On The Run With A Vampire

4. Raven

CHAPTER 4

RAVEN

Things I planned on doing with my Wednesday evening:

Deep conditioning and detangling my hair

Catching up with Love is Blind

Devouring last night’s pizza leftovers

Things I’m currently doing with my Wednesday evening:

Making small talk with a vampire while I pull a fucking stake from his back

“Right, so—Um. If you just—How about—” I huff out a frustrated sigh and sink back into my sofa. The aforementioned vampire is sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back to me, patiently waiting for me to make my move. “Are you sure there’s no one else who can do this for you?” I ask, wincing as my gaze settles on the thick chunk of wood currently protruding from his back.

I spent a large portion of my childhood in and out of hospitals, so squeamish isn’t a word I ever would have used to describe myself. Until now.

He cranes his head around to look at me. “We’ve been over this, Ms. Hartley. My closest confidant is an eight-hour drive away. I’m afraid it’s you or a very slow, painful, and incredibly embarrassing death.” He cocks his head to the side and winces. “I’m sure you can understand why I’m not too keen on the latter.”

“It’s just—” I grit my teeth and place my hand back over the stake. The bit sticking out is as wide as my palm. “Isn’t the advice always to leave it until you can get medical help? Otherwise, taking it out will increase blood loss.”

He gives me a vaguely amused look and waits patiently for the realisation to dawn on me.

“Oh,” I say, my cheeks warming with the early pinpricks of embarrassment. “Right. That’s not a problem here.”

“Hasn’t been for over a century now,” he says dryly. “Now, if you please…”

I nod, take a deep breath, and steel myself against his back. “Here we go. This might hurt.” Another deep breath. “Or it might not. I don’t know, I’m not a vampire doctor.”

He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort. “Clearly.”

“On three?”

He nods and turns back around. “On three.”

“One. Two?—”

“Mother of all things unholy!”

The sound of his roar nearly drowns out the sickening squelching noise the stake makes as it flies free from his back.

“We agreed on three ,” he seethes, whirling around to glare at me. If I’m not mistaken, I think there might be tears brimming in his eyes.

Vampires can cry.

Noted.

“Sorry,” I say, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s like when you get a piercing. It hurts less if you’re not expecting it.”

“Well, it still hurt a hell of a fucking lot,” he hisses as he pushes himself into a standing position.

“You’re welcome,” I say brightly.

The vampire glares at me. It’s not lost on me that he hasn’t shared his name, despite apparently finding great pleasure in using mine over and over, but something else snatches away my attention.

The stake lies next to me on the sofa, and I eye it warily. There’s not a trace of blood on it, but there’s a black—almost mould-like—residue clinging to the part that was wedged inside him.

“Is that…dangerous?” I ask, nodding at the stake.

He follows my gaze, his glare morphing into a sharp frown. “A stake is always dangerous to a vampire.”

“Well, free to take it when you leave.” I don’t need any reminders of this insane night. I’m still not entirely sure it’s not all a stress-induced fever dream.

“Of course,” he says, inclining his head before he gingerly plucks the stake from the sofa and puts it in one of the inside pockets of his coat. “Thank you, Ms. Hartley, for your assistance today.”

Thank you for your assistance today is an incredibly casual way of thanking me for pulling a literal sharpened piece of wood out of his back, but I’ll take it.

“You’re welcome, Mr…” I trail off and give him a pointed look.

“Ah! Of course. Where are my manners?” He bares his teeth in a soft, almost friendly smile, but his fangs are just about visible, and I swallow down the urge to shudder at the sight of them.

Still not quite wrapped my head around the whole vampires-are-real thing.

“Lucien,” he says, bowing slightly. “Lucien Valcouron.”

Lucien.

The name suits him somehow.

“Well, Lucien ,” I say, drawing out each syllable in his name like I’m testing it on my tongue. “Let’s hope we never meet again.”

He laughs at that. “Yes. Let’s.”

And then my front door is blasted open.