Page 81 of Red Masquerade

“Because you’re…” The word sat on my tongue.

He looked up at me through hooded eyes, the candlelight glinting across those gray irises. “A vampire?”

I swallowed, nodding.

“Yes,” he said. “I can see in the dark.”

We hadn’t had this conversation yet. And I knew we needed to have it, but I feared what I would learn; I was scared that he might say something that made me fearhim. I took a breath, letting it settle deep into my lungs before exhaling, sending the flame dancing.

“Does that mean…” I glanced around, as though I could see through the heavy darkness around me. “There are others here?”

He paused. “Yes.”

I couldn’t hear anyone else’s conversations, just the low rumble of voices speaking lowly, whispers in the pitch blackness. I was suddenly self-conscious, worried whatever creatures lurked around us could hear my every word, could hear myheart beating.Like some sort of invasion of privacy. I was an open book to these beings, while I couldn’t even see where they were.

Vince reached across the table, fingers soft on my cheek, pulling me back to the moment, to him. “It’s alright,” he murmured, thumb brushing against my skin. “I am right here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

My hands had become claws on the chair arms.

“It’s just you and me,” he said, leaning back into his seat. “Just focus on me.”

I linked my fingers with his, our clasped hands setting down onto the table. The tiny flame from the candle radiated a modicum of warmth, like a second caress on the inside of my wrist.

“This is a private club,” he said. “No one here is looking for trouble.”

The words only eased my anxieties a little.

There were vampires living in the city this whole time, vampires walking amongst us. Enough of them to have their own establishments.

“What else?” I asked, my free hand fisting in my lap.

I saw his brow arch in the dark.

“What else do I need to know about you?”

“What do you want to know?” he asked, head tilting the slightest bit.

At that moment, a figure came to our table, setting a platter before me and two glasses, one for me and one for Vince. A roast, some greens, the scent of the dinner making me realize just how hungry I had become.

So they catered to humans as well, if they were able to prepare such a dinner. It was simple, but smelled expertly done, like something I could get at any other club.

Vince raised his glass to his lips and took a modest sip of the dark liquid that appeared black.

I didn’t need to ask to figure out what it was.

It was jealousy that flowed through me, a feeling I couldn’t fathom. I bit my lip to keep from speaking.

“Is this sufficient for you?” he asked.

I nodded, taking a bite. A thought came to me then as I ate. “Can you not eat food?”

His one hand steepled over the top of his glass, turning the drink absentmindedly as he watched me. Like it was a delicacy, a dark wine, not meant to be gulped down, but savored.

Whose blood was it in that glass?

“I can,” he said, “but it doesn’t taste the same. It’s much like when you’re sick, and it loses all flavor.” Fingers trailing over the lip of his glass. His other hand propped under his chin, elbow at the table, the image of impropriety.

I could not imagine never tasting the sweetness of champagne, the strong bitterness of coffee, the sour burst of a ripe grape on your tongue. I couldn’t imagine smelling the candied almonds on the street and feeling indifferent to their sweet cinnamon scent. It would be a whole world closed off, a whole sense dimmed and vestigial.