Bloodbound Nocturne (The Sophia Kelly Chronicles Book 1)

by Amy J. Wenglar

  I spent about a half hour glued to the pages of the journal after work today, only stopping when Esmeralda asked me to leave her to her evening rituals. I learned that the journal was indeed written by a disgraced Fae prince, and a pretty mopey one at that. He is apparently cursed to live out the rest of eternity in a human body, in a human world, with very little use of his magic, and he passes the time doing a lot of pouting and angsty journaling. The sullen prince is relying on this special Changeling to come along and save him. Silly? Yes. Scandalous? No. Yet the journal seems to beckon to me, from deep within the confines of Esmeralda's office. It tempts me. Teases me. Begs me to read it. Sometimes I feel like it's actually getting to know me. Like he's getting to know me.

  As I delve further into the journal's dusty, worn pages, I know I'm dealing with something I can't just dismiss. And if I thought there was a chance I could find this prince in his human form running around in this human world, I might actually consider going to him. Chris would pitch a serious fit, but it if meant stopping impending doom, why wouldn't I? But setting out to find him would be like looking for a needle in an earth-sized haystack.

  Unless he's right under my nose, and I haven't figured it out yet.

  My mind takes off in a full gallop with that thought, and I groan, kicking away the covers. I have to get up and move around. Perhaps a walk around the estate or the garden will calm my antsy nerves.

  Still feeling somewhat like an intruder in this overwhelming place, I tiptoe down to the entrance to the gardens on the lower level near the pool. My plan is thwarted when I hear Chris's voice along with a female voice coming from the indoor swimming pool to my right. My heart begins to thud loudly in my chest, and I hold my breath as I press myself against the hallway wall.

  "Send her home," says the female voice. "She's got no business being here anyway. It's the only thing you can do. She's figuring it out, and they've taken notice. You've said as much yourself."

  Figure it out? Figure what out? Are they talking about the prophecy? My stomach clenches at the distinct sound of contempt in her voice. Do they know about my secret affair with the Fae prince's journal?

  "You're right, Greta. She has no business being here," Chris agrees. "But she—"

  "That girl is going to get you killed. She is a liability." There is a pause before Greta continues. "Look, I know you were friends with her father. I know you made a promise to him to keep her safe from all of this, but you're in over your head at this point. She needs to go. The council knows about the attacks, and they—"

  "Then I will appeal to the council, if that's what it takes. But she is not to blame for what she is."

  "Christoph, she is not worth the risk. I know you love her, but you won't be able to keep her safe forever. The attacks will only get worse. Which will only bring attention to us. To our kind. And there will be questions as to whose side you're really on. We'll be pulled into their war, and we can't afford to lose any more vampires."

  Wait, what? Love?

  "It is not so easy, Greta," Chris mutters in a low voice.

  But wait, go back to the love part for a second. Damn you, Greta.

  "We've worked for years to blend in. Centuries, Christoph. The vampire race is starting to flourish again because of our evolution. And I'll be damned if some little bitch comes along and gets us all killed because you can't control yourself."

  "Might I remind you of the time you fell for that stable boy? You, dressed in all your fine clothes, looking down from the window of your apartment while he cleaned horse dung from the yard?"

  "Frederick was different," she hisses, her voice wavering ever so slightly. "Frederick was human, unlike that… Fae monstrosity you're in love with. She is killing you. Weakening you."

  Fae monstrosity?

  "He may have been human, but as I recall, your little rendezvous with him not only got him killed, it put the Hunters on high alert, which put us all in danger. If you hadn't been affiliated with the Hapsburgs, they would've killed you, too."

  "That girl has something much worse than a few rogue Hunters after her. You're in denial, Christoph, but you know what she is," she snarls. "You know as well as I do that girl should have been killed before she could even learn to walk. Let her go. Send her home. Where she belongs."

  Silence.

  I flatten myself against the wall, as if that will make me more inconspicuous to the two vampires standing only feet away.

  "Sophia," Chris says sharply. I jump, taking another breath and holding it, trying to remain as still and as quiet as possible. "Sophia!" he barks, louder this time. It's no use. I may have learned to block him from my thoughts to some extent, but he can still smell me. I'm just surprised it took them so long to discover me. "I know you're standing in the hallway. Come in here."

  My blood boils hot in my veins at the tone of his voice, and tears sting my eyes as I stomp into the pool area. Greta stands near the edge of the pool, fully clothed in a skin-tight Ramones T-shirt and short black leather skirt that hugs every curve. I can't help but notice how her legs seem to go on for miles, thanks to the painfully high stilettos she wears. Her hair is styled in an edgy, razor-straight shag cut, and her lips are so full and so blindingly red they look like they're about to pop right off her face.

  Chris is in the pool, his dark hair haphazardly slicked back so that only a few wavy pieces fall forward. It makes him look even more chiseled and sexy.

  "What?" I snap, trying to look as tough as possible in my polar bear pajamas. I give Greta a look that suggests I can be a bitch, too. Especially to people who are trying to come between me and the man I love.

  "Sophia, Greta. Greta, Sophia."

  Chris makes a back-and-forth motion with his hands as he briefly introduces us. I ignore his lame attempt at introduction and launch right into the offensive. "So, what, you're sending me home? Is that what I'm hearing?" I glare at Chris and then at Greta, who now stands with her hip jutting out and her arms folded across her chest, smirking at me. "You get what you want from me, and then send me away? Because all of a sudden I'm a liability? Suddenly I'm a Fae monstrosity, whatever that means? Was I not a Fae monstrosity before you invited me into your bed, Chris?"

  He climbs effortlessly out of the pool and I lunge toward him, my fists clenched at my sides.

  Placing his hands on my shoulders, he bends down, lowering his head so that his face is level with mine. "Sweetheart, go back to bed," Chris says gently, as if speaking to a five-year-old. "I'll join you in a few minutes." As if that would even start to pacify me.

  He presses a kiss to my forehead, but I jerk away from him. "No, I want to know what's going on," I demand. "Why are you sending me home? You can't just throw around such dramatic accusations without explaining what's going on."

  "Sophia, this conversation doesn't concern you," he says, growing more impatient with me.

  "Doesn't concern me?" I growl. "You were just talking about sending me home. This is after you just begged me to stay? I even bought pajamas, asshole. Are you kidding me?" I shove him as hard as I can, trying to push him back into the pool, but I may as well be trying to shove a brick wall. "‘Stay with me. Spend Christmas with me,’" I say mockingly, with a sneer added for emphasis. "Isn't that what you said?"

  There is a pulse of something deep in the pit of my stomach, and I know it's the light-ray. My anger is coaxing it out of its dormant state. Chris senses it and grabs my wrists in an attempt to distract me.

  "You have no idea what you're talking about," he hisses, his face inches from mine. "Now is not the time for this childish behavior. Go back to bed."

  Usually, I have enough awareness about me to know when to bow out of a fight and leave with dignity. Now is not one of those times.

  "Why, because she's here? Is she another one of your girlfriends? One that leads you around by the balls, Chris? Or is she a student, too? Another one of your conquests?"

  My words leave my mouth before I have a chance to decide whether or not they sho
uld be said. And even I know they're ridiculous and petty.

  Jesus Christ, he is making me crazy.

  I look over at Greta. Her eyebrows are raised slightly, but the smirk hasn't left her face. She wants my light-ray volcano to erupt. It would prove her point.

  Chris says something indistinguishable before he throws me over his shoulder and carries me to the end of the pool. There is a split second when I feel suspended in midair in a sort of snapshot of time, my mouth open to scream in protest, but the sound won't come. The next thing I know, I feel the sting of water, and as I gasp with shock, I inhale a mouthful of cold salt water and am flailing, struggling to get to the surface of the pool. My light-ray recedes back into the depths of my soul. This water is too cold, even for a deathly light-ray. I wipe the salt water from my burning eyes. Chris stands at the edge of the pool, hands on his hips as he watches me bob to the surface and gasp for air.

  "You asshole," I choke, as I fight to keep my teeth from chattering.

  He would swim laps in Arctic temperatures just to be a jerk.

  "If I were you, I'd get the hell out of my sight," he says through clenched teeth. "Now."

  The deep red glow of his eyes tells me he's not messing around. Red-eyed vampire anger is not something to mess with. I've only ever seen him like this once before, and it was while he was ripping Fae-Lauren's head off. I sigh loudly, realizing I've not only lost this fight, but I've also embarrassed myself when he'd been trying to defend me. Feeling a bit like a cat whose pride has just been severely injured, I pull myself out of the pool, his eyes fixed on me as I slink away in my polar bear pajamas, trembling and fighting back tears.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The smell of freshly brewed coffee invigorates me when I open the door to the bookstore the next morning. I inhale deeply as I mentally prepare for my day. Chris never came up to bed last night, and I don't blame him. He loves me. He was trying to defend me. And all I did was cause a bunch of petty drama. Maybe I really do live up to the “Fae monstrosity” label Greta slapped me with last night. On my way to the bookstore this morning, I'd texted Chris the most sincere apology I could, but there's been no response.

  The store isn't open for business yet, and I am glad for that. I need the soft, peaceful sounds of classical music wafting over the store's speakers more than anything right now. Esmeralda sits in one of the oversized leather chairs in the corner of the cozy little shop, wearing a long turquoise-blue dress and matching beaded necklaces. Her short silvery-gray hair, which was styled and neatly curled yesterday, is spiked out in all directions today, giving her a youthful, spunky appearance. She sets aside the newspaper she's reading and leaps to her feet when she sees me.

  "Sophia," she exclaims, rushing toward me, beaded necklaces clinking as she moves.

  I look at my watch, alarmed. "Am I late? Oh my God, Esmeralda—"

  "No, no, you're fine. Listen, I found something that I want you to see. Come with me."

  She moves with the nimble grace of a cat, effortlessly weaving between the tables of books until we reach the back of the store. She flips up a handle on the side of one of the bookcases, and with the assistance of a hidden rolling track system, effortlessly slides it aside to reveal a heavy wooden door. She places an oversized key in the lock and turns it, then turns it the other direction, and back in the opposite direction again. I watch wide-eyed as she pushes the heavy door open.

  "Is this a secret hideaway?" I ask, fascinated.

  She glances back at me as we descend a narrow, carpeted staircase.

  "That would be fun, wouldn't it? No, my dear. I'm afraid it's only my apartment. Too many people tried to access it thinking it was the restrooms, so I finally decided to cover the door with a sliding bookcase. Problem solved."

  She fumbles with the many keys on her keychain at the foot of the stairs for a moment before finally unlocking the door to her apartment. The floorboards creak loudly beneath our feet as we enter. There's no sneaking up on anyone in here. Behind us, the door seems to shut of its own accord, and I swear I hear it lock itself with a series of clicks.

  "You must forgive the mess. I haven't had guests over in ages."

  She gestures around a surprisingly large and immaculate room with wood-paneled walls of bookcases that are crammed full of old books. A soft beam of light illuminates a hallway off to one side that leads to what I am assuming is the rest of the apartment.

  A fire crackles cozily in a fireplace on the far side of the room, which is only strange because I don't see a chimney or any way for the smoke to escape. An oversized chair, similar to the ones in the coffee shop, sits in front of the fireplace with a large, leather-bound book draped open over one of the armrests. I catch the faint smell of pipe tobacco that hangs in the air as I follow Esmeralda over to the antique wooden desk that sits in the corner of the room.

  "Sit down," she says, motioning toward one of the uncomfortable-looking high-backed wooden chairs in front of the desk.

  She sits in a strange-looking chair opposite me that looks as if it could be a throne, with ornate rose carvings on the legs and filigree across the top.

  "I found these last night after you left and thought you might like to have them," she says, reaching into one of the desk drawers and producing a dusty manila envelope, which she eagerly hands to me.

  "What is it?" I ask as I carefully slip my finger underneath the envelope flap, slowly pulling it open. The paper smells old and musty, as if it's been in storage for a long time. There is faded writing along the flap that's hard to make out, but after studying it for a second, I see that it says “February 1990.”

  I reach hesitantly into the envelope and pull out a stack of glossy, eight-by-ten black-and-white photos. The first photo shows a handsome man sitting at a grand piano, a tie loosened around his neck. His head is thrown back in laughter, and his hands are pressed together in amusement as if in mid-clap. Another man, equally handsome and wearing a dress shirt and pants, stands in an exaggerated, wide-legged stance in front of the piano. The blur of his violin bow and the disheveled mop of brown hair atop his head suggest he's in the middle of a difficult passage and making quite a joke of it, with his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth and his eyes crossed in mock concentration.

  Another photo shows a side view of the two men leaning over a table, reviewing a musical score. The man with the violin holds it at his side as he points at something in the music that the other man is notating with a pencil.

  The other pictures show similar collaborative efforts, and it isn't until I reach the sixth and final photo in the stack, which shows the same two men smiling at the camera, arms resting about each other's shoulders in brotherly affection, that I realize who they are.

  "Chris," I breathe, feeling my heart leap up into my throat as I lightly brush his picture with my fingertip. "And is that…" A lump rises in my throat as I stare down at the other man in the photo.

  "That's your father," Esmeralda finishes for me.

  For some reason, this hits me hard. Tears flood my eyes, and I rush to wipe them away. After all, it's silly to cry over someone you've never met, isn't it? But I'm tired, and my ego is bruised. It feels good to cry.

  "My God," I whisper, my voice shaking with emotion.

  I've never seen a picture of my father before. We look alike, sharing the same brown hair and narrow nose. He's handsome, too. Greg would say that this is where I get my sexy-underwear-model good looks. We even have the same smile. I stare silently at the photos, flipping between them as I fight to keep my tears back. The fire lets off a loud pop in the weird chimney-less hearth, which brings me back to the present, and I look up at Esmeralda.

  "I have the originals locked away where they will be kept safe," she says, smiling at me. "But those copies are for you, my dear."

  "I don't know what to say," I murmur. "Thank you, Esmeralda." I hug the photos to my chest, no longer caring if she sees me crying. "This means so much to me. And I know Chris will love them, too."
/>
  If he'll ever speak to me again, that is.

  "I am an archivist by nature, and I just love these pictures. I found them among your father's personal effects after he disappeared, and I kept them. I always meant to give them back to Christoph, but…" She shrugs. "I think, at this point, they should come from you."

  I laugh and can't help but wonder what she's going to have for me next week. First the journal and now this.

  "Well, this solves my dilemma of what to get a man for Christmas who pretty much has everything."

  With a content sigh, I carefully slide the photos into my bag.

  "The journal," she says, as if preparing for a much larger conversation. "Have you been able to read any of it?"

  "I have," I say matter-of-factly. "Though I must admit that it's not very interesting. I'm not sure exactly what the fuss is about." I shrug, but I'm not sure she's convinced I’m as carefree as all that. "Maybe I haven't gotten to the good stuff yet." Esmeralda remains still. "Sure, there is stuff in there about a Changeling, but I'm not sure why it's so groundbreaking, because it's nothing I didn't already know."

  "It's because you have the journal," she says slowly. "Every supernatural faction under the sun has searched for that book for centuries. You come along out of nowhere and find it?" She slaps her knee and hoots with laughter. "Damn funny, if you ask me."