Both had pale, milky skin and waist-length dark hair that covered their small breasts. Their faces were painted heavily; I suspected it was supposed to make them look older, but it had the opposite effect.
The woman before me, who couldn’t have been a woman by more than a year if that, extended her arm toward my mouth and bowed her head.
My stomach twisted. Old traditions or not, the practice was horrific.
“Cin cin,” Grinaldi said, sinking his fangs into the mirror image of the woman at my feet. Briefly, I wondered if they were sisters.
Neither of them made a sound.
Both trembled in fear.
Using my influence, I sent the woman before me what I hoped was a gentle reassurance. She seemed to relax.
When Grinaldi finally had his fill, he shooed the woman away.
His mouth stained with her blood, he grinned at me and asked, “Will you not partake?”
“Thank you,” I replied. “But no. I do not wish to sully the taste of my last drink.”
He held my gaze a moment, considering. It was extremely rude of me to refuse his offer; I hoped he found my excuse plausible enough to let it go.
“Very well,” he finally said. He clapped twice to draw the woman’s attention, then shooed her away in the same manner as the other. She exited without a backward glance.
Unfortunately, I knew my polite refusal to drink from her hadn’t spared her any pain—it only postponed it.
I tried not to think about that.
When we were finally alone again, Grinaldi said, “I understand you’ve taken a witch under your protection. Could this be the ‘drink’ who has spoiled you for all others?”
“It is,” I said.
There was no point in denials with Vincenzo Grinaldi. The man was, among other things, a brilliant judge of character. Of course, that only made our current predicament that much more puzzling. How had one of his own clan managed to betray him?
“A witch of some significance, I’m told,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow, wondering what he’d heard, and more importantly, from whom. The less he knew about her the better.
“A witch of somedetermination,” I said. “She’s the reason I’ve requested this meeting, and I greatly appreciate your accommodating me.”
“Go on.”
“Her best friend, along with several other witches in the area of Blackmoon Bay, Washington, were murdered with the assistance of a vampire bearing the scent of your clan. We’ve since learned that this vampire was working closely with a hunter. Their motive remains a mystery.”
“A hunter? Nonsense.” Grinaldi waved a hand in the air as if swatting a fly. “The witch-killers disbanded decades ago when the last powerful families died out. None remain.”
“Current events would suggest otherwise.”
“Hmm.” He nodded slowly, pondering the information. Or at least pretending to ponder it. “If that’s true, why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“With all due respect, I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”
Tension crackled in the air between us, but I would not—couldnot—back down. Not from this.
He seemed to sense this, finally sitting back in his chair. Slowly, methodically, he began to rock. Back and forth. Back and forth. The chair creaked and moaned under his weight, but still, he didn’t stop. He rocked for so long that I worried he’d fallen asleep. I was about to wake him when he cleared his throat.
“I realize, Mr. Beaumont, that I’ve wasted a great deal of your time. I do not wish to continue. Let us drop this pretense and speak plainly, as old friends ought to.”
“I would appreciate that,” I said.
