Page 91 of The Lunatics

“How did she knowwhat, Michael?”

He stared at me. “My tattoo is a blocking spell. I’m what you call a mystic.”

I pushed his hands off me and scuttled away, pissed. “And you didn’t think to tell me that?”

“I didn’t see a reason to yet.”

“Yet? When were you planning on it? When we got back to the city and I suddenly started shooting sparks out of my fingertips in a crowded room?”

“The tattoo negates my magic.”

“It doesn’t prevent it from being shared over the bond like everything else.”

“I was unaware of that,” he said. “Layla, before last night, we didn’t know we shared anything over the bond.”

“But you’ve known since then and you didn’t say anything.”

“I meant to on the ride home. I’ve had”—he reached forward and latched onto a strand of my hair, twirling it between his fingers—“other things on my mind.”

I pushed his hand away, and for once, touching him wasn’t distracting. “You need to tattoo me when we get back.”

He nodded. “I will.”

“What else are you hiding from me?”

In response, he clamped down on the bond harder than he had in days.

“At least you’re not lying about hiding things.” I sighed. “She knows what you’re cooking up in your labs. She said to stop it. Before she does.”

Not even his hold on the bond could contain his mounting fear. It lashed out with icy tendrils and wrapped around me, dragging me into his terror.

“What is it? Why are you so afraid, Michael?”

He shook his head. Violently. “The less you know about that, the safer you are.” Panic threatened. He felt like the life of his mate was at risk. “What else did she say?”

“Nothing. That was it.”

“You’re sure?”

I thought back, trying to get my vague sense of our conversation to coalesce into something more concrete. My head swam for a minute, and my memories remained hazy and out of reach. What the hell was that about?

“I’m pretty sure,” I told him.

“We need to leave. Now. I have to get to Boston.”

His panic infected me, and I didn’t argue. We quickly packed our things, said a hasty goodbye to my confused parents, and got the hell out of there.

The trip back was even worse than the one up. Michael drove, lost to thoughts that churned like a riptide. I tried to get him to talk to me, but he refused, the protectiveness of the bond turning him into a mute.

We hit traffic heading into the city and arrived later than planned. Michael changed into a suit and left for Kolbeck headquarters almost immediately, promising that he’d tattoo me the moment he got home.

A few hours later, his heavily pregnant sister showed up at our door, and my life went to absolute hell.

Here’s the thing about memories. They’re important. You need them. They form the core of what makes youyou. Your thoughts and beliefs are born from them. Your actions are guided by their steady hand.

For instance, if mine hadn’t been stolen away by an ancient vampire, I never would have left the apartment with Amy. I would have dragged her inside and deadbolted the door. Maybe even pushed a bureau or two up against it for good measure.

And I sure as shit wouldn’t have trusted that witch a few hours later.

TO BE CONTINUED…