Chapter 7
Bash
Walking out of the Velvet Tomb on Sunday morning, the sun peeking over the horizon, I feel different. Lighter, somehow, as though something has changed—something important. Will this date actually make a difference and be a turning point? It has to, I can’t go on like this. I know in my soul that she was not exaggerating when she said I only had this one date—these 2 hours to change her mind—or she will be lost to me. I overheard her argument with Sarah, I know this is a most reluctant courtship to her but I need this chance.
Now that I havetesoro miocommitted, I have to decide what to do with her. Walking quickly toward the cathedral, I arrive in time to run into my uncles, Marcus, Victor, and Darius, who look almost identical, long black hair tied at the nape of their necks, walking with their heads bowed as they murmur amongst themselves.
“Kept it a bit late today, Nephew?” Uncle Darius calls as he watches me striding across the black-and-white checkered floor.
“Si, c’erano tesori da catturare. Ville de Sang has such beautiful treasures,” I tell him with a roguish wink.
“What treasures have you captured, Bash? Anyone we know?” Darius follows up in an almost interrogatory way.
I smile cryptically and incline my head respectfully before heading through the chapel, toward the exit. This exit is the closest way to my loft without going through the sun lit streets. I can feel the sun’s presence in the world despite being unable to see it in the windowless room. It drives me to bed, to rest.
“Keep your secrets then!” comes a shout and a laugh from behind me.
Undressing quickly once I’m in my bedroom, I brainstorm date ideas. I haven’t taken anyone on a proper date since beforeLa Casa del Corvo di Sangueconquered Ville de Sang, quite a few years before, if I’m being honest. Settling in for the next 12 hours, a plan starts to form in my head.
I awake right at sunset and have less than an hour before I have to pick her up. After a quick shower, I dress in a black henley and black jeans. Of course it’s my traditional black outfit, but a bit more casual for her. After running my fingers through my hair a few times, I head down to thecattedralefor a bite.
“Good evening,Stellino, don’t you look nice? Very relaxed. Where are you off to?” my mother says as I walk into the room. She eyes me, missing nothing, as usual. Her auburn tinged deep brown hair is pulled back in a severe bun, and she wears a designer pant suit, her usual overdressed outfit. A trait she haspassed on to me. Moving toward the warm blood on the counter, I give her a secretive smile, hearing the thick liquid fill my tumbler. Sipping blood from my glass, I wonder if Elina is in it.
“Out for a few hours, I’ll be back for council. And stop calling me that—I’m nearly 500 years old,” I playfully scold her for my nickname.
“You may be ‘nearly 500 years old’, but you’ll always be my little star. Have fun darling and don’t get into any trouble.”
Finishing my breakfast, such as it is, my appetite is suitably satisfied, but warmed blood donations are hardly what my body craves. My teeth still ache to tap into an artery. I stop to wonder what Elina would taste like, her blood flowing into my veins and filling me with life. I have to pause that train of thought before I embarrass myself. Walking toward the garage that stores my family’s cars, I ponder whether a comfortable sedan, a sports car, or even a bike would be the best choice for tonight.
I decide on the Ferrari Roma—sleek, black, and fast. If tonight doesn’t go well, at least I will have fun driving. And if it does go well, I can take her for a quick drive through the empty city. Does she like fast cars? Would she like a motorcycle? I’m going to ask her.
Heading east on I-10, I open up the 611 horsepower engine and top 130 miles per hour before slowing as I get into Little Woods. Pulling up to the curb in front of the small two story house Elina shares with her grandmother at exactly 8 o’clock, I reflect on how differently we grew up. I spent my childhood running the halls in theCastello di Feniswith my cousins and friends, and she grew up behind these walls in this modest house with only her grandmother. I want to know so much about her life here. I want to ask her everything, but more than that, I want her to want to answer me.
Climbing out of the car, I walk up the path and watch as she slowly opens the door and steps onto the porch. She’s absolutely gorgeous, and taking in her outfit, I think I should have brought a bike. She is wearing worn-in Converse sneakers, black holey jeans that hug her curves like they were made for her, a lacy tank top that shows the perfect amount of cleavage, and a black, leather riding jacket. Her brown hair falls in curls around her shoulders and down her back. Her blue eyes are ringed in kohl and look glacial and inhuman contrasting her dark tawny skin in the moonlight. She’s perfect.
“Stunning,” I breathe as I extend my hand toward her.
A smile breaks across her face and her eyes light up as she takes me in.
“Not so bad yourself,l'immortel,” she sasses, as she takes my hand and lets me help her down the stairs. I’m reluctant to let go on the path but she pulls her hand from mine. “Could you have picked a more excessive car?”
“Probably,” I shrug. “Do you not like fast cars? Or is it this car you object to specifically?”
“It’s the unnecessary flaunting of your money, Bash. Look around, read the room.”
So I do. I try to look objectively at the human neighborhood. I don’t spend any time in these communities. The French quarter is almost all vampires now. The homes were probably nice at some point but a lot are showing their age. They are run down or have peeling paint. I can tell that the people in this neighborhood genuinely care about their houses and lawns, but only so much can be done. Their cars are old, some rusty or with broken windows covered in plastic.
“I didn’t…I don’t–”
“I know Sebastien, why would you? Let’s just go.”
Taking her elbow I guide her around the car and open her door so she can slide into the seat. Moving quickly to the otherside, I get seated and pull away from the curb. We ride in silence; I’m itching to reach over and touch her warm hand. I can see the flush of blood under her skin and she’s glowing in the moonlight. She looks over at me occasionally, but doesn’t say anything and I don’t know where to even begin.
“Where are we going?” she asks me as we get off the highway and I don’t go into the French Quarter.
I don’t immediately respond as I pull over to the curb in front of the gates to St. Louis Cemetery No.1.
Her eyes widening and a smile trying to break through, she looks at me and back to the gate.
