A Violet Fire (Vampires in Avignon #1) - Kelsey Quick Page 0,57

I do, too. The wall is gone, so she shouldn’t see anything, but I’m sure she’s curious as to the nature of my scent. I prepare for her to question it, but she asks something different.

“Why didn’t you wait for me at the top of the stairwell?”

“I…” I don’t have a decent answer. Why didn’t I wait longer? I could have, but I didn’t. “I was dizzy and not making very good decisions.”

“Ah. Pretty normal, for you new ones. Why so frightened? Did you get lost?”

I play off her assumptions. “Yes. I-I thought we turned right when coming back. Was it actually left?”

I’m safe. Downplaying human intelligence is always easy with vampires.

“Yes, always left, my dear. Come, come.” She stretches out an arm that is covered by a creamy, lavender-lace shawl. I oblige and step in line behind her, while the power of everything I just saw threatens to knock me down to my knees. Everything felt so real. The smell of old paper and recently blown-out candles, the draft of wind tasting of bitter winter and impending spring. I was in Avignon again. I could kick myself for not trying to excavate the room, the cathedral. For not trying to grab my mother’s thin shoulders and shake her until she realized I was there. Were her shoulders always so thin? I think I am even taller than her now.

Experiencing a life I long thought dead is enough to spiral me into a depression I haven’t felt since the beginning. Wounds I thought that had healed years ago were barely stitched together by time. That violet wall, whatever it actually is, must be trying to tell me something. Thinking that lofty thought leads me to consider another possibility:

I could very well be crazy.

✽✽✽

The artificial blood, made from the compounds of animal blood and potent chemicals, nearly makes me vomit as I stir the synthetic before preparing it for packaging. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and glance around the room for a change of scenery. It’s been three weeks since I’ve arrived, and I haven’t found it in me to enjoy any part of it. Friends, a constant food source by way of work, metaphorical chains in the form of little, idle rules and restrictions... it’s no different from Nightingale, except that nearly every other day one of the most prestigious vampires in all of Cain summons me to take my blood. Yes, within two days I shot to the top of Zein’s preferred menu of sorts. Which, if it were anyone other than me, that detail would mean instant popularity. But, because it’s me, it means the opposite. Everyone tries to avoid me, talking about me behind their outstretched palms—aside from the usual crew of Savvy, Katarii, Emi, and Glera.

I have to give it to him, at least Zein’s nice enough to use the kortrastet in his feedings instead of his fangs. Older supply units who have attended gatherings with him among other vampire officials recount their slaves as scarred head to foot in puncture wounds. If there’s anything to be thankful for, it would be a lack of that.

Aside from the obvious, the summonings haven’t been that bad. Zein allows me to chit-chat with and goad him, probably recognizing it’s something I need to get through the five minutes in his presence without going insane—although I don’t know why he continues to put up with it. If I were a narcissistic, selfish monster I would probably pay someone to kill me in the funniest way possible and then eat my remains. Zein as company isn’t horrible, but it’s still forced and I can’t stand that. On top of it all, the only lead I have for a potential escape is throwing myself in a laundry chute and hoping for the best. Basically, I have nothing and I am so very close to slamming my head in a door.

In a matter of seconds, the distinct and irritating beeeeeep of a tag drains the monotony of the room. My eyes find its owner almost instantly.

Anaya.

The other supply units take notice of her, too, before promptly putting their heads back down, likely pretending not to care. Anaya stands, throwing her nose in the air and looking to me. I meet her salty expression with one of my own. Even if I don’t care to play her games, I refuse to give her the satisfaction of thinking she’s winning. I don’t know, maybe I do care. The ruby red smirk upon