“No,” I say with a smile that matches his. “But you might find it poisonous.”
Ignoring the jug of heavy cream on the side, Alaric picks up his fork and places its tines lengths-wise on the golden crust. The space beneath it is crammed with cooked apples in a thick syrup that oozes from its sides. My heart pounds, and my mouth waters.
When Grandma said this place was a den of iniquity, I think she might have meant the tempting desserts. Whoever made this pie created it to bewitch a hungry girl and ensnare her appetite.
Leaning forward with my eyes wide, anticipation catches in the back of my throat. The pastry makes a satisfying crack, sending sprinkles of sugar onto the white plate. He cuts through the pie and scoops up a forkful, and my breath quickens.
I don’t care if he can walk in sunlight, and I don’t care that he passed through the mage’s anti-vampire runes. If he can eat a mouthful of apple pie without writhing about in excruciating pain, that will prove his humanity.
He raises the fork and pauses halfway to his mouth. “Has anyone ever told you it’s rude to gape at a person when they’re eating?”
“Probably,” I mutter.
Alaric snorts a laugh and moves the fork closer to his lips. They’re plump with a deep cupid’s bow and the shade of pink rosebuds. My breaths become shallow, and my tongue darts to lick my dry lips.
Somewhere deep in the back of my mind in a place I’m not yet ready to acknowledge, I’m imagining those soft lips on mine. I clench my teeth and tamp down those traitorous, tantalizing thoughts.
“I’ve never had a stalker,” he says in a voice of smoky seduction that curls around my senses. “I’ve never had a girl as pretty as you clamber after me with such wanton abandon. I must say, you have exquisite taste.”
Prickly heat spreads across every blood vessel on my face, my neck, my chest. I glare into his smiling eyes, wanting to wipe off the smugness flickering across his features with a stake. Common decency says to look away, but I can’t. I have to know if Alaric is a mage or a monster.
He exhales a breath through those perfect nostrils, parts those perfect lips, and pops the perfect portion of pie into his perfect mouth. As he chews, his eyes flutter closed, and a low, satisfied grown reverberates in his chest.
A whimper reverberates in the back of my throat, and I tell myself that it’s some sort of slayer instinct. Alaric chews that mouthful of pie like it's the most delicious morsel on earth, and when he’s finished, he licks his lips and positions his fork over the pie for more.
“Are you sure I can’t tempt you?” he says, and I’m not sure he’s talking about the pie.
My lips part to let out a puff of warm air.
Alaric pushes the apple pie across the table, his eyes softening to meet mine in a gentle caress. “I know what you need.”
All the moisture in my throat evaporates under the intensity of his gaze, and I grip the handle of my cup and bring it to my lips. Years of combat practice has suppressed the tremble in my fingers when handling objects in situations of high stress.
I pick up my fork and dive into the apple pie. Despite the explosion of nutmeg and cinnamon and apple on my tongue, everything pales into insignificance under the gaze of Alaric Severin.
“What did you mean when you said I was a darkblood?” I ask.
He leans forward and holds the white espresso cup to his lips. Although his skin is close to alabaster, it’s not as pale as I had initially thought. Under the enchanted northern lights, I catch glimpses of a gentle coloring to his eyelids, over his high cheekbones, and on the tip of his nose.
“What did the Order tell you about the origin of your power?” he asks back.
My mind rolls back to Sister Shevette’s Esoteric History lessons. The abbreviated story about the order was that Empress Theodora set it up to protect Constantinople from vampires, but we learned about the mages she employed to empower the women to fight the creatures of the night. Back then, it was easier to catch a vampire unawares because they were new and word hadn’t spread about the secret society of women trained in their weaknesses.
I don’t say any of this to Alaric, as mages learn more esoteric history than us. “If you have something to say about slayers—”
“Think again about receiving Theodora’s blessing.” He rises from his seat and heads toward the door. “It’s not a commendation but a curse.”
My brows draw together as he steps out of the cafe and into the bright afternoon, then the door clicks shut. How on earth would a mage know anything about the most secret workings of the Order?
Chasing after him would be futile. Alaric would probably accuse me of being eager to see him again, which I certainly was not. What he fails to realize was that I have access to someone who knows more about the Order of Theodora than he could possibly have gathered through his dubious and nefarious means. Grandma.
I slip my hand into my pocket and pull out my smartphone.
The mage from before appears on my left and slaps a piece of paper on the table. “Cash only.”
My gaze drops to an itemized list of pretentiously-worded coffee and desserts that’s four times the price of Starbucks, complete with a twenty-five percent tip. A growl reverberates in the back of my throat. Alaric just stiffed me with the check.
Chapter 5
Early the next morning, I awake to an insistent knocking on my door. I crack my eyes open to find the barest wisps of sunlight streaming onto the foot of my bed through the wall of windows. A groan slips from my lips. It’s the last week of September, and the sun rises at around six-thirty in Jaeger.
Boxes still sit on Poppy’s bed, and the rest of her luggage is untouched. She’s probably staying the night with Madoc. With a noisy yawn, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, letting my cotton t-shirt settle around my hips and then pad across the room. A faint breeze meanders through the balcony door, which I left open, and it carries the scent of freshly-cut grass.
I fling the door open to find Evangeline standing in the hallway, clad in a faded gray sweatshirt and track pants, looking like she’s already run four laps around the convent's grounds. Her damp hair lies plastered against her flushed face, which she now twists into a scowl.
Before I can ask what she wants, she says, “Driver wants to see us both.”
“Now?”
Without answering, Evangeline strides down the hallway and through the door that leads to the winding staircase. I step back into my room, curse under my breath, and shove on a pair of yoga pants.
I get how she might blame me for yesterday’s fiasco with her parents. If I was any other slayer, they might not have withdrawn Evangeline from the challenge. But I’m an Augustine, which means people make judgments on the performance of my ancestors instead of seeing me.
I huff out a long breath and replace my t-shirt with a running vest. By the time I’ve finished with Presbytera Driver, it will be time for morning drills.
Driver’s office is above the convent’s main entrance, and easily accessible from the tower’s lower exit. Apart from my room, it’s one of my favorite places within the convent. An entire wall consists of a balcony, and she has arranged her mahogany desk perpendicular to the tall, glass doors, so people sitting at both sides get to enjoy the marvelous view. I walk across the marble floor, trying not to cringe when my running shoes squeak with every step.
She swivels around in her white, leather desk chair, clad in a tweed pantsuit because a slayer must always be ready—battle brings defeat to the unprepared. Sitting in the seats opposite are Doctor and Sister Shevette, each looking like they’re about to get their home repossessed.
Ignoring Evangeline, who paces behind her parents and slams her fist into her palm, I glance through the window, where the vermillion sky reflects on the lake’s surface.
“Good morning, Acolyte Augustine.” Driver claps her hands together. “Shall we begin?”
I frown. “What are we—”
Grandma’s face pops up on the huge whitebo
ard opposite the balcony, and I step back, my eyes wide. When I was little, her hair was as red as mine, but now it’s steel gray and styled in a pixie cut that matches her stern but delicate features. Her eyes are gray like mine, but hers contain tiny flecks of amber around the middle, while mine don’t.
The closeup exaggerates the fine lines around her eyes and down the sides of her mouth that might fool an observer into believing she got them from smiling a lot. She hasn’t. Despite this, she looks vibrant compared to other sixty-one-year-olds.
Sister Shevette makes a warbling sound and clasps her hands to her chest. “May I say, it’s truly an honor to make your acquaintance.”
Evangeline huffs out an annoyed breath, and I drop my gaze to my feet, not knowing how to feel about my Esoteric History instructor’s simpering. To everyone else, Michaela Augustine is a legend, but to me, she’s Grandma. While she’s not the apple-pie baking and quilt-making kind—that’s Aunt Clarissa—she’s just a slayer like everyone else.
Grandma gives Sister Shevette the kind of tight smile she makes when other slayers gush at her for having been the Arch Mother Superior of America. Maybe she dealt with that kind of adulation her entire career because Augustines were among the first group of women trained directly by Saint Theodora. Her features relax as she turns her attention to Presbytera Driver.
“What’s this about?” Grandma asks.
Since Evangeline’s in the room with her parents, I’m guessing this is related to the Blessing. I straighten to attention, ready to defend the other girl’s right to compete.
Driver coughs into her hand. “Mother August—”
“Michaela.” Grandma raises her hand. “I haven’t been active in the Order for seventeen years.”
Everyone’s gazes turn to me, and I shuffle awkwardly on my feet. They all think Grandma left to take care of the baby she found, but Uncle Fred, Mom’s conciliar, was my main caregiver. Grandma spent a lot of her time searching the world for Mom, who all the seers say is alive but lost.
“Of course,” says Doctor Shevette. “Our daughter, Evangeline has been shortlisted among Gabrielle to compete for Theodora’s Blessing. We would like to discuss forfeiting it in favor of your granddaughter.”
“I won’t accept this.” Evangeline folds her arms across her chest, her cheeks flushing.
“Neither will I,” I add.
Evangeline turns to me with enough venom to murder the entire convent, and I flinch at the hatred in her eyes. I clench my teeth and hold her stare. If she wants me to apologize for being born, it’s not going to happen.
Grandma steeples her finger. “Why on earth would you refuse the gift?”
I glance from Sister Shevette, who bows her head, to her husband, who grimaces. “We would like our only daughter to give us grandsons. After the blessing, Evangeline will only produce slayer daughters.”
My mouth drops open, but I produce no sound. Why the hell did he marry a slayer if he wanted mages?
“That’s it?” Evangeline says with a bitter laugh. She slaps her palm on her chest. “You’re treating me like a broodmare?”
Grandma shoots an exasperated gaze to her left. I’m guessing Aunt Clarissa is in the room. “I can’t condone this kind of suppression. If Evangeline proves worthy of the Blessing, it belongs to her.”
Sister Shevette raises her head. “It’s still our choice.”
Frustration simmers in my gut, building throughout this aggravating conversation. What else are they going to do to Evangeline? Force her to marry a mage so she can have mage sons? Slayers get to choose their partners, whether male, female, as long as they are supernatural or a native already aware of the supernatural world. The Order doesn’t even force slayers to produce children, even though they could do so to increase our ranks.
I step forward. “Saint Theodora was an advocate of women’s freedom, and she liberated women from forced prostitution. I think what you’re doing goes against her aims of setting up the Metanoia.”
Grandma gives me an approving nod, the corners of her lips curving to an almost-smile. “Well said.”
Both Doctor and Sister Shevette’s mouths fall open. The mage says, “But—”
“Preventing Evangeline from competing for the Blessing to engineer a birth of male children is tantamount to forced breeding,” says Grandma, her voice as sharp as a stake. “On that basis, I suggest that Evangeline competes without the permission of her parents.”
Doctor Shevette jumps to his feet. “With all due respect, you no longer have jurisdiction over anyone in the Order.”
“Darling.” Sister Shevette pulls at his arm, but he ignores her pleading.
My frustration bubbles over. What’s wrong with these people? Can’t they see how much their daughter wants the chance she’s earned to compete?
Evangeline’s father confuses me the most. First, he marries a slayer, who rarely births boys. His plans for a male grandchild are as remote as vampires walking in the sun. Next, he’s agreed to meet with Grandma and when she doesn’t agree with his antiquated views, he has the nerve to act condescending.
He’s too busy ranting at Grandma, who purses her lips, waiting for him to be quiet. She once told me that weaklings were the loudest opponents with the most false bravado. After seeing Doctor Shevette posture like a peacock, I’m inclined to agree with her.
In my loudest voice, I say, “I won’t accept the blessing.”
Everyone falls silent, and Evangeline spins around and meets my gaze with wide eyes.
My skin crawls at the attention, but I continue speaking. “Evangeline deserves a chance. She’s one of the best acolytes in my year. If she turns out to be more worthy of receiving the blessing, I don’t want it just because I’m an Augustine.”
The other girl stares at me, blinking rapidly as though she can’t believe what I’ve just said.
A knot forms in my belly, and the dull ache of remorse forms in my chest. I’ve probably gone mad to pass up the guaranteed blessing, but I can’t go back on what I’ve said, so I pull back my shoulders and try to calm my frantic breaths.
This is the first time I’ve rebelled against any of my instructors, even though it’s for a reason in line with the philosophy of Saint Theodora.
Sister and Doctor Shevette exchange helpless glances, and a sliver of doubt trickles through my consciousness. Yesterday, Alaric said Theodora’s Blessing was a curse, and Doctor and Sister Shevette’s excuse of wanting to have grandsons sounds like a flimsy attempt to protect their daughter from something dubious.
“What’s so dangerous about the Blessing?” The words tumble from my lips before I can stop them.
Grandma rolls her eyes. “A boost in power that lasts through a slayer’s old age is hardly perilous. Every slayer who received it got to die of old age.”
She leaves the alternative unsaid. Not all vampires want to troll slayers. The Order is the single force in the world that stands between them and their desire to feed on and farm humans. They want us all dead, destroyed, and discredited.
“That’s settled then.” Grandma turns to Evangeline. “Good luck, Acolyte. May the most worthy slayer receive the Blessing.”
The screen turns black. Without a word, Evangeline’s parents rise from their leather armchairs and walk out of the room.
Presbytera Driver blows out a long, weary breath. “Thank you, girls. Dismissed.”
By the time Evangeline and I step out into the hallway, diagonal streams of pale sun pour in through the skylight illuminating the gilded portrait of Saint Theodora. She wears a red headdress with jewels encrusted into its fabric. Strings of pearls hang down the sides of her face and rest on a broad collar that starts around her neck and ends at her shoulders.
Despite being laden with jewels, wisdom and compassion shine from her ebony eyes, and her slender lips curve into an enigmatic smile.
Evangeline’s parents have already gone, and I pull the door to Driver’s office.
As soon as it clicks shut, Evangeline w
hirls on me, her espresso eyes flashing with rage. “Don’t think anyone’s fooled by your false humility.”
A jolt of surprise has me jerking back. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re so concerned with outward appearances,” she snaps. “Everyone knows that nice exterior is phony.”
I bare my teeth. “I just did you a favor.”
“And I expect you want me to grovel at your feet, oh benevolent Augustine? You use people and discard them like soiled rags.”
Anger explodes through my chest and colors the edges of my vision red. This is about Jude and how he made such a big show of trying to win me back after Poppy and I uncovered his violation of my mind.
If I hadn’t been so worried about the Mage Council hurting his family, I would have reported Jude before Poppy had even finished unraveling those toxic strands of false affection. Because I have to keep his dirty secret, I’m the one who looks cruel and fickle.
Resisting the urge to punch the truth into her self-righteous face, I stalk down the hallway with my hands balled into fists.
The first class is Sensory Magic, which the Magus teaches. Along the length of the classroom are huge windows that drench the space in sunlight, illuminating the blackboard wall at the end. There are usually rows of small wooden desks and matching seats with an aisle in the middle along which the Magus likes to stroll during lessons.
Normally, she seats slayers on the left and mages on the right, but today, she has arranged the chairs in a circle. Poppy and I sit together among the mages, and Evangeline holds court in the seat opposite, presumably telling everyone who will listen about how I’ve once again wronged her.
A few of the other slayers shoot me furious glares and I stare them down. No matter what Evangeline says about me behind my back, Theodora’s Blessing isn’t a contest of popularity—the real test is out there on the field.
The Magus strides into the room, clad in a black suit and matching pants that accentuate her willowy figure. Her dark hair hangs in a ponytail that flows down one shoulder. Behind her float three cages, each containing bats.
Vampire Bonds (Darkbloods Book 1) Page 5