Page 27 of His to Haunt
The smile fades from his lips. “I crave blood.”
I cock my head at him, making a face.
“Halloween isn’t for a few weeks.”
“No, really, Leena.”
I search his eyes for a hint of deadpan humor but find none. Even the ever-present twinkle is gone.
“Dead serious,” he says.
“Okay. Maybe you have an iron deficiency.”
“Nope. I’ve been tested.”
“Well…there is actually a name for… Hm, what is that called?” I tap my chin, thinking.
“You tell me, doc.”
He winks at me, his hand fully palming my shoulder as I scan the catalog in my brain.
“Ah. Renfield syndrome!” I say triumphantly. “A.k.a., clinical vampirism. A rare disease.”
He caresses my shoulder, his hand under my hair. “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
He surprises me by bringing his other hand to my chin and looking into my eyes.
“Pretty sure that’s what I have, Leena.”
He leans in to kiss me, but I don’t think I’m into him enough for that just yet.
“Have you ever heard of a club called Asylum?” I ask randomly, pulling my chin from his fingertips.
He shakes his head at me.
“You know I’m just messing with you, right?” He laughs, humor returning to his eyes as we reach the gate of the manor.
“Why, because I live in a gothic funeral home?”
“Pretty much. Now I owe you a favor as an apology.”
Not hard to imagine what he has in mind.
I lean out the window and quickly enter the key code before spying eyes can process it. I’m already regretting bringing them through to the other side. Kimmie and her taste for weird things has maybe gone too far this time.
“Anything you want, Leena,” says Ritter as I sit back down. He stretches his arms over his head with a stretch, the muscles in his arms flexing. He has a black tattoo of an ouroboros snake, a dragon-like head circling around to bite its own tail with the letters O.O.S. scrolled across the top.
Silas pays the fare, and we all pile out of the taxi while he and Kimmie hold hands, smiley as can be. Meanwhile, I’m slowly warming up to Ritter.
I scan the driveway for Zand’s vehicles. I can barely see the edge of his van and am unsure if his car is here. I remember the weird comment he made about what I might bring with me over his precious boundary line. But we won’t be touring the garden tonight if I can help it.
When we get inside the house, I’m instantly embarrassed by the musky odor.
“It’s…a work in progress,” I explain, feeling suddenly guilty for bringing these guys into Rachel’s home. It doesn’t feel like my home yet. All her things and memories are here. This place is a museum.
“Wicked cool,” says Silas, pointing at the ornate, gothic chandelier above.