Chapter Fourteen

AVERY hadn’t seen or heard from Tyson in weeks. He supposed it was over for real and he needed to move on with his life, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Tyson. It was like once that switch had been turned on in him, it was nearly impossible to turn off. He hadn’t even been with Tyson very long, hadn’t even known him for an entire season, but that short time had changed everything for Avery in so many ways.

He pedaled down St. Charles, looked at the same houses he’d looked at back in October when Tyson didn’t exist yet for him, strewn with Christmas decorations now instead of black and purple for Halloween, and instead of seeing them, he calculated how many blocks they were from the one faded yellow mansion he couldn’t seem to forget.

It was a little chilly outside, probably not for someone from another part of the country, but his body had acclimated a bit, no matter how much he liked to pretend it hadn’t and that he was a Northerner at heart. Avery pedaled a bit faster to get home and inside. He had some final grading to do, Netflix to catch up on, and a few glasses of wine with his name on them. After that, hopefully oblivion for the long weeks of the holiday break… and no dreams of blond hair and perfect kisses.

His life had gotten quieter again since Tyson had gone. He found he didn’t mind that so much, although the echo of his momentary social life still left an empty spot. Now if he could just stop wondering if Tyson was only blocks away at the club, or if he was asleep, or if he’d somehow gotten back together with his evil but apparently very beautiful ex-girlfriend.

He pulled across Canal Street and into the world of the French Quarter. Closer to home. He could feel his couch calling to him. The littlest things exhausted him lately. He barely had enough energy to make it through his classes and pretend he still felt the same about everything he taught.

The lights seemed familiar, even if they were still a little spooky. He smiled when he passed street musicians and inhaled the particular scent of his part of town. Avery tried to acclimate himself back to his old pre-Tyson life. He’d get there eventually. He would. It might be hard to forget what had to be the most life-changing experience. Parts of it he’d never forget, but he had to move on. Pretend Tyson never happened. Pretend he didn’t choose to be alone instead of with Avery.

Avery passed into the quiet half of the Quarter and slowed down. He was nearly home. Already he was planning his dinner and lining up his Netflix queue in his head. Maybe it was time to think about getting out there. Find a distraction that might help him forget.

HE knew as soon as he pulled up to his house that there was something wrong. Different. All of a sudden, he had one of those queasy stomach feelings people seem to ignore. He hopped off his bike and paused in the courtyard in front of his house.

“Hello?” he called. He walked through the wrought-iron gate, propped his bike up against the wall, and was nearly all the way up the stairs when he noticed a shadowy figure on his porch, right behind a column. Avery tried to move, but before he could, he felt a sharp poke on his neck and his vision turned black.

When he came to, he was in a windowless room and there was a beautiful dark-haired, pale woman standing over him.

“You’re Clara, aren’t you?” His stomach sank.

She smiled. “I see my reputation precedes me,” she said. He felt another sharp jab in his arm, and the entire room went black once again.

WHEN he woke, Clara was standing above him in the same small, windowless room with another syringe in her hand.

“Quit fucking drugging me,” Avery grumbled. It wasn’t smart, but she also probably wasn’t going to kill him as long as she thought Tyson was coming for him. Which was less than likely.

“Will you behave?” she asked.

He was handcuffed and had never learned the useful Jackie Chan type skills of getting himself out of tight impossible spaces, so the answer was pretty much yes. He nodded and slumped back into the uncomfortable position of lying on what seemed to be a dusty children’s bed with his hands cuffed behind his back.

“This isn’t going to work,” he grumbled. “He’s never going to do what you want.”

“You think you know him so well, sweetheart. But you don’t. He’ll be here.”

Avery shook his head. “I haven’t even seen him for weeks. He got tired of me.”

She laughed. It was light and giggly and disturbing as hell. “You haven’t gotten him figured out yet. Tyson’s a martyr. Always will be. He was willing to sacrifice his happiness to keep you safe.”

“He freaked out about how much I was changing his cushy little existence. Let’s not make him into a saint.” He’d figured that out a few days into the silence. He was something to care about, something that threatened Tyson’s way of life. That was why Tyson had stopped calling. He just hadn’t cared enough to want to make room for Avery, make a few changes.

Avery was pissed off. He’d been dumped by Mr. Cold Feet, and he was still paying for what had to be the shortest relationship in the history of dating. He just wanted to get out and go the fuck home.

“I don’t have anything to do with him anymore. You’d have more luck if you took Donovan or Mrs. Peggs.” Not that Avery had anything against either one of them, but he just wanted out. Plus, he was right. Tyson hadn’t thought him important enough to keep around when it got a little less convenient; he certainly wasn’t going to risk his life for Avery.

“His little vampire friend? No, thank you. I really like my blood inside my body.” She shuddered delicately and tossed her dark hair over her shoulder. She really was beautiful. For a psychopath. “You’ll do just fine.”

She left after that, and with the flip of a switch, Avery’s prison descended into darkness. He didn’t do anything other than lie there and think about how much he wished he’d never met Tyson… and that was when Avery realized he didn’t even know Tyson’s surname. Or if Tyson was even his name at all. So much fucking trouble for someone he barely knew when it came down to it.

I hate you.

He didn’t, of course. But he could still be mad and still wish desperately to see Tyson come through that door to save him… even if it didn’t seem likely. He wondered if that was where Clara’s anger came from. Years, decades, centuries even, of festering animosity toward someone who didn’t quite care about her like she cared about him. Avery had to say that he empathized—even if he wanted to take the bitch out.

He could guess what Clara wanted—more of the rocks, Tyson’s attention. Maybe his love. She wasn’t going to get any of that from Tyson with Avery as her main bargaining chip. One guy wasn’t worth his immortality. He’d made that quite clear with his weeks of silence. Who even knew if Tyson was still in New Orleans. He could be on the other side of the world by now, starting over with his piles of money and his beautiful face.

Avery knew he was fucked. He just wished he could figure out exactly how much.

TYSON had been feeling like shit for days. Weeks, really. Mrs. Peggs kept giving him significant looks and then flouncing off to her suite to watch television. He hadn’t been out, barely talked to anyone, even found himself ignoring his phone because the person he most wanted to hear from wasn’t calling or texting. And it was his own damn fault.

“Mrs. Peggs, I’m going on a walk,” he called out into the void. She didn’t answer him.

Walking was the only thing in the past few weeks that made him feel better. It was getting chilly out, at least for Louisiana, and the night air felt good against his skin. He walked for at least an hour, slipped around corners and hopped over uneven places on the sidewalk pushed up by thick tree roots.

It wasn’t until he returned to the house that he realized his phone was missing, and a very agitated Mrs. Peggs was waiting for him with an envelope in her hand.

“What’s this?” Tyson asked.

“A rather creepy gentleman dropped it off. Said it was for you.”

Inside was a picture and a note. The picture was enough to make his entire body go icy. Avery, passed out and bound with his hands behind his back. He was on a bed, in a room with no windows and wallpaper Tyson would know anywhere. That was his apartment. In Rome. The second part, the note, made him grit his teeth and want to punch the wall.

I’m guessing you’d like this back unharmed. You know what to do if you want your little mortal. Bring me the deed to the mine. And a map. I’ll let you keep whatever stash you have left. I’m generous. I’m guessing you’ve recognized your own apartment, but just in case, I’ll make it easy. I’m in Rome. You have three days.

C