Camdeboo Nights by Nerine Dorman

Have you no pride? You dress like a homeless peasant.”
    “I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.”
    “Evidently.”
    His thoughts raced through dozens of options–none of them suitable for escape–and he looked everywhere but her. He should kill her, but how? Not here.
    “Well, then, we’re wasting our time in this sinkhole,” he said. “Let’s go outside.” Might as well play for time and draw the conversation out long enough to find some sort of option.
    “So that you can find a dark corner to kill me? Uh-uh. I’m not stupid. You may have fooled some of the other jagters with that ploy but it won’t work on me.”
    “Well, then, how do you propose to bring me to justice? I can simply wait here for the sun to rise. As far as I can recall, your allergy is far worse than mine.” He forced a smile, allowing his fangs to extend ever so slightly. The older vampires burned much nicer than the youngsters.
    Mantis hissed. He’d brought up one of her most profound weaknesses. At more than six hundred years of age, she’d burn up in a matter of half an hour, or less.
    Yes, he didn’t much like the sun, either, but had tried to forestall the inevitable allergy by exposing himself whenever he had the opportunity to push his limits. The less he fed, the less his true nature took its toll, though that, in itself, meant walking the knife edge of starvation. He had to have some advantage living out here in this thirst-land.
    Mantis slid her hand into her waistcoat and revealed the hilt of a dagger. The ruby in the pommel winked at him.
    “You wouldn’t,” he said. “Not here. Not with all these humans surrounding us. You’d get into worse trouble than I did.”
    He had to stall, make a plan, but how? He was trapped.
    That was when he spotted Buks, one of the regulars here. The man stood near the pool table, impossible to miss. Broad shoulders rippled with muscle and a considerable layer of subcutaneous fat. He contained about as much Essence as a flea.
    “Be reasonable,” Mantis said. “You can’t continue hiding. Even if I do let you go tonight, at the next council meeting I attend, I will tell the elders I saw you. They will send other jagters . If you decide to come peaceably I won’t hurt you and I’ll speak in your favor at the hearing.”
    “Your promises mean nothing to me. I won’t be fooled a second time. I didn’t mean to kill her. It was an accident.” Unbidden, painful memories resurfaced–ones Trystan had tried to avoid considering, of his one love dead by his own hand. His fault.
    Mantis snorted and covered her mouth with her hand. “Carry on saying that until you believe that tired line as well. You expect me to swallow such a cock-and-bull story? You’re an Essence junkie. You’re too dangerous to leave on the loose.”
    Like a moth to a candle, he thought, remembering the Owl House with its thousands of lamps. Scared, he’d hang back, forever itching to damn himself.
    Trystan shivered again, his fingernails raking into the flesh of his upper arms. He reached carefully, sending a near undetectable tendril toward Buks, who leaned so far over the pool table his crack of doom peeped out from the back of his jeans. He hoped Mantis took his lack of attention for shame.
    “Trystan, what will it be?”
    “Huh?” He glanced at her, projected a worried frown and what he hoped was an attitude of confusion.
    “Are you going to make this easier for the both of us?”
    Buks straightened, scratching his left buttock, clearly puzzled that he’d missed his shot. Small piggy eyes set in a florid face scanned the room, finally settling on a target. No, not me. Her.
    “Mantis, I don’t know why the council still bothers with me. I’ve been out of the loop for so long now I may as well be dead. I suggest you go back to Jozi and pretend you never saw me here tonight. That will be the easiest, for both of us.”
    “Please, Trystan, do I look stupid?”
    Part of him was tempted to say yes,