“You’re different to me too, poppet.”
“Maybe Ian will figure this out. He knows so much about vampires. I’ve barely put a dent into the books he’s got lying around.”
“Then we’ll wait and see what he finds. You said the man who owned this place before me was sucked dry?” Vincent asks, bringing me back to the task at hand.
I need to focus on stopping someone else from being killed and ripped away from their families. “Did it happen here? The realtor didn’t inform me of that little fact.”
“Is the realtor a vampire?” I perk up. I might have solved this case yet again.
“No.”
“Damn.”
A sexy deep chuckle leaves Vincent. I find myself wandering back toward him as he cooks, and we bounce theories back and forth.
There is no fighting this pull I have to him. Not that I want to. Vincent is mine.
9
Vincent
“I’m rusty, but I think this is edible, poppet.” I plate up her food, a ricotta ravioli with pecorino crema garnished with basil.
“You … made this?” She looks up at me as I pull a chair out for her.
“Is it all right?” I place it in front of her, then drape a napkin in her lap. “As I said, I can cook. Or at least I could. Though now I admit it’s been a while.”
“It smells so good. I was looking at the mantel, and when I got a whiff of it, I floated over here like a cartoon character.”
Her turn of phrase makes me smile.
Leaning forward, she takes a sniff and moans.
That does things to me, things I don’t remember ever feeling before. Holy shit, I think I could fuck a hole through the granite countertop. My cock throbs, and I’m starting to worry I won’t be able to control myself when it comes to her.
I back away. “Enjoy it.”
“Where are you going?” She puts a forkful in her mouth, then closes her eyes. “So. Good.”
The way she sounds, the pleasure in the way she speaks, the way she moves—I’m having a hard time looking away. I force myself to turn around and busy myself with the dishes.
Buffy hops onto the counter next to me, and I swear there’s a smug expression on her face. She brings a paw up, licks it, then swipes along her whiskers at a leisurely pace.
“Do you know something I don’t?” I ask her.
She doesn’t respond. She’s just a cat. Obviously, I’d be nuts if I could hear her talking to me.
“She knows lots of things.” Everly chirps from her spot at the table. “Buffy is the most loyal, the bestest friend, the prettiest girl—she’s everything.”
Buffy stops grooming and sits a little straighter, her little nose in the air.
“I don’t think she needs any more puffing up.”
“Not puffery. She’s just that wonderful. She’s never left me. I mean, look, she even followed me all the way over here. You live kind of far from town, but she was still able to figure it out.”
“That’s interesting.” I take another look at the cat. I’ve heard plenty of tales about familiars or witches in the guise of animals. There’s definitely something different about this beast, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“So good. Thank you.” Everly walks up behind me and puts her plate in the sink.
“I have more.” I reach for a fresh plate. “Let me serve you.”
“No.” She rubs her stomach. “I’m stuffed.”
Something about the motion sets off an ache in me. I’ve never wanted children. It’s not possible, of course. I’m dead. I was made into a vampire so long ago I don’t even remember. Like Everly, I’m an orphan. My maker abandoned me right after he turned me. I’ve been alone ever since, for the most part. So, no, children were never in the cards for me. But with the way she rubbed her belly, I just got this odd feeling. Almost déjà vu. Her, carrying our child. Just the thought of it makes me smile, even if it’s impossible.
“You are so handsome when you smile.” She reaches up and traces her fingers along my jaw. “A real lady killer.” Then she frowns. “Speaking of, how many people have you killed?”
I shrug. “When I was a young vampire, I killed a lot more. I wasn’t disciplined then. So I don’t really have a tally. Sorry. Suffice it to say … A lot, but not as many now.”
“When were you turned into a vampire?” She leans against the counter as I soap up her plate.
“It was after the American revolution, but I don’t know the exact year. My father died fighting in Virginia, and my mother and I stayed at the small homestead they’d made in the woods along a river.”
“What happened?”
I shrug. “It’s all kind of a blur. I was hunting late one afternoon. I’d shot at a deer with my bow and arrow, missed terribly, and was trying to stalk it and take another shot. Before I knew it, it was dark, so I turned to head home. That’s when he struck. I only remember his face, barely. I think he’d meant to kill me right off, but for some reason turned me instead. I was feral at first. I don’t remember those years, to be honest. I wish I did. I wish I could’ve seen my mother before she died, but I was too far gone at that point.”