“Right, so it’s forbidden by who?”
“By the Masters; it reduces their numbers. Though Ruadhan told me that sometimes they would allow it—manipulate it, even, on purpose—if they wanted to strengthen a particular male in the clan. Not like Jonah could take up with a human either,” Brooke continued. “It would take a lot of willpower to avoid the same end occurring for the unwitting girl.”
She made sure she got that in.
“I’m surprised you got off so lightly, you must not have whet his appetite enough!”
I recalled the flash in Jonah’s eyes as he had fed from me. I was sure I did more than whet his appetite, not that I was about to reveal that to Brooke.
“So you can never experience love?” I asked. By my reckoning, this tale was applicable to Brooke as much as it was to Jonah.
She almost snorted at me. “Love isn’t an emotion that comes easily to … Vampires,” she whispered again.
The coffee shop was bustling with tired shoppers. They chatted loudly, surrounding us in a cloud of half-heard conversations. I looked over my shoulder and when I felt safe that no one was listening in, I carried on. “But you love Jonah?” My statement tumbled out before I had a chance to stop and think.
Brooke looked like I had hit her in the face. It was the most honest expression I had seen her wear yet. She sat silently and I didn’t dare break the silence first. I was half expecting her to throw a fit. I was suddenly thankful she kept the dark glasses on, masking her eyes. To my surprise, she lifted them instead, and spoke softly.
“Yes, maybe. It’s more difficult for him. I never served a Gualtiero; Jonah did serve for some time. Perhaps I am closer to my humanity because of it. I’m sure, deep down, he must feel the same, but he knows how this works and he would never risk me like that.”
As she said it, I nodded with empathy; though I couldn’t help think that she had somewhat deluded herself. The Jonah I knew didn’t exactly fit the “knight in shining armor” persona that she seemed to have created for her own fantasies. I thought she must have been lying to herself to avoid his rejection; that, I could genuinely sympathize with. I guess it was a lot less painful to accept than the truth.
I finished my tea and crumpled the paper that the éclair had sat in. I stood up, preparing myself for the rest of the shopping onslaught.
We moved fast from shop to shop and I picked up several practical pairs of skinny jeans and a few pairs of boots, including a black pair of something Brooke had referred to as “Uggies.” Apparently, if I had to be practical I could at least be on trend, or so she insisted. Legs aching, my fingers sore from the plastic bags that dug into the palms of my hands, I was ready to give up and insist on calling it a day when a little boutique shop on the corner of the road caught my gaze.
The word MADEMOISELLE neatly swirled above the door.
Brooke tried to move me along, but before she could convince me, I had stepped through and was already scanning the racks of vintage clothing.
It was one floor, with only a few racks, but the items hung individually, each unique and distinct. Fingering my way through the lace tops carefully, I finally felt at home.
“This stuff is hardly vintage! Everything looks ancient!” Brooke said.
“It’s beautiful,” I replied, picking up an ivory-lace buttoned top.
I turned it around and saw that the back of it was absolutely stunning. I was saddened momentarily at the fact that I would have to wear a slip underneath to cover my scar.
Within fifteen minutes, I had literally filled the changing room with the most delicate fabrics and designs that I had ever seen. The clothing ranged from lace tops to muslin day dresses, though I had to agree with Brooke—most of the items looked incredibly dated. I popped on the lace blouse that had first caught my attention. Slipping it on over my curves, it rested neatly on my shoulders, molding to my contours perfectly.
I let my golden blond hair fall down my back, but slid in some pins to scrape the left side up. I then placed a black shawl around my shoulders, completing the look.
“Well, it’s old-fashioned, but it is elegant on you,” Brooke commented.
I didn’t need convincing. I felt immensely happy in the outfit, even though I had teamed it with black skinny jeans; they seemed to modernize the outfit and bring it back into this century at least! I paid for my selection at the counter and begged Brooke to let us be finished.
“Ralph Lauren first. You need some sweaters; it’s freezing cold in this damn country if you hadn’t noticed!”
Eight identical sweaters in an array of colors, eight shirts, five blouses, and two more jackets later, she was dragging me through a shop called Selfridges, at which point I gave her full permission to pick out everything else without my approval; yet she continued to drag me around each section. This girl could seriously shop.
Two more hours and I had everything from peplum dresses to something called harem pants.
As I sought refuge in the shoe department, Brooke stole the opportunity and began wedging my feet into a pair of Christian Louboutin platforms.
“Okay! Enough! Please can we go now?” I said, throwing off the shoes and grabbing for my flats that were the ugly stepsister in comparison.
“Fine, but I am getting these for you; you need some heels. You do know you’re a girl, right?”
“I don’t do heels, Brooke. I do flats; plain and practical. When would I ever wear five-inch sandals exactly?”
“First, they are six inches, and they’re stiletto peep-toes, not sandals. Second, you will thank me … at some point.”
At that, she called the enthusiastic saleswoman back over and started pointing out a selection of stilettos to wrap up.
My jacket pocket started to vibrate and, surprised, I shoved my hand inside and produced the iPhone; I’d forgotten about that.
TIME TO COME BACK, IT’S NEARLY DARK, the text read. The name popped up as “Gabriel.”
I had no idea what time it was; I had barely seen the outside today.
I typed a reply: TRY TELLING BROOKE THAT.
A few minutes later she returned and handed me yet more bags and the credit card, which I remorsefully zipped up in the pocket of the borrowed jacket.
“Frickin’ Gabriel wants us to call it a day, come on,” Brooke huffed.
Reluctantly Brooke ventured for the exit and, to my delight, we left the shop. As we began to walk down the street, I briefly paused to take in the beautiful Christmas window display that was now lit up. But Brooke snatched my arm and dragged me away before I had time to truly appreciate it.