Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116618 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 583(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
“They’re here,” Victor says, his gaze focused on a group of figures emerging from the fog-shrouded path.
Abe leads the way, elegant as ever in a tweed blazer that seems deliberately anachronistic amid the tie-dye and denim flooding the city. Ezra walks beside him, having embraced the new era more enthusiastically with a paisley shirt and round, wire-rimmed glasses that catch what little sunlight filters through the mist.
Behind them come the others—Wolf, massive and golden-haired, his booming laugh audible before he fully materializes from the fog; and Absolon, ethereal and ancient, moving with the quiet certainty of one who has seen civilizations rise and fall, his blue eyes holding secrets from ages long past.
“Uncle Wolf!” Olivia squeals, wriggling from my arms to rush toward the towering Norse vampire, who scoops her up and tosses her into the air as if she weighs nothing.
“There’s my little wolf cub!” he exclaims, his accent thickening with delight as he catches her.
Olivia giggles, tugging at his long blonde hair. “Did you bring me a present?”
“Olivia,” I chide her.
“A present?” Wolf says with a grin. He pulls out a small paper bag of penny candy, her eyes going wide with delight. “Will this do?”
Great. Now she’s going to be hopped up on sugar. Well, Wolf will bear the brunt of that.
Absolon approaches more sedately, offering a formal nod to Victor before turning to me. “Summer,” he greets, using my current alias with the faintest hint of amusement. “I’m starting to think Northern California agrees with you.”
“Solon,” I return, trying to match his cool persona and failing. “How’s business at Dark Eyes?”
“Flourishing,” he replies. “The current cultural climate has proven unexpectedly advantageous. So many young seekers, so many looking to expand their consciousness through any means available.” A slight smile touches his handsome features. “They come for the experience, the thrill of surrender. They leave lighter, we leave satisfied. A perfect symbiosis.”
The feeding club he and Wolf established in the basement of the Westerfeld House has become something of an underground phenomenon—an exclusive sanctuary where select humans can experience the euphoria of vampire feeding in a controlled, consensual environment, a more expansive, hedonistic version of what Abe had in Los Angeles.
“Your new tenant is quite the character,” Victor comments as we make our way toward a more secluded area of the park, away from curious human eyes. Too many vampires around each other seems to make them nervous in ways they can’t explain.
Wolf snorts. “Kenneth? He’s harmless. Obsessed with the occult, but what artist isn’t these days? His films are quite striking, actually.” He shifts Olivia to his shoulders, where she perches like a tiny queen surveying her domain. “The company he keeps, however…”
“The house has become something of a pilgrimage site,” Absolon explains. “Artists, musicians, seekers of various sorts. The energy is…stimulating, if occasionally chaotic. I find myself staying at our other house down the street, just so I can escape the dreaded drum circles.”
Abe chuckles, falling into step beside me. “What they mean is that the Westerfeld House has become the epicenter of San Francisco’s counterculture. Quite the change from when I first visited in 1908.”
We find a spot beneath a massive eucalyptus tree, its uppermost branches lost in fog, and spread blankets across the damp grass. Ezra produces a basket containing thermoses—blood for the vampires, apple juice for Olivia.
As we settle, Victor sits beside me, his arm sliding around my waist.
“What say we move here, kitten?” he asks me.
“You’d be more than welcome,” Absolon adds.
“I’m still happy with Santa Barbara,” I answer, leaning into my husband’s embrace. “The university keeps Vic busy enough.” Victor’s position as a research historian at UC Santa Barbara provides the perfect cover—limited contact hours, access to archives, and colleagues who don’t question his occasional absences or his seemingly ageless appearance over the years. He won’t be there forever, but he’s enjoying it for now.
“But you love it here,” he observes quietly, knowing me too well.
I shrug, watching as Olivia instructs Ezra on the proper way to make a daisy chain. “It’s vibrant. Alive in a way few places are. And there’s something about the fog, the way it conceals and reveals.” I meet his eyes, still captivated by their intensity after all these years. “But home is wherever we are together.”
He smiles, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Ever the romantic.”
“I learned from the best.”
Our moment is interrupted by Olivia’s delighted squeal. “Butterfly!” she exclaims, pointing toward a monarch that has somehow navigated the fog to alight on a nearby flower. She scrambles to her feet, preparing to give chase.
“Gently,” Victor cautions. “Remember what we taught you about fragile things.”
She nods solemnly, approaching the butterfly with exaggerated care, hands cupped as if in prayer. The butterfly, seemingly unalarmed, remains on its perch, wings slowly opening and closing in the diffused light.