Page 9 of Tainted Souls
As much as I’d like to disappear into the back rooms with my circle, tonight is far too significant to mix with those I know Max disapproves of. I cannot be caught hanging out with the people who my boyfriend considers a bad influence on me. Not tonight.
Evan gives me a knowing look. “Can’t? Or won’t? Come on, Serrie. Haden’s been dying to introduce you to Marcus. Won’t shut up about how you need to vet him.”
“Marcus?” I repeat in mock amusement. “Since when does Haden need my approval for his conquests?”
“Since this one’s lasted longer than a week,” Evan replies, perfectly attuned to the carefree atmosphere around us. “Three weeks, actually.”
I can’t help but laugh.
Haden has an incredibly notorious reputation for fleeting romances, treating relationships the same way humans treat seasonal fashion. Here today, discarded tomorrow.
Lou places a drink in front of Evan without being asked—a dark concoction that smells potently of blood and absinthe. I grimace at the scent of it, as I always do.
Evan takes a long sip, then wipes the remnants on his upper lip away with the back of his hand. “And,” he continues, “Marcus is a human.”
I nearly choke on my water. “Human? Haden’s dating a human?”
“I know, right? We need to conduct a brain check on him.”
My mind reels. Unlike Evan, Haden has never been vocal about his disdain for human partners, consideringeveryonetemporary pleasures, expiration date or not.
But he never disagreed with Evan either.
He’d even laugh at his snide comments, like how I’d be attending Max’s funeral before I even showed a single wrinkle, never missing an opportunity to remind me how humans were fragile, fleeting things.
“How did that happen?” I ask in disbelief.
Evan shrugs, his shoulders rising and falling beneath his taupe button-up. “Beats me. The two met at the blood bank.” He pauses to drain his glass. “ Marcus works there, apparently. Processes donations, handles administrations—all that boring stuff. He said Haden tried to stretch his ration card limit, haggling over how often he could swing by. One thing led to another, and suddenly the negotiations weren’t just business anymore. Now he’s all ‘he understands me’ and ‘he sees me for who I really am’ and won’t shut up about it.”
“So that’s why he’s been disappearing every other night,” I giggle. “And there I thought he was just avoiding his landlord again. Is this Marcus here with us by any chance?”
“Yeah, that’s why I was looking for you. Kyla’s run off somewhere. Beth and Ivy have been holed up in the bathroom, probably holding a summit over lipstick. Could use some female company, if you catch my drift.” He throws me a wink, his eyes glinting mischievously as he prods me with his charismatic persistence.
Evan’s very charming, which is a quality that I admire about him.
I check the time. “I’m meeting Max anytime now. I’ll see if I can pencil you into my schedule tonight.”
“Tonight is date night?”
“Yes. Now leave.” I shoo him away, but he doesn’t budge.
Instead, he casually pulls out a cigarette and lights it between his lips. “Not until you tell me what’s really going on. There’s no way you dressed like this for a simple date.”
I give in reluctantly. “Let’s just say I’m expecting a ring tonight.”
Evan pinches the bridge of his nose, his expression morphing into something between confusion and concern. “You think he’s going to propose to you at some dive bar vampire hangout?”
I roll my eyes. “This isn’t a dive bar. It’s cozy and amiable. Besides, he’s romantic like that.” I lean closer, flicking my wrist just so, a touch of flair in the movement. “Unexpected.”
He pushes my head back with a flat hand. “Max is quite literally the opposite of unexpected. He is totally and incredibly predictable.”
“Do you have a PhD in Maxology?”
His mouth opens, then closes again, lips twitching. I already know he’s counting how many punches he can pack into a single sentence.
“If he was going to propose,” Evan says, hooking his elbows on the counter behind him, “he would’ve made reservations someplace fancy, picked you up from home in his unnecessarily expensive hovercar that costs more than most people’s apartments, and not been late. That man has a schedule for everything, including when to take a shit.”
I narrow my eyes at his crude assessment of Max, but can’t entirely dismiss it. Max does have a very meticulous nature that both frustrates and comforts me at the same time. “He can be spontaneous,” I argue, though my voice lacks conviction. “And you’re just jealous you don’t get picked up in hovercars.”
