Page 31 of Blood Lovers

I end the call. He put her up to that. I’m willing to bet—fuck, pretty much everything I own, including my already claimed soul—that meth addict Willie is alive and well. Probably drinking beer and playing pool with the guys.

Something needs to give here. I can’t deal with Paul like this. He’s not even himself. And I’m a little bit sympathetic. I am. I get it. His feeder is gone and we’re all properly freaked out about it, and if the witch got to him—I understand this is a time of great change.

But I’ve got my own problems. And I don’t need a feeder. Hell, Paul doesn’t even need a feeder. He feeds me, and I don’t require much. I could go another three or four years without drinking him if I had to. And he’s got blood on ice everywhere. Young blood. Really good, nutritious, tasty, sweet blood.

Why is he so obsessed with this one girl?

It bugs me.

Mostly because I’m a little bit obsessed with her as well. She’s practically an urban legend at this point. Her grandmother kills her mother the moment she’s born. Steals the mother’s power—who knew that was even possible?—and then uses that new power to escape, with the baby, and hides her from the oldest vampire in the western hemisphere for twenty-eight years.

If I had gotten a chance to meet that old witch, I would’ve given her a long, slow clap.

Well played, witch. Well played.

But that’s not the end of it, is it? Then the girl gets away. Even though the magic keeping her hidden is now poof. Gone.

It’s impressive.

But why is Paul obsessed with her?

I narrow my eyes as I think about this.

There could be many reasons. None of which are seriously worth considering because every time I try to figure him out, I’m never right.

But there is something to the blood inside this woman. Something important. More important than just being young, and fresh, and sweet. That’s about all I can say for sure, so I get up from my lounge chair and sniff the air.

This is why I’m here. And now that I know there’s a Guild involved, it adds up.

Someone has put her scent in the poolside misters. It’s being sprayed all over the cabanas, and the pool, and even as far out as the sand and the crashing waves.

They set a trap for me and I fell for it.

Of course, I don’t feel bad about it. I like this hunt. It keeps me busy. And I’m kinda looking forward to finding her. I want to meet this little witch.

I check the whole area anyway. Wouldn’t it be ironic if she were one cabana down? Just lounging in her chair, sipping margaritas, and watching me look for her?

This thought comes with an interesting voyeur twist that almost makes me smile.

I check the whole outside area. I even check the hotel next door, just in case. But the scent disappears quickly when I leave the one I’m staying at.

Which confirms that they set me up.

It might also be a complication. Because if this is her real scent, they will change her scent after this to hide her from me. And if it isn’t her real scent, I don’t know what she smells like.

There were a few days there where I thought I could hear her. Not like her talking, or anything, but her heartbeat. It’s stupid, and I have no reason to believe this—it’s never been a thing before—but I was sure that the thumping in my head was her. I was just sure of it.

But that disappeared first. The night I found the dead witch in that filthy cabin on the Western Slope.

She was there. The girl. She was there when her grandma died. Then gone. Poof. No trace.

So I think I probably did need to know about that whole Guild thing.

Fucking Paul.

Still, this frustrating delay isn’t enough to dampen my mood. I woke up this morning with a raging headache. I’ve been getting them lately. Not bad ones, but enough to make me consider some pain reliever. The one this morning had me calling down to room service asking for aspirin.

It helped a little, but the throb is still there.