I brought my wooden knitting needles since they’re quieter than the metal ones. They swirl silently, eating up the tangled mass of gray yarn. Loop, knot, and pull . . . loop, knot, and pull—I cast my stitches, linking and locking. The needles swing, ferocious in their speed, giving me something to concentrate on other than these long hours I have to get through before I can see Etalon tonight.
I’m not sure why I’m still knitting socks for him. Maybe because the yarn cost money, as did the emoticon appliques I’m stitching onto the individual toes to represent the faces he used to draw as a child.
Although deep down, I know it’s more. It’s because, even though he tricked me, I can’t forget that there are unknown, torturous details of his past that connect him to the dark world I experienced last night. For some reason, I’ve never been able to see past the moment his voice was damaged. Yet somehow, even after those cruelties he suffered, he still had enough goodness in his heart to save me and my friends.
Hopefully not at his own expense.
The thought of him in danger makes my mouth dry and stickery, like I’ve been chewing on thistles. I take a slow breath, surrounded by the scent of the club. Even though I showered twice in hopes of washing away every horrific memory hanging onto me via my senses, there’s still a hint of sulfur and stale perfume in my tunnel of hair.
Kat’s vocals escalate, but I shut her out, my needles slowing to a rhythmic, calming lull. Filtering through wavy strands of hair, the soft purple spotlight relaxes me further, reminding me of the lava lamp in my room.
I imagine myself curled up under my covers with the vent at my back, Etalon’s music playing, me humming along, and both of us adrift on currents of peace. Despite how angry I am about his lies, I still feel connected to him. For one, because he shares a very powerful and scary side of me; but even more because we’ve been a part of each other since I was seven. His music saved me from drowning that day my grandmother dunked me. I haven’t told him that yet. Maybe he already knows. How do you hate someone who pulled you from the brink of death, not once, but twice?
If only it could return to the way things were just two nights ago. When I hadn’t almost sucked all the life from Jax, one of the sweetest and funniest guys I’ve ever met. When Etalon was still the Phantom. When I knew him, and trusted him.
Trusting a phantom. I slam my eyes shut on the stupidity of that thought.
Last night was stupid, too. I know that. I knew it even when I went to that club, when I was letting myself believe . . . but it’s hard to abandon the chance to know yourself, or to redeem yourself for years of guilt.
My fingers move mechanically now, knitting on autopilot.
Those last few minutes I had with Etalon roll over me in waves, whisking me back to the elevator. While helping with my blindfold, he explained that we were in a den of psychic vampires—vampires that feed off energy instead of blood—modern descendants of old-world incubi and succubi who had evolved to utilize all varieties of emotional energy, beyond just lust. He warned that although they were our kind, they were more dangerous than either of us.
All these years I believed the mythology, that incubi and succubi were creatures who fed off sleeping victims. But they can attack anytime, anywhere.
We can attack.
“I’m a vampire,” I’d whispered. I grew woozy in the elevator, trying to wrap my head around that terrifying revelation.
Etalon steadied me. “You already suspected,” he said. “You just needed someone to make you face it. It’s in your lineage, on your father’s side. I saw the memories . . . how he took you into the garden and showed you.” I tried to turn around, but he held me in place, still working on the blindfold. “Hold still. I don’t want to pull your hair and hurt you.”
The elevator doors opened before I could respond.
“You must have a thousand questions,” he continued in that familiar husky voice that had been reading bedtime stories to me for weeks now. “I’ll answer them soon. But for tonight, you need to pretend to be in a trance if you want to keep your friends safe.” He grunted, hefting Jax up to carry him while guiding me by my forearm back to the hearse we arrived in.
Thankfully, everyone else was preoccupied in the club, either feasting, or being feasted upon, so we had no interruptions. Etalon said nothing until the driver spoke.
“So, you found our last stowaway.” The nasally man chuckled from the other side of my blindfold.
“I did,” Etalon answered. “We’ll put him in the car with the others. They’ve all learned a valuable lesson tonight. Too bad they won’t remember it tomorrow.”
I heard the hearse’s door pop open, then a rustle of clothing as both men scooted Jax into the seat.
“And the girl?” the driver asked.
Etalon’s hand cupped my elbow. I recognized the violinist’s calluses on his fingertips. My arms grew warm as something was pulled into place over them then settled onto my shoulders. My coat . . .