Page 47

Taken for?I ask, hoping my thoughts are being heard in his mind.

He nods, his gaze on my lips.Body, heart and soul, from the looks of it.

I do have a boyfriend, I remind him.

Sure. But it’s not him. He pulls back slightly, keeping a hold of my hand though he lets go of my waist.He doesn’t have your heart or soul. That belongs someone else.

Not Callahan, I think, then wince when I realize he probably heard me.

Valtu grins, like he solved a puzzle.It’s alright. We all have our little things when it comes to love.

I don’t think either of us knows a thing about love, I tell him.

A look of sadness comes across his brow.You’re probably right. I’m still looking for her in every face I see.

I frown at that odd remark—who is her?—while he lets go of my hand and steps away. “Oh Doctor,” Valtu calls out. “Is the feeding room ready? The lady is wasting away before my eyes.”

I hear shoes coming up the stairs and then Abe walks into the room, looking between the two of us. His expression for Valtu is unimpressed. “Sorry I left you alone with him,” Abe says to me.

“He was no bother,” I tell him.

“And she’s a little too young for me,” Valtu says with a sideways smile.

“Too young?” Abe scoffs. “Twenty-five is practically ancient for you, Val.”

“Twenty-five for humans,” he corrects. “Twenty-five for a vampire is practically a child. No offense, Lena. Call me in a hundred years.”

Then he saunters off, like he wasn’t about to maul me beside the fireplace.

I make a face at Abe. “I’m not a child.”

He chuckles lightly. “You’re young, Lena, and that’s okay. Come, let’s get some food in you. Would you like to change before? Would hate to ruin your nice clothes. I have a bathrobe waiting.”

He takes my arm and leads me to the door that’s usually locked with several deadbolts, then down the stairs to the lower level of the house. Here there are no windows that take in the view of the beach. It’s like a cave, dark save for a few candles lit here and there. Vampires love their ambience.

I’ve been down here before, of course. I’ve used the feeding room several times, though I prefer the blood bags and bottles he keeps in the special refrigerator upstairs. Clinical, safe, removed from the reality of what we are. I’d rather stockpile those in my fridge than have to face what I am.

Because when you’re drinking blood directly from a human, there’s no denying you’re a monster.

But while the prepackaged blood sustains us, but it lacks something vital—the life force, the energy that comes from drinking directly from the source. It’s like surviving on diet shakes instead of real food. You won’t starve, but you’ll never thrive.

The feeding room is a large chamber carved from the natural rock beneath the house, running slightly under the Roosevelt Highway toward the mountains. There’s even a tunnel that connects to the other colony houses. The room is reinforced with modern materials and softened with luxurious touches that are so quintessentially Abe. Plush Persian rugs cover portions of the polished concrete floor. Comfortable leather chairs sit in one corner, like a perverse waiting room.

And then there are the feeding stations.

Three padded tables with medical-grade restraints, positioned precisely beneath ceiling fixtures where heavy iron chains hang, ending in manacles designed for vampire wrists. The dichotomy has always fascinated me—we chain ourselves while feeding from the willing, to ensure we don’t lose control and kill them. But for those brought here to die, the restraints are reversed.

“The robe is in the changing area,” Abe says, gesturing to a small alcove. Most vampires don’t blink an eye at nudity, but I prefer the privacy. Maybe I really am young.

I step behind the screen and remove my shoes, hanging my dress carefully on the provided hook. The silk bathrobe is cool against my skin as I slip it on, tying the sash firmly around my waist. I find a band and pull my hair back into a tight ponytail, tucking any stray strands behind my ears. Blood in hair is a nightmare to wash out.

When I emerge, Abe is standing by a heavy metal door at the far end of the room.

“Your dinner is waiting,” he says, the words coming out more refined than sinister.

“Do I want to know who?” I ask, though I already know it won’t be one of the willing donors. Those appointments are scheduled, and clinical. This late-night, impromptu session means only one thing.

“His name is Harold Mercier,” Abe says, opening the door. “We’ve been keeping him for a week now, saving him for a special occasion. Murdered those three kids found in Baldwin Hills but walked away clean. He’s not walking anywhere now.”