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“Not exactly,” Jules confessed. “I was too drunk to see reason, and he tired of talking to a potential asset that seemed determined to destroy himself.”
“What did he do?”
Jules laughed, a bright sound that seemed more than strange in the circumstances. “He threw me off.”
And he had. The next instant, I saw him pick Jules up by the shirtfront and casually drop him over the side, all with a faint smirk on his face. And then use vampire speed to catch him before he hit the ground.
Just.
“He’d heard that a lot of the people who commit suicide regret it halfway down,” Jules told me, with a catch in his voice. “He wanted to find out if it was true.”
“Was it?”
Jules choked on a laugh. “I wet myself. And then I sobered up, and asked him how he did that. And he offered me a new sort of contract. An immortal one.”
“But you don’t sound happy.” And he didn’t. Bitter, with a side of world-weary and maybe an edge of hysteria thrown in there for good measure. But definitely not happy.
“Some days—” His voice broke, and he paused before continuing, stronger. “Some days, I wish Mircea had missed.”
“What? Why?”
“Think about it, Cassie!” he said fiercely. “Eternity when you’re a screwup is a very long time! I thought I would eventually get good at this, learn to be the suave, überconfident vampire, start to feel comfortable—but it never happened. I just learned new ways to be a failure. Mircea’s vampires are either diplomats or soldiers, and I’m neither.”
I didn’t bother to point out that there were other jobs. Jules wasn’t the type to be happy doing the laundry. He was talking about prestige positions, and yeah, that about summed it up.
“You could always ask for a transfer,” I said instead. “Go to a different house—”
“And do what? Look good?” Jules laughed again, and this time, it was humorless. “A face like mine may make you a fortune in the human world, if you go about it right. But you know what it means in the vampire? When any third-rate glamourie can give you the same result?”
“You’re more than just your looks, Jules.”
“Am I? How many thespian vampires do you know? Or performers of any kind?”
“Vamps have . . . hobbies,” I offered, a little lamely, but it was true. They did a variety of things in their spare time. Paint, sculpt, sing . . . I used to know one who took weird photos of people’s worst features, a sort of beauty pageant in reverse.
“But not as a profession,” Jules insisted. “Not as a way to leave a mark, to count. There are people who are good at this life, who take to it naturally, and then there’s the rest of us. But there’s no way to know which you’ll be before you get in, and once you do, there’s only one way out.”
And yeah. The kind of contract vampires were offered didn’t have an expiration date. It was something all those eager applicants often forgot.
“I’m sorry,” I told him, and meant it.
“Don’t be. Just promise—if this doesn’t work—promise me you’ll end it.”
“Jules—”
“Or have Marco do it. I don’t care, I just—I can’t live like this. You understand? I can’t—”
“Jules!” I said, sharply, because the hysteria was creeping back, big-time.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, sounding a little calmer. “But I want your word.”
“Listen to me,” I said, striving for calm, because I wasn’t doing so great myself. “I won’t promise you—”
“Cassie—”
“No, listen!” I said, my voice shaking slightly. “I’m being straight with you, okay? No bullshit.” Not this time; not ever again. Not with people I cared about.
What a way to learn a lesson.
