The waves in the light halt. It all flatlines into a pale blue and I swear I can see bright eyes looking at me through the veil.
“Did you just call me your prince?”
I stare back at him, and the simple connection of our eyes is something I feel right down to my soul.
“You said you were a prince. Are you not?”
“I am.” He studies me intently, making me shift on my feet and I wish I could see more.
But then the water effect ripples back in, and he washes away.
“Kyra Vega came to me on the last Sunday of October.”
“October? She died in September. Is it common not to see her often?”
His throat clears softly. “They come to me when they need something. Information on humans. Death. Life. And they only come on the final Sunday of each month. No one argues for more time with a demon, I promise you that.”
I attempt to make some sense of those rules, and try not to dwell on how sad that sounds for his existence.
Stop humanizing everything.
Focus!
“What did Kyra say that day? What information did she want?”
“She asked if vampires had an afterlife, the same way humans do.” He pauses with a breath of laughter. “They don’t, in case you were wondering.”
“They don’t,” I echo.
“You can’t live centuries upon centuries of being a heartless monster of the night and expect to get the same treatment as our dear, sweet Betty White.” He scoffs in ridicule.
Why is he so bizarre?
Is it the isolation of solitude, or just the manic demon in him? I linger on the information, more than his strange behavior.
Kyra asked about death. Was she afraid to die? Vampire or not, she was still young…
And she was afraid.
“Did she ask about anything else? Say anything else? Mention anyone else?”
A soft hum of thought seeps through from his side. “The others, some of them babble on about their problems like I’ve got a demonic PhD to really help with their afterlife crises. Kyra didn’t, though. She rarely saw me, and when she did, it was to ask very little.”
I nod.
“She looked… sad,” he adds.
“Sad?”
“She had walked in all poised with cookie cutter perfection, but by the end her lips always pulled so far down I swear she kissed the underworld a time or two.”
“She was a vampire. She wasn’t kissing hell, she was living it,” I snap.
A rumble of laughter cuts through the veil.
“You pity her because you share her blood. But most vampires do not live through hell. They create it.”
Tingles shiver up my arms.
The waves of the cylinder slow, and I find those firelight blue eyes staring at me once more.
“Thank you,” I say before striding toward the door.
“Wait!”
I pause at the sound of his urgency. My head turns and I look into those intense floating eyes once more.
“She had a diary.”
My brow lifts.
“You said she didn’t tell you much. Why would she mention a diary?” The skepticism in my voice is clear.
“Maybe she didn’t mention it. But I can’t tell you that, now can I, pretty human?”
Someone else read her diary.
And told a fucking demonic hostage all about it.
Why?
I’m flinging open the door in an instant and when I step out into the light of the croft, I come face to face with the most serious and stern look I’ve ever seen.
“Do not go in there again,” Rival instructs.
What is with him? Does he just come around to bark orders and reassure everyone that the stick is still firmly in place up his ass?
My arms fold hard as I glare back at him.
“What have you found out so far?”
He adjusts his black sleeves along his fine suit, but he doesn’t immediately answer.
“I’m still lookin’ into it,” is all he says.
“Well, what have you found?”
He looks away, but answers quietly. “I’ve found that Crimson City is not the place for us to speak freely. Like I said, do not visit with the demon again.”
He starts to walk away, but somehow no matter how much of a bastard he always is, it always surprises me to see it up close and personal.
“Did you love her?”
I don’t know why I ask him. Love has no place within a murder plot.
Maybe it can be a catalyst for the act itself, but no matter how much someone is loved, love will never be found within the act itself.
“I cared for Kyra. Very much,” he whispers, surprising me with the rawness of his tone.
I’m still staring after him and thinking of how he kissed me just after he called me by her name as he walks away up the stairs.
He cared for my sister in some capacity. Someone cared for her, so she wasn’t entirely alone here.
But I still hold so much guilt for not being here for her. I’m literally walking around like her own personal ghost in this life that she lived, and I carry that ghostly remorse with me.
Maybe I always will.
Even as I hunt her killer.
Eighteen
Kira
I need help. I hate that I just admitted that to myself, let alone anyone else. But I need someone who knew Kyra to tell me what she liked, where she spent her time, and what she did here.
I find Prey still in the dining hall. His inky locks are shoved this way and that, but he doesn’t notice me as he downs a full glass of blood.
Gag.
I keep walking. He isn’t the help I need right now. He’s the mess I need to avoid.
As a matter of fact, asking him any question would likely end in either one of our deaths or… sex. God, what if we fucked? Oh no. What if I liked it? Could I really stand to hate him by day and pray he finds my g-spot by night?
No.
Well... Maybe…
NO! For feminists everywhere, no!
But think of my poor, isolated g-spot. Do it for the orgasm. Do it for the O, Kira. Do it…
No!
I roll my eyes at myself and remember how Acessa offered to
