Page 3 of Until the Heart Stops (The Oylen City #1)

The vampire male clicked his tongue, the grin on his cheeks appearing to be a permanent fixture. He ran a hand through his hair, the lush fabric of his coat parting to reveal just as beautiful a dark blue waistcoat, the same color as his eyes, with a golden chain draped across one pocket.

“And when you’re not working this fine establishment?” He gestured grandly around us before dropping his elbow back to the counter and leaning in. “What does such a beauty as you do in your spare time?”

I bit my lips together for a brief moment to stop the smile that threatened against my better judgement and shrugged one shoulder. “I wish I could tell you a sultrier tale, my lord, but I would be afraid to disappoint you.”

It didn’t seem possible, but his grin widened further while he leaned in close. “Oh, Madame Searah, I don’t believe such a thing would be possible.” His fingers tapped a rhythm on the faded counter before flipping over and curling in, as if beckoning my answer forward.

“You are too kind,” I answered. “And it is not Madame . I am unmarried, my lord.”

The vampire waved his hand as if dispersing smoke while his eyes glittered in delight.

“If you use such an honorific again, I am afraid I might be sick. My lord .” He repeated the word in a lower octave, jutting his chin back to resemble a much older male before shivering in disgust. “I would think you to be referring to my maker with such a ti?—”

“Henry.” A deep voice snapped the name like a whip.

The male sighed with a theatrical roll of his eyes and jutted a thumb over his shoulder. “Or perhaps him.”

The him in question stepped from around Monsieur Fontenot’s booth, white-blond hair tied back at the nape of his neck and spilling over one shoulder.

He was tall and leonine, broad shoulders stiff and hands clasped behind his back.

A muscle feathered in his moon-pale jaw as he leveled his gaze on the male at my booth, who I assumed was Henry.

“Callum, come meet Mademoiselle Searah,” Henry called, turning on an elbow to look at him.

The vampire, Callum, was finely dressed, even finer than Henry, a deep green roquelaure flipped over one shoulder of a black velvet jacket and waistcoat.

But he did not approach. His attention flicked from Henry, to the ruined building before him, and back again with sharp gray eyes while he tapped a silver-tipped walking stick against the cobblestones.

“He doesn’t even need that walking stick, you know,” Henry muttered under his breath.

“I heard that,” Callum snapped.

Henry twisted back to me with a wink. “He’s got great hearing.”

Callum pinched the bridge of his nose with a black-gloved hand. “Tonight is not the night. Say goodbye, Henry.”

“Goodbye, Henry!” he exclaimed, reaching for my hand to brush his cool lips against my knuckles. “And farewell to you, Mademoiselle Searah. Perhaps one day I will learn what it is you do in your free time.”

Callum cursed quietly, but I could just make out his muttered “Goddess strike me” before he wiped his hand across his mouth.

All the while his gray eyes remained fixed on Henry, the grip on his walking stick so tight I wondered how it did not snap.

Were these two friends? It did not appear that they were lovers or mates, but perhaps they were. Opposites did tend to attract.

“It will keep me up through the daylight, I’m afraid.” Henry stumbled away from the counter with a theatrical hand over his heart. “Tell me now or I will never find my rest, Mademoiselle.”

“Books,” I answered with a soft laugh. “I like to read books.”

Henry gave a great sigh of relief, turned to his friend and clasped him on the shoulders, shaking him once. “ Books , do you hear that, brother? I find myself relieved and titillated all at once.”

Brother. So, they had been sired by the same maker.

Callum’s gaze met mine as Henry turned to give one last bow and disappeared up the alley. His eyes were bright in the lightening darkness, as if lit from within. They gave nothing away, but still they were sharp, like the tip of a knife pieced through my skin.

My grandmère had taught me stories of the old gods.

How the goddess of night, Amayah, had pined after the moon and its silvery light until her love transformed it into a man, a deity just like her.

Deimos was said to be the most beautiful of all the gods with his silver hair and unearthly smile.

But their love was never to be—he was always out of reach with his home in the heavens.

Eventually Amayah’s despair grew until she could no longer survive without Deimos and, in a bid to be with her lover, she plunged a knife into her heart so her magic could spread across the sky. A single drop of blood fell to the earth and created the first vampire.

Deimos, watching his lover destroy her godly form to be with him, wept and, from his tears, the first Lycans were created.

I always wondered at such a story. How Amayah would give up everything for even just the chance to be with Deimos.

It had never been a guarantee, my grandmère always told me, that Amayah would find Deimos.

The goddess of night was willing to risk everything for her lover and, in return, they spent eternity wrapped within each other’s arms. All because she fell in love with the beauty of the moon.

Looking at Callum, I thought I finally understood what such magnificence could do. His beauty was like Deimos’, sharp and so radiant it almost hurt my eyes. There was a distance to him too, as if he might always be out of reach.

Those gray eyes held no hint of the wonder I was sure was on my face.

To look at him was like looking at a stone statue and wishing for it to be real, yet it remained unmoved and uncaring.

Only his white-blond hair appeared to be affected by the world around us: swirling across his sharp cheekbones and tangling in his long lashes.

In the next breath he was gone, vanished as if he had never been there to begin with.

And though I knew such a beauty had the power to create life from nothing, it also had the power to break you into pieces until there was nothing to put back together.

I was grateful he was gone, grateful that I would probably never see him again.

There were already enough missing pieces of me. I didn’t have any left to spare, and I had a feeling I might have been willing to give up anything I had left for merely a moment of his time.

And I could not help but think of the words written in that strange note with such a generous gift I was unsure if I could keep it.

A beauty that makes even strong men fall to their knees,

hands outstretched in supplication, begging:

“Please, just a glance, just a look, that is all that I need.”