Waltzing With Witches: A Sweet Small-Town Vampire Romance, page 4
She gives me a clipped nod as I turn the key in the ignition, my bike roaring to life. When I slip my arm around her waist and drag her against my chest, she stiffens. I’m careful not to grip her with my hand. I simply hold her still. But she’s close enough now that her red hair is right in my face.
“I promise not to be inappropriate,” I mutter.
She grants me no response, her body stiff as the dead.
I lean forward, using my hips to push off the kickstand. We surge into the street, and she grabs at my arm but immediately lets go.
“Doesn’t bother me,” I say in what I hope is a kind tone. I can’t tell how my tone seems anymore, yet another thing Keeper training took from me. I’m barely able to read my own diminished emotions, much less anyone else’s. That facet of Keeper training is designed to help us be supremely logical in service of efficacy.
I’ve always had my doubts about that. It’s why I declined the identification process in the first place and left the haven system.
That was a long time ago, though.
In the here and now, Morgan appears tense and smells mad and afraid. Logically, I know she’s likely to need reassurance.
She doesn’t respond, though, and doesn’t grab my arm again. Her hands move to her thighs, balled there as we drive slowly up Main Street toward Sycamore. I hook a left, the bike’s throaty motor purring off the buildings.
Morgan sits rigidly in front of me, even though her arms and legs brush mine as we drive away from downtown. It’s not until we’re well past the inhabited area that I kick the bike into higher gear and speed along the dark road.
Fifteen minutes later, my bike is still the only sound as we pass the defunct skyball stadium. The roar of the engine echoes off the beautiful building we only used once. It’s unfortunate that we can’t use it for something else, but when I pick through a short list of ideas in my mind, nothing seems quite right. We typically don’t even practice skyball until right before a final.
I zoom around a corner, forgetting that Morgan isn’t hanging on. She careens to the side and grabs my thigh, throwing herself against my chest with a gasp. Without meaning to, I wrap an arm around her, fingers curling around her side. Her stomach is firm beneath her tee, and it makes my fingers itch. If I slipped them up underneath the edge of the soft fabric, what would her skin feel like?
Heady desire filters through me, warming my body to a temperature closer to hers. And the only fucking reason my body even does that is because she’s my mate—despite the fact that I can’t have her. All vampires warm or cool to the temperature of their mates to ensure coupling isn’t uncomfortable.
At least the body temperature portion of it.
Coupling with a vampire is uncomfortable in other ways, especially for nonvampire species.
I’ve got to stop thinking about it. Morgan’s still in my arms, her chest rising and falling with rapid, harried movements. Long red hair whips around my head and neck. I call on my Keeper training, pulling mental blocks down around my sensual thoughts until I reach normal again.
No.
Not normal. I’ll never be normal. But I feel like the Keeper once more—neutral, logical, always in control.
We fly around a corner and up the twisty road toward my castle. Black stone walls rise into dark spires that jut into the night sky. The front drawbridge is down, the double front doors wide open. I pull the bike into the circular driveway and park it.
I expect Morgan to leap off and back away from me, but she doesn’t. Her eyes are on the castle, drinking it in like it’s the first time she’s seen it. It’s not though, so I’m unsure why she seems entranced this time.
“So sad,” she murmurs under her breath, gray eyes locked on the uppermost spires of the castle.
“The castle’s not sad,” I assure her. “She’s built to mirror a Keeper. Keeper homes are always like this—stoic and quiet.”
Dark eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, but she looks away from me, cocking her head to the side. Without saying anything else, she swings one long leg over the bike and reaches for her bag.
I hike it higher over my shoulder. It makes logical sense to be gentlemanly.
“You had a rough night, Morgan,” I offer. “Allow me to make it an easier morning.”
Pink steals across her cheeks, but she nods, slipping both hands into her back pockets. For a long moment, her eyes focus on mine, and I find myself lost in those dark depths. They’re not a pale gray. Every shade of steel and stone and granite is reflected in her eyes. They’re light and dark and everything in between. If I were still the man I used to be, I’d wax poetic about those eyes and how all-encompassing they are, like stepping into a thundercloud.
As it is, I allow myself to stare into them for a moment longer than I should.
Morgan’s cheeks flush brighter pink, her lips parting. “What are you doing?” she questions in that throaty voice.
I pause to consider her question. What am I doing? I can’t have her; I won’t allow myself to. So why am I staring into her eyes like a lover?
“I don’t know,” I finally admit. Turning away from what I suppose is awkward behavior, I head toward the castle. “C’mon,” I call out over my shoulder. “I’ll give you the tour.”
As she quietly follows, I make a mental note to comm Moira for more potion. The effects must be wearing off, and I can’t have that. I can’t experience Morgan in her full glory without something to tamp down my desire. Especially with her here in my house. I run through the calculations of how likely something is to go wrong, reaching the castle’s kitchen before I realize I haven’t bothered to explain anything about any of the rooms.
I lay her floral bag on the counter, resisting the urge to lean down and smell the clothing inside it. Calling Moira moves to the very top of today’s to-do list.
“I forgot the tour,” I admit.
Morgan stands in the doorway, arms crossed. But this time, she looks more amused than mad. Both brows are curled up, her lips tipped into a barely there smile.
“I noticed,” she says dryly. “Good thing I’ve been here before, I suppose.” Apprehension, or perhaps worry, steals across her elegant features. “I won’t stay long. I need to sort out what crawled up Annabelle’s metaphorical ass, then I’ll go back to the inn.”
Unwelcome emotion stabs through me at her words. Possession. Unhappiness. I think. I can’t be sure. But when she mentions calling Catherine about the Annabelle issue, I don’t want her to.
Which makes no logical sense. One of us needs to call Catherine immediately. The Annabelle is Ever’s only guest residence. She can’t be allowed to behave like this.
I clear my throat. I need a dose of potion quickly. I don’t like the emotions filtering through the fog I’ve been living in for decades.
Mercifully, my comm watch pings with one of the ward-specific chimes. I glance down, then up at Morgan. “I need to take care of this. Please feel free to explore. The castle will let you know if there are any rooms you can’t go in.”
Storm-cloud eyes narrow as Morgan’s mouth drops slightly open. It’s clear she’s going to respond. But then she doesn’t. I turn on my heel and escape the stuffy kitchen, striding through the halls to my command center.
Three walls of beeping lights greet me when I open the door. Many of them blink on and off haphazardly. They’ve been doing that a lot lately, and it’s odd.
I drop into my chair and push a series of keys to run a diagnostic, glancing up at the ceiling. “A ghost in the machine, perhaps?”
The castle doesn’t answer. She rarely ever does.
Sometime later, my watch pings again. The name Moira Finher hovers over its leather surface. Good timing.
When I direct the watch to answer, my old friend’s soft voice echoes through. “Abe, how are you this day?”
“Moira, I need a higher dose potion.” I open a drawer and look in. Inside, only one bottle remains. “Quickly,” I tack on.
A sigh echoes through the watch. “All Keepers mate for a reason, my friend. Are you sure you don’t want to let the chips fall as they may?”
“You know what’s at stake,” I snap.
“Well, I can’t produce a higher-dose potion on command,” she says firmly. “And I’m not in agreement that you should continue taking it. Not now that Morgan is in Ever.”
Anger pierces me as I stand. “Moira, you’ve provided this potion the entire time I’ve been a Keeper. You can’t stop now. There was an incident, and Morgan is in my home as we speak.” My voice rises until I’m nearly shouting into the leather band around my wrist.
“My goodness,” she says quietly, as if gentling a small child. “I think you should consider that it might be fate intervening to push you in the direction you should be going anyhow.” Without another word, she clicks off, and I’m left standing in my command center, staring at a wall of blinking lights.
No potion means no dampening of the pain, the need, the intention.
No potion means allowing all of my vampiric nature to rise to the surface for the first time in decades.
No potion means I am wholly and irrevocably fucked.
CHAPTER FIVE
MORGAN
Istare at the kitchen after the Keeper leaves. This is so fucking awkward. I’m in his castle, alone with him, and he’s left me to go to work. After my experience with the Annabelle, I half expect the Keeper’s home to toss me right out the door. He and I have never seen eye to eye. Somehow, I don’t imagine his castle liking me much.
We should probably get off on the right foot, if that’s possible. I don’t know if or when I’ll be able to return to the Annabelle. Damn, at this point, Catherine and Lou are probably up. I mull it over for a minute but decide they both need to know what’s going on. I can’t hide what happened.
Gritting my teeth, I comm Catherine first, speaking her name into the thin leather band around my wrist. A hologram of her full name pops up.
“Morgan, darling, come down to the kitchen. Lou and I are chatting over coffee and cinnamon rolls!”
God, that sounds so nice. My throat closes around a lump as I imagine sitting in the kitchen with them. I clear my throat, apprehension heating my cheeks and chest. Anger quickly follows. I’d love to be drinking a damn coffee with two of my favorite people right now.
“About that,” I begin. “I’m at the Keeper’s castle. Annabelle kicked me out in the middle of the night, so I went to Town Hall, and he came to find me there.”
After a moment of silence, there’s muffled shouting from Lou. Behind that, Annabelle creaks and groans as if in protest. After a solid twenty seconds of that, Catherine comes back on.
“Morgan, I am so incredibly sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into her! She has never behaved poorly to a guest in our whole time together.”
“Yes, well, there’s a first time for everything, I suppose,” I say more harshly than I intend to. “I can’t stay here,” I whisper-hiss into the comm watch. “I’m standing in his kitchen like a weirdo!”
“Actually,” Catherine says, “now that you say that, I think I see what’s going on.”
“Thank fuck,” I bark. “Can you get her to let me back in?”
“I’ll do my best,” Catherine offers, not sounding confident at all, “but I think Annabelle’s trying to play matchmaker.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” I blurt. “Matchmaker? How’d she know I wouldn’t go straight to Thea or Wren’s?”
“Oh, I expect those homes would be in on it with Annabelle. The buildings can all communicate with one another.”
I throw my hands up in the air. “Great! What am I supposed to do, Catherine?”
Lou’s voice comes through the tinny watch. “I’m coming, Morgan. I’ll grab a bag and come hang until we figure this out, okay?” Her voice grows fainter. “We’ll figure this out, right, Cath?”
Catherine comes back on, her voice cheerful. Sounds like forced pleasantry to me, though. “Of course we will, Morgan! Don’t worry about a thing! Hang in there for a day until I can get Annabelle sorted, okay?”
I glance at the ceiling again. The castle is still around me. None of the usual creaks and groans and random noises of the Annabelle. It’s…wrong. Something is wrong with this place.
“I’ll take you up on that, Lou. Don’t rush, but get here when you can.” I click off, but when I open my mouth to call Thea next, something stops me. Pale sunlight filters through the wall of tall windows behind the sink. Some small part of me wonders if I should take this opportunity to tour the castle and learn more about the Keeper’s life. I am admittedly nosy, and he said I could help myself.
Plus, I’ve got to pass the time until Lou gets here. That’s how I’m going to justify looking in literally every room—starting with the kitchen.
I pace a slow circle around the ridiculously oversized island, taking in the kitchen’s details. This room is all harsh black lines—glossy black cabinets, tall black-paned windows, a long black breakfast table in a nook off to one side. The twenty-foot island’s black marble countertop is streaked with white veining. It’s beautiful, but it’s so modern in comparison to the rest of the castle, which is much more gothic. It’s always struck me as a little funny that a vampire lives in a place that looks like Dracula’s castle, but this kitchen sticks out. I wonder if the rest of the interior is a mishmash? Admittedly, I’ve only ever walked from the front to his command room and back out.
Fuck. I should probably let him know I invited Lou. I rip my hair out of the bun and redo it, piling it on top of my head. Nerves bash around, my stomach filled with butterflies. I’ve done nothing wrong, but somehow, when he and I talk, it always dissolves into bickering.
I turn to find my way back to the comm room, but at the last minute, I glance around the kitchen. “I should definitely let him know my aunt is coming, right? He wouldn’t want to be surprised.”
The tall window above the black metal kitchen sink opens and shuts quickly.
“Ah, affirmative,” I mutter. “Of fucking course.”
I leave the kitchen and head back through pitch-black halls. I didn’t pay much attention to the castle the first time I came here—I was too busy being furious at the Keeper for something—but I pay attention this time.
Black wood floors are scuffed, and dark paneling takes up half the wall. Above the paneling, a fine layer of dust has collected. I run a fingertip through it.
“Just like Town Hall.” Glancing around, I stroke the wall. “You need a good dusting, don’t you? Poor thing.”
Two strips of red-and-black damask wallpaper peel off the wall and curl sadly into the hallway.
My heart aches at seeing this building treated like Town Hall—second class, not worthy of care and love. I close my eyes, gritting my teeth as a wall of emotion slams into me. It’s not fair that the Keeper can treat anyone like this. I could literally throw a pity party with the two buildings he should be closest to.
We can be the Pity Committee. President—Morgan Anne Hector.
I reach for the wallpaper and press it back onto the wall, rubbing it gently. “I’ll dust you in a minute, okay? I’ve got to find the command room really fast.”
The second curly sheet of wallpaper rejoins the first, sticking flat to the wall.
It’s not lost on me that, if the Keeper is technically my mate, then I’m technically supposed to get along best with this building—it’s supposed to be my home. If he were normal and not a douchebag.
I hate the part of myself that pipes up to remind me about him glamouring my costume for Ever’s version of Halloween. I try really hard not to remember how, when I thanked him for the unexpected kindness, he said, “That smile is worth it.” Because it felt—for a moment—like he and I were turning some sort of a corner. And then he invited me to breakfast.
And promptly fled the moment the castle called him.
Annnnnnd now I’m irritated. Stroking my way along the castle’s dust-coated wallpaper, I give the wall a friendly nudge. “Help me find him?”
All of the wallpaper strips curl off the wall and back up. A floorboard lifts and waggles toward a hall leading away from me. I follow twists and turns for the next five minutes until the command center comes into view. I vaguely remember it from my one and only time here—the time I learned my sisters and I are all witches.
Not that being a black witch has done me any favors. Wren and Thea have managed to get a strong hold on their white and green powers, but I struggle to even connect with mine. I’d look for it now, but there’s no point.
As much as Catherine has tried to help us, my magic is nestled deep inside with no desire to come out. I know it’s there, but it’s bottled up and stuck, vacuum-sealed into oblivion.
The command center door is open, light from thousands of bulbs emitting a glow that casts blue and red rays across the floor. The Keeper reclines in a spindly-legged chair, arms crossed and both feet propped up on the array in front of him. He stares at the lights and mutters under his breath.
When I lift my hand to rap on the doorframe, he glances over his shoulder. “Come in, Morgan.”
A combo of heat and irritation swirls through me, and I have to remind myself to be nice. He came and got me this morning. He offered me a place to stay.
I step into the room and stop by his side. He shifts, unfolding both long legs and crossing one at the ankle over his knee. He leans forward, ruby-red eyes locked to mine. “Can I help you with something?”
I hate the blush that tinges my cheeks pink. It’s the shitty side of being a redhead. I can’t hide my emotions to save my life. As a pediatrician, that’s helped me—I connect really damn well with my patients, and they see me as open and honest. But here, right now? It’s frustrating.
“I called Catherine,” I begin. “She’s dealing with Annabelle, but—”
“Did Catherine have any theories on Annabelle’s poor behavior?”
Oh, I am definitely not mentioning Catherine’s theory.
“Not really,” I say with a shrug. “She was more shocked than anything and said she’d get to the bottom of it. But Lou insists on coming out here. I thought I’d let you know, since this is your house and all.”
