And if he is too stupid to realize this is a suicide mission, then I would like to be too.
I wonder, in moments of weakness, if this suffering was worth having Paolo vanquished. Foolishly, I thought one hundred years would pass more quickly. Or Alfo would succumb quicker to his own idiocy.
I imagine Davìd, free and safe by the sea. This is a balm to my bruised soul.
The club’s popularity grows, and every night behind the bar, I turn myself numb to the carnage I see play out before me. Young people stumbling in through the door, barely old enough to drink, have their entrance fees waived. They stumble into the arms of an ancient vampire within minutes. Some of them feed out in the open, blood dripping down the walls and onto the white couches. Nisos hurries out with a mop soaked in bleach to clean up the mess so the others don’t turn feral.
And yet, I lose my appetite.
The thought of drinking Kat’s blood, knowing now that Leo does in fact wish to free her and knowing that I have failed him, turns my stomach. My hunger fades entirely.
My dick becomes a soft, useless lump. I can no longer move at an enhanced speed, but what does it matter? I am imprisoned behind Alfo’s bar, shaking out mojitos for girls in strapless tops who have no idea what the fuck they’ve stepped into.
I cannot speak her name—not even in my mind. And when Leo asks me if there is an update, I find myself turning to stonebefore him. My failure to pull us out of this world is more painful than the rumors of bodies being found lifeless and drained of all their blood.
Leo stops asking.
He focuses on security, recruiting more demons to work the doors. He convinces Alfo to let Kat bartend with me—a temporary protection against the increasingly hungry vampires who roll in from everywhere between New York and Miami. Kat still smiles in her coy way, but her eyes are skittish and her neck is covered in thick, white scars. When a Mediterranean vampire with a flick of boyish surfer hair sidles up to the bar and leans into her orbit, flashing his fangs and trying to coax her with his twanging accent and glamour-filled eyes, I beckon Leo with a lifted brow.
That fucker never resurfaces at our bar again.
It becomes clear to me that word of Hades House has spread like wildfire, pulling in vamps from supernatural enclaves from places we can’t even fathom. They do whatever they want, whenever they want, protected by the anonymity of being just another strange face in a town far from home.
One night while I am chopping lemons and limes in preparation for opening, Leo lays a hand on my shoulder. We exchange no words as he passes me a tall, skinny aluminum can.
It’s covered in Korean characters. I turn the can over until I reach an English translation.
VITAMIN Pi - SYNTHETIC SUPPLEMENT - LAB GROWN PLASMA + ERYTHROCYTES -Not for human consumption. Shake well to heat.
“Black market synthetics?”
“You’re growing too weak. Even Alfo has noticed.” His voice is a deep, gruff whisper.
I arch a brow. “Has he now?”
“Said you look like shit.” Leo smirks. “I agree.”
“Great.” I shake the can and pop the tab. “Exactly what I needed to hear.”
The synthetic blood hits my tongue and I feel some of the gray clouds of dread lift from my body. The flavor is mostly horrible—a sort of faux-lavender and vanilla meant to mimic the ephemeral florals and creams that make a happy human’s blood so irresistible. But once I gag down the first mouthful, my muscles relax and the ache in the back of my skull dies down.
I drain the bottle and watch as the veins in my arms pulse back to life. I feel the distant thud of my heart in my chest. Under the dim barroom lights, the warm olive hue blooms back into my skin.
Leo watches me, brows pulled into a severe frown, enormous arms cross over his chest. “We will build something beautiful. Don’t lose hope—not yet.”
The VITAMIN Pi works. My appetite isn’t back, but I regain my strength enough to focus on midterm exams. Leo leaves me bottles under the sink in the filthy bathroom meant for human workers. I even begin to crave the flavor. Maybe I’m more like my Nordic brothers than I realized. Oysters and prosecco are thousands of miles away from this swill. I’m just a bloodthirsty sadomasochist without the flaxen hair and Viking lineage.
By the second week in February, I find myself reaching for the cans of blood more than once a day, despite the horrible acrid flavor and bone-chilling mouth feel. I find myself stashing extra cans in my bag before lectures. When I attempt to venture out in the middle of an overcast day, it takes no time for the wide-eyed stares to send me back home until dusk.
And that’s when the dreams begin.
She sleeps, curled up like a cat, on the couch in the Paquet Manor library. Plush lips parted, brows slanted into a look of concern. Her dark hair pulled back while loose curls cling to her forehead and neck. Soft rain pattering against the tall windows makes a gentle soundtrack.
I’m not sure if I walk toward her or float, but soon I find myself settling on the couch.
Diantha blinks her eyes open. “You’re here again.”
I hesitate, my hand hovering just above her hair. “I’ve been here before?”
