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“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“You do,” he says. “And please note that I just called your parents witches, and you didn’t even try to protest. You don’t even seem shocked. That says a lot. That says you knew about them deep down. And maybe now you’re realizing how they’ve kept you hidden from others this whole time. Others like me. Others like Atlas Poe.”
“How?”
“Your tattoos. I’m guessing they encouraged you?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“And all the jewelry you were wearing, how much of that was given to you? The black tourmaline? Tempest Stone?”
I swallow hard. “Most of it.”
“And your apartment, did you know that the walls are covered in runes too? To hide you?”
“How do you know that?” I ask sharply.
“I’ve been in your apartment,” he says, his stare turning darker, never blinking. “You know I have.”
The uneasiness makes me want to curl over. It’s too much.
“Your parents,” he goes on, fingers digging into my shoulders, as if to keep me upright, “used spells and protection stones and all the energy they had to hide you from others like me.”
“But it didn’t work,” I say dully. It feels like I’m still underwater.
“No. Because they underestimated my resources. Who I am. What I have to work with. You think they would have known, since they’ve met me more than a few times.”
Now I’m awake. “What?” I say, whirling out of his grasp. “They know you?”
Absolon nods. “Yes. We aren’t friends. But I have given them some vampires on occasion.”
I run my hand through my wet hair, my mind exploding again. I walk over to the end of the bed, sit down on it, trying to make it all make sense. “You’ve…given my parents, who are witches, other vampires? Why? For what purpose?”
“Ah,” he says, gracefully striding over, standing in front of me. “How little you know. You believe in witches, yes?”
I nod. “I believe they work with energy.”
“That’s correct, though a basic explanation. Did you know that not all witches are the same? Some deal with earth magic, moon magic, even black magic…others are slayers.”
“Slayers?” I repeat.
“Vampire slayers.” He folds his arms across his wide chest, muscles straining against the black material of his shirt. “Surely you’ve seen Buffy.”
I almost laugh. “Are you kidding me?”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a quick smile. “I am. On the other hand, that is their job. There’s a whole guild devoted to it. They are born to do what they do, and that’s exclusively to kill us. Creatures like me. Creatures like you.”
“My parents are vampire slayers…”
Even though I’m still coming to terms with what a vampire is, that I am one, this still feels a bit…much.
“In the past we used to call them the mordernes. The killers. But pop culture is so easily intertwined with reality. Started with Bram Stoker and Van Helsing and went from there. But it was always based on something. A group of people with powers whose purpose is to hunt us down and kill us because they decided our kind didn’t deserve to live.”
“Wait, you said something about a guild,” I mention.
“Yes. They have an organization. A tribunal. It controls and sanctions who they can kill and when. Your witchy parents, when they killed your vampire ones, weren’t sanctioned to do so. Another reason to keep it all hidden.”
“Atlas Poe said he was part of a guild.”
“Yes. That’s the guild. He knew that if the rumors were true, that it would fast be approaching your twenty-first birthday. Probably set out to investigate dozens of couples with children who were turning twenty-one to see if any of them were hidden with magic.”
“But he found me…” I trail off, remember the darkness in his eyes when he realized I was wearing black tourmaline. Did that tip him off that I was under protection?
“Perhaps,” Absolon says.
I glare up at him. “Can you stop reading my mind?”
He shakes his head. “Would if I could, but when you’re upset, it’s like you want me to.”
“Well, I don’t.” I sigh, staring down at my bare arms.
Gone. All gone.
I’m getting choked up all over again. I have to take in a deep breath to calm my heart.
“So why didn’t Atlas kill me?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I’m going to assume he wasn’t sanctioned. He’s an investigator. And he probably has his suspicions but no proof that you are the mythical child.”
I nearly snort. Mythical child. Give me a break. “That’s the second time you’ve called me a myth. What am I really?”
He runs his slender fingers over his jaw, eyes skirting my body, leaving goosebumps in their wake. For a moment I’m struck by how deeply, impossibly beautiful this man is. It’s dazzling me.
Focus, I remind myself. I definitely don’t need him to hear that. Would only add to what I’m sure is a massive ego.
I glance at his eyes, expecting him to be smirking at me. But his gaze is thoughtful instead.
