RoseBlood(77)

If only it could return to the way things were just two nights ago. When I hadn’t almost sucked all the life from Jax, one of the sweetest and funniest guys I’ve ever met. When Etalon was still the Phantom. When I knew him, and trusted him.

Trusting a phantom. I slam my eyes shut on the stupidity of that thought.

Last night was stupid, too. I know that. I knew it even when I went to that club, when I was letting myself believe . . . but it’s hard to abandon the chance to know yourself, or to redeem yourself for years of guilt.

My fingers move mechanically now, knitting on autopilot.

Those last few minutes I had with Etalon roll over me in waves, whisking me back to the elevator. While helping with my blindfold, he explained that we were in a den of psychic vampires—vampires that feed off energy instead of blood—modern descendants of old-world incubi and succubi who had evolved to utilize all varieties of emotional energy, beyond just lust. He warned that although they were our kind, they were more dangerous than either of us.

All these years I believed the mythology, that incubi and succubi were creatures who fed off sleeping victims. But they can attack anytime, anywhere.

We can attack.

“I’m a vampire,” I’d whispered. I grew woozy in the elevator, trying to wrap my head around that terrifying revelation.

Etalon steadied me. “You already suspected,” he said. “You just needed someone to make you face it. It’s in your lineage, on your father’s side. I saw the memories . . . how he took you into the garden and showed you.” I tried to turn around, but he held me in place, still working on the blindfold. “Hold still. I don’t want to pull your hair and hurt you.”

The elevator doors opened before I could respond.

“You must have a thousand questions,” he continued in that familiar husky voice that had been reading bedtime stories to me for weeks now. “I’ll answer them soon. But for tonight, you need to pretend to be in a trance if you want to keep your friends safe.” He grunted, hefting Jax up to carry him while guiding me by my forearm back to the hearse we arrived in.

Thankfully, everyone else was preoccupied in the club, either feasting, or being feasted upon, so we had no interruptions. Etalon said nothing until the driver spoke.

“So, you found our last stowaway.” The nasally man chuckled from the other side of my blindfold.

“I did,” Etalon answered. “We’ll put him in the car with the others. They’ve all learned a valuable lesson tonight. Too bad they won’t remember it tomorrow.”

I heard the hearse’s door pop open, then a rustle of clothing as both men scooted Jax into the seat.

“And the girl?” the driver asked.

Etalon’s hand cupped my elbow. I recognized the violinist’s calluses on his fingertips. My arms grew warm as something was pulled into place over them then settled onto my shoulders. My coat . . .

Etalon tugged a fallen curl free from my collar. His finger grazed my neck, sending a delicious bolt of friction through me before he rested a palm on my lower back.

“She’s to be left awake and uncuffed.” His deep voice ground out the command. “She’s fed. And I’ve hypnotized her not to remove the blindfold. She poses no threat.”

“Understood.”

“I’d like a minute alone with her, to ensure she stays under until you drop them off. I’ll help her into the car once I’m done.”

“Of course, sir.” A car door opened and shut, indicating the driver taking his place inside.

I was led some feet away. I clenched my teeth, barricading the thousands of accusations and questions wanting to leap out—furious in my blindness.

“You have every right to be angry.” Etalon’s patronizing tone stung like hot oil.

“Meaningless words from someone who’s always hiding,” I seethed. “I should at least get to look into your eyes when you explain why you set me up.”

“And you will,” he answered, his voice so raw in its sincerity, it made me remember the little boy he once was whose beautiful songs were stolen away with the flavor of lye and bile. A jagged line of sympathy sliced through my heart.

I caught a breath as something cold and metallic tickled my chest a few inches beneath the dip at my collarbones. Etalon spun me slowly until my back faced him, clasping a delicate chain at the nape of my neck.

“Vous êtes si belle.” His gruff whisper gilded my earlobe in a sliver of heat—somehow even more sensual for its confinement behind the mask.

You’re so beautiful . . . My skin hummed, both from his proximity and the compliment, but I refused to let him see. A sarcastic retort formed on my tongue and I tried to spin around to unleash it.

“No, no. Not yet.” He held me in place, one arm crossing me from behind—a provocative weight edging my rib cage—and the other hand clutching the front of the necklace. “You’re in a trance, remember? Any emotional outburst would shatter that illusion.” With each shallow breath I risked, his knuckles brushed my skin at the dress’s neckline, releasing sparks of sensation that made my pulse spike.

“What did you put on my neck,” I whispered, less of a question than a distraction technique so my heart would stop racing.

“A key to RoseBlood’s roof,” he explained, his own respirations uneven, proving he was equally leveled by our physical contact after so many days and nights being separated by walls, and so many years separated by space and time. “If you’ll wave it in front of Diable—let him get a good sniff—he’ll lead you through the secret passage.” He released me and the necklace, helping me turn without slipping on my stilettos.