Killer Crescent by Leigh Kelsey

18

Can’t … breathe…

Kyle, please…

Ana’s pleas were on repeat in my head again, and every memory lashed my heart like a cruel whip, leaving welts that oozed blood. I shook so hard my teeth knocked together, and I didn’t bother to look at the hallway stretching in front of me as I stormed down it, my vision laced with tears that turned everything to smudges. Vague blurs suggested windows, doorways, and a coat of armour. Ordinarily, I might have been tempted to wrangle that armour off its stand and try it on for size, but I was about as far from fun and mischievous as I ever got. I’d plummeted into the past so hard, so fast, even killing someone wouldn’t soothe this hurt.

I didn’t know what I needed, or wanted, or what I would do except keep marching forward and choking on sobs and panting raggedly around the pain in my chest.

“No,” I sobbed as I saw the corridor dead-ended in front of me, a sudden end to my frantic path. I had to keep moving, had to outrun my past, my cowardice. Killing Kyle hadn’t been enough; I just laid there while he killed her. I was as much to blame for her death as he was.

I slammed my fists into the wall, emotion detonating inside me, strong enough to blast me into debris and dust, but the wall swung away under my fists with a quiet creak. A door. It was a door, another room, and I sagged in relief. Wiping away the next flow of tears, I rushed through the door, instantly swallowed by a dark space that smelled of paper, ink, and old leather.

I swore to kittens, if I circled back and wound up in Ivelle’s office again, I was going to slit her throat and be done with this whole nightmare.

But I knew that wouldn’t make me feel better. I was too broken for murder.

Scrubbing at my face, my hitching sobs filling the tall-ceilinged space, I walked cautiously into the room. A library, maybe? I tipped my head back to look at the blurry ceiling and the mezzanine walkway that ringed the hexagonal room beneath a conical roof. Were those golden stars speckling the ceiling? I blinked until I could see clearer, a hush of awe moving through me. Gold leaf accented the wooden beams leading to the ceiling’s point, glimmered from the mezzanine, and shone from the stars twinkling on the walls. It was beautiful, and as good a place to collapse into sobs as any.

“Woah, hey,” an unwelcome voice breathed—as rich and warm as butter, and … American? He was clearly startled at the sight of me. Maybe because I was crying. Maybe because I gave off general murder vibes on a daily basis.

“Fuck off,” I muttered, not sparing a glance to the figure I saw from the corner of my eye as I walked deeper into the library, heavy wooden shelves keeping the tomes in a kind of order Ivelle’s hoard probably envied. I swore each bookshelf was carved from an entire tree, perfuming the dark space with earthy wood. Someone must have spent a long time cleaning this library, because as my eyes focused and my tears dried up, I saw there was no dust anywhere.

I picked a random aisle and stalked down it. Blessed darkness swallowed me, wrapping around me like a cloak as I walked to the furthest end of the little walkway and slid down the wall.

Hide, Rebel.

Quickly, get under the bed…

“Um,” that annoying voice intruded on my wallowing and self-torture, and I glared up through teary eyes at the tall, rangy bastard moving tentatively closer. “Tell me I’m butting in where I’m not wanted—”

“You’re butting in where you’re not—” I snarled, but my voice tangled and lodged in my throat before I could spit the final word. I tried to finish, and again that word choked and died in my throat. “Just fuck off,” I growled instead, not caring enough to puzzle out the strangeness of being silenced. Some magic was at play, and it could go fuck itself.

“All right, darling,” he murmured, dropping the G so it came out as darlin’. I brought my knees to my chest and gripped them until the bony edges dug into my chest, physical pain echoing the twisted mess of my insides. Thankfully, he didn’t hover; he shuffled away, leaving me in suffocating silence with the darkness and weight of the library pressing in around me. It was comforting, that darkness, and I closed my eyes, tilting my head back to soak it in as if the dark were raindrops splattering my face.

I’d always loved darkness, and not just because it was good for hiding bodies. Because it was quiet, and calm, but with the sharp edge of the unknown.

Please…

I flinched. The whimpering woods brought every memory back to the forefront of my mind. They never really left, but their edges had worn smooth over the years like a pebble wrecked by the sea. Now, the edges were once more sharp and cutting, and I didn’t know how to soften them again.

My breath hitched, and another rush of sobs collapsed my lungs. I curled over myself, twisting as small as I could get, like the grief was nothing more than Kyle’s questing fists and I could protect my vulnerable organs with my arms and legs.

“You don’t strike me as a peppermint tea kinda girl,” that annoyingly warm voice intruded again, followed by soft, padding footsteps on the polished floorboards. “So I made you a cup of chai with cream and sugar. I’m more of a coffee guy myself, being from across the Atlantic, but the longer I spend here in England, the more I develop a taste for your leafy stuff.”

I tucked my head into my arms, hoping he’d get the message and piss off. But a teacup clattered on the floor beside me, and clothes rustled as if he’d settled against the bookshelves closeby, joints cracking in … his knees, maybe? How old was he anyway? I hadn’t been able to see more than blurs of black, brown, and bright, traffic-cone orange through my tears.

“My name’s Brannigan,” he said without prompting, his voice a honeyed drawl. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss.”

I half expected him to call me Miss Falcon, but he never finished the name. Coupled with his voice, his accent, and his bearing, that term of endearment made him seem old timey.

“I told you to go fuck yourself,” I muttered, my voice thick and raspy, “and it’s a pleasure to meet me?” I scoffed, wrapping my arms tighter around myself.

“I’ve caught you at a bad moment,” he replied easily, slurping—presumably from his own cup. “I’m not one to judge.”

I made a sound in my throat. Everyone judged, whether they admitted it or not.

“I won’t hold anything you say today against you,” he went on, affable and warm. “And anything you want to talk about won’t leave this room, darlin’.”

“You’re insane if you think I’m going to talk to you,” I muttered, wondering if I should stab him just to get him to leave, But he’d probably just ‘not judge’ me and stay beside me, leg gushing blood. Goody fucking two shoes.

“Well,” he mused, his fingernails tapping his cup. “Of course I’m insane; we're all insane in this hall.”

That got me to lift my head, and I scrubbed my face clear of tears, narrowing my eyes until I got a good look at him. He was both what I expected and not.

What I expected:

• The lankiness and too-long limbs folded up like an awkward giraffe as he rested his back against the bookshelf
• The bow-tie and violent orange waistcoat
• The thick-framed glasses sitting on his straight nose
• The coaxing smile splitting his rich brown face as he watched me

What I didn’t expect:

• Eyes sooooooooooo dark red that he must have been fucking ancient
• His stunningly beautiful face, so arresting that my heart skipped a beat
• Cheekbones that could cut the hardest stone, and lips that added a plush, sensual edge to his pretty face
• The drop of blood on the collar of his white shirt, like he’d dribbled his last meal

I stared, blinking hard. “You’re a vampire.”

Brannigan laughed, a buttery, silken sound that caused goosebumps to rush down my arms. “I know—everyone always thinks I’m a witch. I’m too nice to be a vampire, apparently.”

“You’re drinking tea,” I observed, staring as he took a deep sip. A vampire. Sipping tea. Asking me to talk about my feelings.

What. Was. Happening?

“I am indeed,” he agreed with a smile that took up his entire face, his cheeks so squishy and round that his glasses knocked askew. “Anything else?”

“Huh?” I frowned, watching him drain the dregs of his tea with so much baffled confusion it chased away my nightmares.

“Anything else you’d like to remark upon?” He widened his eyes pointedly, but I had no idea what he was talking about. “Ah.” He adjusted his bow-tie, something between nervousness and embarrassment crossing his face. “Well, I could always be wrong. That’s always a possibility.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, watching him work himself into a panic, his hands fluttering from his bowtie to adjust his glasses, to tweak the buttons on his waistcoat and sleeves.

“Oh, nothing,” he laughed, waving a hand. “Don’t mind me, I managed to convince myself of a dream coming to life. A delusion. Are you going to drink your tea?”

I glanced down at the cup he’d set beside my foot and smiled at the cute cartoon kitty on it. “I do like chai,” I told him, a tiny olive branch as I lifted the cup to my lips. Oh, it was better than just chai—it was vanilla chai.¹ “Thanks,” I begrudgingly added, mostly because I could no longer hear Ana’s screams in my ears. “I’m Rebel.”

“Rebel,” he repeated, his warm drawl wrapping around my name like his tongue was making love to it. I flushed, especially as he smiled beatifically at me, a huge beam that bunched his cheeks and bared brilliant white teeth, canines sharp and pointy. “It’s a true pleasure to meet you.”

“I still think you’re mad, Bow-Tie,” I said, shaking my head. “But thanks for the drink.” I wrapped both hands around the mug and let its warmth seep into me.

Brannigan laughed at the name. “I’m probably being an old busybody, but are you sure you don’t want to talk about why you rushed in here, crying like you got your heart broken?”

I stared into the pale amber liquid and sighed. “I lost my sister five years ago. Ivelle pried too hard into it, and raked it all up.” I shrugged, flippant and defensive at once. “It’s not something I want to think about.”

“I understand.” Brannigan laid a hand on my knee, and I startled at his warm temperature. He must have fed reaaally recently, or gorged on a lot of blood to be warm like that. “I’ve lost people, too. My whole family, as it happens.”

My shoulders dropped, sympathy making my heart soft. “I’m not gonna say I’m sorry like dumbasses do, because it doesn’t help.” I squeezed his hand where it rested on my knee.

“People mean well,” Brannigan disagreed. “They just don’t know how to help.”

“They could try keeping their mouths shut,” I muttered, making him laugh that honeyed sound again. It struck me then that we were like one of those cat and dog memes—he was the sunny, optimistic retriever and I was the black cat that hated everyone and shredded furniture with her claws.

He squeezed my knee once more and drew back. “I’ll talk to Ivelle, warn her not to push you where it hurts.”

I tilted my head, watching as he pushed to his feet in a rush of silk and velvet, all garish colours. “She listens to you?”

“I should hope so, darlin’” he laughed, running a hand over his dark, shoulder-length curls. “I’m the co-founder of Blake Hall.”

He smiled deeper as my mouth dropped open, and he chose that moment to finally listen to my demand for space, leaving me to stare after him.

The co-founder of Blake Hall? As in, he set this place up way back when? Holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

I’d just had tea with the Blake Hall equivalent of Godric Gryffindor.