Page 58 of Vampire so Virtuous (Boston Vampires #1)

The shower didn’t help to settle her mind.

Antoine slept heavily, dead to the world—and that was an ironic thought, especially having learned that vampires weren’t the undead. Eve would be so disappointed.

He’d shifted while she was in the bathroom, turning on his side and pulling the duvet over himself. His hair splayed across her pillow, and his expression was peaceful. So vulnerable.

What if she opened the blinds?

The thought felt outdated, irrelevant now in this new world of intertwined fates. She no longer saw him as a monster—not for a while, if she was honest. That ship had sailed, lost in the storm of his humor, charm, and care.

He didn’t stir as she gathered clothes and took them through to the living room to dress—jeans, T-shirt, and a hoodie. She’d been cold yesterday. Last night. Tonight. Whatever.

A vampire in her apartment, asleep in her bed. She couldn’t believe it.

“A woman such as yourself is less inclined to believe in magic and ghost stories, n’est-ce pas?”

Belle had been right.

“When Antoine fed on Minh, crossing the bloodlines, he grew in power. In turn, he has awoken your own power.”

Her mind kept circling back to it, for there, Belle was wrong. Antoine hadn’t awoken her magic.

But how could her magic exist if a vampiric bite was the only way?

“As we age, our cynicism grows.”

Belle had been right on the money there, too. Cally hadn’t wanted to believe in magic, even when Eve was so sure. Even when she’d seen the crystals glowing in their spells, or experienced her vision—so realistic, so real .

It had been real. The club, at least. And now Antoine himself—proof incarnate of dark powers .

All right, so magic exists, and I’m a witch. But how?

She tried to think the puzzle through.

Antoine’s bite hadn’t awakened her magic. Her magic had always been part of her, even if she’d tried to ignore and suppress it.

Belle said a vampiric bite was necessary, but she hadn’t been bitten.

Which could only mean… what?

She shook her head. It didn’t make any sense.

Antoine would sleep until the afternoon, and she had nowhere to go, nothing to do. The book she’d lent him sat on the counter, but reading about vampires had lost its appeal.

She should probably try and take a nap. She’d have to get used to working on vampiric hours—or at least, try to find a new rhythm in this strange new reality.

In fact, what was the point of work, anymore? She was going to live forever, and Antoine had more than enough money. She could go back to MIT, study any course she wanted, build a foundation for a future, and all the changes that would come.

How would she tell her Dad? Eve? Joon?

She couldn’t, not without risking their fear, their rejection. That was the simple truth.

But then again, if Belle’s story of witches bonded with vampires was true, would she still age? They’d be sure to notice something so obvious eventually.

She shook her head, trying to focus. Her magic, her life—there had to be more to it than just Antoine’s bite.

Cally froze. Her subconscious brain had connected the dots.

She hadn’t been bitten, but what if… No, it was too extraordinary to consider.

“In centuries past, witches were trained from an early age.”

She pulled up her laptop, opening her private email and typing in her search. It was in her archive, and the computer went off to look on the server. It only took a second, but it was long enough to wonder if it had been wiped, if she even still had it.

Then, it appeared.

Subject : Death Certificate for Anna Davis – 7 th March 1999.

She opened the attachment, her eyes scanning quickly. The Newton-Wellesley Hospital name stared back at her. She skimmed it, noting again the cause of death: ‘cardiac arrest due to hypovolemic shock.’ It didn’t say more, just ‘postpartum hemorrhage (PPH)’ in the contributing factors .

And there was what she had hoped for. The attending physician, a Dr. Reginald Emmanuel.

She pulled up a browser, cross-referencing the Massachusetts Medical Society with white pages and real estate listings. Six minutes later, she leaned back and shook her head. It was way too easy to find an address.

Dr. Emmanuel was in Milton, not all that far from her Dad’s house. And he’d retired, which meant there was a good chance he’d be at home.

She needed a car. But there was one waiting outside.

Antoine’s coat was still on the arm of the chair, but rifling the pockets came up empty. They must be in his jeans.

Her eyes took time to adjust to the gloom of her bedroom. His folded T-shirt rested neatly on her chair, his boots tucked beneath, but no jeans. Of course—he’d fallen asleep before taking them off.

Her pulse quickened. Hadn’t he said he was a heavy sleeper? She peeled back her duvet, uncovering him, trying not to look at this bare torso. But he was asleep; he wouldn’t care. She stared, taking in his pale skin and perfect body. Not an ounce of fat. The benefits of an all-liquid diet.

He lay on his side, one leg slightly raised. She carefully reached around it, smoothing her hand down over his hip and thigh. There was a lump in the pocket that felt like keys. At least she didn’t have to turn him over.

Getting them out wasn’t going to be easy.

She worked cautiously, inch by inch, sliding her fingers into the pocket, feeling his upper thigh through the pocket’s thin lining.

He was always so warm, something she’d never expected from a vampire.

But he wasn’t dead; no reason to be cold or clammy.

She pushed further, feeling the hard metal with her fingertips, but she couldn’t quite reach it.

What if he woke? She could imagine him grabbing her wrist faster than she could move, finding her hand practically brushing up against his groin. Or worse—waking as the disturbed predator, lethal and ready to defend himself. Would he stop in time?

Her fingertip brushed the keyring. She hooked it, drawing it carefully out, until at last she could grip it.

He hadn’t woken, and the key was now in her hand.

She slipped it out carefully, then retreated from the room. He hadn’t even stirred.

And now she had a Lamborghini.

Cally grinned.

*

Dr. Reginald Emmanuel’s house was on a quiet, tree-lined street just north of the Blue Hills reservation, not far south of her Dad’s place. Large houses in a residential cul-de-sac. It had a front lawn, and the doctor was clearly an enthusiastic gardener.

Cally arrived with a sense of relief. The Lamborghini had been fun, but was a lot trickier to handle than a Zipcar—every slight press on the gas pedal threatened to send her barreling into the car in front.

She walked up the path and knocked on his door, still not sure what she was going to say.

It opened to reveal a small, spectacled, elderly man, who looked at her with curiosity.

“My dear, if you’ve come to help me save my soul, I can save you some trouble now. My wife has already claimed it.”

Cally smiled. “I’m sorry to bother you, but are you Dr. Emmanuel?”

His expression reflected his surprise. “I am. And how can I help you?”

“My name is Cally Davis, sir. My Dad lives near here. My mum, Anna, was a patient of yours, a long time ago.”

He studied her, intelligence in his eyes. “How long ago?”

“Twenty-six years, sir.”

“There’s a statute of limitations on malpractice, and you’re well past it.”

She wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. “I assure you, sir, I’m only here to ask a question or two about my mother, if you would be so kind.”

“Well. You better come in.”

He stepped back, opening the door wider. His eyes flicked past her to Antoine’s Lamborghini, but he said nothing.

He showed her to a spacious living room with a high ceiling and large windows offering views over a well-kept lawn, and waved her to a sofa beside a dormant, traditional fireplace. “Cup of tea?”

“No thank you, sir. I have no wish to disturb you and your wife. This won’t take long.”

“My wife passed away three years ago, and I’m retired, Miss Davis,” he said as he lowered himself into an armchair. “Time is something I have much of. Now. What can I do for you?”

Cally took a breath. “My mother died in childbirth at the Newton-Wellesley Hospital, sir. I have a record of the death certificate—I can show you, if it would help. I also brought proof of ID, if you would like.”

“Twenty-six years ago, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have any idea how many patients I’ve had in my career? ”

“I appreciate it’s an unusual request, sir, but… the circumstances are unusual, too.” She hesitated, her throat tight. “I was hoping they might jog your memory.”

“Very well. What is it you wish to know?”

“My mother’s death was listed as a post-partum hemorrhage, but I have… suspicions… that she might already have suffered blood loss before the birth.”

His eyes narrowed. “Anna Davis, you say?”

“Yes, sir.” Cally felt her pulse race.

“And you’re her daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

He held out his hand. “I’ll see your ID, now.”

Cally fished out her driving license and birth certificate, passing them over. He inspected them carefully, then handed them back.

“I had a few patients die from PPH over the years, Miss Davis. Giving birth is a traumatic process, after all. Yet your question does indeed raise memories. It wasn’t the sort of case a young doctor could easily forget.

” He leaned back in his chair, eyes unfocusing as he stared into space.

“Your mother came to us already bleeding,” he said.

“From a neck wound, as I recall. I wanted to…”

His words became muffled. Cally’s heart was beating too hard, pounding in her ears.

He was still speaking, gesturing as he recalled his story, but she couldn’t get past what he’d said so far.

It didn’t matter that she already knew, had already guessed—hearing him confirm it still left her breathless and rattled.

Without warning, the living room windows shattered, the air filled with flying glass and the clattering roar of gunfire.