Page 8 of Cursebound
I don’t worry about my age either, other than to disguise it. I’m not immortal, but the Vecchissime bloodlines lend themselves to unnaturally long, healthy lives—like several centuries long. I’m a baby by those standards, but I’ve appeared to be in my mid-twenties for the last eighty years or so. It’s a challenge. There’s only so much one can credit to the revitalizing powers of Crème de la Mer, good genetics, and a Botox wizard.
“I’m old enough,” I reply, “to realize that we shouldn’t be making small talk. I know what you are. You know what I am. Why are we sitting in a bar having a drink like old friends?”
“Or new lovers?” A wisp of silver circles the black of his irises. That’s a new one on me, and I’m horrified when it makes my pussy clench.
“Cut it out.” I keep my voice as steady as I can. “Or I’m leaving.”
“Not if I don’t want you to,” he murmurs, his tone deceptively gentle as his hand streaks out, a blur of motion, and traps my fingers. To anyone looking at us casually, it would seem like a romantic gesture—a loving touch. I know differently because of the effortless pressure he exerts on my flesh, the painful grind of skin and bone as he flattens my hand to the tabletop and keeps it there.
“You go when I tell you to go,” he growls. “When we’ve had a chance to talk.”
“Talk then, for fuck’s sake!” I say, exasperated and hurting and infuriatingly excited by it all. Who knew I had a bossy-vamp fetish? Not me, that’s for sure.
“You swear too much.” He releases my hand and leans back.
I rub my sore wrist and glare at him. “What, for a woman?”
“For a dock worker. I’m sorry if I hurt you.” He stares at the wrist I am massaging as he speaks, and I get the feeling that he actually means it. This guy is quite the trip.
“You’ve been having the Call more and more often, no?” he says, snapping back to business. “Been facing more and more vampires you needed to put down? I’m guessing you’ve been feeling that amulet of yours a lot more than usual, that your visions have been more powerful. That maybe there isn’t room in your head for anything else.”
It isn’t a question, but I nod anyway. He’s right, and I’m intrigued as to how he knows. I mean, I haven’t even talked to my family about it yet. I need to soon, because I’m feeling the burn of it all. There are only three Seers left alive to police the rogue vamps and suddenly a lot more rogues. Rogan was just the latest in a way-too-long line of targets.
My visions have always been more vivid than the other Seers’ for some reason, and while that makes me a more effective tracker, it’s also a much bigger head-fuck. I feel their sick pleasures, their perversions. Their euphoria as they rape and feed and kill. It’s the way it works for me. My mind is flooded with all of it, and I have to let that flood drown me before I can swim back to the surface and be of any use.
Except I’m starting to understand that I might just drown one of these days. That there’s only so much one mind can take.
I don’t waste time confirming that he’s right. “Why the sudden uptick in monsters? Has something changed on your side of the barriers? Have all the blood banks closed down? All the addicts got clean?”
Even as I ask, I know it can’t be that simple. This isn’t about food. There’s never any shortage of that. The human world is full of the weak and forgotten. Bring me your poor, your hungry, your huddled masses, and I’ll show you a bunch of victims with fang marks on their bodies. It’s nature, and most vamps do it only to survive.
“As I’m sure you know, Ms. Capelli, this isn’t about supply and demand. When do you get Called? It’s not for every vampire killer, is it? It’s only for the special ones.”
The “special ones” who enjoy death and pain far too much. The scum of the vampire world—the serial killers of their reality.
“Yeah. And sometimes I can go months without seeing anything that needs my attention. But recently? Constant.” It has been nonstop. A never-ending whirlwind of psycho vampire action invading my head. No wonder I’m tired.
“As I said earlier. Your life is at risk.”
“Okay,” I say eventually, staring at him over my almost-empty glass. “That may be true, but I still have no clue why that is your business. I’ve also noticed that you seem to know a lot about me, Mr. Mysterious. How about, before we go any further, you answer a few of my questions. Your name for one. And why it is that you’re taking so much interest in a Capelli Seer when most of your kind would happily see me dead?” I keep my voice low, a whisper to anyone else, and inaudible to the goth couple nearby.
“My name is Luca. Luca da Firenze.” He stares at me intently, as though waiting for some kind of reaction. He’s wondering if that name means anything to me.
Luca. Out of Florence. The Florentines are the oldest of the Coscas, which is pretty much the sum of my knowledge. The Coscas are immensely powerful gangs that some say are older than the Vecchissime. For all intents and purposes they resemble the criminal empires of the humans but come with a lot more secrets. And a lot more bite. Even I don’t know much about them, other than their reputation for brutal ruthlessness.
It doesn’t give me much fresh information. I already knew he was Old World. I could tell that from the hair, the stubble, the tattoo. The easy way he switches between charm and violence. He’s had centuries to perfect it.
My mind immediately takes a wrong turn and heads down Sex Addict Alley: All those years of experience. At perfecting things. Learning how to drive people wild with desire, using those long fingers, those lips, his tongue… He’ll be skilled at activities mere mortals don’t even know about. Any orgasms I’ve had thus far in life will be like pleasant sneezes compared to the full-body explosions this guy could give me. I blink at the image and try to ignore the rush of blood to the newly christened Triangle of Inappropriate Tingling.
Yikes. Get your filthy Seer mind out of the gutter—again—Rosa Capelli. My face heats, and he gives me that crooked smile. The one that says,yeah, I know you’re wet for me. I know you’re wishing the seam of your jeans was a little bit thicker…
He also has years of experience figuring out what people are thinking and feeling, I remind myself. I drink down the rest of the brandy and lean back in my seat. Try to play casual in a way I know won’t fool him. How could I fool a creature who can hear my heartbeat, sense my lust, probably even smell the dampness between my legs? The whole thing is fucking humiliating, apart from anything else.
“Firenze,” I repeat, nodding. “So, like, you’re a really old dude? Were you around for the Bargain?”
He grins, and it is a wicked thing. A wicked thing that sends a curl of need through my belly. “You already know that. You might be playing stupid, Rosa, but I know you’re not. You think you know what I am, and now you’re fishing for information.”
“Maybe I am. And maybe it would be a lot easier if you’d just tell me why you’re here and what you want with me!”