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Celeste shrugs. “Witches are my customers. If this city is unsafe for them, my business goes under.”

After driving for a while longer and watching the sweet little townhouses roll by, I say, “You can drop me up at the townhall. I’ll walk from there.”

She looks me up and down. “And where are you going to sleep, under a bridge?”

I shoot her an angry glance. “No.”

Her expression softens. “You’ll catch your death walking in the cold like this. You’re coming home with me.”

I bite my lip and don’t remind her that I can’t, in fact, catch my death because there is no death for me. Because, actually, I don’t mind the thought of drying off in some flashy Elysium apartment. Besides, that hungry darkness that took over again tonight is still stirring and I’m afraid it could come out again tonight.

7. A TOTALLY NORMAL REACTION TO PLATONIC TOUCH

I’m not sure what I expected but the moment I step into Celeste’s home, I can’t picture her living anywhere else. Rather than in Elysium, it sits behind large iron gates in Asphodel, the building itself obscured by old trees and climbing roses. It looks exactly what you’d imagine a witch’s house in the twenty-first century to look like.

The interior strikes a remarkable balance between antique and stylish, full of dark wood, intricately woven rugs, and a bizarre amount of bookshelves. I can’t say I’ve been interested in interior design lately, mostly because I’ve come to appreciate virtually any furniture at all, but I have to admit I like this.

And I hate the fact that it does but it makes me like her more, too. Bad people don’t live in cozy homes, right?

Celeste marches ahead of me without ever looking back and I follow like a well trained puppy, though I’m afraid she’ll turn around any minute and reveal that this is all a practical joke – of course, I am not welcome in her home!

Instead, she brings me up a flight of squeaky stairs and bids me to wait before a broad fireplace, the coals inside reigniting with a snap of her fingers. The mantlepiece, like most of the house, is covered in books. It’s while I’m standing there, trying to wind down from the rush of the night, that I notice something is different with my mind. That moment when he grabbed me and I lost control feels like it hasn’t ended. I’m still fidgety and hyper-alert, jumping at every sound.

After shivering there for a few minutes, Celeste returns and leads me into what I can only assume is her bedroom. The thought of why she had to go ahead and make sure I didn’t stumble onto something improper in there makes me feel surprisingly bashful.

“Just find something dry to wear,” she says as she opens her closet, a heavy-looking colossus of beautifully marbled wood.

Though I can’t wait to wear something that costs more than my life, it’s something else that draws my eye: her bed. If the closet is large, the bed is made for giants – though it’s carved with remarkably fine detail. Its four posts hold up a thick strip of red fabric. There are more pillows than I've ever owned, silken sheets, and thick duvets. Looking at it, especially in my cold, wet state, nearly brings tears to my eyes.

“What is it?”

I notice Celeste has been watching me. “Nothing, sorry,” I say, already turning to face the clothes.

Her hand brushes my arm. “Don’t do that. I don’t like it.”

What?I try to read her face but can’t figure out what she means.

“Don’t dismiss me when I ask you a question,” she clarifies.

I give her an apologetic smile, though frankly I want to tell her to mind her own business. She’s not entitled to the contents of my head. “I like your bed,” I explain dully. “I’m a bit jealous.”

She nods, eyebrows raised.

Like the idiot I am, I do not take that as a sign that I’ve said enough. It’s as if the more control I give over to the vampire part of me, the more compulsively, stupidly honest I get. “I don’t have one. I mean, I have a mattress but it’s pretty old. Which isn't as gross as it sounds because I have a sleeping bag but… yeah, jealous.” I laugh awkwardly.

What the hell is wrong with you?I scold myself.Why did you say that?

Her lips curl a little, softening her stern expression. “You’ll stay here tonight.” It doesn’t sound like an offer but rather like a decision she’s already made.

I swallow, my mind suddenly going places I wish it would rather not. The images seem to come from the same base, primal place my violent fantasies have arisen from.She doesn’t mean inherbed, idiot.

As if reading my thoughts, she adds with a chuckle, “My guestrooms also have beds.”

While Celeste excuses herself to get my room ready, I’m left to comb through her closet. Most of the items within are far too feminine for my style and could really only be worn by a witch or a baroque noblewoman. Still, I appreciate them as I rifle through them – their seams are clean and unfrayed, the fabric far from the polyester hell of my own wardrobe. There is nothing that strikes me as offensively expensive and no brands one would recognize but the clothes’ quality speaks for itself.

Hoping I’ll find something more modest and comfortable, I open a few of the drawers at the bottom of the wardrobe, just to promptly close them again when I come across only leather, lace, and latex inside. Biting my lip, I try not to imagine what Celeste would look like in those.You need help, Deni.

Finally, I settle on a thick cashmere jumper and loose linen pants, which make me feel like I’m forty and about to meet my very fancy friends for brunch and champagne. Just as I’m wondering if I should get undressed right then and there to relieve myself from the misery of my sopping clothes, Celeste returns and leads me back out into the hallway. I can hear the sound of running water from one of the rooms but we go through the door opposite. The guestroom is similar to her own, with a large, heavy-looking bed and a deep chest of drawers by the tall windows.