Home > Allure of the Vampire King(6)

Allure of the Vampire King(6)
Author: Bella Klaus

“We’re meeting again,” she said with a happy sigh. “He’s been sending me texts the entire morning and wants me to go to his work’s Halloween bash next weekend.”

Beatrice had had several casual relationships of varying lengths and with some of the most exciting-sounding men in London. There was the independent filmmaker we met at the iMax cinema cafe, who had approached us with his photographer friend, the footballer who took her to New York for Valentine’s day, and the bass guitarist who was now on tour with Elton John.

She always played it cool, never getting attached, but this was the first time she’d ever agreed to see one so soon after the first date.

I bit down on my lip, listening to her rave about Christian, wondering if it was wise to jump into things with a guy so quickly.

My only relationship, we took things slowly and even then—I shook off those thoughts. That man didn’t belong anywhere in my head.

As we reached my building on the corner, something small and warm brushed against my leg. I glanced down to find Macavity trotting toward the communal front door with his tail in the air.

Macavity’s fur was a perfect leopard skin, with circular and U-shaped black spots filled with brown. He had either run away from home or was cheating on me with his true owner.

He certainly wasn’t a stray because Bengal cats like him could cost up to five thousand pounds in London. Also, he wore a collar around his neck engraved with his name. This cat was exceptionally gorgeous, and for some reason, he chose to spend his time with me.

I placed the key in the front door, and Macavity bolted down the black-and-white-tiled hallway and up the marble stairs.

Beatrice chuckled. “Somehow, he always manages to beat the elevator.”

While we walked down the end of the hall and waited for it to arrive, Beatrice fired up her Deliveroo app and checked on the delivery. According to the GPS display, the driver had already picked up the meal and was ten minutes away.

My apartment was one of several studios that took up the attic space of our Georgian building. Istabelle called it compact and bijou, but I called it home.

The first time I stepped into the apartment, I fell in love with the quartet of tall windows overlooking the leafy square. Daylight flooded the studio’s ivory walls, making it look larger than its twenty-by-thirty-foot size.

On the right was my sofa bed, which still lay in its unfolded state with two dressers on either side that doubled as coffee tables.

On the left, a huge unit of closets took up the entire wall, arranged around a dressing table alcove where I’d placed a flatscreen TV and DVD player. There was even enough space for a tiny glass-top table with two dining chairs.

Beatrice headed for the kitchen at the back wall, which was a row of slate-gray units with a built-in oven, microwave, and fridge. She picked up the kettle and filled it up at the sink.

“Green tea?” She opened the top cupboard and rifled through my shelf of herbal brew.

“Actually, I’m going to try out your suggestion. Back in a second.” I padded to the right of the studio and into the bathroom.

It was more of a wet room than anything else, with a sunflower showerhead at the very end of the narrow room, a mirror unit, and a generous sink considering its size.

Macavity already sat perched on the counter by the sink, lounging on his haunches as though readying himself for a show.

“Hungry?” I asked.

He glanced down at the crystals encasing my wrist.

“Yeah.” I turned on the tap, dispensed a generous dollop of liquid soap, and then murmured what happened to Macavity under the sound of the running water.

Beatrice was a great friend, but I couldn’t confide in her about the Supernatural World. Besides, the conversation never came up. She knew I grew up on the other side of the River Thames, which was sort-of true because Logris was all the way in South London.

The supernaturals who established it in the seventeenth century carved out a chunk of Richmond Park and sectioned it into areas for vampires, witches, shifters, and elemental mages. Angels, demons and faeries also occupied the space, but they mostly lived in different realms.

Beatrice also knew I’d had my heart broken by an older man, but that was the most I could tell her without arousing suspicion.

The water warmed my skin, and I ran my soapy fingers over the stones embedded in my flesh. They seemed darker than they had been in the shop, and cloudier, as though their clarity had downgraded from triple-A to A.

“It’s not working,” I muttered.

Macavity tilted his head to the side. “Meow?”

“Soap and water mixed together can dislodge tight jewelry,” I said. “Humans use it—”

The cat recoiled as though I was suggesting I give him a bath.

“Alright, I’ll shut up, then.”

Macavity gave me an approving nod.

After rinsing off the soap, I opened the mirror cabinet and extracted a glass jar of Dharma salt. If it was powerful enough to suck out corrupted magic from a preternatural vampire, it would surely remove the curse keeping those wretched stones attached to my skin.

After scooping up a generous amount with my fingers, I set to work trying to ease the melting salt beneath the crystals. The firestone darkened even further to a deep orange and then to a henna brown.

“Bloody hell,” I snarled.

Macavity jumped down from the counter, bolted to the door, and tapped on it in a demand to be let out.

With a frustrated breath, I trudged across the bathroom and opened the door. It looked like I was on my own.

When I glanced down at my wrist, there was no sign of the bracelet. In its place was a tattooed ring of hearts.

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

A week later, I was still saddled with the tattoo, and nothing could get rid of it. Istabelle couldn’t fathom how firestone could have transformed itself from crystal to ink, and she concluded that it must have dissolved with the Dharma salt.

That sounded a little bogus, but I had to admit that I hadn’t kept my eyes on the bracelet the entire time it had been on my wrist.

I left messages on Aunt Arianna’s phone, asking her if she knew anything about firestone. As a witch, she might know more about the crystal’s properties, but I didn’t hear back from my aunt and decided that reaching her so close to Samhain would be futile.

Samhain was one of the nine significant festivals in a witch’s calendar. Each year, the coven spent weeks preparing for the great Sabbat. This particular one was about communing with the dead, as the veil between our world and the afterlife was at its thinnest.

I’d missed the last few, but every night on the thirty-first of October, I would think about the mother I’d never met and wonder if she would return to us as a spirit or reincarnate. This year, I just wanted the Sabbat to be over, so Aunt Arianna could help me figure out what was happening with this firestone.

I sat at the glass dining table with a bowl of hot chocolate I’d made from melting down an entire bar of Green & Black’s dark chocolate with eighty-five percent cocoa solids.

The rich scent of cocoa beans and vanilla filled my nostrils, and I dipped a freshly baked croissant into the delicious drink. Maybe calling it hot chocolate was a stretch, seeing as it was thicker than cream, as dark as coffee, and contained just enough milk to make it liquid.

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