Wicked Soul (Ancient Blood #1)(20)

“But what about the people who kidnapped you? What if they find you again?” Bless her, she really did look genuinely worried for me. A small twang of warmth in the pit of my stomach made me reach out and pat her hand—I’d enjoyed working for Dennis more than I’d enjoyed any of my other retail jobs before, and it was in large part thanks to how sweet everyone was. The thought that if I stayed around this time, perhaps they’d turn into friends one day flitted through my mind as I took in Skye’s worried frown.

“You don’t have to worry. They won’t find me. It’s… been taken care of.”

“But—“ Skye’s protest died at my grim look. “Oh.”

I forced my lips into a smile. Time to change the subject. As much as I understood her interest in learning more about Warin—hell, I’d bombarded him with questions about his kind myself the moment I realized he wasn’t going to eat me—no one would benefit from dwelling on what exactly had happened to our kidnappers. The less you know, and such. “So how about you? Are you seeing anyone?”



* * *



It wasn’t until I was standing in the supermarket on my way home from work that same afternoon that I realized I had no idea what to serve a vampire guest.

The thought of not putting up at least a small spread for a visitor just seemed all kinds of wrong, but as I frantically spun around myself in the aisles hosting corn chips and salsa dips, it dawned on me that Warin would be pretty fucking difficult to cater for.

I couldn’t even open a bottle of wine. Or, well, I could, but it’d be entirely for my benefit.

It was only when I’d spun around myself for the third time that I spotted the sign for the butcher’s at the far end of the aisle—and an idea finally took form. Clutching my chips-and-dip filled basket, I hurried to the counter.

“Hi, can I have…” How much did a vampire even eat? “Four pints of pigs’ blood, please?” I shot the older man behind the counter a beaming smile, hoping I wasn’t giving off any “creepy cultist” vibes.

“Oh, how refreshing. It’s so rare to see the younger generations make some of the good old-fashioned dishes from scratch. Blood sausage, is it, dear?” he asked.

“Uh-huh, grandma’s recipe. She’d roll over in her grave if I ever so much as thought to buy it factory-made,” I lied. My grandmother was unfortunately still very much alive, and the only thing she’d ever taught me was how to hold back tears to avoid getting a whooping for “being a big baby.”

Not that that kind of edifying family tales were likely to put my new blood-pusher at ease.

I waited for the butcher to shuffle to the back to get my goods with some impatience—I only had a couple of hours before sunset, and I still had to clean my apartment and ideally transform my work-worn self into something less undead-looking. Of The Walking Dead-variety. Warin pulled off the whole undead-thing pretty well.

I didn’t manage to stop a loud giggle-snort at my own wit from escaping my throat, making the other patrons in the vicinity turn to look.

The kind butcher chose that moment to reappear from the back, four pint bottles filled with dark-red, viscous liquid. “Your pigs’ blood,” he said with gusto. Out the corner of my eye, I saw a mother pull her child closer.

“Thanks. Can’t wait to make that blood sausage,” I said loudly, snatching the bottles from him two at a time to put into my basket.

The mom only gave me a pinched frown before she walked away, child in tow, and the old lady by the deli-counter didn’t look convinced, either.

Great.

I was so gonna bitch Dennis out for making us wear black clothes to work.



* * *



I drove home in my ancient Ford Fiesta, shoved the bottles into the fridge, and began Project Oh-Shit-I-Didn’t-Clean-Over-The-Weekend-Like-I-Meant-To with only about an hour left until sundown. In my usual, well-organized fashion, I was only just done with the impressive pile of dishes on my kitchen counter when my door buzzer went off.

I looked up, noticed it was pitch-black outside, and muttered a curse. I’d decluttered most of the living room and dining room—and by “decluttered,” I mean I’d shoved everything into my bedroom—and managed to run a brush through my hair and change out of my goth work ensemble, but the space certainly didn’t represent anything from a Better Living magazine.

Or an immaculately kept vampire mansion, for that matter.

I pushed aside the sudden rush of insecurity over the difference between my home and Warin’s. If we could be friends cross-species, a class difference really shouldn’t be the dealbreaker.

Wiping my hands on my butt—like a lady—I walked over to my door phone and picked it up. “Yeah?”

“It’s Warin. We have an appointment.”

I couldn’t hold back a grin at his formal tone. “Sure do. Hang on, I’ll buzz ya in.”

I pressed the buzzer and heard the street door opened and shut, followed by a knock on my front door less than two seconds later.

I pulled it open, and my face split into an automatic smile at the sight of him. “Hey! So glad you could make it.”

“Hello, Liv,” he said politely. He looked so proper as he stood at my doorstep, gray woolen coat buttoned up and both hands folded in front of him, it made a nervous giggle bubble out of my chest.