Page 28 of Inked & Bloodbound

9

CASSINI

Ishouldn’t have kissed her on the mouth.

It was a stupid mistake, one that might destroy the fragile bond we’re building. When she finds out what I am—an undead thing without a heartbeat—she’ll run for the hills. If she knows what’s good for her, at least. But that can’t happen; she has to trust me. Has to want to help me. She has to believe I’m human.

At least for now. At least until I’m strong again.

I knew it was a risk to be in her home, to be so close to her. Her abilities are still growing, but she’s getting stronger as I grow weaker, and with that comes unpredictability. I put my faith in the protection technique Paloma had shared with me and prayed it would work, but there are no guarantees.

As Lily explored the place between life and death, I forced my thoughts into the darkest corners of my mind, wrapping them in layers of mental armor. The effort was exhausting—like holding my breath underwater while building walls with bleeding hands. I visualized each dangerous memory, each revealing thought, and buried it behind barriers of thorns and razor wire. The process left me mentally raw, but it had to hold as I paced the perimeter of my mind like a sentry.

But then she kissed me, and I kissed her, and none of it mattered. I left my venom on her lips, and tonight she’ll be consumed by thoughts of me—obsessive and unbridled, at least until it wears off.

I grip the steering wheel in fury and accelerate toward Sixth. This is not the mental state I wanted to be in when facing Lazaro.

I weavemy way through the underground corridors toward Lazaro’s study, passing my own modest quarters on the way. The sight of my door sends a pang of misery through me as I picture the living space I’ve spent months quietly rotting in—a place so sparse that even the most dedicated monk would reject it and beg for a houseplant to liven things up.

By comparison, Lazaro’s office is an ornate, opulent space marked by a solid oak red door. He doesn’t sleep down here—no, this place is reserved for the obedient nest mates who want a place to call home—but he does have a presence, something paternal tangled with an omnipresence designed to instill fear and loyalty in the residents.

I raise my hand to knock, but the door swings open, and I’m met by two identical vampires, Roel and Ronan, on the other side. A pairing so sadistic they’ve earned the nickname the Torture Twins. A couple of baby-faced boys with high cheekbones, full lips, and a good head of dirty-blond hair pushed away from their cherubic faces. They’re old, not as old as me, but they’ve been undead for a long time. They couldn’t have been more than nineteen when they were turned, locked in their youth and beauty forever, with superhuman strength and an overabundance of cruelty.

“You naughty, naughty boy,” Roel says in a sing-song voice as he shoves past me.

Ronan follows behind, shoulder-checking me as he joins him. “Someone’s in trouble.”

“Trouble,” Roel echoes.

They cackle in unison and disappear down the corridors, the sounds of their sickly laughter ricocheting off the walls. I had hoped it would be me and the Primus alone, but as I step inside, I’m greetedby a mob of malfeasance. Cyrus and Angel skulk in the corners of the room, their smirking faces marked with satisfaction. In the center sits Lazaro—suited and booted, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly groomed, hands clasped atop the carved mahogany desk in front of him.

“Take a seat, Cassini.”

I settle against the high back of the red leather chesterfield across from him and force myself to appear nonchalant. I cannot show any fear or weakness. If Lazaro suspects I’m tense, perhaps hiding something from him, then this will only end in violence, and I don’t have the strength.

“How was your trip?” I say, keeping my tone light. “Angel tells me you were in Dallas. How is it down there?”

Lazaro reaches for a gilt-edged rococo carafe on his desk and pours two large measures of blood into crystal glasses, then slides one across the desk toward me. “Have a drink with me.” He smiles, ignoring my questions. “It’s been some time since we’ve broken blood together, and this one has a particularly fine mouthfeel. A young thing, no older than twenty-five. Fed only fruits and Montepulciano.”

I watch him drink first so I know it’s safe, then I take a sip. He’s right; the blood has the sweetness of the grape, with hints of stone fruit. I can’t taste fear or captivity, so I can only presume the donor was a willing participant. Probably some poor girl who’s happy to take a fistful of cash in exchange for only drinking wine and eating cherries for a week while some low-level vamp periodically bleeds her. Nice work if you can get it.

“Cyrus informed me there was an incident at the tattoo shop,” Lazaro says as he swirls the thick crimson liquid around the walls of the glass then pauses to sniff it. “He tells me you took it upon yourself to incite violence against him. Against one of our own in defense of ahuman.”

He says “human” as if the word itself is fetid and rotten in his mouth. Like he can’t wait to spit it out. He even takes a sip of blood to cleanse his palate before continuing.

“These are very serious charges, Cassini, and you are already on unsteady ground. I suggest you make your explanation a good one.”

I drain my glass and replace it on the table, feeling the alcoholic burn of the liquid already mixing in my bloodstream.

“Go on,” Lazaro encourages as Angel and Cyrus watch on with silent amusement from the shadows.

I take a deep and steady breath. “We’ve worked hard at integration, walking side by side with the humans in a symbiotic relationship spanning centuries. We maintain the balance between night and day, predator and prey. That evening, Sixth Street was busy with humans, and I felt it important not to draw undue attention and disrupt that balance. I was merely thinking in terms of remaining discreet and protecting the business.”

Lazaro considers this for a long moment, his gray eyes never leaving my face. “You make a valid point. Integration has always been key to our survival.” He turns to Cyrus, and his voice carries the weight of centuries. “I’m told you are drinking a great deal lately. I’m getting increasing reports of your sloppy behavior all over town. Prior to the incident at the parlor, you were seen fighting with bikers at the Jackalope. Are you trying to cause me problems?”

Cyrus’ face flushes as he shakes his head. “No, sir.”

“Then why waste my time with this low-level bickering? Do you think yourself special? Worthy of my priceless attention?”