Bad Blood Books 1-3

BAD BLOOD

BOOKS I-III

by ALINA POPESCU

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

Bad Blood

Books 1-3

Copyright © 2014 Alina Popescu

All rights reserved.

Character design by M.P. Revita

Cover design by 8th floor studio

Table of Contents

BAD BLOOD

Book 1 - The Edge of Hope

Acknowledgments*

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Book 2 - The Breaking of Bonds

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Book 3 - The Fall of Darkness

PART I - EXORCISM

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

PART II – UNDER SIEGE

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

PART III – FACING DARKNESS

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Epilogue

Meet Alina Popescu

by ALINA POPESCU

BAD BLOOD I

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. In other words, if you think this is about you, it probably isn’t! But, as an internet meme says, if the shoe fits, then lace it up and wear it proudly!

No vampires, humans, animals, or other living things have been hurt in the process of writing this novel. My friends, my family, and my sanity might have suffered, along with my dog, but he’s the one who’ll forgive me the fastest.

Warning! This is an urban fantasy novel featuring vampires. Some blood sucking, violence, swearing, and sexual interactions occur that make it suitable mostly for adults. Bad Blood is also a serial, which means the books in this series follow a connecting story arc. If you dislike any of those things, maybe this isn’t the book for you.

The Edge of Hope

Bad Blood, Book I

Second Edition

Copyright © 2014 Alina Popescu

All rights reserved.

Character design by M.P. Revita

Cover design by 8th floor studio

To those who’ve loved and lost, then found the strength to go all in again.

Acknowledgments*

*long list of thanks; basically, your run-of-the-mill, very long Oscar acceptance speech.

Before we start, I feel I need to tell you all I understand if you fall asleep during this bit. There is a long, long, extremely long list of people I have to thank for making this book possible. It’s like the credits at the end of the movies, but we authors insist on shoving this before the actual book. No, really, it’s a mile long! I’ll try to group them where I can, in a most surely failed attempt not to bore you. I have to start with the boy I fell madly in love with and who inspired my first solo novel. I was ten, he was older and cool… you know the drill! A big shout-out goes to my grade school geography teacher who sometimes read my scribblings. Yes, during class. I remember I was working on the story of a female bull fighter, but I gave up. Tons of hugs and kisses to my high school classmates and Romanian Lit teacher who read and critiqued all the stories I played with.

Of course, I have to thank my family for showing me how to love books and for giving in to my pressure and teaching me how to read when I was five, and for supporting all my dreams, no matter how ludicrous they might have sounded.

Don’t worry, we’re now approaching the Bad Blood trilogy and The Edge of Hope part of the thanks. Some people have read this in the very early stages, back when Alexa’s story was fundamentally different. They stuck with me through quite a ride and kept reading and offering feedback, all sprinkled with a healthy dose of love and encouragement. In no particular order: Loredana, Alina, Alina (yes, two other Alinas. What can I say? Popular name for my generation), Tina, Mig, Adi, Alexandra, Joanna, Emma, and a ton more friends that have quietly nodded while I was ranting on about my stories. I love you all.

In July 2013, I decided it was time to take my writing seriously and I launched my author page. From that point on, I was taken in without question, protected, inspired, encouraged, and praised by a warm and lively community of authors, readers, editors, and book lovers (most of whom also enabled my caffeine addiction). They made me feel at home and never ceased to amaze me. I hope I don’t forget anyone, but please know that even if I do, it’s just because I am so freaking nervous I am bouncing off the walls: Kerry, Kindle, Susan, Geoff, Algie, Lachi, Laz, Jaye, Jacque, Carol, John, Ash, Shanella, Janice, Matt, Taz, Jo, Eloreen, the entire MM Book Rec group and the Book Chat Group, absolutely everyone in my street team. I give all of you a big, fat, juicy thank-you from the bottom of my heart! Seriously, I feel like I should add everyone but, trust me, there would be a few hundred names in here! Just so you know, if we’ve ever discussed writing or books, I appreciate you and I thank you.

I also have to thank the powers that be that gave me coffee, books, chocolate, the internet, gadgets, pretty pens and beautiful notebooks, sunshine, music, dancing, and everything that ever inspired me to write.

If you’re reading this book, I love you forever. Yup, every single one of you!

Finally, I have to thank my dog, Ares, lovingly referred to as The Dog from Hell, for cheering me up every time I needed him to.

That’s it. I’m done for now. You’ve survived!

The road to hell is paved with bad relationships.

It felt like liquid fire… a searing substance filling my mouth, eyes, and nostrils, making it impossible to breathe. As it dispersed through my body, it melted every cell of what used to be me, flooding my brain, and torching my conscience as I was floating through this life-ending sea. This sensation must be what hell really is—knowing there’s no way you can live through the torture yet realizing it will never end; perpetual deep-frying into a liquid tunnel as you slip away to nowhere. How did I end up here? How the hell did I get caught up in all of this? What good or bad intentions of mine or others led to this drastic resolution? Bad relationships, trusting who I wasn’t supposed to, investing too much of myself in helping others, running around like crazy trying to please everyone but myself… I should have spent all that time and energy on myself. Who knows? If I had, I might have been swimming in an actual sea, one that was cool and refreshing and not so keen on melting me away.

Chapter I

I STARED AT THE INTERVIEW questions, wondering why they baffled me. I knew them by heart, but I kept looking, as if I would eventually see beyond the words on my computer screen and understand how and why they had been written and sent to me. When my vision would get too blurry, I’d hit Alt + Tab on the keyboard and switch to the enticing and surprisingly high-quality photo that accompanied the online profile of the man who had sent them.

Whenever I got an idea I considered brilliant, I’d somehow convince myself it was just as marvelous to the rest of the world. That was why I had talked myself into believing not only that I’d make it big as a writer, but that I was a gifted marketer, so I’d started promoting my book long before I’d gone past drafting the first page. Getting people acquainted with the characters and promoting the story idea right from the start meant I’d have plenty of time to build tension. Then everyone would be dying to buy the book by the time it was finally published.

It wasn’t an entirely innovative idea, though. I wasn’t the first author to start making waves about a book before its release, but most would have at least half of it written before the full-on PR campaign. Even HBO used role-playing Twitter users to help promote True Blood!

I was writing a vampire story and those types of characters always had a strong appeal. I was also one of the genre’s raging fangirls, but I felt I needed to put my vampire version on paper. So why not create a Twitter account and Facebook page for the main character? Why not write a blog about her, the novel, how I experienced the whole writing process, and so on? You could have asked anyone, they would have agreed it was a brilliant idea.

I had gotten quite a few followers on Facebook and Twitter, and the traffic stats of the blog (which I’d obsessively check throughout the day) were getting better and better. After a long struggle, I had the plot, the main characters’ bios, and something that could pass as an outline, but I had only written ten pages and it was going at a never-before-seen slow pace. A snail would crawl faster than I’d type an opening for, well, any paragraph in any chapter. My creativity would normally flourish when I was sad and depressed, but that happened because I almost always still liked myself or still thought I had any brains. That wasn’t exactly how I was feeling when I’d started working on this book, however.

But these interview questions were seriously digging for way too much information. What had gotten me staring at a stupid email for over an hour, though, was an eerie feeling that the person who had written it had looked deep within my literary brain, getting a first-hand tour of everything even remotely related to my book. As if that alone wasn’t enough to get me worried, the journalist, Anthony, wanted us to meet in person. He had sent me the questions so I could have time to prepare, but he wanted to see me and record the interview one evening. He’d said he could fly to Bucharest in a couple of weeks.

This was not your average friendly blog. This was All Things Vampire, an online magazine dedicated to everything about the fangers: books, movies, actors and actresses in said movies, games, art, comic strips… anything under the sun even remotely related to vampires, they covered it. Sure, they were known for paying attention to indie authors, but I wasn’t comfortable calling myself a writer and I was far from becoming an author. I was still struggling to get past the first few chapters. So why would a magazine with hundreds of thousands of monthly readers be interested enough to send a reporter to interview little old me?

After another session of ogling over the photo, and a few deep sighs yanked out of me by his onyx eyes, raven-black hair, and full lips, I was still wondering why on earth they would care? I kept trying to find clues of a hoax. Anthony had the sort of smile that said I know every woman and gay man wants me. I’m even making straight ones fall in love with me, along with the dose of smugness and cruelty such knowledge comes with. He wore a leather jacket, tight shirt, and even tighter jeans in the photo, as if the magazine wanted groupies and not just readers.

It eventually registered that the issue was easier to deal with than I’d thought because I wasn’t even in Bucharest. On the first of February, I had landed in Malta and made my way to Silema. I had booked a month-long stay at a small beach hotel. As it was the off-season, I got a room with an ocean view for a smidgen more than my rent in Bucharest. The official reason for my stay was writing my novel, but I was also doing freelance work for an old client to support myself instead of depleting my savings. Back in Bucharest, I was a freelance web developer working with a few designers to build the apps and websites they had created, but I had stopped doing most of that. The only client I was still helping needed something extremely basic that required 5% of my skills, at best, so my brain was free to dream up the plot. My initial one-month stay got extended so I kept busy with the client project and did some writing. My startling progress of five pages a month wasn’t bad. It was terrible.

I eventually emailed Anthony and told him that, sadly, I wasn’t in Bucharest for the time being, nor did I know when I’d return. I then switched off my email client and returned to turning more PDF pages into HTML code. Later that night, when I checked my email again and deleted a whole bunch of spam messages, I also read the reply from Anthony.

Valletta is actually closer so I could get there soon. Would ten days from now be a good time for you?

I stared at the email, jaw slack, eyes wide, and just didn’t get it. I was hardly the big name that would prompt a reporter to book a flight and a hotel room to come see me. The wheels started turning and my very fishy alarm went ballistic. What magazine would have the travel budget to have him chase a writer wannabe around the world?

In the end, the photo helped me decide. He was too hot for anything else to matter. I wrote back and agreed to the interview, then re-immersed myself into my work. I had this feeling he wouldn’t reply that night because it just seemed like the sort of thing a man like that would do. I was wrong, though. Anthony let me know he’d have his assistant make the arrangements and asked which hotel I was staying in so that he could book his room at one close by. He sent me all his contact details, including his cell phone number, and promised to let me know exactly when he’d arrive and where he’d stay.

After spending a large part of the night going over the hotel’s security and trying to use all my TV and movie knowledge to figure out what could happen if I did say where I was staying, I realized if Anthony really was on a killing spree, not saying where I was staying would just slow him down, not stop him. So I sent him the hotel name and my own cell number, then waited for the details he’d promised.

The big Anthony interview, as my mind chose to think of it, completely changed my routine. I actually left the hotel a few times within those ten days for more than just an evening walk or my morning exercise. I went shopping, got my hair done, and went to a small beach-side café, where I got that month’s five pages written. I also made time to look over everything I’d made public on the website and Facebook to see what everyone knew about it and try to figure out why Anthony’s questions felt so weird. Most of the information he’d hinted at was there, but some details had never been disclosed. How did he know about them? I told myself it was nothing more than guesswork on his part but, on some level, that didn’t feel like a good enough explanation because his guesswork was spot on.

Chapter II

WHEN THE DAY I’d meet Anthony finally arrived, I was so wired, I’d make an addict going through withdrawal seem mellow. I had been pacing my hotel room since 5 am. I tried having breakfast at some point, but my stomach couldn’t take more than a few cups of coffee. I changed outfits a few times and had completely redone my makeup twice already. It was barely 10 am and the meeting was not till 11. Anthony wanted to meet me and get to know me first, leaving the actual interview for Sunday. He’d suggested a walk on the beach and light conversation over some cold drinks. It was March but, apparently, the 24-degree peak temperatures of Malta were enough for cold drinks. I finally decided on black fitted jeans. They made me look good enough. I added a bright red, somewhat revealing top just because I was still quite proud of my breasts (having men drool and women ask if they were real kind of helped), and a black jacket. It clearly wasn’t hot enough for me to switch to iced drinks.

I went downstairs two minutes before the meeting time. I was never late if I was able to help it, but this time I had to make an effort not to be too early. I was heading for the exit when I heard my name called with that strange sound foreigners give to my Romanian name.

Alexa, over here.

I turned and saw Anthony in one of the armchairs in the lobby. He was wearing faded jeans and a white button-down shirt, and he had that very same smile I had noticed in his photo. The only difference was that he looked so much better in real life. I felt like jumping around him like any self-respecting groupie would do right after asking for a rock star’s autograph. Instead, I went for a neutral smile. Well, I hoped it was neutral.

Hello, Anthony. Nice to meet you, I said, holding out my hand.

Likewise, he said. Or, at least, I thought that was what he’d said. His touch was electrifying, melting all my coolness. But I was good with appearances when I had to and I could have sworn he never even noticed.

Should we go, or do you want to get a cup of coffee first? I asked when I was sure my voice wouldn’t betray me.

Oh, I’d like to go for our walk, if you don’t mind. It’s lovely outside.

So that was what living in London did to people? Pushed them to treasure absolutely every minute of sunshine they could get and wear short-sleeved, almost see-through shirts in 15 degrees Celsius weather? I had been under the impression global warming had changed that somewhat. But I couldn’t really complain. I could freely indulge in admiring every single muscle adorning his upper body, so I decided being thankful was the right approach.

When did you start writing? he asked when we got down to the beach, walking slowly near the waves.

A long time ago. I’ve been writing stories and essays most of my life.

But you’re in a different line of work, isn’t that right? he cocked his head and bore his intense black eyes into mine.

That’s right. I take the same pleasure in coding that I take in writing. Different types of music, same keyboard.

He looked at me and smiled warmly, but it was accompanied by a condescending huff. I instantly felt like a child being questioned by an older, wiser member of the village, who held the true meaning of life and was amused by the ramblings of the youngling.

I looked at the sea, focusing on the steady move of the waves. What’s so amusing?

Oh, I just can’t understand what code and music have in common. Writing…that I can understand. But programming? Seems to me you’re just trying to make your job a little more interesting than it is, he said, the same annoying smile on his face.

Why had I turned to him, again? I was better off staring at the waves. He was getting on my nerves, and fast. That’s just because you haven’t seen me write code. My ex used to get a kick out of seeing me type my code or write my stories, I blurted out, reminiscing on the past. He said it looked just like playing the piano.

Then he knows nothing of playing the piano, Anthony said, matter-of-factly.

I thought he looked very pleased with his wits and superiority. Naturally, it was time to cut him down. You are probably right. What would a musician know about playing the piano? Or music, in general?

I turned my back on him, wondering if I was better off cutting our time together short. I’d just about had it with his smugness.

I have offended you.

Brilliant deduction. Anthony should thank the gods he never chose investigative journalism. Wrong. You’ve stepped on my toes by forcing me to defend my ex. These days, I have a hard time doing that, even when he’s right.

Sorry, that was not my intention, he said, looking at his shoes and shaking his head.

No, just the consequence of your need to act all superior and pretend you’re all-knowing. Unfortunately, you are not the only person on earth who thinks the world of themselves.

"Usually, I am right. That can be my biggest weakness at times," he replied, smiling shyly. I would have never taken him for someone capable of shyness.

That’s all right. It is part of my heritage, as well. I was born being right. Or a smartass, depends on how you look at it.

Apparently, you’re better at dealing with it than I am.

I couldn’t help but laugh. The guy I thought had a direct line to how my brain worked based on some lucky deductions about my book had no clue about me.

The difference between you and me is that I clearly see all my flaws and everything that’s less than perfect about me.

And is that why you are not so taken with yourself? His smile had faded and his lips were pressed in a thin line.

"On the contrary. That is why I am so taken with myself. See, unlike you, I see it very clearly, and I still believe I am as good as it gets. I am God’s gift to men, the perfect friend, and so on. My list of superpowers is very long."

His eyes roamed up and down my body, as if trying to assess me, but in a way that was void of anything I’d expect from a red-blooded male checking me out.

Very bold words for someone who likes herself so little.

I couldn’t say what hit closer to home, the harshness of his words, spoken with no emotion, or the fact that it was all true. I didn’t like myself at all these days, but no one could ever say I couldn’t twist and turn words in my favor!

I might currently dislike myself a little. But based on what I have told you, you should have guessed I believe I am the only one who really knows the limits of my… awesomeness.

Right. I was so mistaken to think you were modest, he said, laughing whole-heartedly. It was a deep, masculine laugh that melted my bones.

You were, I agreed, smiling. But my knowing how great I am is of no importance. I have learned my cruel lesson by now.

And what lesson might that be?

That what you really are and what people choose to see are two very, very different things.

Hoping I’d puzzled Anthony, maybe even impressed him, I left him standing there and walked away.

I don’t see how anyone could fail to see everything that you are, Anthony said when he caught up with me. I might be wrapped up in my own air of superiority, but I would never consider you anything short of amazing.

His flattery sounded almost believable. That’s what they all say…right before they get close enough and the first wave of imperfection changes their mind.

Quietly, we made our way to a small café near my hotel. It was somewhat busy, as it was a Saturday, but not crowded enough to prevent us from finding a private and cozy spot. He ordered some mint lemonade, I asked for a hot cup of coffee.

So what are you really doing here? Anthony asked after the waitress brought us our drinks. Taking the time to write your novel?

That’s what I’m going with. I smiled, hoping he would leave it at that.

What do you mean by that?

Off the record?

Must I? He scowled, and somewhat he managed to make that look cute.

You must.

He really didn’t have to. He looked at me so intensely and with such a genuine smile that I probably would have volunteered more than I should have. Luckily for me, he didn’t try to push.

So be it, then. Off the record.

The man I thought was the love of my life cheated on me, then when I was more than ready to forgive him, he rejected me. My closest friend betrayed me, as she turned out to be the person he cheated with. I was sad, broken, and distracted so business got tough to handle. I focused on taking it one day at a time until business picked up again. That took a few months and long days of hard work to make up for the times I just didn’t feel like getting out of my bed.

I stopped to sip some of my coffee and take a few deep breaths to help calm me down a bit. When the business aspect was stable, I did what any strong, independent woman in my situation would do.

And what was that? he pressed, with a quirky smile.

Use the decision to turn a dream into reality as a perfectly good excuse to run away from it all, of course.

I probably shouldn’t have said that right when he was sipping from his glass of lemonade. He choked on it, spilling some on his lovely white shirt. When he stopped coughing, he started laughing so hard the entire café turned to look at us. I could feel the huge grin on my face. Being honest felt so liberating.

Oh, god. I know a horde of women who would have you stoned for saying that about strong, independent women.

True. I shrugged and hid my smile behind my coffee cup. It sounds a bit off. But, if you stop to think about it, when you’re strong and independent, you can afford to run away to lick your wounds and grant yourself time to heal. It sure beats allowing yourself to be bound down by some crazy standards…stay home, work like crazy, put yourself out there to date, and pay a shrink to help heal your mind and soul.

That’s an interesting theory. His features morphed quickly, losing their humor and turning serious. And how are you doing now? Are your wounds starting to heal?

Oh, I don’t know exactly how I’m doing. I am definitely better. I’m moving from surviving to living. I want to enjoy life again, not just take it one painful day at a time. Some wounds take longer to heal though. And the scars never really go away, they just fade.

I could feel my mood going sour and the tears lurking, waiting for the right moment to reveal my weakness to the world. That was best kept private so I changed the subject. I asked about his work, the magazine, where he’d been recently, and I slowly got us sharing travel tales from across the world. At about 3 pm, we realized we were starving and found our way to a small restaurant in the hotel.

Anthony seemed to have the shock of his life when I ordered, his eyes nearly popping out. He was still speechless long after I’d made my choice of food. The waitress had to ask him about his order a few times in her desperate attempt to get his attention. I had just ordered steak and French fries, a side salad and, of course, dessert. So unladylike!

What? I eventually asked, annoyed by his horrified look.

Sorry. I am used to girls that only go for the side salad and a half-portion of the leanest meat they can find…boiled, if possible.

Oh, well, I’ll work out extra hard over the next few days. Besides, bread is my kryptonite and I did not order that. I shrugged and dug into the side salad. Besides, I read somewhere that if you work out, you can eat whatever you want.

And where exactly did you read this gem?

The Millennium Trilogy. Stieg Larsson sounded like the smartest man in the world at that point. Of course, I wanted it to be true.

He didn’t seem to be buying it, judging by his careful analysis of how much of my food I really ate, but I didn’t care much.

I’ve had my weight issues. I tend to gain weight when I’m unhappy and depressed. I finally got over them by paying more attention to what I eat and working out a lot. That also proved very useful in burning rage, disappointment, and rejection.

So are you a fitness fanatic like that policewoman in the book? Anthony asked in between bites of his own steak.

So he had read it! Yes, I was impressed. He went out of the fantasy world or vampires once in a while. Not really. I lack the discipline, I think.

I somehow doubt that, he said, smiling warmly.

You shouldn’t. I do lack discipline in just about anything. I am extremely lazy and count too much on my ability to do a lot of things at the very last minute.

It takes discipline to think of a novel idea and then put it in writing. It takes a lot of determination to start it and a lot more effort to keep going until you see it through.

Those words rang true. I suddenly felt ashamed of my five-page-per-month progress. But at least the storyline was no longer fuzzy, and I had been working full-time during the past two months. Either way, the conversation was again getting dangerously focused on me and I needed to distract him. However, it was more like he was distracting me with his good looks and apparent awe. We stuck to small talk for the rest of the meal and parted for the afternoon, but not before he managed to yank a promise out of me: I would introduce him to Valletta’s nightlife later that evening.

Chapter III

LOCKED IN MY HOTEL room later that afternoon, I realized what a crazy promise I’d made while fervently googling Valletta nightspots. In the nearly two months I’d spent there, I’d never been to a club, concert, or bar. Long walks, late night drinks at the hotel bar while fending off all male interaction had been the extent of my after-dark adventures.

After a few unconvincing articles on Valletta nightly fun and games that were older than I cared to admit, I decided the waterfront would be the best place to go. We could take the ferry to Valletta, which was the fastest way. Unfortunately, it sometimes just didn’t make the trip across. Those long five minutes of sailing were too much to ask for at times; apparently, the sea was often too restless for the ferry. Worst case, I could rely on the local buses and taxis, so we had options.

I had read that smart casual would usually do the trick, so I chose a simple but sexy black dress, dug my expensive and painfully gorgeous high-heeled red shoes out of my luggage, then grabbed a red purse, a red necklace, and a matching dark jacket. Black and red were my favorite evening wear colors, although I felt a bit unusual sticking to the same color scheme for our second meeting. I ditched the necklace and went for a brightly-colored silk scarf instead.

The makeup took far less time than earlier in the morning, but that turned out not to be the best thing, as I was ready a good half-hour before Anthony was supposed to arrive. I powered up my laptop with the intent to work, but the lonely Word document saved on my desktop, my often-ignored novel, drew my attention instead. I felt like writing. I opened it, brushing off the cyber-dust, and kept typing until I my phone rang. The shrill sound scared me half to death, as I’d never heard it before. No one used my in-room phone to call me. I answered it, wondering who the hell used landlines anymore. It was Anthony calling from the lobby. I was ten minutes late. How had that happened?

I ran out of the room and had to come back for my purse. As the elevator was taking too long, I took the stairs. I hated being late and the disadvantage that came with it with a fiery passion.

Anthony was waiting on the same armchair he had been sitting in earlier that day. He smiled broadly, seeming all too aware of the upper hand I’d given him. I was late and I was supposed to apologize. I figured it was as good a time as any to pull the scatterbrain artist card. I’m so sorry, Anthony. I felt like writing and never noticed how late it was.

That’s perfectly fine. Don’t worry. The glitter in his eyes told a very different story, but I chose to take his words at face value. I can certainly understand what being so caught up in your thoughts feels like. It’s happened to me on a few occasions.

I smiled, waiting for the catch.

Anyway, you’ll make it up to me with a drink. Let’s go, the car is waiting.

Ah, there it was. Although a drink was a small price to pay, he’d claimed his compensation. Did you call a cab?

Oh, heavens, no! I hired a car and driver for the night. I thought having someone waiting around for us would be far more comfortable.

If you tell me the magazine pays for this, I will apply for a job tomorrow, I said, and was truly considering my future career path.

They don’t, but I travel so much and work such crazy hours, I lack the time to spend what I make so I can go crazy every once in a while. Especially in new cities where I am not familiar with cab services and their schedules.

I frowned and nodded slowly. If that was supposed to make me forget about applying for a job there, you’ve failed.

I’m hardly trying. He chuckled and put his hand around my shoulders, ushering me to the car, a big black one that reminded me of New York. Huge cars, bright lights, people on the streets of Manhattan at any hour, day or night.

He opened the door for me and then went around to get in. So, where to? he asked, after shutting his door.

I shrugged and tried for an innocent smile. The Valletta Waterfront?

Sorry, is that a question? he asked with a playful smile.

More of a gamble, really, I mumbled.

Oh, my god! Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls who never go out.

I wasn’t sure if he was really curious or just mocking me and my reply came out a bit harsher than needed. Oh, excuse me for not knowing all the Valletta nightspots by now! I imagine you were not paying attention earlier. I did not party my way out of my issues, you know. I softened it with a smile, or at least tried to.

Well, then, it will be a shared first-time experience.

The car ride to the Waterfront was quiet and not terribly long. It gave me plenty of time to think. I couldn’t figure out why I got so defensive around Anthony. Maybe it was his dashing look for the evening. He wore a slim-fit black jacket, light blue dress shirt, slacks that seemed cut especially to complement him, an intriguing cologne, and the self-confident I can have any woman smile. Or maybe it was the dedication he showed to spending his entire trip to Valletta with me. I was his story, true, but it felt like a little too much.

Maybe I was a little paranoid and my past experiences with lying, cheating, and rejection made me doubt anyone showing any interest in me. I just had to look for ulterior motives and schemes. But what could Anthony have to gain from all this? A juicy story? That meant more attention for my novel if and when it was finally published.

I decided to just go with it, wherever it would take me. It was high time I allowed myself to enjoy something without overthinking it to death. I turned to Anthony and was taken aback by how intent his eyes were as he examined me closely. You look absolutely stunning, he said after several beats of charged silence.

Thank you. You look quite handsome yourself. God, please don’t fucking blush right now, Alexa! I decided looking out the window would be a smart move. I couldn’t see much as it was pretty dark outside, but I sure wasn’t going to let Anthony notice my beet-red flush.

The waterfront was breathtakingly beautiful. The brightly lit buildings, old and restored to preserve their spirit, were awe-inspiring. Their flowy rendition on the water, dotted by a myriad of reflected flickers from the streetlights made them even more stunning. We walked around for a while, taking it all in. The only name I recognized was Hard Rock, the international brand for good music, over-the-top friendly service, and delicious barbeque ribs. But as that culinary delight didn’t go well with my dress, we went into a little bar nearby.

It seemed cozy and the music wasn’t loud enough to require one to scream into the ear of the person next to them to make themselves heard. Anthony ordered brandy and I got a fruity cocktail, delivered with the proper assortment of umbrellas, flags, and neon-colored straws.

Girlie drink for the lady, he said, raising an eyebrow.

It complements the color of my scarf, so I couldn’t resist it.

Is that so? Or are you just afraid I’ll get you drunk and get all your dirty secrets on the record?

I rolled my eyes and almost snorted. I stopped myself just in time to disguise it into some sort of huffing sound. "Oh, it does not take much to get me drunk. The challenge is to get the secrets out after that." I shrugged and tried not to smile. I didn’t want to turn it into a real challenge.

I take it alcohol does not loosen your tongue?

No, it just heightens whatever mood I am in. I’ve never gotten drunk enough not to know exactly what I was doing and what I was saying.

Have you actually tried? He put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on the palm of his right hand.

A few times. I failed miserably so I stopped trying.

We bar-hopped until close to midnight, enjoying the drinks, the music, and the atmosphere. As time passed, the waterfront nightspots got busier. People were laughing and talking loudly, and we could barely hear each other. It was fun and casual, and I felt great. Soon after midnight, we decided it was time to go back to Silema. Anthony called for the car and our driver said he’d be there in five minutes.

Let’s just walk around until he gets here, Anthony suggested. It sounded marvelous to me.

Oh, I love this song, I said as we walked by a small bar where Ayo was begging on her knees for relief that never came. It reminded me of home, of old friends, and of drinking hot chocolate in Bucharest cafés.

We shouldn’t waste it then, he said in a low, husky voice. I felt his hand on mine, stopping me and turning me to face him.

What? Here? In the street?

Why not?

I was either too happy, too tired, or too intoxicated after downing a few cocktails earlier, because I couldn’t find a good reason to say no. I stepped closer to him and he placed his free arm around my waist. I followed his lead into a middle of the street dance, moving too slowly for that particular song. Other party people were walking past us, smiling and pointing in our direction.

Anthony looked into my eyes and I couldn’t make myself look away. His burning gaze, the windblown locks of hair falling on his face, his body so close to mine, and the general intimacy of the moment made me feel powerless. It was exhilarating and frightening at the same time, and relief washed over me when the song ended. Something about Anthony made all of my alarms go off. They warned me of the high potential of my getting hurt if we continued to spend so much time together. I knew it might be just my fear talking, given everything that had happened in the past year, but if there was one thing I had learned it was to trust my instincts. And they were telling me to run.

Instead of screaming and making a quick getaway, I smiled and thanked Anthony for the dance, turning to our car which had just pulled up.

My pleasure, he said, taking my hand in his.

That small gesture felt more intimate than the dance and all I wanted was to yank my hand back and run away like a little girl, but I stopped myself. Just a few steps to the car and I’d be free.

On the way back, the car felt extremely small. Anthony never attempted to take my hand again, but I was sharply aware of his closeness. His presence, his scent, the thought of him sitting next to me were nauseating and scary, and my heart beat way too fast for my wellbeing.

I tried to understand where this restlessness was coming from. I felt like a deer hunted through the forest as the hounds closed in and sensing the killing blow long before the hunter even thought to squeeze the trigger. I wanted to slap myself, feeling silly and overcautious.

Why on earth did I have to see dark potential in any human contact? I always foresaw how it could hurt or disappoint me. Sure, I had experienced my fair share of heartbreak and betrayals, but I was too young to give in to mistrust, seclusion, and to barricading myself to make sure no one ever got close. Anthony was nothing more than a journalist I had met for an interview. After the weekend, I would probably never see him again. Worst case scenario? A fairly unsatisfying affair. Why couldn’t I just let go of all the things in my past and finally allow myself to fully experience each moment?

We’re here. Anthony’s voice brought me back to reality. I’ve arranged for a private breakfast in a small meeting room at your hotel tomorrow morning. I hope you don’t mind, he said. Interviews over food and coffee are always more relaxed.

That sounds wonderful.

He stepped out of the car and held the door open for me, offering his hand. I took it without realizing and then noticed I was no longer terrified by that simple contact.

Thank you, Anthony. I’ve really had a great time tonight.

So have I. I never thought meeting a writer for an interview could be so much fun. Thank you for showing me around.

He sounded polite and cold, like there was a distance between us that hadn’t been there just moments before.

Good night. I whispered it for some reason. Before I could stop myself, I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. I didn’t wait for a reaction and headed to the entrance. I did notice that he took his time letting go of my hand.

Chapter IV

MY ALARM WENT off at 7 am the next morning, and I used all my pillows to aim for my cell and try to make it stop ringing. I missed, but the effort completely woke me up. I had, of course, forgotten to switch my alarm to a later, more bearable hour and it was preset to wake me up at the same time each morning. I got out of bed, put on my running clothes, and went outside. It was a chilly and cloudy morning and running felt great. Exercising had this ability to help me sort out my thoughts. My worries ended up seeming less important when my body felt sore and breathing became an effort.

The beach was empty, and so were most of the cafés. Off-season Sunday mornings were so quiet, the resort so deserted, I could delude myself that it was all mine and no one could disturb me unless I allowed it.

An hour later, I was back in my room. I showered, got dressed—jeans, a pink, lively top, and casual shoes—and went over the interview questions once more. I tried to decide what was safe to say without revealing too much of the novel. If everybody knew what was going to happen, they were less likely to buy it. It had to sound fun and interesting, while keeping the mystery alive.

I was skimming through some pages of my novel when I heard a knock on the door. To my surprise, it was Anthony, looking fresh and cheerful.

Good morning. He was beaming, and I hated him a little for it.

I scowled at him. Good morning. Why so chirpy? Don’t you need sleep like the rest of us?

Oh, be serious. We really did not stay out that late. My questioning look finally got through his good humor. I’m sorry. I got here rather early and the lobby looked boring. Are you going to invite me in?

Sure, come in, I said and stepped away from the door. Breakfast is in another thirty minutes, right?

Yes, 10 sharp. But I can try to switch it to now, if you like.

No, that’s fine. Please, sit down.

My room had a desk with a chair, an armchair, and my bed. I hoped he’d pick some other place than the unmade bed, but he didn’t. He sat right on the side I slept on and looked around, taking in the room. It looks very cozy.

It is. And big enough for me not to go crazy when I am trapped here for a few days.

Has that happened much since you’ve arrived?

More often than I’d care to admit. Work followed me here, I’m afraid. I shrugged and looked around the room, wondering where I should sit.

How long are you planning to stay? He rearranged my pillows, getting all comfortable.

I’m leaving at the end of the month. It’s time I got back to my life.

Why not start a new one?

A new one? I frowned and stared at him, wondering what he meant.

Yeah. New country, new people. From what I see, there’s nothing stopping you. You can work from wherever you are, can’t you?

I had never even considered that. I’d gone all the way to Malta, but that had always been temporary. My plan was to regroup, recover, and eventually go back. I had my parents, friends, clients. My whole life was there, in and around Bucharest. I hadn’t considered leaving it all behind just because things were not as I wanted them to be. I’d thought of moving abroad, but for very different reasons than running away. Yet, somehow, the idea was not entirely unappealing.

Anthony went on to tell me about his life in London, his time in other European cities he had been to. He had moved around quite a bit. He didn’t look much older than me, and might have looked younger than he was, but I still couldn’t imagine him being older than thirty. He had lived in Paris, Amsterdam, Edinburgh, and London. And these were only the places where he had been for more than a year. The more he talked about it, the more appealing the idea of moving around the continent became.

The room phone rang for only the second time since I had arrived here almost two months ago. It was the front desk telling us that breakfast was ready. We went downstairs to enjoy our food and interview after Anthony took a little too long to decide to get up from my bed and make his way to the door.

The small conference room was not a real breakfast spot. They had brought coffee, tea, warm milk, a selection of cheeses, ham and salami, veggies and hard-boiled eggs, plus some fruit and sweets, and had set it all up on half of the table. The other half had some hotel-branded notebooks and pens, and two chairs.

I poured myself some coffee and made a quick sandwich, then sat comfortably in one of the chairs. OK, shoot, I said, wiggling a bit in my chair to get comfortable.

He poured himself a cup of coffee (surprisingly, no tea) and sat down, smiling. You’re in an awful rush to get this interview started.

I am curious about where it’s going to go. The conversation topics you emailed really puzzled me.

All right then. He took out a small recorder from the back pocket of his jeans and turned it on. There are so many vampire stories out there and hordes of writers willing to tap into this niche of fiction. Why do you think your book will be a success?

OK, coming on strong. He was definitely bold. I’d prepared for this though. I’d asked that very same question myself about a million times so far.

The theme, subject, or type of characters used is not what makes a novel great. It’s not even the storyline. There’s rarely much innovation going on. How a story is told is sometimes more important. My story is not revolutionary. I won’t completely shift perceptions on vampires, supernatural beings, or humans. I think my book will be a smashing success because people will find it easy to relate to. It will have the feel of a true story just because it taps into reality to power unreal events and characters. Nothing will seem far-fetched. And people sometimes need real stories, the kind that don’t reek of fiction, that they can see themselves living.

You say you are not looking to revolutionize how people regard vampires. But they are not from Earth, he said, arching his eyebrow.

"That’s not entirely correct. Actually, they are from Earth, just not initially created here. They’re not the result of an accident, or evolution, or any kind of natural need of a predatory humanoid."

But they are, in a way, from outer space. Isn’t that true?

This is not an alien vampire story. Yes, they have come from somewhere off-world, but they have no high-tech ships. It’s just a different world, and closer to a different dimension or a different plane of existence.

So how come they are from Earth? They seem to have nothing to connect them with this planet.

They originated somewhere else. The first group arrived here, a bit by mistake. Then they turned humans. Those are the only vampires that survive today. The human, earthling kind, as the initial creators are long gone.

I see. So what happened to those who had created this species on Earth?

I was a bit taken aback by his ongoing interest in vampire origins in my book. It hardly seemed that important in the overall story. They’re gone. There might be a sole survivor still wandering the earth in search of a way home. But it’s just a rumor, I said, feeling my frown deepening.

Haven’t you decided? Or don’t you want to tell me? He grinned and winked.

Well, I have to keep a few surprises, I said, rolling my eyes.

Where did you get the idea for this other-world cradle of vampires? he asked, straightening his upper body and turning serious again.

I just thought of a few possibilities. A mutation of the human race would make sense, I guess—a different path of evolution--but, then again, I would either accommodate all the supernaturals, allowing them to evolve on Earth, as only one species does not make sense, or play favorites.

So no other supernaturals in your novels, ever?

Not in this one in particular. I’m not trying to keep the story interesting by always complicating it with new beings. It’s hard as it is to manage relationships with people and animals. Add vampires and it gets complicated enough to make a lot of shrinks rich.

There’s nothing revolutionary about the nature of your vampires, but this theory regarding their origin is clearly very different. What else is different in your book?

Finally, he changed the subject! I felt relieved now that he’d stopped trying to push me into major spoiler territory. There’s one thing that’s extremely important to me. Purging the idea of all-knowing, ultra-intuitive humans that smell a vampire from miles away; the smart, but lonely girl that puts the pieces of the puzzle together; the young warriors that hunt them to rid the world of them. To me, that’s hard to digest.

And why is that? Aren’t humans smart enough to discover the existence of supernatural beings?

There was a condescending touch to Anthony’s voice, but I chose to dismiss it and smile. Humans being smart or not is not the issue. We’re not talking ghosts here. We’re talking about a species, a predatory one that feeds on human blood, that’s been around for millennia. While we’ve gotten smarter, so have they. It’s important for them to stay hidden, and they might have gotten better and better at that. If any human that knows where to look and keeps an open mind would be able to discover them, they wouldn’t be very good at hiding, would they?

That’s indeed an interesting perspective, he said, nodding. So no humans know of vampires?

A chosen few of every generation know of their existence, but only because they are allowed to. If a human or a group of humans would find out on their own, their need to brag and get famous, especially in this day and age, would force vampires to take some sort of action. Their sitting idly by while more and more humans find out their secrets and gain power over them, that’s an unlikely scenario.

Throughout the interview, Anthony kept throwing intense questions at me, his eyes keeping a close watch on my reactions while he carefully analyzed every word I said. He kept going back to how I came to the idea of giving a different birthplace to vampires, why that was a must in my story, and so on. We then got to the main character, my promotion strategy, my plans on finishing a first draft, potential publishing deals, and many other things. Two hours later, he turned off his recorder and slid it back into his pocket.

Thank you so much for the interview, Alexa. You’ve got quite an interesting story there.

My pleasure. This was a great interview. I haven’t gotten a lot of them, but the ones I did were extremely boring. The interviewers were more interested in whether vampires can or cannot have sex in my story, not their origin or what else makes this novel unique.

Not every journalist is a great one. And not all have good interviewing skills, but I bet they did bring traffic to your website, he said, smiling broadly. That was the first time he had completely relaxed since the interview had started.

Oh, that they did! Some for a couple of hours, some for a day or two, some long term. But I got the word out.

Look, I really must run. It was a pleasure to meet you.

I was stunned to see him rushing out. I knew he had an evening flight, so he could have stayed longer. In fact, I wanted him to stay longer.

Talk to you soon, he said, almost running out the door.

I felt hurt and disappointed, although I had no reason to. He had come, done his job, and then left. It made perfect sense. But then there was the night before, the dancing, and him being so hot. I’d thought… no, hoped he’d be interested in more than that. Yet he wasn’t.

I went back to my room, got into bed without changing, and turned the TV on. Better to do some brainwashing activity than feel sorry for myself.

A knock on my door woke me up. I reached for my phone and checked the time: almost 3 pm. I was surprised I had dozed off and that I’d actually slept for so long during the day. A second knock caught my attention.

Just a second, I mumbled, slowly moving toward the door.

I opened it and froze. Anthony, in a tight navy-blue t-shirt and skinny jeans, both designed to make him look exquisite, stared at me.

I should have been touched and happy for getting what I wanted…him. Instead, I was irritated to borderline furious because my ego had a problem with him deciding to come back hours later. His terms, his decision.

What the hell are you doing here?

He said nothing. He stood there, his intense gaze that had a certain glow to it roaming over me. It should have been the kind of look that fueled desire. Yet it felt like something else, something I could not describe. It definitely was void of any loss of control and crazy impulses born of lust.

Cat got your tongue? I tried again with a forced smile.

Still nothing. I backed up a bit, leaving him just enough room to come in. Remaining completely silent, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He came one step closer and put his hands on my shoulders. He slowly pulled me closer to him. I did as he wanted, mesmerized by those strange eyes and his full lips. His scent flooded my senses and I wanted nothing more than to feel his touch on every inch of my body. Once again, my instincts told me I should run. His was not the look of desire. He was a man interested in me, but in what part me, exactly? For what purpose?

I felt his hands sliding down, my skin reacting under his touch. They stopped around my wrists, and his lips slowly descended on mine. I wanted to run, but before I could, he pushed my hands back and I felt him locking my wrists tightly in his hands. All I could do was stand still and, caught between fear and my strong want of him, watch his slightly parted lips get closer, my entire mouth tingling in anticipation. He pressed his lips to mine and I felt them slowly caressing and overpowering me, making room for his tongue to slide in and take over my senses. I instantly responded to his kiss,