Born in Blood Collection Volume 1 - Cora Reilly Page 0,241

who knew where I’d be the day after that? This was a new beginning with endless options.

* * *

I stared up at the white ceiling of my hostel room. I’d been living in twenty different places in the last three months, never staying anywhere for more than a week at a time. Sometimes when I woke in the morning I wasn’t sure where I was, sometimes I even thought I was back in Chicago, and sometimes I found myself longing for it. Not for my father and the rules of our world, but for Fabi and Lily and Aria, and sometimes even for Mother.

I sat up, groaning, and went through my usual morning habit of reminding myself of my current pseudonym and everything that encompassed her before I got out of bed. It was almost noon. I still hadn’t figured out any kind of routine. Most days I spent exploring the city where I stayed while always checking my surroundings. This fear of being followed, of being hunted, would that ever stop? I doubted it. Whenever I saw men in dark suites, panic filled me. I’d lost count of the times I’d imagined I’d seen Matteo from the corner of my eyes.

I hadn’t made any real friends yet, which wasn’t all that surprising; I never stayed anywhere long enough to build a connection. Which was better anyway. I couldn’t risk getting close to anyone yet, maybe never. That didn’t mean I was alone. I always stayed in youth hostels wherever I went, and met people from all over the world. Of course I couldn’t tell them anything about me, not even my name. Currently I was calling myself Liz, short for Elizabeth, and was spending my year before college abroad road-tripping through Europe. That was pretty much my cover story wherever I went, only my name changed.

Lying to everyone 24/7 made any kind of friendship hard. I opened my laptop and checked my blog, which I still updated almost every day, even though I hadn’t gotten a comment from Aria in weeks. In thirty-one days to be exact. My eyes darted to my cell phone on the nightstand. As so often recently I felt the almost irresistible urge to call her and find out what was keeping her from visiting my blog. I had a feeling it was for my safety. In her last comment she’d warned me “not to waste time in one spot because there was too much to explore in Europe.” I’d taken that as a hint that Matteo might be after me and had jumped from city to city in the last few weeks, never staying anywhere more than one or two days, but I was growing tired of running constantly. I’d lost weight, and most of my clothes hung off me like they belonged to someone else. I wanted to belong again, to find a place to call mine.

I got dressed and stuffed my clothes into my backpack. I’d gotten rid of my suitcase four weeks into my journey. It wasn’t practical lugging a heavy suitcase wherever I went. I didn’t need most of my old belongings anyway. When would I ever wear evening dresses and high-heeled Louboutins again? That life was over. I stared down at my shabby backpack, at my cheap sneakers and jeans, and for a moment longing for something I’d thought I’d never miss came up in me. When I’d decided to run away from the mob, I’d known I’d miss my siblings horribly, and so far not a single day had gone by that I hadn’t considered returning to Chicago just to see them again, to talk to Aria again, to have a steady home again, but so far I’d managed not to miss the luxuries my former life had afforded me, at least not this insistently. So why was I suddenly missing the things I’d despised?

Everything I’d ever owned had been paid for with blood money, and even my flight up till this point had been financed that way. But I was scarily low on cash and would have to find a job in the next place I stayed, though that would mean staying longer than just a couple of days unless I tried my hand at pickpocketing, which wouldn’t really be a big improvement over mob money, except that nobody got killed for it.

I swung my backpack over my shoulder and exited my small room. Fifteen minutes later, I’d checked out and left my alter ego “Liz, short