Could have been skateboarding, could have been designer drugs. Give me something to go on, people.
“Did you hear about the Jensens? Three new puppies. Adorable.”
Good to know. But I wanted more. Where was the really juicy stuff? “Did you hear about the dead body?” I expected these people to have murder on their minds, not vintage wares and baked goods. Surely Silveropolis wasn’t already numb to all the killings.
I listened in, picking up on more and more snatches of conversation. A vampire probably coined that phrase, honestly. It’s what we do, after all, embarrassing as it is to admit. We steal bits and pieces of other people’s lives, whether it’s blood or stories or coin. It was the truth, at the end of the day. Why sugarcoat it? We were snatching words, phrases, rumors, thieves in the dark of night.
Or fine. Maybe it was a werewolf. Can’t take credit for everything.
One thing I’ve learned over time, though – and I’ve had plenty of time to think on this – is that you get better at something the longer you do it. Painfully obvious, I know, but it makes sense in almost every aspect of existence. Focus on something hard enough, do it enough times, you get better, faster, stronger, whether it’s a muscle, or some new skill. I’m not the most patient person in the world, but to a vampire, time is a flexible resource. Oddly, when you feel like giving up is also around the time you’re almost through to the other side, up to the next level.
I was glad I waited. There it was. A pattern in the susurrus of the night market, whispered phrases that kept going back and forth between lips sticky with sugar glaze and heavy with secrets. It came up too often to be coincidence. Two words, nine letters in total.
My eyes flew open, searching for Gil’s face to see his reaction. He was finished checking in, too, eyes smoldering with curiosity. His forehead was creased in confusion and suspicion, his expression very likely a mirror of my own. He mouthed the words at me, confirming that he’d picked up on the same thing.
“Blood moon.”
A blood moon, huh?
What had the locals so excited about it? I’d heard of them before, seen them, even. Just a natural, if visually dramatic phenomenon, a prettier name for a total lunar eclipse. The earth gets between the sun and the moon, like the jerk that it is, and in the process the moon appears red. Just plain science. Nothing mystical there. The three of us pressed into a huddle, Asher glancing hurriedly between us.
“The suspense is killing me,” he said, meaning every word.
“Blood moon,” I said. “I didn’t think there was one coming up.”
“And the context,” Gil said. “Makes it sound like the locals are anticipating something big.”
Asher frowned. “Superstition, maybe? A town tradition? I should look into this.”
But my ears pricked again, picking up on another, more interesting sound, a pattern of words that had the hairs at the back of my neck tingling.
“Mr. Sterling?”
It was Olivia Everett.
15
You could hear my neck crack as I whipped my head towards the sound of her voice. I was a blood hound, out for, uh, blood. There she was, across the way, a vision in a frilly blue dress that exposed only her wrists and her throat. She waved at me, smiling broadly, happy to see her vampire boyfriend, never mind that she didn’t know that I was a vampire, or her boyfriend either, for that matter.
In the corners of my peripheral vision I could see that her stall was absolutely groaning with colorful spherical shapes that could have been fruit, or decapitated heads, for all I cared. No. Tunnel vision. I sauntered across, not caring even a little that I was bumping into people. I was l
aser focused on the sight of the lovely Olivia Everett, my smile as sticky as nectar.
“Bonsoir,” I said, leaning my elbow on the edge of her stall, cocking one eyebrow.
She covered her mouth, giggling. “Oh, bonsoir, monsieur. I didn’t know you spoke French.”
I waggled my eyebrows again. “I don’t. I’m just trying to be charming.”
Olivia shook her head, the veins at her neck becoming more pronounced as the curls of her hair tumbled this way and that. “You’re such a tease, Mr. Sterling.”
“No need to be so formal, Ms. Everett.”
She giggled again, the line of her neck reddening with a faint blush. Just past her head, I noticed that something else was reddening, too. It was a man, standing with his arms folded, built like a statue and wearing a face that was even stonier. Olivia noticed, then stammered.
“Oh. This is Timothy, my assistant. He helps me out at the shop, and well, here as well, on market nights.’
Timothy grunted, the lines of his face creased with distrust. He was handsome, stout, clearly built for carrying large crates of fruit and fighting competing suitors away from his lady love, who clearly didn’t know a thing about his attraction. If she did, then poor Timothy was an even bigger idiot than I thought.