by Bella Klaus
I opened up a cupboard and pulled down a bright red French press. “What did you say?”
“I made him wait an entire day before replying that I wasn’t available.” She plucked a pair of matching mugs from the dishwasher.
With a satisfied nod, I pulled open the foil bag of coffee, releasing its rich, dark scent, and placed two heaping tablespoons in the French press. “What did he say to that?”
“No reply for two days, followed by another last-minute invitation to a function at his bank.” Beatrice poured the hot water into the glass coffee pot and returned the kettle back to the counter.
“And?” I asked with a smile.
“I ghosted him,” she said with a sniff. “Did he really think I would give him any attention after the way he treated me?”
Beatrice opened her refrigerator and pulled out a box of batons from Hotel Chocolat, which made my mouth water. I would be wrong to say that this was my favorite brand because all chocolate was good chocolate—as long as it had enough cocoa solids—but everything from that brand was exquisite.
“How’s Valentine doing?” she asked.
“Much better,” I said with a smile.
“They’ve discharged him?” she asked.
I hesitated, trying to remember how I had described his condition. It wasn’t like I was a great liar, but I was sure that I’d told her he’d been attacked and was now in some hospital. “Not yet, although he’s walking and talking.”
“I’m so glad.” After filling a jug with cream, Beatrice opened her cupboard and pulled out a box of Belgian cookies.
I followed her to the living room, where a dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice lay face-down on the coffee table. Right now, I wasn’t even sure if it was a weekday or the weekend. The sun had set less than half an hour ago, and if Beatrice was at home, it meant that today was Sunday or a day off. If I asked, it would only make her concerned for my state of mind.
Fortunately, she didn’t delve too deeply into Valentine’s current state. Instead, she offered me a warm smile, placing the coffee and the jug of milk on a tray and adding the cookies and chocolate batons. I picked up the red mugs and followed her through the hallway into the living room.
“I went to the crystal shop, and Mrs. Bonham-Sackville told me to give you something if you ever came to visit.” She set down the tray on the glass coffee table and took the armchair nearest to the door.
I placed the mug on the table and pressed down the plunger. “Oh?”
Beatrice reached around the armchair and pulled out a small bag containing a small leather journal and a little baggie of crystals. “I didn’t look in case it contained anything personal.”
“Thanks.” While Beatrice poured out the coffee, I extracted the book and opened up its pages. They were all handwritten notes by someone who had collated information on phoenixes and their flames.
A lump formed in my throat. Had Aunt Arianna sent this book to Istabelle or had she asked Istabelle to pass on whatever material she had on the subject?
Beatrice turned to me with a frown. “It’s blank.”
I nodded. The paper was enchanted so that anyone without magic couldn’t read it. It was only legible to people with low levels of magic or Neutrals, who had the power but couldn’t use it. I closed the book and slipped it back into the bag. “She probably wanted me to start a journal.”
Beatrice’s lips curled into a smile. “Do you want to know why I’ve been so strong-willed around Christian?”
My brows rose, and I leaned forward, eager for the juicy details. “Don’t tell me you’ve met someone else?”
She nodded. “Tall, dark, handsome, and just as sexy as your guy.”
“Impossible.” I shook my head and grinned.
Beatrice threw her head back and laughed. “I’m serious. The firm had an open day for new clients. He strolled in and asked me to do his taxes.”
“What kind of company does he work for?”
“He’s a high net-worth individual.”
“But you do corporate—”
“I know,” she said, her eyes dancing. “I was even standing at the corporate tax booth, but Lazarus strolled past the personal tax consultants and started talking to me.”
A boulder of dread dropped into my stomach. “Lazarus?”
She nodded. “He said his parents took the name from the bible. A guy who—”
“Came back to life,” I said through clenched teeth, remembering having read a few stories from the New Testament.
Beatrice’s face dropped. “What’s wrong?”
“Valentine has a brother called Lazarus,” I said. “They’re… feuding.”
Her lips parted, and she dropped her gaze to her jogging bottoms. “Please don’t tell me Lazarus was the one who put Valentine in the hospital.”
I bit down on my lip, trying to work out the best way to handle the situation. If I said yes, Beatrice would probably never speak to Lazarus again. On the few times we had met, he had been perfectly cordial and I had no reason to believe he would hurt a human girl just for knowing me.
If I had to be honest with myself, I couldn’t fault Lazarus and his brothers for being hostile. They blamed me for Valentine’s death, and the curse had also addled their brains. My gaze wandered to the streams of steam billowing from the coffee pot. If anyone hurt Valentine, I’d also probably want to kill them slowly.
Beatrice placed a hand on my arm. “Mera? Is Lazarus dangerous?”
I inhaled a deep breath. “We might not even be talking about the same guy.”
“He’s ridiculously handsome,” Beatrice said, her tone flat. “To the point where he makes Christian look like a pile of mashed potato.”
I winced. “That sounds like one of Valentine’s brothers.”
“If I’m in trouble—”
“Valentine is part of a closed society,” I said. “They don’t welcome outsiders.”
She clapped both hands over her mouth. “Organized crime?”
“Something like that?” I clenched my teeth.
“How did you get involved?”
“I was born into it.”
She leaned forward, poured us both cups of coffee and added the required amount of cream, and cracked open the tin of Belgian cookies. “That explains a lot.”
“Huh?”
“Why you never talk about your parents or your ex or your home or anything.” She picked up a Belgian curl and crunched it in two. “If you’re a mafia princess—”
“It’s not organized crime,” I said.
“Right…” She made a zipping motion in front of her mouth, turned an imaginary lock, and threw away the key.
I picked up my mug of coffee and took a sip, wondering if I had done the right thing by warning Beatrice about Lazarus. He didn’t need any tax advice because Valentine gave him a suite in the palace and a generous allowance. Lazarus was a playboy who didn’t even work in the family business. And the last time I saw him, he wanted to use me as bait to capture Valentine. If Valentine had been watching me throughout my time in London, then Lazarus must have found his notes and decided to track him using my connections.
“Just be careful around him,” I muttered. “And don’t let him lead you into a conversation about Valentine or me.”
“After what I’ve learned, I won’t even return his calls,” said Beatrice.
I reached for a chocolate baton, making sure not to reveal anything else in case Lazarus mesmerized her into spilling everything she knew or didn’t know about Valentine’s whereabouts.
Chapter Eighteen
Moments after the last Hotel Chocolat baton melted in my mouth, my stomach chose that moment to rumble. I pressed a hand on my belly, telling it to quiet down, but after being chased by a shadow monster and seeing it being cast into Hell, my body needed more than chocolate.
Beatrice twisted around in her seat and grinned. “On the subject of fancy dinners, shall we go into the village and check out the new bistro?”
Wimbledon Village was
one of the few places in London that felt like a small community. Because it was so far from the center, tourists didn’t venture there outside tennis season. Wimbledon had its fair share of chain restaurants and international stores and restaurants, but many of its boutiques and cafes and bars were independent. I loved how the Village combined period architecture with such a relaxed, artistic vibe.
The downside to the Village was the lack of anonymity, as we would often meet the same people at the bars and cafés. My gaze flicked down to my left foot, above which the anklet holding back the curse rested. The fire mages wouldn’t give it to me as a complete solution to my problems. It was probably a demonstration of how much I needed their power, and its protective magic could vanish at any time, making me crawl back to them for help.
I exhaled a long breath and met Beatrice’s espresso-brown eyes. If the enchantment in that anklet failed while we were out together, she might get hurt in the vampires’ mad scramble to take my blood.
“Could we stay here?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said with a smile. “I could order something from Deliveroo?”
“Why don’t you let me cook?” I asked.
Her brows drew together, and her concerned gaze trailed down my body. “Are you sure? You look like you could do with a rest.”
I cleared the coffee table, and picked up the tray. “Trust me, cooking and cleaning will be a vacation compared to the last few days.”
Beatrice followed me to the kitchen and emptied her dishwasher, while I dismantled the French press and placed the used coffee grounds in the composter.
After we cleared up, she gave me a tour of all the ingredients she kept in her cupboards. Dry goods filled her cupboards, including some gourmet items she’d probably purchased on her many travels, such as stuffed olives, canned ratatouille, and biscotti. When she opened her refrigerator, it contained a bottle of Pinot Grigio, a carton of cream, a bottle of semi-skimmed milk, and a few Marks and Spencer’s ready meals.
She grimaced. “Sorry. I was working late this week.”
My gaze dropped to an unopened pack of parmesan sitting atop an untouched block of butter, and I closed the refrigerator door. As an international tax accountant, Beatrice worked irregular hours and often went overseas on last-minute assignments. It meant that keeping large quantities of fresh food would be wasteful.
“Not to worry.” I gave her a pat on the shoulder. “We can still rustle up something exciting.”
I pulled down a box of Arborio rice, dried onions, sun-dried tomatoes, and stock cubes, along with a jar of wild mushrooms in olive oil. After placing the dried vegetables in a casserole dish and rehydrating them over the stove with large quantities of butter and white wine, we added the cooked rice, some tinned salmon, and placed it in the oven to make a risotto.
Aunt Arianna was the queen of whipping together items to make up nutritious meals, but I picked up so much about food from dining out with Valentine. He’d even allowed me to spend a bit of time in the palace kitchens learning food preparation and knife skills.
“It’s a pity about Lazarus.” Beatrice pulled down a pack of Grissini breadsticks and a small bottle of garlic-infused olive oil. “He was so unbelievably hot and had this charming way with words.”
I hummed my agreement. Hotness was the nature of the vampire, and they could be charming when they wanted. Everything about them was built to entice, to make a person want to offer their necks in supplication to their magnificence. I shook off those thoughts and rifled through the cupboards for jars of sun-dried eggplant, sliced peppers, and baby artichokes to make antipasti. Maybe tiredness and stress just brought on my old bitter self.
“Why do I have such crappy luck with men?” she asked with a sigh.
I turned to find Beatrice leaning by the counter with glistening eyes, and my chest tightened with guilt. Had I been too quick to judge Lazarus? My throat thickened. Maybe I was being too protective of my friend by not telling her the whole truth. I really didn’t know a way out of this mess without getting her in trouble with the enforcers, but I didn’t want her thinking she’d done anything wrong.
“Every time we go out, you get so much attention.” I swept my arm down her curvaceous frame. “It’s just that the more confident guys are the ones who are approaching.”
“It’s a recurring pattern,” she muttered.
I shook my head. “You’re just going through a peculiar patch, where you met one guy who seemed fantastic but ended up being fickle, and the other—”
“Was trying to reach his brother through me,” she said, her voice bitter. “Lazarus is exciting and all, but if the Chartered Institute of Taxation got a whiff that I was involved with criminals, I’d be struck off.”
I grimaced. “They’re not involved in organized crime. Think of them as a cult.”
Beatrice grinned. “Like the Amish?”
An image of a bearded Valentine driving a buggy tumbled through my mind, and a laugh huffed from my throat. “I didn’t say that!”
“Alright.” She waved me away. “I’ll stop fishing, but I’m still going to be careful around Lazarus.”
As I put on a pair of gloves and extracted the risotto from the oven, my phone buzzed. I put the casserole dish on the hob, hoping nothing had gone wrong with Valentine.
It was a text from Kain. I just returned from the location you sent me, and it’s a burned-out ruin. If there’s magic protecting your hideout, I can’t get through it.
Where are you? I texted back.
Back in Logris. You?
I messaged, Do you remember my friend from Wimbledon?
On my way.
I glanced at Beatrice, who was preparing a gorgeous plate of antipasti, and tapped out, Text me when you’re close and I’ll meet you outside.
Beatrice bounced on her feet. “Was that from Valentine?”
“Kain.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is he one of them?” She raised a palm. “Say no more. That’s the kind of blond beauty my friends would have salivated over at school.”
My lips curled into a smile. I couldn’t imagine how much adulation Kain got from human girls while he was younger. It must have been aggravating with no other male vampires to take off the pressure.
Beatrice took the risotto out of the kitchen, while I poured out two generous glasses of Pinot Grigio and placed them, the breadsticks, and the antipasti on the tray. I brought them to the living room, where she had already set the dining table at the end of the room with candles.
It was one of those tables with a fold-out section that could be expanded to accommodate six, but wedged at the side of the window, it was cozy enough for two. Outside, wall lights illuminated the paved garden, creating an al fresco feel.
Beatrice bounced on her seat. “I’m so looking forward to this.”
“You’ve got so many nice things in your cupboard. With a few frozen ingredients, you wouldn’t ever need to order takeout.” I continued past the sofa, making sure not to bump my leg on the coffee table.
“Food tastes better when someone else cooks.” Her phone buzzed. She pulled it from the side of the table and scowled at the screen.
“Don’t tell me they’re making you fly out somewhere tomorrow morning,” I said.
“No.” She chewed her lip. “It’s Christian.”
I set down the tray, handed her a glass of wine, and placed the antipasti in the middle of the table. “What does he want?”
“He has a reservation in Bistro du Vin and wants to know if I can come down in half an hour.”
I lowered myself into my seat, remembering having gone there last year one weekend I had spent with Beatrice. “But that’s—”
“In Wimbledon?” Her lips tightened.
“Is he trying to meet you halfway or something?” I asked.
She shook her head and tossed her phone across the room, where it landed in the middle of the sofa with a soft bounce. “Let’s just ignore him.”
“Alright.” I spooned ou
t the risotto, which steamed on our plates, and placed a few preserved vegetables on the side.
Guys could be dicks about picking up girls and them dumping them, but Christian was getting persistent. Stalkerish, because it made no sense for a man who lived and worked in Central London to have last-minute reservations in Wimbledon unless he planned to ensnare Beatrice. If Christian was as good-looking as Beatrice had described, surely he had a slew of girls to exploit. Why did he keep coming back to my friend after rejecting her?
“Am I doing the right thing?” she asked.
My lips formed a tight line. There were a number of supernatural males who fed off a woman’s sexual energy, but they usually left her somewhat diminished. While Beatrice had been sleeping with Christian, she had glowed with happiness. That’s why I hadn’t suspected supernatural involvement. I shook off those thoughts. Maybe he was a narcissist or had some kind of disorder where he wanted a woman to chase after him.
“Remember how you felt when he sent you home and ghosted you afterward?” I asked.
She nodded. “It’s almost like he can’t stand that I’ve moved on.”
“Exactly,” I muttered.
We fell silent, with Beatrice picking at her risotto and me wondering what the deal was with Christian. Over the past three years, I’d lived vicariously through Beatrice, taking a front seat on all her romances with exciting humans. Some of them were players and a few played mind games, but none acted so persistent… until Christian.
I chewed on my risotto, barely tasting it because I kept trying to figure out if there was more to Christian than being a ruthless playboy. And that whole deal with Lazarus tracking Beatrice down to her job and pursuing her was no coincidence either. I hoped that whatever Kain had to show me would help. Once Valentine was healed and returned to the Supernatural Council alive and with his heart intact, everything would return to normal and perhaps Beatrice might also get some peace.
Beatrice’s phone buzzed again. “What does he bloody want from me?”
I set down my fork and met her worried eyes. “Put it this way. I spent years tolerating Jonathan’s attempts to ask me out for coffee when I should have fired him as a client. In the end, he turned out to be the worst kind of stalker.”