Glamoured: A Modern Fairy Tale

13. Glamoured

Like smoke made solid, he stood near the bottom of the steps, lurking beside the stairs. The vampire glided forward, one hand resting on the bannister. Eleanor halted, her heart pounding. She twisted her neck, intending to turn and look at his shadowy form, which was distorted in the gloom.

"Wes," she said, but a glance of warning flashed in his green eyes. For a moment, they glowed like a cat's.

Shit. Her internet pen pal was the damned vampire. Figures.

"Don't."

His voice bounced preternaturally through the hallway, and even the sumptuous carpet couldn't dampen it.

She froze. There was the same, resonant quality to his voice she'd heard before, but there was an undertone of something else—something decidedly not human. She swallowed, clutching the trigger on the garlic squirt bottle. If she was quick, maybe she could stun him and make a run for the door.

"Nice digs." She licked her lips. "Very Smithsonian museum of natural history in here," she said, tilting her head in the direction of the living room. The hairs on the back of her neck tingled; he lurked behind her. Some primal part of her brain knew that he was a predator, she was the prey, and that she needed to make like a good little rabbit and hop the fuck out of there.

"Hmm, so you took the self-guided tour." Wes pursed his lips. "You missed some rooms."

"Like where you keep your coffin?" Eleanor asked, giving him a smile that showed too many teeth.

Wes frowned so deeply his entire body sagged. He said, "I wondered if you knew...how much you knew."

Through her too-wide smile, Eleanor said, "I know everything. The murders, the attacks--"

Wes laughed, cutting her short. She sucked in a steadying breath, and her bravado façade faltering. A chill raced down her spine. The sound was so human. It sounded exactly like the guy she'd chatted to online. But she remembered what Farah told her: there were no good vampires.

"Being that I don't know everything, I doubt you do," he said, and she looked into the reflection of those bright eyes. "There's no vampire handbook."

Eleanor rolled her eyes. "Seems like you've done a good job killing people on your own," she snapped. The squirt bottle hung heavy in her hand, but Wes cocked one eyebrow at her, and she saw a flash of confusion in his eyes. Then, a brief spark of anger--betrayal.

"Back to that," he said, frowning again. "I told you—the attacker and the murderer aren't the same person."

"Being that you're not really a person—"

"Don't."

There was a flash of anger in Wes's gaze that strangled the rest of the taunt in Eleanor's throat. Gooseflesh erupted over her body, but she kept still. It felt just like Jurassic Park—if she moved he would see her and devour her.

You're screwed, that little voice in her head giggled manically. You're trapped with a vampire in his lair! So screwed.

A wounded look replaced Wes's momentary anger. Through pursed lips, he said, "That's not fair of me. You're right—in a way."

"Yeah," Eleanor breathed out the word. "I think I am."

"But you're also wrong," he said, frowning. "I'm not the murderer."

"Just a blood-sucking monster who attacked my best friend."

Eleanor regretted it the moment she said it and tensed, ready to spin around and defend herself. Wes glared at her coolly and crossed his arms; he stood still—preternaturally still. There was no breathing, no creaking, none of the little sounds normal creatures gave off.