Page 34 of Thirst
“No ‘uncle,’” I gritted, bouncing like a demented rubber ball until the kid calmed again. “Just Cain.”
“Got it. Should’ve realized.” Talon’s tone was apologetic. “I’ll make sure Eden knows, too.”
I gave a tight nod, jaw locked.
“So we’re good?” he asked.
“Yeah, yeah.” I adjusted Jude, who’d gone boneless against me, eyes shut, mouth slack with sleep.
I’d put him out. Me. And damn if that didn’t spark a flicker of pride in me.
I met Talon’s eyes. “I’ll be a good sponsor, I swear. The best. Anything he needs, he’s got it.”
He just smiled. “Why d’you think I asked you?”
10
Nyx
The journey back to Quebec seemed endless. I had a first-class seat to myself, Jerome and Manny in the seats behind me. I stared into the darkness beyond the window, fighting the slow creep of doubt. Had I made a mistake? Should I have taken Cain up on his offer, escaped Quebec City while I still could?
But it was too late now.
We crossed into Canadian airspace, and I forced myself to lean back. To breathe despite the tight band wrapped around my chest.
You made the right choice. The only choice.
The lights of Quebec City appeared, shimmering against the blackness. And then we were gliding over the St. Laurence River and descending toward Jean Lesage Airport.
Just one more month. I only had to hold out until the gallery money came through. I’d survived this long; I could make it another four or five weeks.
A discreet black limo met us at the airport, a QCS soldier at the wheel. He conveyed us to the outskirts of the city and my father’s sprawling lair beneath a decaying cemetery. Nazaire owned a gorgeous Old Town mansion and a ski lodge in the Laurentians, but this was his favorite lair—and the one I’d grown up in.
We left the limo in an underground garage, the air thick with exhaust and old stone. Jerome led the way into a tunnel that burrowed underneath the street to the cemetery. I fell in behind him, Manny and the driver bringing up the rear with the suitcases. The damp walls swallowed us, our footsteps the only sound in the dark.
We surfaced in a crypt, the Marchand family vault. The Marchands had died out long ago, and the dead didn’t care that their bones guarded the entrance to a vampire lair. I breathed in the crypt’s familiar dusty scent as Jerome touched his palm to the biorec pad, hidden in the base of a shrine to the family’s patron saint.
When Nazaire first brought me here, he’d tucked me into a nursery as far from his apartment as possible. I’d never left, just traded the child-sized bed for a bigger mattress, the toys for paint brushes.
But somewhere along the way, this place had stopped feeling like a home and started feeling like a prison.
A hidden door slid open, revealing a flight of worn metal steps. We descended into the hushed, stale quiet below. At the bottom, Jerome peeled off toward the main part of the lair, leaving the others to deliver my suitcases to my apartment. We wound through a series of smaller tunnels lit by kerosene torches, their flames throwing restless shadows across the stone walls. The air grew cooler, the silence heavier, each step pulling me farther into an underbelly I no longer wanted to belong to.
As we neared my apartment, brisk footsteps sounded ahead, and Perla emerged from the gloom—rich brown hair coiled into a neat bun, her curvy showgirl frame wrapped in a gray silk blouse and tailored black pants. A former thrall in her mid-forties, she was the closest thing I had to a friend.
“Welcome back, Madame,” she said, dipping her head with practiced grace.
I gave a slight nod, aware of Manny just behind me, observing.
Perla and I both knew the rules—show too much warmth to a servant, and they disappeared. So I kept my face blank, my happiness at seeing her buried.
She unlocked my apartment door and ushered me inside. As I crossed the threshold, my lungs expanded on the first deep breath I’d taken in hours. These two rooms, along with the art studio next door, were the only places I could be fully myself.
The velvety green walls of the living room enveloped me like a forest at twilight. Pumpkin-colored throw pillows warmed the space, and the massive fern beside the couch unfurled its fronds in welcome. Along the far wall was a collage of paintings and second-hand treasures—ornate frames, tarnished mirrors, and other oddities. It was part boho, part goth, and all mine.
Perla directed Manny to put the suitcases in my walk-in closet. He complied, and then with a jerk of his chin in our direction, left.
The door clicked shut behind him, and Perla opened her arms, pulling me into a warm hug and kissing both my cheeks.
