I could talk to him, I know I could. He doesn’t often speak about it, but I know Bram has a complicated relationship with his own vampirism. Of anyone, I’m willing to bet he’d understand. But I’ve given Bram so many reasons to worry about me over the years. I’ve been that constant thorn in his side, and I hated it. And I know right then that I’m not going to give him any more reasons. I’m going to sort this out myself.
But first, I’m going to go to work.
‘Just give me ten to shower and change and I’ll be right out,’ I say.
‘Take your time,’ he shouts back, over his shoulder. ‘We only have Creepy Perm Guy in at the moment and Emmy has him handled. I’ll go sit with them until you’re sorted.’
That almost makes me smile. Creepy Perm Guy is one of our regulars, named for his perennial wet-look perm and chronic misunderstanding of social boundaries. He’s weird but mostly harmless, and he has a soft spot for Emmy. She looks a lot like his youngest daughter, apparently.
I down the rest of my glass and will myself into motion, stumbling into the flat’s tiny bathroom and peeling off my clothes. I’d almost forgotten about last night, but when I see faint streaks of sandstone dust on my jeans, it all comes crashing back. All of a sudden, I realise what I have to do.
If I want to sort this out without burdening Bram, I’m going to need to swallow my pride and apologise to Florence. And then I need to hope like hell that she’s still willing to help me after I sprinted away from her like she was on fire.
But first I need to sort myself out and get to work.
ChapterTen
FLORENCE
‘Another difficult patient for you,’ Cam says, popping his head around the door of the break room where I’ve been hiding for at least the last fifteen minutes under the guise of making a cup of tea. I don’t even drink tea, but no one’s questioned it so far.
They probably know I’m sulking. I have been for three days.
Ever since the night at the abbey.
I can’t tell whether I’m annoyed with Quinn for assuming the worst of me and fleeing, or whether I’m annoyed with myself for how hurt I was by it. I’ve lived on this planet for the best part of two hundred years, so I’ve encountered more than my fair share of humans, and something I’ve grown to understand about them over time is that they, like us, are animals at heart.
Yes, they’ve evolved over the years. They’ve grown into creatures of intelligence, of humanity and of empathy. But underscoring all of it is something far more primal. Itdoesn’t take a whole lot to strip them to their baser instincts: anger, lust, survival, fear.
I know rationally that that’s what happened with Quinn. I blindsided him and he panicked, landed a warning blow and then fled. And as I’m a creature of instinct too, after he lashed out at me, my inclination was to retreat to my lair and lick my wounds.
I know all this, but it still hurts because deep down, I wanted him to think better of me. And I know I’m basing that on nothing. When it comes down to it, he’s just a distant relative of the man I used to love. And as Josiah’s long gone, it’s probably about time I got over both of them.
So I look over at Cam and plaster a smile on my face.
‘Bay three,’ he says with a wink and then he vanishes, leaving me to walk to the blood room by myself.
When I reach bay three, the curtain is completely drawn, and that immediately puts me on high alert. I brace myself for what I’m going to find behind it. A drawn curtain generally means it won’t be good.
So when I pull the edge back and peek around it, the very last thing I expect to see is Joe Quinn, sitting ramrod straight in the blue chair and worrying his thumb between the first two fingers of his other hand.
‘Hi,’ he says as he sees me, and there’s such weight in that single syllable that it almost makes me cry.
I step into the bay and pull the curtain closed behind me. ‘Hi,’ I reply tentatively.
Those blue-green eyes fix on me like a plea as one hand goes to his already-tousled hair. He’s nervous. I can see it in the quickening of his pulse at his temples, in the dimples his teeth press into his lip.
I lower myself carefully to sit on the stool, like I might spook him if I move too quickly. I don’t wheel it closer to him. Instead, I perch six feet away and wait.
‘Florence,’ he says, but nothing follows it for a while. There is only a slight hitch in his breath and the almost inaudible sound of him swallowing. ‘I’m here to apologise,’ he says eventually, his voice low and even, as though he’s been practising. ‘It was a shock, what you…’ He looks around, realising just before I’m about to tell him that these flimsy curtains are not even slightly soundproof. When he carries on, it’s almost at a whisper. ‘What you told me.’
I nod my understanding. ‘It was a lot.’
‘It was.’ He almost laughs then, but there’s no humour there. ‘But there was no need for me to have a tantrum about it.’
His smile is so slight that it almost isn’t a movement at all. Even so, it feels like a peace offering. And with it, some of the weight in my chest eases.
‘It wasn’t a tantrum, Quinn. You were scared.’