Vigil (36 page)
played white and who black, then began their game. They were
evenly matched and it took all Adin’s concentration to play.
He was so deep into the game that he was surprised to hear
a knock on the door about a half hour later, but he assumed
that Donte had ordered the pizza boy after all. They both liked
the young man, and the feeling was mutual. The agreement was
consensual. They fed on him, tipped him well, and he always left
relaxed and happy, with a grin on his face, as Adin had learned
to give pleasure with his bite—enough to get a man or woman
off—in the same way Donte did.
Apparently the world was full of people who enjoyed the
pleasure the undead could give. Often they wanted more. Adin
and Donte declined sexual relations with those humans but traded
gratification for food. Adin smiled as Donte returned from the
door, expecting their usual young man to be following him in. He
was therefore surprised to see Donte’s good mood had seriously
deteriorated and that the person who strode in behind him wasn’t
someone unfamiliar, just completely unexpected.
“
Sean?
” Adin rose from the chess table, startled.
Bran muttered, “Uh-oh. I’ve seen you before.”
Sean entered Adin’s tiny living room. He stood next to Donte
as if he’d been placed there simply for comparison. He was fair,
and had the bluest eyes—the most memorable eyes Adin had
ever seen—except for Donte’s brown ones. Red hair tumbled to
his shoulders in thick waves. He wore a worn leather jacket and
jeans and held a motorcycle helmet under his arm. He was as
small as Adin remembered, barely his own height, but thinner,
and wore a T-shirt studded with metal shamrocks at the neck that
read, “Feck you. I’m Irish.”
“What on earth are
you
doing here?” Adin asked.
“Santos sent me. He said you were out of a majordomo now
that your Boaz has done a runner, so I thought to myself, I’m
exactly what you need.” He followed this up with a cheeky grin
that was scant millimeters short of a leer. “I’m out of a job,
temporarily, and you’re out of a butler. Kismet.”
Donte folded his arms. “Over my dead body.”
Sean shot him a sly look and said, “Thank you, I don’t mind
if I do.”
Adin raised his eyebrows. It could be awfully fun to watch
Donte explode. And he would, eventually. Santos had to know
that. He’d planned it that way,
the prick
. Adin and Donte still had
some things to work out between them. Surely it wouldn’t do for
Adin to have even a single shred of suspicion that Donte had
taken part in turning him.
“While you might be very good, Boaz was an imp, not a
vampire, and he was extremely useful for things that required
attention during the daylight hours.”
Sean cocked his head to the side a little. “I find there’s little I
can’t do once I set my mind to it.”
“I see.”
There was nothing in the world that could make Adin want
another man after he’d had Donte, not the way they were now, in
very human love, immortal, and vaguely animal at the same time.
They were monsters for one another, so hungry they devoured
each other yet still felt starved…
No. Sean was attractive and there had been a time when
Donte had left Adin, or so he thought, and he’d considered…But
after everything that had happened? No. Now, there was no way.
Still. Dark and angry was Adin’s favorite look on Donte,
focused and lethal instead of brooding. He liked that. An off-
balance Donte was never, ever boring, and they had a long, long
time together ahead of them.
Adin smiled sweetly at Sean and asked him, “How are you at
mending clothes?”
About the AuthoR
Z. A. MAXFIELD is a fifth generation native of Los Angeles,
although she now lives in Orange County, CA She started
writing in 2007 on a dare from her children and never looked
back. Pathologically disorganized, and perennially optimistic, she
writes as much as she can, reads as much as she dares, and enjoys
her time with family and friends. If anyone asks her how a wife
and mother of four manages to find time for a writing career,
she’ll answer, “It’s amazing what you can do if you completely
give up housework.” Check out her website at:
http://www.
