age that I wouldn’t amount to anything other than a blood cow or a surrogate for a wealthy vampire.
“There’s a reason why the King of the Vampires sought you for a mate,” she murmured.
“Because a supernatural is guaranteed strong offspring with a magicless supernatural,” I parroted.
“Don’t underestimate that power.” She shot me an admonishing glower. “Take the morning off to learn everything you can about Cleopatra stone and how to overcome its ability to cloak magic.”
“What will we do about Masood?” I asked.
“I’ll get in touch with the enforcers.” She swept her arm toward the door that led to the basement library.
After work that day, Macavity and I sat at the little dinner table. He ate a piece of fresh salmon I’d gotten half-price at Tesco, and I’d baked the other piece and served it with coleslaw and potato salad the store had also knocked down because of its expiry date.
That was the benefit to working opposite a supermarket and knowing which times of the day the staff discounted the soon-to-be-out-of-date food.
“Want to know what I learned at work today?” I asked the Bengal cat.
His right ear twitched, his way of telling me he was still listening but wasn’t interested enough to make eye contact.
“Only a few alchemists managed to create the philosopher’s stone, and one of them was called Cleopatra the Great.”
Macavity paused to spare me a glance.
“Not the Egyptian queen,” I said. “She was a lady who developed a special item that could mask magic. People call it Cleopatra stone.”
Macavity raised his head from the plate and sat on his haunches, which was unusual for a cat who hadn’t finished eating his fish.
I set down my knife and fork, wondering if he was being more attentive because it was Samhain or if he was about to cough up a hairball.
“Alright,” I said, giving him the benefit of the doubt. “Cleopatra stone hides the magic of supernaturals, and it’s used by elite members of the Council’s enforcers for covert missions.”
His eyes narrowed.
I tilted my head to the side. Did he think I was making it up? When Macavity didn’t utter a meow of protest, I continued. �
��But it only works to a certain point. When their emotions run high or its user is in danger, they can overpower the stone and expose their hiding place.”
Macavity jumped down from the table and scampered to the door.
My shoulders sagged. So much for believing the cat was actually listening. He probably just stopped eating to get a bit of fresh air.
I opened the apartment door, expecting him to run off into the hallway and down the stairs, but he only moved his front paws through the doorway, tilted his head, and meowed.
“What’s wrong?” I crouched down to his level, holding the door for balance.
Macavity turned around and trotted back to the dining table.
I stared out into the apartment building’s communal areas, wondering what the cat wanted to tell me. Nobody was outside, in the hallway, or on the stairs, so I guess he just changed his mind about wanting a walk.
When I turned back to check on Macavity, he stood on the table with his front paws on my plate, gulping down my cooked salmon like a demon.
“You little—” I clenched my teeth.
Why was I pissed off with a cat who had already proven himself a food thief? I slammed the door and stalked over to the refrigerator, where I’d left the rest of the potato salad and coleslaw.
“That’s the last time I’ll ever fall for that trick,” I muttered.
Macavity ignored my rant and continued eating my salmon before moving back to his plate. What was wrong with the bloody cat? He was already cheating with me with whoever gave him that name tag. The creature was also a wretched flirt who would take snacks from anyone who thought he was cute.
I tore open a pack of cooked chicken I’d planned on using to make sandwiches for tomorrow’s lunch and added a few pieces to my new meal.
The worst part about having a posh cat was his expensive tastes. Macavity wouldn’t eat kibble or even gourmet cat food. Whoever really owned him had fed him on a diet of meat and fish, meaning that the cat didn’t recognize anything else as food.
Macavity’s paws hit the wooden floorboards, indicating he’d already finished the best parts of my former meal. Moments later, something warm and furry rubbed against my leg.
