Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Careful, I remind myself. That might not be a good thing.
“What makes you think I need you to walk me home?” I ask, turning to face him, the books clutched to my chest.
He gives me a sly, crooked smile. “You don’t know the city, rossa. It can be full of dangers.” His voice lowers softly over that last word, the desk lamp casting his face in shadows.
“Such as?”
“One wrong step and you’re,” he makes a diving motion with his hands, “right into the canal.”
“I think I can manage,” I tell him. “And you don’t know where I live, I could live around the corner.”
Actually, I wonder if he does know where I live. I suppose it could be on the school records. I’m not sure how strict the privacy laws are here and if teachers can access that.
“Do you?”
I shake my head. “Cannaregio. By the Chiesa della Madonna dell ‘Orto.”
“Interesting,” he notes. “Did you know that area is haunted?”
A wash of cold air comes over me. “I didn’t. Too bad I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“You don’t have to believe in ghosts for them to exist. They just need to believe in you.” He gestures behind him with his chin. “Come on. We’re the last ones in here. I need to close up.”
“You’re the librarian here too?”
“When I need to be,” he says mysteriously.
I step away from the table and then nod at the metal door at the back. “Where does that go?”
“Headquarters for the Secret Society of Undervalued Librarians,” he says, walking off to the main door. I watch him for a moment, then follow behind. He’s wearing black jeans, black moto boots, and a slim-cut black sweater which makes him look like a creature of the night, but there’s no denying he also looks like a sexy piece of ass at the same time.
“Not much of a secret now,” I say to him when I catch up. I know he’s being facetious, but it does pique my curiosity even more.
He opens the front doors and then waits till I’m close enough before flicking off the main lights. The library goes dark, putting him into silhouette and for a flash his eyes seem to glow red, shots of crimson in the void where his face should be.
I suck in a shaky breath and step out into the hall, feeling relief at the light.
He gives me a quick smile and then locks the door behind him. “Now where were we?”
“You were trying to walk me home,” I say. “Think I need protection from ghosts and stuff.”
“Men, mostly,” he says as we head down the hall to the stairs.
“Oh is that so?”
“I’m sure you have a flock of Italian men following you down the streets.”
“And you’re supposed to protect me from them?”
“I just want to make sure you don’t offer them a drink as well,” he says, which makes me laugh. I’m not used to vampires being funny. I’m not used to being relaxed enough around them to actually laugh, but somehow with Valtu he lets me put my guard down.
He’s compelling you, that’s why, I remind myself. None of this is real. He’s making you feel what he wants you to feel.
I keep that in mind as we step out into the night, the scent of brine, exposed tide, and seawater combining with fried garlic from nearby restaurants flowing over us. Even in September, Venice is busy and tourists walk past, German, English, and Mandarin filling the air as people dressed in carnival costumes try to entice them into schmaltzy gift shops.
I turn and walk up the street, Valtu walking beside me. He has such a way about his movements that makes me jealous, like he’s barely here at all, just moving with silky ease. He could be part of a dream for all I know.
“So, Dahlia Abernathy,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Tell me more about yourself.”
Here it goes. Time to keep my lies straight by telling as much truth as possible.
“What do you want to know?”
“What made you go to university in Aberdeen?”
“My dad was Scottish,” I tell him, which isn’t a lie. “So I wanted to go to school there. In the end it was between there and Glasgow, but I wanted to be by the ocean. Grew up in the Pacific Northwest and all.”
“And what did you take?”
“Don’t you know all this?”
He gives me a quick smile. “I don’t research every student that steps into my class.”
“Maybe you should. What if they turn out to be a psycho?”
He laughs lightly. “I have a way of figuring that out.”
“And?” I ask him as we pause at a bridge to let a swarm of drunk backpackers stumble through. “What do you think of me?”
“You know,” he muses, putting his hand at the small of my back as he guides me onto the bridge, “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”