Chapter 2 — The Unequal Contract (2)

"You don't eat?"

"We drink—" Kael began, remembered the fridge, and stopped. "…We don't eat."

Lila looked at him—suit, cold pale skin, ice-blue eyes, a Renaissance statue that had been forcibly installed in a kitchen—and laughed out loud.

"Here." She walked him through it. "Press this. Two minutes. It'll go ding. It's a microwave. Simpler than anyone you've ever killed."

Kael watched the numbers count down with the solemnity of a man witnessing a miracle. Two minutes later, it went ding, and he stood there holding a warm meal, expression unreadable. Lila went back to her drawing, giggling, missing the way he watched her go—his eyes a shade deeper than ice.

In the first week, Lila's understanding of Kael Voss was revised three times.

Revision one: he sat in the living room during her deadlines and acted as an unofficial color consultant—centuries of artistic judgment applied to her sunset, turning it from "burnt orange" to "the gold of a fire's last hour," which her client paid five times more for. When she asked why, he said: "A partner whose work is embarrassing reflects poorly on me."

Revision two: he "patrolled" at night. Not surveillance. Like a very large, very ancient dog doing laps around his territory—unplugging her charger before it could overheat, fixing her blanket. With the delicacy of an archaeologist.

Revision three happened the first time they performed.

Aldous announced, with the face of a man delivering bad news at a funeral, that the Council had sent an inspector. Tomorrow at eight. To inspect a "couple in love" for defects.

"Master, the inspector arrives tomorrow night. You two need to rehearse tonight." Aldous pulled out his phone. "I researched human courtship postures. Popular options include—"

"Show me that and I'll drain you," Kael said coldly.

"Then rehearse yourself. You can't even hold hands without filing paperwork."

So Lila and Kael rehearsed. Hand-holding. Embrace. Whispering by the ear. Gazing deeply.

Lila, hand held in his—cold, long-fingered, bone-ivory—discovered her heartbeat was doing something illegal. She looked up into his lowered gaze: ice-blue eyes with the living room's warm light caught in them, like fire trapped under frost.

"…Your heart is very loud," Kael said. "What do humans call that?"

"None of your business." Lila's face was a masterpiece of composure. "I'm panicking. Your hand is freezing. Like you fished it out of a morgue."

Kael said, "Mm," and let go. But his fingertips dragged across her palm as he did—so light, like a feather—and every hair on the back of her neck stood up. Lila tucked that hand behind her back and repeated a mantra in her head: He's the client. The client. The client.

The inspector arrived at eight the next evening: a very old vampire named Black in a three-piece suit, who smiled at Lila with all the warmth of a coroner. "Lord Voss has excellent taste. Miss is… very atmospheric."

"Atmospheric" meant "disgustingly human."

Lila understood. She smiled and leaned into Kael's arm. "Honey, this gentleman says I'm atmospheric. Do you think he means I cook well?"

Kael looked down at her. His eyes were deep, deep blue—deep enough to swallow her. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, gentle as a rehearsed thousand times. "Mm. She cooks. A little spicy."

Black's gaze flicked between them, then dropped: "Lord Voss, the Council has heard—rumor—that your engagement to Lady Vivienne overlaps somewhat with this… human."

Lila's heart dropped. Here it was.

Kael's expression didn't change, but his voice dropped three degrees: "Mr. Black. I recall that vampire etiquette dictates that which is not asked is not answered."

The air froze. Black laughed dryly and started to smooth it over—when Lila yawned, dramatic and theatrical, and melted into Kael's side. "Honeyyy. I'm exhausted. If your friend doesn't have anything important, can we go to bed? I've got a deadline tomorrow."

As she said it, her fingertips found his palm and tapped three times, lightly.

Kael looked down. Three taps—their private signal from rehearsal: unsafe. Get rid of him.

He closed his hand over hers. "Mm. Black. It's late. Aldous, show the inspector out."

When the door closed, Lila peeled out of his arms and exhaled. "Did he buy it?"

"Seventy percent." Kael watched her with something new, something almost warm. "The other thirty is the Council's standard paranoia. It'll hold." A pause. "That 'yawn and retreat' move. Where did you learn that?"

"My landlord." Lila yawned for real. "Parker says any conversation you can't win, exit with dignity and a fake yawn."

Kael: "……"

That night, Lila closed her door, slid down it, and pressed her face into her knees. Her heart was still too loud. She told herself it was professionalism. Five million dollars of professionalism.

Then she saw it.

A piece of paper under her desk. Half a page, edges burned, a survivor of a shredded document. She picked it up. In the moonlight, she read:

"…pure blood… can suppress… curse backlash… subject must be… living… continuous supply…"

Lila stared at the words, her fingers gone white.

She thought of everything he'd said: "Your blood is clean. Cleaner than it has any right to be." "Your blood is special. More special than I thought." And tonight, in the dark, when he'd leaned close to her neck—that flash of greed, barely restrained.

Slowly, she folded the paper and put it in her pocket. Outside, Manhattan's night was thick as ink. She stood at the window for a long time, and then she said, very quietly:

"Kael Voss. Did you hire a partner—or did you find a medicine cabinet?"