The Eternal Kiss: Vampire Tales of Blood and Desire

She frowned. “Um … The kitchen?”

“Cupboard under the sink.” He lay back against the floor and closed his eyes.

“Your old man’s a freak, you know that?”

“Screw you.”

Moth couldn’t stop the grin that spread across her face. She blew him a kiss and pocketed his cell phone and her shades on her way past the armchair. She left the room and quickly checked all the other doors before finding the kitchen at the far end of the labyrinthine apartment.

The kitchen was surprisingly large, square and filled with chrome and modern appliances that didn’t look like they saw much use. The small sink and disposal unit shone under the bright lights, and beneath those nestled the sort of cupboard where you’d expect to find cleaning products.

Except inside this cupboard were at least a dozen funeral urns. Why would a vampire hunter store trophies of his kills under the kitchen sink, of all places? Maybe it was simply because nobody would ever think to look there for his prize stash.

Or maybe Thomas Murdoch was a crazy bastard. What the hell did it matter, anyway? As long as she grabbed the right one, she was out of here.

Moth shuddered as she touched the urns at the front. Ugh, creepy. How was she supposed to know which one Theo wanted? She nibbled her lower lip, her mind straying to the kiss with Jace. He may be the son of a killer, with a serious attitude problem to boot, but he was still pretty damn hot. She should really give his phone back when she left—that knee was going to need a lot of medical attention.

She pushed away thoughts of teen vampire hunters, and instead tried to remember what Theo had told her about the master vampire that’d been dusted. She carefully removed each urn, searching for clues, and breathed a sigh of relief when she thought to look underneath. Each one was inscribed with a date—presumably the date of death. Moth knew when Maxim had been killed, so it was only a matter of minutes before she found the right container. At least, she hoped it was the right container.

Tucking the ceramic urn under her arm, she prayed she wasn’t going to have one of her clumsy nights. She would have to take the stairs, much as she was tempted to climb out of the window and just shimmy down the wall, but carrying ashes that were over five hundred years old while sticking to the wall Spider-Man style probably wasn’t a good plan. Especially as the contents of this funeral urn—no matter how gross—were her ticket back out of Ironbridge for the next two months.

As she finally left the apartment, wondering how many invisible alarms she’d tripped in the kitchen, Moth dropped Jace’s cell phone outside the bedroom door. Maybe he’d find it before his dad got home. She didn’t have time to do more for him. Theo would be waiting for the urn, and was no doubt wondering where the hell she was.

Moth rolled her eyes. Let him wait—like he’d even care that she had almost been killed tonight.

Except Theo had cared. He had seemed to care a great deal, which left Moth confused and vulnerable when she faced her father the next day.

* * *

“I don’t know what kind of deal you made with the Devil, Marie O’Neal, but do you honestly believe I haven’t noticed you’ve not aged a day since your eighteenth birthday?”

Moth—still known as Marie to her family—stared at her father in shock. She wanted to say something sensible; something that would convince him that he was talking crap. Anything that might make him believe she wasn’t the monster he suspected her of being. But the O’Neals were a superstitious bunch, and her father was the worst of them.

“Dad—”

“Get out of my house. Your mother’s been in her grave this past year, so you’ve no business here anymore.”

“You can’t stop me from seeing Caitlín!” Her younger sister would be devastated when she heard what was happening. How could Moth explain this to her without revealing the truth?

Coming home had probably been a mistake, but Moth refused to miss her mother’s memorial service. Apart from the fact that she wanted to be here for that, not putting in an appearance would’ve caused even more questions. She hadn’t been home since Mom died last year, and even back then her father had been insistent that his middle daughter was now living a life of drugs and “God-knows what else.” However, the look of distaste on his lined face—the shadow of fear that lingered in his pale blue eyes—said that he now believed something else entirely.

Rory O’Neal had always been a God-fearing man, thanks to his strict Catholic upbringing by elderly immigrant parents, but he was looking at Moth as though she were the devil incarnate.

He scowled at her. “Caitlín’s old enough to see you on her own time, away from here, and Sinéad feels the same way as I do.”

She couldn’t resist sneering at that. “Of course she does.” Moth and her older sister had never been close.

“Don’t speak about your sister in that tone. At least she didn’t run away after your mother passed.”

Moth ignored him and watched the family’s arthritic dog shuffle around the untidy backyard. She tried not to think about her older sister’s smug expression as she had watched their father lead Moth out onto the porch after the last guest had left. At least Dad had waited until people had properly paid their respects, before disowning her and telling her she was something other than human.

Much as she wanted to hate him, how could she truly blame her father?

Swallowing unshed tears, she shivered in the rapidly cooling shade. She couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to have the sun warming her face. As usual, she sat under cover of the wooden porch as the bright spring day came to a close.

“Do you even hear what I’m saying to you, Marie?” Her father’s voice broke into her scattered thoughts. “You’re not welcome here. Leave us in peace.”

Tears burned in her eyes—the eyes her father had insisted she uncover after the service commemorating Mom’s life and death—and the blue contacts caused her eyes to ache more than ever. Moth clutched her sunglasses between stiff fingers, and resisted the temptation to crush them into dust. She suddenly wished she’d left them back in that room with the wannabe vampire hunter.

A picture of Jace suddenly flashed in her mind, as bright and clear as a newly developed photograph. She gritted her teeth and pushed the image away. He was human, and not only that, he was her enemy.

Moth’s voice was husky. “I understand what you’re saying, Dad. I just don’t know how you can say it to me. I’m your daughter.”

His eyes were blank. “No, you’re not. Not anymore.”

Marie “Moth” O’Neal gazed at her father for a long moment. His face was set in cold, hard lines that she knew would never again melt into a smile—not for her.

Caitlín was the only human being that she could rely on now. She had to learn to accept her new “family;” a family that worshipped the moon rather than the sun, and who didn’t look at her as though she were a monster.

When she had returned to Theo with barely-healed scars on her arms—and the silver handcuffs causing fresh burns every moment—her sire had been furious. Not with her, as she’d feared, but with the young human who had dared to attack his “little Moth.” He had ripped the blessed metal from her wrists without flinching, the mysterious urn seemingly forgotten as he held her in his arms and stroked her hair.

Turning away from the home she had grown up in, Moth tasted bitter ashes on her tongue. Her old life was crumbling around her, but she pinned a fierce smile on her lips as she headed out of the city. She tucked her sunglasses in place, hoisted her backpack higher on her shoulder, and wondered how long it would take her to hitchhike back to Boston.

She had earned her last two months of freedom, and she damn well intended to make the most of them.