Page 15 of Saved by the Vampire Goddess (Dark Wine Vampires #1)

Chapter fifteen

Valroy

Minnesota Ark Prime—Moments later

I can hear Evelina banging around out there. I stare at the ceiling, anxiety churning my stomach. All I can think about is how my sixteen-year-old sister may be at the mercy of a selfish old man, and now I’ve messed up everything here with Evelina.

As soon as she stormed out, I collapsed on the bed. I heard her murmuring to the horse, then to the beasts. I know better than to apologize to her right now.

Between spending all night awake with Evelina, then most of the day putting my escape plan into action, then being fed upon, I’m exhausted. At some point, I fall asleep.

When I wake, I’m still exhausted. Two women stand on opposite sides of my heart, tugging at the helpless organ as my feelings for them rip me in two.

It’s quiet now on the other side of the bedroom door, even if thoughts rattle loudly in my own mind.

The complicated digital clock on her night table informs me it’s midnight. If she went out scavenging, she won’t be returning soon. From the closet, I pull on lightweight cotton pants and a t-shirt, then pad barefoot into the kitchen.

Beast One and Beast Two scramble in from their kennel and come running to the kitchen. By now, I’m wise to their game of I haven’t been fed, I’m starving .

Beast One noses at the empty bowl.

“Evelina wouldn’t leave without filling your bowl.”

Beast Two whines.

“ Cunnus, ” I mumble at him.

Cunt is an all-around useful swear word.

I might as well give them something. Taking some leftover grilled elk from the refrigerator, I slice off a chunk for each of them and plop the meat in their individual bowls. I’ll grill a fresh piece later for my meal.

But first, I need to find Evelina. I need to explain the situation better. I need to see if I can salvage anything between us.

No note on the table. The door to the garage has a new lock, and I check each tunnel, but she’s nowhere to be found.

Yes, old boy, you really screwed up on this one .

I plop onto a chair at the kitchen table. Doubt and regret are now my constant companions. Should I have signed my sister’s marriage contract to Maliff? If I stayed, I could have protected my sister more than I have from out here. I could have threatened the foul bastard with bodily injury if he harmed her. But then I would see the betrayal in my sister’s eyes daily, her sorrow at having no choice in the rest of her life, her resentment at knowing I’m to blame and complicit in it.

And then there’s Evelina. Should I have tried to explain to her again why I desperately need to return to New Rome? Would she have listened if I had? Or would she have looked at me with the same look of betrayal?

If only I’d told her how much I wished I could stay.

I run a hand over my face, then pinch the bridge of my nose. Maybe I should have waited. Evelina was upset when she said she wouldn’t help again. I should have waited a few days, given her a chance to calm down, then brought up my idea.

How could a smart, powerful dominus like me be so foolhardy, so rash? I don’t know half the things I thought I did. This world is far more complex than I ever thought, and Evelina knows how it operates—I don’t.

My stomach growls. I may be a complete bastard, but I can at least be a fed one. I rise from my chair and open the refrigerator again, then take out a raw elk steak, along with the last bit of leftover corn bread and a vegetable she calls broccoli. Since I slept through dinner, it doesn’t matter what I make for breakfast.

My heel is no longer sore from the bee bite, which reminds me—I used up the last of the honey yesterday. With Evelina gone, the only help I have is at the end of my own arm, so I put on my sandals and walk out the automatic doors, determined to procure some honey from the large tub in the agricultural dome. She planned on filling the jar for me, but that was before I made a total jackass of myself. Now, if I want the sweet nectar, I’ll be the one to brave the bees and fill the jar.

My life in New Rome was wheeling and dealing, always surrounded by people, with servants to perform my mundane tasks. Now I face a life imprisoned with nothing to do but servant work, although the cuisine is delicious and the scenery is more beautiful than anything from my old life.

With the empty honey jar in my hand, I stride through the tunnel leading to the agricultural dome. The obnoxious rubber soles of my sandals slap against the bottoms of my feet with a snap-clap snap-clap snap-clap along the stone tile walkway.

My boots are in the bedroom where I stripped them off, but they’re too formal for tracking through the agricultural dome’s muddy dirt areas. Later, I’ll look through the warehouse for more appropriate footwear.

When the beasts see I’m heading to the beehive and not their play yard, they peel off and return to the living area. I grab the can that makes smoke and blow some at the bees, not knowing why Evelina did this, but it seems to calm the buzzing insects.

A stone path leads me to her workshop. A small swarm of bees decides I don’t belong there, and they descend. I hold out the metal can, puffing smoke at them, twisting and turning to get away from them. After I send one final puff of smoke in their direction, they seem to change their minds and go buzzing toward the orchard.

Through the workshop window, I watch them fly off into the night sky. A full moon illuminates the landscape. What a sight. Green everywhere. I’ve lost the language for different shades of green in nature, from the pale, tall grasses turning almost brown, to the deep green of the trees with needles, then the trees bare with an occasional leaf hanging on for dear life. I instinctively know each shade must have its own name. A banned book I read about the indigenous people of Alaska claimed the Inuit have—had—dozens of words to describe snow by adding elements to modify base terms.

The same must be true about green in nature.

I take a deep breath, and the clean, crisp air fills my lungs, while my brain calculates how many denarii a single tree, cut down and planed into planks, would bring at auction in New Rome, enriching my portfolio.

Will my mind always do this? Or will I see trees as only trees some day?

I turn away and return to the workbench, the glass jar in one hand and the smoker in the other. A few lazy bees crawl on the ten-gallon metal drum. A turncock faucet is near the base. I hold the jar underneath the faucet and open the spigot. The amber liquid oozes out, and the bees take flight to zero in on the sticky stream.

“Get away from there—that’s mine.”

I turn off the flow, then pick up the smoker and give them a few puffs. They leave my jar alone, instead content to crawl over the faucet, from which the honey leaks in tiny blobs. Are they re-harvesting the gooey sweetness? I have no idea. After placing the smoker on the workbench, I use both hands to screw the lid on my jar, then reach for the smoker.

I don’t see the bee crawling on the smoker’s metal handle, but I sure feel the insect’s bite.

“Ow.” I drop the honey jar on the counter and grab my wrist. Hades, that hurts. I don’t have a knife on me, and none in sight.

The bee stung between the web of my thumb and index finger. The pain radiates through my hand and up my wrist. Using my fingernails to pull out the stinger, I ignore Evelina’s previous advice. I just want that thing out of my skin.

“I hope you die, verpa ,” I shout at the bee, using the Latin swear word for dick .

I grab the smoker—checking closely this time before wrapping my fingers around it—and furiously smoke the room. No bees are coming after me again.

Despite the annoying pain, I scoop up the jar with my wounded hand, determined to enjoy the spoils of my conquest like any good Roman, and stride across the stone walkway, returning the smoker to its place by the agricultural dome’s door.

An hour later, after putting a mash of wet baking soda on the bite, I sit down to eat my breakfast—or dinner, or whatever I should call my first meal when I wake in the middle of the night. Grilled elk steak, steamed broccoli, and corn bread make a fine meal. I pour a layer of honey on the corn bread so thick I eat it with a fork. And oh Jupiter, the explosion of sweet flavor with the bread’s own sweetness makes the bee bite worth the pain.

I take another mouthful, convinced I’ve discovered the ambrosia of the gods.

By the time I finish eating, I don’t feel well. My hand swells larger, so I take ice from the freezer and wrap a dishcloth around the ice and hold it against the wound. Itchy pink spots form on my arms, and I consider searching for the vial of vampire blood Evelina used the other night, but I don’t know what side effects the stuff comes with if used too often. I don’t want to risk turning into a vampire like her.

An hour later, after cleaning my dinner dishes, I feel worse. I’ve rarely been sick, and this doesn’t feel like any illness I’ve had before anyway. It comes on fast, and I have trouble catching my breath. Not to mention my hand looks like a cartoon drawing of a balloon.

I check the time—two in the morning. Evelina won’t return for hours. Will she even check on me? Probably not.

I refresh the ice wrap and lie down on the couch, determined to read. Except I can’t. My throat constricts, like someone is wrapping their hands around my neck, cutting off my air. My lips and tongue feel swollen. I drop the book on the floor, and Beast One comes over and sniffs it, then whines. All I can do is lie there, try to force my lungs to work, and think about how I wish I could go back to last night and do it all differently.

How I wish I told her how I felt about her.

How I wish two women weren’t tearing me apart.