The Vanishing by Karla Nikole
Twenty-One
“On a scale of one to ten, how drunk was I last night?” Mia groans and lays her head back, careful not to spill her coffee on the plush couch. She runs a hand into her long wavy hair. It’s still the off-season, so of course, it’s dyed. Something like a rich plum tint shines against the deep walnut of her natural color. “Ten being like, totally shit-faced and falling down… I don’t remember falling down, though? Wait—is that worse?”
“Oh God.”
“I should not have drunk that much rum.”
Cellina takes a sip of her own coffee and smiles. “You shouldn’t have drunk that much, no, you didn’t fall down, and maybe an eight? If I’m being nice.”
“Dammit. Was I embarrassing? I feel like I did something embarrassing, like blatantly spitting on people while I was talking. I spit when I’m drunk—I think my glands become hyper liquified.”
“You were fine.” Cellina laughs. “Gross. Just forget about it.”
“The stupid pressure gets to me, you know? Too many ranked vamps concentrated in a small place. I hate it.”
They both attended a society event the previous evening. The Moretti Clan—a family of first-generation vampires prominent in the art world—held their annual summer soiree. Everyone who is anyone attends. The evening is a staple within the Milan aristocracy.
“My parents keep pressuring me to bond and find a mate—like the shit is easy,” Mia whines. “Can’t they just be proud of me for who I am? For what I’ve achieved?”
Cellina smiles at her friend. “You’ve been a prima ballerina for La Scalla for the past fifty years—of course they’re proud of you. They just want tiny vampires to cuddle sooner rather than later.”
Mia folds her arms. “Then they should pop out some more.”
“Uh, you know they can’t. Your parents are well over two hundred. That ship has sailed.”
“Listen, can you and I just… try bonding, and then find a donor?” Mia bats her eyes. “We’ve known each other forever and we’re comfortable. We could do whatever we wanted, you know? Without the antiquated gender roles and hierarchy bullshit. It could be the perfect relationship.”
Cellina stands from the couch and walks to the large window, stretching her legs. She looks out over the gray, dreary buildings of the city underneath the cloudy skyline—the sharp pillars of the Duomo like ornate upright daggers in the distance. Heavy raindrops pelt against the glass and stream down. “Mia, I love you and all, but I’m not committing to taking care of your drunk ass for the rest of my life. We already talked about this.”
“I know, but I don’t drink as much as I used to! I’m getting better. It’s only bad like this off-season… and we know how to have fun together, yeah? Even though it’s been a while…” Mia winks in a smile. Cellina frowns.
“You got a lot of attention last night—as usual,” Mia goes on, smirking. “Just swatting them off like flies. Why is it that the vampire who doesn’t want the attention gets a shit ton? Meanwhile, I’m flashing my fangs and can’t even get a date. You’re finally finished with school and papers and internships, you have an amazing position at Pinacoteca di Brera… So when will we start opening ourselves to dating?”
“I still have things I want to accomplish—there’s a long road ahead.”
“Okay…” Mia nods. “But you can do those things and be with the right vampire… Apparently that vampire is not me, but whatever. Someone?”
Cellina moves back toward the couch with her coffee. “Romantic relationships take a lot of work and attention—people are needy and co-dependent. I don’t have time to coddle someone. Nor do I want to.”
In truth, she’s still recovering from coddling her best friend for most of his life. Worn out from being Nino’s feeding source for more than a century. The last thing she wants right now is to take on another ward. Being the vampire she is—forthright and ambitious—it would inevitably end up that way.
Unless she found someone more like herself? Someone who would be a true partner as opposed to a third leg she’d need to drag along and mother.
Mia sits up from the couch in a jolt, sniffing the air in a dramatic gesture and lifting her chin. Her pale blue eyes are wide. “Smells like Giovanni.”
“Yeah.” Cellina raises an eyebrow. “This is his usual day and time to visit with my father.”
Grabbing her purse in a tizzy, Mia rummages through and pulls a compact mirror out. “Why the hell didn’t you warn me—Shit. Shit.” She runs her fingers through to fluff and accentuate her shiny waves, then hastily grabs her lipstick and applies it. Cherry red.
Cellina’s mouth is agape. “Are you serious right now?”
“Are you serious?” Mia frowns, replacing the cap on her lipstick and puckering. “Giovanni is purebred andhot.Nobody can figure out why he won’t choose a mate. I don’t get it either, but when he’s ready, I’ll be standing in line.”
“Giovanni is too busy to mate,” Cellina reasons. “He’s always running around all over the place. Doesn’t it seem a little crazy? Like he’s wearing himself too thin?”
Mia freezes and stares at Cellina as if she’s just declared something stupidly obvious, like water is wet. Her friend shrugs. “He’s realm leader. It’s his job.”
“But still… I know what it’s like to be busy and driven, but there has to be some balance.”
“I don’t know.” Mia stuffs her compact and lipstick back into her purse. “All I know is, there’s one Bianchi left on the market. Nino is cute, right? Like sweet and unassuming. Giovanni is a fucking man.” Mia grunts and flexes her arms to emphasize her point.
Cellina falls back into the couch, laughing. “What is he again? One more time, I missed it—”
“Shut up.” Mia grins. “You know what I mean. He’s all broad and tall with those gorgeous greenish eyes, and he takes care of all the shit. That’s my ideal—take care of me. Look after my drunk ass.”
Cellina is laughing so hard she can barely catch her breath. “Giovanni does not have time to take care of your drunk ass.”
“You don’t know that.” Mia reaches over and smacks Cellina’s hip, playful. “He might have a few extra hours to spare. At night… in his bedroom.”
There’s a soft knock on the door to the study. It opens and Giovanni is there. He’s more casual than normal in dark blue jeans and a light beige sweater with his sleeves pushed up over his honeyed forearms. His golden-brown hair is cut short now, the length trimmed and cleanly swept back from his chiseled face.
Mia stands up like a rocket, surprising Cellina as she stares from the couch. Her friend bows, polite. Prissy. “Good afternoon, your grace—it’s such a pleasure to see you here.”
Giovanni smiles as he walks forward, game face on. “Hello, Mia. Cellina.” He’s carrying a small pink box with a neat string handle. It’s about the size of a half-loaf of bread. “Did you both enjoy the soiree yesterday evening?”
“It was delightful, your grace.” Mia bats her eyelashes, sitting back down on the couch as if she were a swan. Cellina places her palm against her face, amazed as Mia continues. “You looked very handsome in your suit—but truly, you look incredible in anything… or maybe in nothing?” Mia lifts one shoulder, flirtatious. Cellina covers her face with both palms.
“Thank you for the compliment.” Giovanni grins, humble. “I’m looking forward to your performance in Giselle in the fall season. Have rehearsals already started?”
“Well I—” There’s a beeping sound from Mia’s purse and she curses underneath her breath. She takes her phone out and turns off the alarm. “Actually, rehearsals start next week. But I need to get going—hair appointment. My apologies, your grace. It was an absolute pleasure seeing you.”
Mia stands, then bends and kisses Cellina on both cheeks before rushing past Giovanni and out the door. After she shuts it, he turns to look at Cellina. “Is she drunk?”
Cellina laughs. “Not at the moment, no.”
“Mm.” Giovanni frowns. “That’s rare…”
Unfolding her leg from its tucked position beneath her, she points her toes at the small box he’s carrying “And what is this?”
“There’s a Japanese bakery near Porta Nuova. I was in the area for a social visit this morning, so I stopped by.” Cellina sits upright, folding her legging-clad limbs against the couch and accepting the box with both hands as he gives it to her. He groans in a sigh and sits on the floor, his back against the couch just beside her.
She unties the string, then lifts the flap. Inside sits a moist and buttery-smelling Castella cake. She breathes a little squeal. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Is Mia still your source?”
“These days. For better or worse.” Cellina examines the cake. It isn’t a single slice like she’d always received in vampires’ houses or at cafés when she was in Japan. It is a small cake unto itself. She’ll need more coffee.
“She’s been your friend for a long time,” Giovanni says thoughtfully, the lines in his forehead crinkling. “Does her blood taste different when she drinks too much?”
“It’s not too bad. If she knows I’m going to feed, she cleans up her act for at least twenty-four hours prior. Giovanni, who’s your source? I know your parents originally chose Dante, but he’s mated now… Is it Sergio?” The image of Giovanni’s equally mannish and charismatic friend flashes in her mind.
“Absolutely not.” Giovanni frowns even harder.
Cellina tilts her head. “I thought he was your friend?”
“He is… kind of.” Giovanni sighs. “It’s hard to consider vampires as friends when you’re purebred. They always want shit from you. I talked to Haruka about it once and he agreed. He said his entire life had been spent focusing on what everyone else around him wanted and needed until he isolated himself in England. Apparently, Nino was the first genuine friend he’d ever made… but then they started fucking each other, so I’m not even sure if that counts.”
“It counts.” Cellina laughs. “God… Junichi is his genuine friend now?”
“They definitely can’t fuck.”
Rolling her eyes, Cellina shakes her head. “Nino called me yesterday morning and said that Haru is still a ball of tension and not sleeping. So of course, Nino is stressed the hell out. I don’t know how long they can function like this.”
“I offered to come back and help, but Haruka insists that they’re fine. I don’t know, but something has to give.”
Cellina nods in agreement. When Giovanni doesn’t say anything else, she lifts her chin. “So back to you—who do you feed from? You haven’t answered me.”
His chest rises and falls in a deep breath, the furrow in his brow somehow deepening. But his voice is light, teasing. “I don’t feed from anyone, Cellina.”
She pauses, processing the words. “What does that mean?”
“It means what I said.”
“Whose blood do you drink in order to sustain your body?”
Giovanni smirks. “My cousin’s.”
She sits straight, thinking. “This… has to do with your father, doesn’t it? Are you feeding him?” She looks down at his side profile, waiting. Her heart is heavy in her chest and her breathing clipped. It’s unfair to put so much weight and responsibility on one vampire.
“Yes,” he says. “But that information is confidential. Please don’t repeat it.”
She sits back and sighs, running her fingers into the thick of her curly hair. She closes her eyes.
“It’s fine, Lina,” he assures her. She opens her eyes, and his head is turned to the side. “This is my life. I’m the first son, remember? It’s just how it is—how it’ll always be. I accept it.”
Cellina leans forward, serious. “I don’t accept it. It’s too much.” She laces her fingers into the back of his soft hair, then uses her other hand to massage his forehead. “And these lines—stop frowning so much. God, Giovanni, you didn’t used to have these lines.”
“I’m old now—”
“No. You’re not. We’re young. Your damn face is just scrunched up all the time.”
She continues rubbing at the lines in his forehead, as if she can erase them by sheer will alone. Her other hand grips the back of his head. “When’s the last time you physically fed from another vampire?”
“Dante. The sexcapade.”
“Dante was your last true feed? Damn… that was over a hundred years ago.” The sensation of feeding—the intimacy of breaking through another vampire’s flesh and experiencing the rush of their blood in your mouth—is an innate need. Maybe even more so for purebreds. To deny someone this primal right feels harsh. Almost cruel. She never knew Domenico to be a cruel vampire. In fact, he was always the exact opposite when it came to Nino.
After a moment, she tilts his head back against the couch, playful in tugging his hair. “How’s that?” she asks, leaning over his face and noticing the gentle shadow of a beard already forming against his jawline.
“What are you doing, exactly?”
“Massaging the lines out of your damn forehead.”
“Is this a sympathy massage?” He closes his eyes, flashing straight white teeth in a grin.
“No. This is an ‘I’m worried about my friend’ massage.”
“That word again.” He opens his eyes, slow, and Cellina’s breath catches. His irises are glowing emerald green and haunting. He stares up at her unashamed. It calls to her, making her nature deep within her warm and restless. It’s as if a fire burns in her belly, in between her thighs and up her spine, her own eyes threatening to glow to life.
Panicked and in need of a distraction, she reaches over with her free hand and flips the lid of the cake box open. She pinches a large piece of the soft texture with her fingers, then holds the chunk over Giovanni’s mouth. “Open.”
Obedient, he parts his lips. She places the bite inside, but Giovanni closes his lips around her fingers before she removes them. Without thinking, she slides her damp finger into her mouth, cleaning the crumbs. “Better? Less stressed?”
“Worse.” He lifts his head, shaking it. “You and this damn cake.” He draws his tall body up from the floor, and Cellina stretches her leg to kick his hip.
“I’m trying to get you to relax—”
Giovanni turns on a dime and catches her ankle in his large palm. He tugs, making Cellina gasp as she slides down, slouching into the bend of the couch cushions. He leans over her, his smoldering emerald eyes staring as he speaks through clenched teeth.
“You’re not helping.”
