Bloodbound Nocturne (The Sophia Kelly Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  "Point taken," he finally says.

  Feeling a delayed but powerful sense of satisfaction, I settle slowly back in my seat and wait for a further retort. Men like him always insist on the last word. But he's got nothing. I give myself a mental high-five as I stare out the window, carefully observing the landscape around me as the plane makes its descent into Austin.

  Once the plane has come to a stop, weary travelers start to shuffle around as they mechanically prepare to depart the aircraft. My heart sinks. In a matter of minutes, this strange man will be gone, and I'll likely never see him again. I want to say something, though I have no idea why. Our conversations have been less than stimulating. But he's got some kind of hold on me, and I don't think I can just let him go without a parting word.

  "If it makes you feel any better, I could hardly understand your writing or your music anyway. I don't know too many people who write music by hand anymore."

  My words sound more hurried than I anticipated, and I offer a weak smile to make up for it. I am no good around handsome men.

  "Well." He carefully slides the music into his fancy leather messenger bag. "I guess that makes me old-school then."

  CHAPTER TWO

  "Sophie!" Greg leaps out of the waiting car and throws his arms around me, not caring in the least that he's holding up the line of cars behind him. "You made it, Baby-Girl." He flashes his most dazzling smile. "How was your flight?"

  "It was, well… it was interesting, to say the least."

  I can't wait to hear Greg's take on my seatmate. My first little crush, and it's on a guy I don't know and will probably never see again. Figures.

  I look around for the grumpy German, who I haven't seen since we deplaned. He somehow managed to be one of the first ones off the plane, and of course paid me no mind as he departed. He hadn't said goodbye, good luck, or anything. But why should he? Men like him don't associate with women like me unless they're forced to.

  "I said, what do you think of the car?"

  Greg stands there, holding up traffic, and gestures toward the cute silver Volkswagen as if he's presenting it to me on a game show.

  "It's awesome, G." A horn honks behind us, and I offer a quick wave of apology. "But we'd better go. We're holding up the line."

  I toss my suitcase in the backseat and scramble into the passenger side, cradling my violin case in my lap like it's my firstborn child.

  "It so happens that my dad has a friend here who was looking to sell his old Jetta, so we lucked out." He gives the dashboard a loving pat. "I think it will do just fine for us. At least for a while, right?"

  My heart leaps into my throat. "Did you get a good price?"

  Greg comes from a very wealthy family, so money is never really an issue with him. His family is frugally luxurious, opting for new nice things only when their old nice things are no longer usable. His father is a prominent copyright lawyer in L.A., and his mother is a college professor at UCLA. They are the parents I’ve always wished I had.

  "My dad paid for half, and I paid for the other half, Sophe. It's like I said before I even started shopping for a car. I'm not sticking you with a car payment. But it's just as much yours as it is mine."

  Greg knows that my home and financial situation haven't been healthy or nurturing in any way whatsoever. He gets it.

  "Well, you know I'll be good for it as soon as I get that job touring with some famous violinist,” I say with a sardonic laugh.

  "You're well on your way, Baby-Doll. You even have a job already."

  Technically, Greg doesn't need to work, but he insists on helping pay his way through school. Greg has one of the biggest, most generous hearts I've ever seen. His parents lucked out with him.

  "Well, it's in the Music School, and my friend Colin helped me get the job. Remember me telling you about him? I met him back in high school when I used to go to all those violin competitions? Anyway, he works in the music office, too, and he's also majoring in music. He's a year older than me. Four years older than you.” I sometimes forget that even though we are both starting school as freshmen, Greg is only eighteen, three years younger than I am.

  Greg makes a noise of approval and raises an eyebrow. "Colin, huh? Yes, you've told me about him before, but I don't think I've met him, have I?"

  "It's not like that, G. He's just a friend. Strictly platonic. You'd like him, though. He's Irish."

  "Any clue what your actual job will be?"

  "That's a great question. Colin says I will be working for a professor. Which wasn't the original plan, but a new professor is coming on this semester. He is apparently really high-maintenance and insists on having his own student aide. Sharing with the other professors is not an option, I guess."

  "Really?" Greg seems surprised. "Your first job, right out of the gate, and you're going to be a student aide?" He shrugs. "Seems cool."

  "Don't get too jealous," I say. "No one has officially met the professor yet, but Colin says he's already got a reputation for being unfriendly. He's some big shot from Juilliard." My mind starts to wander. "What if he wears a jacket with patches on the elbows and smokes a pipe? While insisting that I call him sir? What if I am allergic to his aftershave? Because you know someone like that will wear aftershave, and not good, sexy-male-magazine-model aftershave. Old-man aftershave."

  "The worst," Greg agrees.

  "I know. Anyway, this job feels really really hush-hush, and I don't know why it's so hush-hush."

  "Maybe you'll meet some hot guy," Greg says with a sidelong glance. "Hell, maybe we'll both meet hot guys."

  "Wouldn't that be something?" I snort. "Meeting a hot guy who isn't a total jerk?" I think back to the pianist.

  Greg eyes me for a second, probably sensing there's a story behind my bitter comment, but he says nothing.

  I change the subject. "So, tell me about our house. Do you like it? Is it as cool as it looked online?"

  Greg grins excitedly as he reaches across the car to grab my arm. "Oh, honey, wait until you see the place. You think the car is a cool surprise? Wait until you see the house."

  Our West Campus neighborhood is picturesque and quite serene for being in the heart of UT. I gaze eagerly out the car window, hardly able to contain my excitement as we slowly pass cute cottages and bungalows, some painted in bright contrasting colors while others maintain a more traditional look. It's much more attractive and quainter than I imagined, and at first glance it contains no trace whatsoever of college students.

  "Are you sure this is the right neighborhood?"

  Greg laughs. "Oh yeah, it's the right neighborhood. I've been here for a few days already, and I've checked it all out. I couldn't believe it either."

  Most new students take a step down when they move out of their parents' houses. They live in the dorms or in run-down apartments, so blinded by their freedom and sudden independence that they don't notice the entire place is falling apart around them. For me, though, this neighborhood, with its neat, manicured lawns and litter-free streets, is more than a step up. It's like a whole other world. Greg doesn't want to say that this is where the rich kids live, but it's definitely where the rich kids live.

  "Here it is," says Greg, pulling into the narrow, crudely paved driveway.

  Painted a modest blue-gray color, it looks a little more conservative than some of the brighter, funkier homes we'd passed, but it's a gorgeous little place all the same. The front porch, with its elegant white columns on either side, is small, with a sweet little swing hanging in one corner.

  And I swear I can smell a fresh apple pie cooling on someone's windowsill. I feel like I've stepped back in time.

  "This is like a Normal Rockwell painting or something," I observe. "Are you sure real people live here?"

  "I've met a couple of our neighbors already," Greg says with a smile. "It's legit, Sophe. Hard to believe, but it is."

  "This doesn't look anything like the pictures we saw online."

  Greg holds up the key, dangling it in front
of me as proof. "Wait until you see the inside."

  He's not kidding. The interior of the house has been completely remodeled since Greg and I signed our lease. This is definitely not the same house Greg and I saw online. New wood flooring creaks happily under my feet, and the smell of the plush new leather living room furniture is as inviting as the furniture itself. I don't even know where to begin.

  "The kitchen is fully stocked, too. Food, coffee, fresh fruit. Grocery delivery came yesterday afternoon."

  I feel like we're invading someone else's home and that at any moment they will come barreling through the door wondering who we are and why we're standing on their new wood floors.

  "Greg, are you sure this is our place?" I step back outside and search for the house number, which hangs in brass right above the mailbox.

  "Positive," he assures me. "I called the property manager about it already. Told her that I arrived here yesterday after picking up our keys and that the place had been completely remodeled. I told her about the grocery delivery, too. She looked into it for us, and when she called back later yesterday afternoon, she said she spoke to someone who works for the landlord. An assistant or something. Anyway, the landlord insisted on remodeling after he bought the place and wanted to make sure it was done before we moved in."

  "Weird. Nice, but weird," I murmur. "I know I didn't live in the best apartments growing up, but I just assume that landlords don't usually provide grocery delivery and fancy furniture, do they?"

  Greg shakes his head. "They do not."

  I'm not sure I feel comfortable here. I glance at Greg, who is standing in the doorway of what I assume is his bedroom, outfitted in shades of slate-blue and gray and filled with sleek, modern bedroom furniture. I want to tell him that we could be in danger. That we shouldn't trust any of this. And that this probably has to do with whatever weird otherworldly ties my mother has. But I don't. The last thing I want is to start our life here echoing my mother's paranoid ramblings.

  "Wow, G," is all I can mutter as I make my way to the end of the hall, which I know will lead me to certain death.

  I'm afraid to see my room. I'm worried it will be too perfect. And of course it is. I shake my head, feeling a mixture of awe and disbelief. A mahogany queen-size bed sits in the corner of the room, outfitted with a rich-looking quilt of varying shades of purple. A matching dresser and full-length mirror take up the wall on the far end of the room. It's a stark contrast to the rollaway bed I left at home and the beat-up dresser my mother had found next to the dumpster outside of our apartment.

  "This is not right, G." I turn and almost run smack into him. "Do you not think this is weird? Someone has obviously been watching us. Studying us. Hell, maybe stalking us."

  I look around the room, half expecting to find a camera mounted on the ceiling in the corner.

  "You're starting to sound like your mother," says Greg, pulling me to him and kissing my forehead. “My dad's looking into this, too. It's going to be fine." If he thinks he's convincing me, he's insane. "For the time being, let's just try to enjoy it. We can live like queens here, you and me."

  He nudges me with his shoulder, trying to make light of the situation.

  "Until we find out what the catch is," I mutter under my breath. "There's always a catch."

  My first night in our little home doesn't go well. In fact, it's terrible. Every little creak and bump and groan of the small house awakens me, my mother's warning — "You're of age. They're coming for you. He's coming for you" — at the forefront of my mind. By the next morning, despite the bright Texas sunlight that filters in through my new, gauzy purple curtains, I am a wide-eyed, trembling wreck.

  Why do I have new, gauzy purple curtains? Why do I have any of this?

  With a loud sigh, I fling the covers aside and stagger over to the dresser to stare at my haggard face in the mirror. Yesterday's makeup is caked in the corner of one eye and smudged under the other, which only emphasizes the dark circles that have formed under my eyes. I look like my mother. One day into my new life. I need to get it together and at least remember to take my makeup off at the end of the day.

  I look over with slight disgust at the bed. I'm not supposed to have new furniture and pretty curtains on the windows. This is not right. I am not a rich kid. I should not be living like one.

  My mother had not answered the phone when I called last night, nor had she returned my call or the barrage of texts I'd sent her. I thought it would be the other way around, that she would be looking for me, forgetting that I'd moved to an entirely different state and would not, in fact, be coming home for dinner. I want answers. I need my mother for once, and as usual she isn't around.

  There is a tap on my bedroom door, and Greg steps inside. He looks refreshed and gorgeous. Like sleeping in a room full of brand-new furniture that may or may not belong to him does not affect him whatsoever.

  "You have a visitor," he says in a singsong voice.

  A wide grin stretches across his handsome face, but I only scowl at him in return. He has always been a morning person, but on this particular morning, I find his perkiness to be a little nauseating.

  "Who is it?" I ask, trying not to come across as grumpy as I feel.

  "It's your old buddy Colin," he says, lowering his voice to a whisper. "You could've warned me, Sophe. He's gorgeous."

  "I guess if you're into the hippie surfer type."

  Greg frowns. "Surfer? Honey, this guy isn't like any surfer I've ever seen before. Now come on. Don't keep him waiting. He looks important and probably has some fashion show to get to."

  "Really?" It's hard for me to picture Colin as anything but an easygoing surfer with an Irish accent. "Jeez, I look terrible, G. Stall him for a minute, would you?" I make a circling gesture around the perimeter of my face. "I need to do something with this."

  He offers me a lopsided grin. "I wasn't going to say anything."

  I haven't even been here for a full day yet. How do people know where I live? I smooth my hair back into a sloppy ponytail and make a quick effort to scrub what's left of the makeup off my face. Throwing on yesterday's jeans and T-shirt, I give myself one last look in the mirror before rushing out of my room and down the hallway to the living room.

  Though Colin's social media presence is pretty small, I had sent him a message telling him I was moving to town, and we'd exchanged a couple of notes since, but I wasn't expecting a house call and a completely different person. I'm not exactly sure what happened to him since I last saw him, but he's gone from being the grungy surfer type I remember to a hunky, stylish college student. His blond hair, which had been shoulder-length the last time I saw him, is neatly cut into a hip faux pompadour, and he's given up his trademark blue hemp hoodie and baggy jeans for a more tailored look of slim-fitting jeans and a crisp button-down shirt. He'd always been able to pull off the California surfer look pretty well. At least until he opened his mouth and the Irish accent came lilting out. This version, though, is much better.

  "Colin," I exclaim, rushing forward into his open arms.

  He smells good, too. No more patchouli.

  "Hey Sophie," he murmurs, his entire face lighting up. "You look amazing."

  He takes a step back to look at me, and I feel my face redden as I lower my gaze from his. When did Colin MacLeod become so sexy?

  "And this place?" His eyes dart around the room, taking in our over-the-top surroundings. "This is fantastic! How did you ever score such a find?"

  I point to Greg. "This guy. His family is loaded."

  Greg gives me a sharp look. He hates it when I make comments like that, but all anyone has to do is Google his father's name and Greg's financial status becomes pretty clear. I give him an innocent bat of the eyes. What else was I supposed to say? It wasn't my money that got us into this place. Colin knows that.

  I gasp when I realize I haven’t properly introduced my two friends. "Oh! I should introduce you."

  Greg beams at Colin, who can't seem to take his eyes off
me. "We've met," he says, extending his hand to Greg. "Nice to meet you, man." Greg gives a nervous laugh in response. "Listen, Sophie, I don't want to keep you too long. I know you're still getting settled, but I was wondering if you'd like to meet up, say, maybe later this afternoon? Catch up? Talk about old times? You know, the usual."

  There is a flicker of worry in Colin's eyes, which makes me feel a little uneasy. This isn't just about catching up, a voice in the back of my head warns me. Colin isn't the same person he once was. I'm not always good at listening to this voice.

  "Sure," I say.

  Colin and I used to be close friends. If something is going on with him, he'll tell me.

  "Really?" He brightens, the worry in his eyes disappearing. "Great. There's a place on campus I like a lot. I work for them, so I suppose I'm a little biased. It's a craft-tea shop, and it's off of Thirtieth."

  "Craft tea?" I snicker at the hipsterness of it. "I suppose it was time for someone to open a craft-tea establishment."

  "You'd be surprised at how good tea can be," he says with a grin. "Come by this afternoon, and I'll make you something amazing."

  "Cool. I can do that."

  He leans in for another hug.

  "I'll see you later, then."

  Greg doesn't waste any time after Colin leaves before he comes sauntering up beside me, a knowing grin on his face.

  "Well, well, well. You've been here less than a day, and you've already got hot Irish guys asking you out. I'm a little jealous," he says, pouting.

  "I'm completely surprised. Colin doesn't post on social media very often, and he never posts pictures, so the whole transformation from hippie to hot was unexpected. Anyway, he had a pretty serious girlfriend last time I checked. Not that I'm constantly checking, because he doesn't post very often, but… yeah, I think he has a girlfriend, G." My pulse pounds as I sink into a seat at the kitchen table. "He's been my friend for a long time, but this? This interaction felt different. And maybe even a little weird."