A snarl rips from my throat. My retinas burn with bloodlust, and my fingers curl around the counter.Fuck.I never should have indulged in that fantasy.
Thinking about Celine while I’m this thirsty is a recipe for disaster. It brings out the worst in me. Erasing all my carefully laid plans until I’m nothing more than a ruthless predator, willing to cut through anyone in my path to get what I want—even when the obstacle is beautiful, cunning, and strong.
I watch the plate in the microwave spin obsessively. The blood inside the mug bubbles once, twice, three times as it oscillates. The timer dings.
I give it a stir and take a careful sip.
It’s like drinking hot trash.
Fury overtakes my disgust. Fuck my fussy taste buds, I’m thirsty. Plugging my nose, I chug the blood defiantly, dissatisfaction gnawing at me with every swallow.
I slam the mug down in the sink, and the handle snaps off.Two drips roll down the inside of the ceramic. My stomach churns ominously.Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick.It doesn’t help. I have to use my vampire speed to make it to the toilet in time.
After I’m done, I drag myself to the sink, rinsing my mouth out with water. I’ve never thrown up blood before, not even right after I was turned... A flicker of unease makes my insides cramp, even though there’s nothing left to eject.
Am I ill?Surely not. I never get sick. That bag must have been spoiled. I’ll try again later—once my stomach quits attacking me.
After splashing my flushed face with cold water, I head to my office to fixate on the one thing I can control: my knowledge. With my artificial sunlamp on full blast, I scan what I’ve cataloged so far about the supernatural species living on the Fringes.
My upper lip curls. It’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
I’m still in the dark on too many things: celestial magic, demonic strengths and weaknesses, and shifter limitations, to name a few. How many of us are there? How do the different types prefer to kill? How can I kill them?
Ciprian’s identity would have been obvious to me if I’d known what to watch for.
The Fringe mentality of never asking questions is bullshit. I’m done obtaining information only for money; I want it for myself now so that I can never be tricked again. Call it paranoia or insurance—I don’t give a damn; Ineedto know.
If that means I compile the most detailed dossier of supernatural abilities and traits in existence, that’s fine by me. I’ve got time. My angel wants nothing to do with me.
My fingers fly over the keyboard as I add the details I’ve gathered on demons: nightmare, incubus, and ravoc. There are rumors of others, but these three types are the easiest to find information on because of their connection to the enclave. It’s still thin. For such a visible family, the Casanells are good at scaring people silent.
The laptop I’m using is encrypted, and I’ve never accessed the internet with it before. It’s not an efficient way to research, but it is secure, which is way more important. Letting this data fall into the wrong hands could put more lives at risk than my own. Lives I’m not willing to risk.
Air tickles the skin below my ear.
“I heard you’ve been asking about demons. I see it’s true.”
I slam the laptop shut and jump to my feet. The sunlamp flickers once, twice—then steadies, humming too loudly in the silence. Nausea forgotten, my blood pumps through my veins with enough force to make them bulge. I whip my head around. There’s no one there. No one anywhere. Only me, alone as always... but I heard a voice. I’m certain I heard a voice.
Didn’t I?
My palms begin to sweat.
My legs are oddly stiff and disconnected from my brain. Primed for action—I know they could move at a moment’s notice, but I’m not sure the movement will follow my orders.
I force them to walk, anyway.Get yourself together, Alistair. You’re imagining things.
Room by room, I check my apartment for intruders. There’s no sign of anyone but me. No foreign scents. But the tingle on the back of my neck... my throbbing fangs. The less I find, the surer I am that someone is watching.
“Who’s there?” I demand. My voice cuts through the heavy silence like a beam of sunlight through exposed vampire skin. It’s horrible.There’s no hiding now, my body tells me mournfully.It knows we’re here.
Gods. Of course, it knows we’re here. It—whatever it is—snuck up on us. Hiding was never the answer. My fingers curl, and a ghostly whisper crawls along the curve of my neck.
“My apologies,” the voice titters, the timbre genderless and almost metallic. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I spin to face the general direction it came from. Near the couch, I think? My triumph at being right about the intruder evaporates as reality sinks in.
Someone isin my home.My heavily warded—maximum-bloody-security, doesn’t even allow sunlight inside—home. Only three people even know this place exists.
