Page 3 of Blood & Bones

Chrysandra blinked, then—still holding my gaze—said, “I had to get out of town. My ex-boyfriend wasn’t happy that I wanted to leave.”

That did it. Right there. I saw in her eyes the same pain that I’d seen in the eyes of far too many women. A combination of pain, fear, and hypervigilance. I knew that look haunted my own gaze as well.

“How about a trial period? Say two weeks, and if you’re doing fine, we’ll make it permanent? You’ll be paid our regular wage, of course. We’re an easy-going bunch around here, and we don’t take any bullshit. Anyone slaps your ass or gets out of hand, you tell me. Understand?” I smiled, lowering my fangs.

Chrysandra didn’t seem surprised. In fact, she gave me a smile that made me like her right then and there. “Thanks…boss.”

“Jocko’s the main boss, but he’s one of the good ones,” I said. “Anyway, would you like to start tonight?”

She nodded. “If I can.”

“I’ll get the paperwork,” I said. “Wait here.” As I headed to the back, I was relieved. I seldom trusted anybody, but I could count on Chrysandra. I didn’t know how, but I knew she’d be trustworthy and a hard worker. Relieved that we’d solved one problem, I spent the rest of the night thinking about what was happening back home.

CHAPTER TWO

The days were long, as a vampire. I slept—yes—from the waking of the sun till it fell into darkness, but I dreamed. Vampires dreamed on and on. If the days had been filled with a blank slate—if they were spent unconscious, I would have been okay with it. It would have been easier to rest in peace, and yes, I did mean that as a pun. But most days when I plunged into sleep, I wandered far from my body, the only time I could escape from it.

Usually, when someone died, their soul was jettisoned from their body. Back in Otherworld, our soul statues broke when the silver cord of life was cut from the body. But my soul statue had reworked itself into a deformed image of its true nature. It had shattered and then bound itself together again, but it would never be the same. Because I would never be the same. Until I was staked or grew tired of living an undead life, I would be forever trapped inside this coffin of flesh, whether it be one day or a thousand years.

And so, I both welcomed and dreaded my dream-life. At times, it was wonderful, and at other times—a nightmare that lasted until dawn.

“Menolly, it’s time to get up,” the voice echoed through the fog in my brain, and—as usual—I sprang up, fangs down because the scent of pulsing blood filled my nose. I didn’t breathe, but blood—blood sang to me, and when I was asleep, my vampire side came out fully. Camille always woke me, but she had learned the hard way to wake me from a distance. I would forever regret hurting her, but thank the gods she only had a few scars on her arm.

I opened my eyes to see her across the room, waiting. As I glanced at the clock, I saw that it was five-forty, a few minutes past sunset. I would have woken up on my own within the next fifteen minutes, but I preferred waking as early as I could. During winter, I had more time than during the summer when the sun rose early and set late.

I slid out of bed, naked and padded across the room. Camille sat down on the recliner I had in my room. In case I got stuck down here, I had a recliner and a TV, and a bookcase that was filled to the brim.

“Anything interesting happen today?” I asked as I silently moved to my dresser and brought out a clean pair of low-rise jeans and a turtleneck. Camille and Delilah were the only ones who ever saw my scars. Dredge had left me scarred from my neck down to both wrists and ankles. Every inch of my body except my face, hands, and feet was covered with intricate swirls, carved into my body and soul during that long night of terror.

Shaking off the thought, I dressed. The only sounds I ever made were those of the beads that were threaded through my braids when they clacked together, and the sound of my boots. Sometimes I wore stilettos just so they would make a sound as I walked. I’d gotten used to not breathing over the past decade or so, though at first it had sent me into panic attacks. But never making a sound—it was eerie, and sometimes it threw me into an existential state where I began to wonder if I really existed.

“I had to break up a brawl in my shop,” Camille said, rolling her eyes.

I snorted. “In the bookstore? What happened? Were a couple of the sci-fi fans arguing over Star Trek versus Star Wars again?”

One thing we’d all learned from Camille running a bookshop was that fandom was a scary place. Fun, at times, and fascinating, but it bred mortal enemies at times.

“No, but believe me, I’d rather it had been that. Some fucknut came in and was harassing Iris and me, and Henry Jeffries was there. He punched the guy—and I had no clue he could actually even manage a swing—and they got into it. Luckily Chase came by right about then and hauled the jerk off to jail. Henry ended up having to go to urgent care for a black eye. I gave him all the books he could fit into a shopping bag for his bravery.”

Henry Jeffies was a regular customer at the store, and he had a thing for Iris, though she didn’t return or encourage the attention. He was a nice enough man, but it made my blood boil that I wasn’t there to help.

“I wish I could have been there,” I muttered.

“I wish so, too. But it’s all right. Iris and I are fine. Come on up for dinner,” she said. “You want makeup?”

I nodded. “Please, eyeshadow and liner. I’m fine with just lip gloss and that, I can put on myself,” I said, pulling on a pair of ankle boots with four-inch heels.

Camille had me sit at the vanity, and I looked away, not wanting to see the lack of my image. As she went to work on my face, I tried to be grateful that I had two sisters who cared so much about me that they did my makeup for me, never ate garlic in the house, and kept their silver jewelry away from touching me.

As she headed back upstairs, I followed her.

Delilah was setting the table, while Iris set a casserole of macaroni and cheese on the table, along with a bowl of broccoli and one of fruit salad. I hid my disappointment—I missed food, and given vampires didn’t eat food—it felt like yet another torture at times.

At least I didn’t have to smell it if I didn’t want to. Blood? I could smell without taking a single breath. Food, I had to work at if I wanted to smell it. I picked up my bottled blood and sipped it. Iris had warmed it to just the right temperature and, even though the taste wasn’t as good as human blood, I had learned to like it. It was that or be absolutely miserable for the rest of my years.

“So, you two want to come down to the bar tonight?” I asked. “We haven’t had a chance to hang out for a couple of weeks.” I leaned back in my chair and brought one knee up, resting my foot on the chair seat.

“Sure,” Camille said. “I have a few things to do before then, but I can make it around eight.” She turned to Delilah. “Want to come?”