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

  Greg pops a coffee pod into the coffee machine and turns to face me as the aroma of fresh coffee fills the kitchen.

  "No way. No, ma'am. You are not doing this." He waggles a finger at me. "Do not sell yourself short, Sophia. There is absolutely no reason why you shouldn't already have hot guys asking you out, even if it's not Colin. With those lingerie model looks?" He frowns and swipes his thumb at the corner of my eye. "Except for that clump of mascara that you missed."

  I turn my face away from him, feeling the tips of my ears burning. I'm no good with compliments.

  "Come on, G. It's not that. I just meant that something felt off with him. Not necessarily in a bad way, but, well, you know how I like to warm up to people. Settle into them. This just happened really fast. I haven't even seen Colin in a while. I thought it was weird that he dropped by the house. I don't even remember giving him the address here."

  Greg hands me a mug of coffee and shrugs.

  "Sometimes you've just got to go with it. It's college, Baby-Girl."

  "Yes." I take a sip of coffee and stare out the kitchen window, my mind drifting to the grumpy pianist on my flight yesterday. "Sometimes you've just got to go with it."

  The craft-tea shop is housed in a cozy little cottage right off campus. Dimly lit and decorated with grungy muted tones, I assume the vibe is supposed to be chic, yet relaxing. There is a bit of trendiness thrown in for good measure. The scents of fresh herbs and tea leaves fill the air with an earthy calmness that you don't find in overly caffeinated coffee shops. This place has a charm all its own. I could get used to hanging out here. Colin waves me over.

  "Well, what do you think?" he asks, taking a towel and wiping down the counter.

  "I like it," I say, nodding with approval. "I had a little trouble finding it, though. Why is this place not more accessible? Maybe you'd have more customers." I make a sweeping gesture at the empty tables.

  "We like to make it feel exclusive," he explains. "It's a small business. Owned by a Celtic family that goes back hundreds of years."

  "Ah, Druids then?"

  Colin's family comes from a long line of Druids and pagans. He has studied Druidism for years, doing his best to follow their nature-based modern-day teachings and incorporate them into his daily life. Working in a place like this is only natural for him.

  "You could say that." He shrugs. "Tea has a way of enhancing your day. Your life, even. It's one of the things I love about it. Not just that it's Druid-owned, as you put it."

  "I see. What's with the old-world thing going on there?" I gesture toward a wall of beat-up glass apothecary jars along the back wall. "Are those potions? Can I get potions added to my tea? Something that will put me on the dean's list or something?"

  "Those are not potions, Sophe. Those are teas," he says, rolling his eyes. "Different ones we can mix and match to create your perfect blend. There are other add-ins we can throw in as well. Herbs, dried flowers, that sort of thing." He points to another set of smaller jars that sit on a shelf below the apothecary jars. "We have a menu of different recipes we can brew, but I have something in mind for you. It's a special recipe that's not on the menu." He grabs a teacup and saucer. "Here, have a seat at the bar, and I'll make it up for you."

  "What is it going to do to me?" I ask, eyeing him with suspicion as he mixes and muddles herbs and leaves and spices of varying textures.

  "It's going to be delicious," he says, looking up to meet my gaze. "My blends can change your life. Why do you think they hired me?" He winks at me before returning to his muddling.

  "I thought you worked in the music office?"

  "Oh, I do that as well," he says with a dismissive lilt in his voice.

  "How do you find time to study?"

  "I am a very talented individual, Sophe." He winks at me again, and, finally satisfied with his mixture of herbs and tea, he gently places them in a clear teapot to brew.

  "You're like a tea mixologist," I say, watching with fascination as the tea begins to bloom.

  "So tell me, Sophia Kelly, what have you been up to since we last hung out? I think it was that competition in Pasadena?" He pulls out a tray of delicious-looking tea cakes and sets it in front of me. "Those are on the house," he adds.

  I peruse the selection for a moment before I take one.

  "Working my butt off to get here and taking care of my mother. You know, the usual."

  "Still singing?"

  I wince a little when I think about the band I left back home. "No. I quit singing with Jamie's band after I got accepted into the university. I had so much work to do to prepare. Plus, my mother was filling my head with all this weird stuff about supernatural creatures stalking me in the streets late at night after gigs. I started believing it. I hated leaving the band, but I suppose I was going to be leaving them anyway." I pause, watching Colin as he pours my tea.

  "Your mother believes in the supernatural," he says, pushing the teacup and saucer toward me. "I knew that. I know she started to write a book about it at one point."

  "She did. She never finished it, though. She got in over her head with whatever she was using for research, or as inspiration, whatever you want to call it. She claims that faeries silenced her voice." I stop, realizing how silly this must sound. "I think the drugs are what silenced her voice. Those are her faeries." I pause as I think about my mother. Alone in L.A. Probably being taken advantage of by the next wannabe actor. I push those depressing thoughts aside, though. She's happy with her life, and I can't worry about her right now. Not if I want to be happy with my life. I pull myself back to the present and force a smile as I break off a bite of the biscuit, dunk it in my tea, and then pop it in my mouth. "Anyway, I think it's all a little much, but there have been times when weird stuff has happened, and it makes me wonder. You know? I think she's rubbed off on me a little."

  He nods. "I do know. I get it. I spent the summer working back home in Ireland. The home of the supernatural," he says, laughing. "I've seen plenty of things, Sophe. It's not all nonsense."

  I take a bite of biscuit followed by a sip of tea. Colin eyes me with interest as I swallow the warm, spicy beverage. A nurturing warmth comes over me, and for a moment, all I want to do is linger in its carefree lightness as the tea awakens my senses.

  "Well? How is it? How did I do?" Colin grins at me from across the bar.

  "Colin, I think you have found your calling." I tap the side of my teacup with my finger. "This stuff is fantastic."

  "Good. Then I will make you up a batch to take with you."

  "Man," I say after another sip. "What is in this tea?"

  "It's an old recipe. Passed down from generation to generation. So I'm not at liberty to say what is in it." He pulls up a stool and plops down, leaning in closer to me. "They say that particular tea can enhance your dreams at night. It can awaken you to things you never thought existed."

  "Great." I make a show of slapping my hand on the counter in mock frustration. "I want to get away from things I never thought existed. And now you're giving me magic tea that's going to make my dreams even stranger?"

  "No," laughs Colin. "Not magic. It's just a legend, Sophe."

  I take another sip. Legend or not, I'm willing to risk venturing into the unknown for this tea. It's fantastic.

  "What sort of weird dreams are plaguing you?" he asks with a curious arch of his eyebrow.

  "Oh, it's nothing. It's just that sometimes I have dreams of strange places full of weird people all speaking a language I can't understand. Or even begin to understand. I'd call it Faerie, but then that would make me sound like my mother, and I'm not sure how I feel about that." I set my teacup carefully on its saucer. "What do you know of Faerie, Colin? You study Irish lore. The faeries are your people, aren't they?"

  "They are indeed," he says in a proud Irish lilt. "There are all kinds of stories out there about them. Modern-day stuff. People have encounters with the Fae. People are trying to find the portals into Faerie only to get stuck in some hellish pla
ce that is nothing like Faerie."

  "Yeah, that's what my mother wanted to write about. She claimed to have living proof of modern-day Fae treachery. She wasn't as interested in the cutesy Renaissance fair faerie stuff." I pause a moment, watching Colin as he rearranges the apothecary jars on the shelves. "So you believe in all of that? Like my mother does? The Fae and the mysterious Faerie? You think they exist?" I ask.

  "It's hard to say. After some of the things I saw this summer, I think it's possible. If you are having strange dreams, I'd pay attention to them, Sophe. They could mean something significant. Maybe they are trying to tell you something." He gives me a playful wink before he rises and sets himself to work refilling one of the apothecary jars with tea leaves. "But enough of that. Let's talk about tomorrow night," he says, wiping the conversational slate clean. "You know I do work with the Austin Symphony, right?"

  "Ah yes." I roll my eyes. "Mr. I've-Got-an-In-with-the-Symphony.”

  "Well, it's volunteer work. Nothing big," he says. "Anyway, I can try to get you and Greg tickets, if you'd like. There is a concert tomorrow. It's the season opener, and the featured soloist is pretty spectacular. No promises, but I'll see what I can do."

  "That would be great if you could," I say, brightening. "I'm sure I can talk Greg into going. It's been, well, it's been a bit of an adjustment for me." I start to tell him about the strange circumstances that met me when I arrived in Austin, but I refrain. He doesn't need to know everything about my life just yet, even something as juicy and exciting as a mystery benefactor. "A concert would be a nice distraction."

  "Good." He brightens. "Let me see what I can do."

  We are interrupted by the jingling of the bell on the door. A tall, gorgeous brunette wearing trendy fitness clothing and a yoga bag slung carelessly over one shoulder walks in. She looks every bit like the starlets I used to see flouncing around L.A., bound and determined to get "discovered" and become the next big it-girl. It suddenly makes sense that Colin would dump his sloppy surfer look in favor of something a little more stylish. She dabs at her face with a towel before adjusting the messy bun on top of her head.

  "Hey," she says, her voice tinged with a surprising amount of melancholy for someone who looks like she never loses her Zen vibes.

  "Oh hey, Sarah." Colin eagerly rises to meet her like a moth to a flame, and who wouldn't? She's gorgeous. "Sarah, this is my friend Sophia, my friend from L.A. Remember me telling you about her?"

  He gives her the kind of look that begs her not to be angry that he's entertaining another woman with his magic tea, and I can't help but notice the emphasis he places on the word friend.

  "Hi, Sophia," she says breezily. She moves toward me as smoothly as she might flow from yoga pose to yoga pose, and, to my surprise, hugs me as if she's known me for years.

  "It's nice to meet you."

  She jerks away from me suddenly, her eyes wide. "Whoa." She and Colin exchange a glance.

  "What?" I ask, suddenly feeling like a third wheel. "What is it? Did I do something?"

  Sarah avoids my gaze, ducking past me as she moves toward the door. I am not sure, but it seems as if I've somehow knocked her chakras out of whack.

  "I'm sorry. I have to go," Sarah says hurriedly. "It was nice meeting you."

  The bell on the door gives a happy tinkle as she bounces back out again, looking anything but happy.

  "What was that about?" I poke my thumb toward the door, feeling a little deflated after that unpleasant exchange.

  "Sarah has a sort of sixth sense about her. She can pick up on things about people," Colin explains. "Sometimes she picks up on things that… well, she can't explain, which is what I assume happened. It does happen more than you'd think."

  I frown. "I think she didn't like me. And she probably didn't like walking in to find you hanging out with me."

  Except that the look on her face was of pure shock. Something about me frightened her. And Colin knows it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  There is something genuinely sophisticated yet utterly awkward about going to the symphony. I follow close behind Greg as we make our way through the crowded auditorium to the front row, where we will be sitting. I feel the weight of every eye in the place on us. Even wearing the cute new black cocktail dress Greg insisted on buying for me, I still feel terribly out of place with all the wealthy symphony donors and ancient-looking patrons of the arts that have probably held their prime seats for over fifty years. Expensive old-lady perfume fills my nostrils as we scoot down the narrow aisle to our seats.

  "There's one at every concert," I mutter, sniffling deeply in an attempt to rid my nostrils of the sharp and unpleasant fragrance.

  "We're the youngest ones here, by far," Greg says once we've found our seats. "And it looks like everyone here knows each other already."

  "Probably because they've all held these same seats for thousands of years. Probably pass them down in their wills."

  "Should we take a selfie? Just to be annoying?" Greg waggles his eyebrows at me.

  "No," I hiss. "I'd like to someday play with the symphony, or a symphony. I don't know who's watching, but I want to make a good impression. Duck faces and gang signs are not the impression I want to make."

  Greg sighs and hands me a program, and I immediately start to flip through it, trying my best to ignore the judgmental glances from the people nearby.

  "I need to make sure I thank Colin later for the tickets. He wasn't sure he'd be able to get them."

  Greg frowns. "Colin? Sophe, those tickets came over while you were out with Colin," he says. "Some guy rolled up in a fancy black Mercedes and hand-delivered them. Looked like someone's driver or servant or something."

  Greg had presented me with the tickets yesterday after I'd returned from the tea shop, and without thinking much about it, I’d just assumed they were from Colin.

  "He never even texted to ask if I got them. That is weird. And why wouldn't he just leave them at the box office? Hand-delivery wasn't necessary." I pause for a moment. Maybe he felt bad after the awkward introduction with Sarah and wanted to make it up to me by delivering the tickets so we wouldn't have to hassle with the will-call line. "Oh well," I say with a dismissive shrug. "We're here now. Hopefully, our tickets are legit."

  "Who did you say was playing tonight? The performer?" Greg asks, changing the subject.

  It's a silly question. Greg doesn't have the faintest idea about the classical music world, aside from what I've told him.

  "I don't know," I say with a shrug. "Colin says the soloist is fantastic though, whoever it is. Hmm," I mumble, as I slowly turn the heavy, glossy pages of the program. "The season opener is usually pretty good. Sort of sets the stage for the rest of the season."

  "It's this guy, Christoph von… something German," Greg says, pointing to the artist bio section and the accompanying picture in my program.

  My heart leaps into my throat. Staring back at me with those smoldering eyes and chiseled, smirky expression is the grumpy pianist who had been on my flight yesterday. He's leaning slightly sideways against a beautiful concert grand piano, and he wears what looks like a high-collared Victorian-style tuxedo with a cravat tied at the neck. Goosebumps prickle along my neck. My heart thuds wildly in my chest. I am a mess.

  "It's him. That's the guy," I whisper, swallowing hard against my suddenly dry throat.

  How can this guy who hadn't been at all friendly completely disarm me through a black-and-white photo in a concert program?

  "Who?" asks Greg, craning his neck to get a better look at the program, which I've moved to my lap.

  "This is the guy I was telling you about. The jerk I had to sit next to on my flight yesterday."

  I stamp my thumb over his face in the picture, wishing I could erase him from my mind.

  "Ah." Greg cocks his head, watching me with a wary expression. "You're beet-red, Baby-Doll." He snickers. "What exactly happened on that flight yesterday?"

  I quickly look away. I know I'm blushi
ng. I can feel the heat burning my cheeks at the thought of seeing my old seatmate again, even if only from afar.

  "Me? No, it's just hot in here," I say with a weak smile.

  His name is Christoph. Jesus, can he be even sexier?

  "Yes, apparently it is," Greg murmurs, arching an eyebrow at me. "You really think he's cute?" He turns the program around in his hands to change the angle of the picture. "He's okay. A little too chiseled for my tastes." He shrugs. "I think Colin is much cuter."

  I fold my arms over my chest, remembering how irritable and sour the pianist had been on the flight.

  "Honestly, I don't know what it was about him. He's full of himself, and not at all friendly. There's something about him." I bite my lower lip. "I don't know, G."

  "It's always the assholes," Greg says with a sigh, a little too loudly. The people next to him turn and frown at his choice of words. "We always like the assholes. Well, what's he playing? Something good?"

  "He's playing a Rachmaninoff piano concerto. The third one." Not that Greg understands a word of what I'm saying, but he nods politely anyway. "It's challenging. Not many people have the guts to perform it live."

  Greg has pulled out his phone to check something when I nudge him gently on the shoulder.

  "There's Colin," I hiss, nodding my head toward the outer wings of our row.

  Colin may only be a volunteer, but he looks like he belongs here, dressed in a dark suit and tie, his hair a perfect blond mess. He stands with another man, who wears a headset and carries a clipboard under one arm. Intensely focused on what the man is saying, he nods intently, rocking back and forth on his heels, as if ready to spring into action. They laugh about something before the other man claps him on the shoulder and walks away. Colin, as if knowing I have been staring at him, catches my eye and winks before disappearing backstage. Greg is right. He is cute. But Christoph? There is something different about Christoph. Something dangerous and exciting. Something I should probably not even think about.

  The lights dim, and Greg and I put our programs away, turning our attention to the stage. The announcer steps out and begins to talk, but my ears have started to ring so loudly I can hardly hear him. Feeling jittery and very anxious, I wipe my palms on my skirt, focusing on taking deep breaths. As the announcer begins to introduce Christoph, my heart starts to race. The words "Grammy-winning" and "world-renowned" jump out at me. How have I never heard of this man before? The announcer is talking about him as if he's everywhere. Conductor. Grammy-winning composer. Concert pianist and organist. Doctor of musical arts. President and founder of the Music Matters Foundation. How has he accomplished so much at such a young age? I estimate he's in his mid- to late-twenties. Most music professionals with this kind of resume are well into their fifties.