Free Lost Angeles by Lisa Mantchev, A.L. Purol Page A

me she missed me.” I don’t like the idea of her caught in the crossfire, and that tends to happen to the women in my life. “What’s she got to do with all this?”
    His expression shifts then. Vampires don’t age, but he suddenly looks older, weary, with an undercurrent of sadness that I haven’t seen since Elin died.
    Finally he answers, “Everything and nothing.”
    And fuck me for asking.
    I sigh and hold my cup out, because apparently all I’m getting out of Roman right now is a refill.

CHAPTER FIVE
Lore
    It’s funny, the things you notice when people think you aren’t looking. Reille Reece flits past the main stage, taking up a seat at one of the tables on the ground floor, just past the light where it’s harder to be seen. She spreads out there, neat stacks of papers on the table, laptop open. Phone to her ear, she works there for the better part of two hours, ignoring the music from the stage, disregarding all interruptions.
    At the soonest possible opportunity, I’m marching my ass down there for a little tête-à-tête. Since arriving at Scion, ostensibly for rehearsal, I’ve been shoved in and out of various outfits, most of which would do a streetwalker proud. I don’t even get a dressing room, just three pairs of Spanx and a perfect view of all the things on the other side of the curtain. For the most part, I can ignore the jabs and pokes and admonitions to stand up straight, keeping my eyes on the redhead in the shadows.
    So close. And yet so far…
    But I figure she’ll be there when I’m done, at least until a lackey hits the dance floor. The woman is wearing a nude dress so tight that it hampers her walk, her too-tall heels creating a metronome beat, a pretty prestissimo that doesn’t faze the trio onstage. She skids to a halt at the corner of the table, drawing Reille’s attention as her hip bangs against the edge. There’s a moment of confusion, then a simple, two-word warning.
    “He’s coming.”
    After that, it’s a mad scramble to tuck away papers and files and folders, and then both women are gone, exiting stage left even as His Royal Majesty enters stage right. He strides into the space, his nose to the air like a bloodhound. It would almost be funny, except Xaine looks far from entertained. He’s in a pair of his signature leather pants and a silk button-down, except there are no actual buttons on the dang thing. Bare-chested and scowling…
    Dark Prince Apocalypse .
    Xaine pulls to a halt below the stage, unperturbed by my state of undress. “Hey there, Fuzzy Bunny. They treating you right?”
    It takes a second, but then I realize Xaine means me. I am the Fuzzy Bunny. “Sure. Bottled water. Catered lunch. Et cetera.” I wave a hand at the nearby table, which is set up with a coffee service, sodas, blood packs, pre-made salads, sushi, and fruit. He gives me the briefest of nods, gaze already drifting out over the darkened auditorium when I tack on, “Thanks for all the… um… welcome gifts?”
    Not sure what I’m expecting by way of a reaction, but it’s certainly not the tiny crinkle of amusement at the corner of those famously-blue eyes. “So did you eat all the things?”
    “Yeah,” I say, wincing a little when the stylist stabs my hip with a pin. “Twenty pies, five dicks, and a sausage basket… I made a night of it.”
    There it is, then: the smirk. The one he wears onstage, in videos, in photoshoots. It’s his trademark half-fang grin, one I’ve seen on TV hundreds of times and in thousands of pictures. Seeing it in person is a little surreal.
    “Sounds like my kind of party,” he says, the whole of his attention now on me, on the outfit, on the stylists. “What have they got you dressed in?”
    “Given the amount of leather and the number of times I’ve been stuck by a pin,” I say, offering him a slightly sardonic smile, “I’m going to go with fetwear?”
    “Also sounds like my kind of party, except for the fact that you’re more covered up