by Ash Krafton
It is with great pleasure that I write to announce my intent to visit your city. News of your manifestation has traveled all the way to my country, and I cherish the opportunity to meet with you.
My journey will bring me to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in October of this year. I have enclosed the information for the hotel as well as my itinerary. Please contact my representative so we may arrange to meet soon afterwards. I do not travel often and do hope we can make the most of my time in your land.
Warmest regards,
Sophia Eirene Biztos
A Sophia!
I read the letter twice more before refolding the thin sheet of paper and sliding it back into its envelope. My heart thumped at the prospect of meeting another Sophia. Finally, I'd get to talk with someone about whatever the hell it was I should actually be doing.
The letter had been dated nearly two weeks earlier which meant she'd already be at the hotel. I picked up the business card she'd enclosed, intending to call immediately.
A twang of regret managed to strike its way through my happiness, however. I longed for a way to tell Marek about the letter. He'd searched for the Sophia for so long. It wouldn't be fair to keep such monumental information from him. I knew he avoided me out of guilt and remorse for what had happened the night we were taken by the Master but, by doing so, Marek estranged himself from whatever benefit my Sophia could be to him at a time when he needed it most.
He'd offered me the security of his country home. I still felt uncomfortable about accepting such a generous offer. At least now, I could introduce him to another Sophia. Sort of pay him back. Perhaps she could heal him and bring him back to his true self. It had to be torment for him, living on the precarious edge of evolution, knowing the slightest nudge would damn him forever.
I shouldn't get my hopes up. He might not even listen to me, let alone agree to see her.
Promising I wouldn't get my hopes up so high I couldn't retract them, I glanced at the hotel card and dialed the phone. About time I started doing my job.
A sparkle of inspiration struck at about four o'clock that afternoon and for the first time in weeks I enjoyed a quitting time free of dread. Although it involved considerably more effort than should have been necessary, it was well worth it.
God bless the parking garage next door.
I got off the elevator on the seventh floor and crossed the catwalk to the adjoining garage complex, following the ramp down to the elevator on the far side. I emerged on the opposite side of the block from my office building.
The Were-free side.
I would have done a congratulatory jump-and-heel click but those extra minutes meant I had to boogie to make it to my bus. Couldn't waste time bragging about my ability to outsmart a Were.
It should have been easy to ask Rodrian for help with my furry tracker. Why not? When he needed help with Shiloh, he had no problems calling me for a favor. However, offering a house in exchange was a huge pile of persuasion. I didn't quite have that kind of leverage.
But being Sophia should have counted for something, shouldn't it? I didn't take a paycheck or stock options or anything. Being Sophia meant I was destined to protect the DV. Shouldn't they protect me in return?
But do I really do anything? I scowled and sullenly stared out the dirty window, watching block after blurry block slide by. Sure, I answer petitions all the time but am I really doing anything?
Being a spiritual healer didn't provide the most quantifiable of data.
That was the big thing that kept me from asking for help with the Were who was tailing me. I didn't think I deserved the right to ask for anything when all I did was simply be myself.
And if I couldn't justify asking for help, I certainly couldn't justify taking a house. Not even one disguised as a gift, one that no one else on the planet could live in.
My resourcefulness got me home without the Were seeing me. I repeated it like a mantra until I convinced myself I'd be able to help Shiloh without taking Rodrian up on his offer. By the time I reached my apartment building, I'd made my decision. I would call Rodrian and tell him what I should save told him right then and there—no. Thank you but no.
The flight up to the second floor seemed longer than usual. Mrs. Petterson was on the phone again, her voice carrying like fifteen extra pounds in bikini weather, filling the narrow staircase. What she had against privacy, I'd never know. Who put their telephone right next to the door?
A thin gleam showed under Mrs. Petterson's door, sharp and bright in the dimly-lit hall. The gray square of window at the far end didn't offer much light. Stupid shorter days. Trying not to grumble and straining to see, I tipped my purse and felt inside for my keys. When I pulled them out, they dragged out half the contents of my bag, scattering them over the wooden floor.
Ninja Sophie, that's definitely not me.
As I stooped to collect my clutter, Mrs. Petterson's door jerked open.
"Do you mind?" Her hair rollers and cigarette and bright pink lipstick made her look like the Housewife from Hell. It must have been the angry curl of her lips that left me with such a distinct impression, despite serious doubt that she even really was a missus. Not that I was one to judge. "I'm on the phone."
"I'm sorry, I dropped—"
Mrs. Petterson sneezed. And sneezed again. Five rapid ketches before a wheezing chew with no room in between them for a bless you. I had to side-step her Marlboro when she sneezed it at me. Honestly. Pets weren't allowed but smoking was?
"How dare you bring a dog up here!" Her cigarette smoldered, forgotten on the floor. Eyes wide, she pointed a bony, heavy-ringed finger at me before sneezing again.
"But I—"
"Don't tell me!" Ketchew! "I told you I was—" Ketchew! "Allergic to dogs!"
"I don't have a dog." I knew she was nutty but this was raving madness. Would pepper-spraying her would do any good? I would be totally justified.
"Then he does!" She pointed behind me. "Get it and your friend out of here!"
"My fr—?" In the glare from Mrs. Petterson's open door I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure sporting a ruffled head and a pair of orange eyes.
I screamed like a slasher flick vic. Mrs. Patterson echoed me with a phlegmy rendition of her own. The Were scrammed, stomping down the steps and banging the front door as he fled.
"My God, girl." Mrs. Petterson wheezed as she stooped to retrieve her cigarette. "What was that all about?"
I unlocked my door and lunged inside without answering. If she was offended, too bad. Jamming the lock across and twisting the deadbolt, I knew it wouldn't make the slightest difference.
That wasn't a burglar out there. That wasn't an ardent fan. That was something locks weren't designed to keep out.
I repeated a frustrated f-word litany and fought to calm myself, forcing slow corrugated breaths over the rapid bump of my heartbeat. Through the door, I could hear Mrs. Petterson, back on the phone, relaying the weird occurrence to her friend.
I didn't need to relive it. Retreating to the living room, I flopped onto the couch.
Another apartment down the drain. Maybe it had been foresight that kept me from unpacking. Foresight, or forewarning. Either way, I was out of here.
When I recovered enough to manage a casual tone, I dialed the phone. Rodrian picked up on the first ring.
"Hi, Rode." I smiled purposefully, trying to lighten my voice. "Ah. Saturday night sound good to you?"
Dear Hopeful,
You have seized an important victory—you have held on to hope.
As long as we breathe, there is hope. As we press on through pain and loneliness, hope is our guide. It leads us out of the dark.
True love cannot die. It gets lost, sometimes. It may even be forgotten. But true love is an eternal spark that doesn't cease to exist simply because someone walks away. The spark dims with time and distance, yet may reignite if you are brave enough to press your wick closer.
You are blessed with a second chance to reclaim your love
. You don't have anything to lose except solitude. If it was a true love you shared, there is always hope to share it again.
Be brave, and always be hopeful.
Sincerely, Sophie
Saturday night I walked into Cordula's Bistro wearing a little black dress and an overcoat of trepidation. (It went well with the faux pearls, actually.) I worried I might be overdressed but I was double-booked tonight—Sophia Eirene had invited me to her hotel later on so I wanted to make a good impression on her.
It didn't hurt to look nice for Rode, either. Never knew if he'd say something to Marek about what he was missing. Best to look spectacular in any case.
Rodrian wanted to discuss Shiloh's medical condition so I suspected this wouldn't be a light matter. This whole business with his family was as far from a light matter as it could get without imploding.
Guiltily, though, I'd still looked forward to it. Any subject would be worth dealing with if it meant I could be near them again. I missed Marek's family almost as much as I missed him.
You're getting carried away. I handed my wool coat to the check girl, thinking it might be best to keep the mental one. Fools rush in and all that.
The hostess escorted me to Rodrian's table. As she led me though the labyrinth of booths, I tried to ignore the pressing sensation of being an unmarked human amidst a roomful of hungry DV.
Rodrian rose and moved my chair for me. Even though I'd always considered it a silly gesture, it didn't look silly when he did it. He'd learned his gentlemanly affectations in a different era, and he used every one of his one hundred and twenty-plus years to his advantage. He liked being the focus of attention. It made for a worthwhile experience for anyone who cared to watch.
"You look terrific," he said.
I could have spent a good hour returning the compliment. Rodrian looked GQ perfect, as usual. If David Beckham ever gave up modeling—and knock on wood he wouldn't—Rodrian could step right in and womankind wouldn't spend a single moment in mourning.
"Thanks. I have a meeting afterwards. Sophia stuff," I added. I didn't want to elaborate, although I was positively itching to tell him about Sophia Eirene. This was about Shiloh tonight. I didn't want to distract him.
Taking his seat, he signaled to the wait staff, who filled my wine glass. I pushed my hair back behind one ear and rubbed my elbows as Rodrian began a casual conversation, seeming to ignore my fidgeting.
Eyes on me. Eyes and a sense of someone hovering right over my shoulder. Flickers of movement in my periphery kept jerking my gaze away from his face, making it hard to concentrate on him.
Sitting in a DV establishment, I felt like catch of the day. The sensation of being watched began the moment I walked in but I'd tried to disregard it. I've been around enough DV to learn to suppress my discomfort. In a restaurant, however, it became much harder to ignore. Appetites were sharper in places like this.
Didn't help that I kept catching glimpses of the manager, casting oily glares in my direction. Andre Caen wasn't my idea of a fun time. Or a nice time. Not even an okay time. I knew the difference between the Demivampire who cohabitated with humans and tried to remain un-detected among them, and the Demivamps who didn't care if we knew we were being hunted.
Andre Caen was of the latter group. He enjoyed being a bad time.
Eventually, I couldn't tolerate it any longer and interrupted Rodrian with a vague wave of my hands. "Can you fix this?"
"I'm sorry," he said softly. Stroking his jaw, he leaned over and stretched his fingers toward me, brushing my hair away from my throat and trailing them along the side of my neck. "I'd forgotten how sensitive you are."
Human patrons might have thought he was being affectionate or perhaps merely admiring my earrings. They missed the mystical caress of power that now surrounded me, effectively putting me off-limits to wandering fangs. By marking me, he'd taken me off the menu and made every DV in the place aware he'd placed me under his protection.
The discomfort lifted immediately. I closed my eyes for a fortifying breath and stretched a little in the mental breathing room.
"Thanks. That's much better."
Looking around, I took in the rest of the bistro. "We got take-out from here a couple times. Plus, I'd read a few reviews about Cordula's but this is the first time I came here. Nothing at all like Folletti's."
Rodrian, by profession, was a restaurateur. Folletti's was one of his previous establishments. Whereas Folletti's had been formal and elegant—the preferred destination for senators and royalty and men trying to impress the hell out of their dates—Cordula's was less stifling. This place specialized in pop rock music, boozy laughter, and finger food.
My worries that the little black dress would be overkill were quickly dispelled. Cordula's looked like a casual date place, an after work place, a night out with friends place all rolled into one. Little black dresses were the ultimate multitaskers. They were also the ultimate butt-savers, considering that Rodrian wore gray Armani. I supposed it was his idea of dressing down.
I tasted the contents of the wine glass and nodded my approval. The sangria was sweet and zippy like the perfect wine should be. I smiled. Rodrian remembered my preferences. "Have you owned this place long?"
He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "How did you know it was mine?"
"You mean you'd shop at your competition?"
Rodrian laughed. "Oh, gods, never. I acquired this last year and re-opened on Valentine's Day. Cordula means 'little heart'. Great tie-in for the marketing."
I glanced around, noting the full tables, the swarming wait staff. "You have a good thing here."
He looked steadily at me and said, "I know."
That wasn't a look meant for your brother's ex-soul mate. I picked up the menu to avoid looking back. "Is it okay if we order right away? I had an early lunch and a busy afternoon. I have a hunch you're going to talk more than you eat."
"Fine with me. I'm starved."
Starved was an understatement. Within ten minutes the table was covered with plates. No mystery where Shiloh got her hollow legs—she, too, had an admirable appetite, even for a teenager, and we'd spent most of our time together eating. It had been murder on my wardrobe. Thank goodness for stress and depression.
I watched him demolish the appetizer with college-boy zest before he moved onto a generous cut of Porterhouse, freshly cut and grilled medium rare. "Rode, how do you still fit in your pants?"
He titled his head, letting his bangs fall over one eye before pushing them back. "You want the serious answer or the other one?"
I blushed and he grinned. Just like old times.
"I do a lot of exercise." His undertone hinted at activities other than jogging and he grinned again before taking a drink from his glass.
"You haven't changed, either," I said.
"Nope. I'm too old to change."
"So I'd heard. How's Shiloh?"
"Funny you mention her. All this talk about not changing." The grin faded and his expression grew serious, emphasized by the tremor of concern in his power.
"She's all right?"
"Yeah, she's all right. She's just not...safe."
I shook my head a little to show I didn't follow.
"You know my girl's seventeen now."
"Yeah, how 'bout it?" I smiled. "She ready to take on the world yet?"
"No. That's the problem." He cleared his throat, looking acutely uncomfortable and I felt his power twinge with concern. This was the need that called me here—it curled around my core. "Shiloh has hypolution. She hasn't cusped yet."
"Cusp?" I vaguely remembered hearing the term used before.
"The change from human-like child to DV adult. You know our children grow exactly as human children—they're nearly indistinguishable. But the onset of puberty doesn't only bring physical adult characteristics. A DV teen goes through a cusp, an awakening of power and DV-specific physical changes."
It explained why I never "felt" Shiloh before—she'd always been just a
regular person to me. "All along I thought she just had better manners than you."
"Shiloh? Manners?" His eyes sparkled with mirth a moment before growing serious again. "You've met her friends. Did you ever sense any of them?"
"Some, yeah. They didn't announce themselves the way adults do. Their power was weaker, diluted, unsteady." I searched for the right word in an attempt to describe a vague impression. Hard to describe what I didn't altogether understand.
I must have been close enough because he nodded. "Yes, exactly. But from Shiloh?"
"Nothing but sass." I sighed.
He pressed his lips together. "Well, I daresay that most of her friends would 'feel' like ordinary DV adult by now but you wouldn't feel Shiloh unless you used both hands."
"Why is that a problem?" I asked. "She sounds like a late-bloomer."
"It's more than that." Concern knitted his brows. "Her body is rapidly developing into adult, but without the cusp, her other attributes—her mind, her power—aren't keeping up with it."
Rodrian sighed and set down his fork. "I'll be blunt. Her body is beginning to require blood sustenance. Without her cusp, she doesn't have compulsion abilities. She can't obtain prey. The notion of consuming blood is as attractive to her as it is to you. She just doesn't have a taste for it."
Ugh. I wanted to push my plate away. "Is there a treatment?"
"Yeah, but it's dangerous. Pontian said the only way to overcome hypolution is to use blood rush to kick-start her cusp."
That was grim news. Rodrian had spoken to me about blood rush once before. Trouble-loving teens sometimes got their thrills doing it. It didn't involve death energy but, in young Demivamps, blood alone was enough to instigate evolution. It was a matter of being blood naïve and having zero tolerance.
I suddenly realized how difficult this was for Rodrian. When he'd first told me about blood rush, he'd been recounting the death of his son.
I steeled myself against pessimism. I had to be strong for Shiloh's sake. "Pontian knows what he's doing," I insisted. "He fixed me right proper, didn't he? I'm sure this treatment will be carefully controlled."
