A Vampire's Soul Read Online Free Page B

about the way my body processes alcohol. Terror negated the intoxication I was hoping for, even at eighty proof. The level of liquid in the bottle had dropped by at least a third, and I didn’t have so much as a decent buzz. Fuck! There was a distinct possibility I was going to have to deal with Gabriel stone cold sober after all.
    Folding my arms on the table, I leaned forward and put my head down. I just couldn’t catch a break. Instead of strapping some steel to my spine and making me brave and bold, all the bourbon seemed to be doing was activating my tear ducts. That my tearful breakdown was witnessed by kitchen appliances was just wrong.
    Â 
    â€œRowan . . . Rowan . . . wake up.”
    My shoulder was being shaken, and although I understood the words, I really didn’t want to open my eyes. I was feeling good, tranquil and stress-free, the way I imagine I’d feel after having a great massage at some swanky spa. All I needed now was cucumber slices on my eyes and a pedicure. That this particular fantasy was tinged a glorious shade of sippin’ whiskey bronze only added to the ambience.
    â€œRowan, dahlink . . . open your eyes for me.”
    Dahlink?
    The firm pressure of fingers on my shoulder brought me back to reality. The dull ache in the small of my back said I’d been hunched over the kitchen table for longer than I’d thought. I opened my eyes and blinked owlishly at the face smiling down at me.
    â€œ Anashayshzia? ” From the way I slurred her name, it occurred to me I’d finally hit the technically wasted mark. Well, it’s about damn time!
    With her arm about my shoulder, the lovely blonde helped me come a little more upright. I caught the scent of her perfume. Yves St. Laurent’s Opium , a classic that smelled wonderful on her. Somehow I wasn’t surprised by her choice. Everything about Gabriel’s friend was lovely, elegant, and classic. I wasn’t surprised that she and Gabriel were close.
    â€œYou need coffee,” Anasztaizia declared, giving me a sympathetic shake of her head. “Lots of good Russian coffee, I am thinking.”
    Lovely, elegant, but not very bright. Coffee was the last thing I wanted. I wanted more bourbon. No, I needed more bourbon. I tried telling her this, but all that came out of my mouth was an incoherent perversion of the English language. Anasztaizia was not, apparently, well versed in drunken bourbon-ese, and she frowned at me. I was dismayed when she picked up my glass and the bottle of Jack Daniels and placed both on the counter, out of reach.
    â€œIs bad to drink alone, dahlink.” Slipping off her coat, she draped it over the back of an empty kitchen chair and pulled from the depths of her oversized purse a brightly colored canister. “Filters?”
    I mumbled, and waved a hand peevishly at the cupboards lining the wall. If she was going to cut me off, then she could find the damn filters all by herself. Apparently Anasztaizia was a whiz at sign language because she found the right cupboard on the first try. I put my elbow on the table and plopped my chin in my hand, watching as she made herself at home in my kitchen. A lot of women are proprietary about their kitchen, but not me. Want to bake me a cake? Go right ahead!
    I wiped my mouth on the heel of the hand that was holding my head up. My tongue felt thick, my head thicker. By rights I ought to have been passed out under the table, and I had no idea why I wasn’t. I stared at the clock on the wall, but my focus was off, so it took me a couple of tries to read the hands correctly. I would have sworn on a stack of bibles that I’d put my head down for only a couple of seconds—okay, five minutes at most—but according to the clock I’d misplaced two hours. Two hours? Sheesh!
    Anasztaizia busied herself making coffee. I had no idea what she was doing in my kitchen—well, I knew what she was doing; it was the why that was a