Oh. So they did notice the ring.

Caine stared him down. “Of course she’s a mage. But a bastard fire cleric put a curse on her, and now she has to wear the ring to suppress the spell or her whole body will go up in flames. And I’m quite fond of her body.”

“I’m sure you are. I know your type.” The bartender winked, returning to his blood Martini. “Fine. Keep the ring on. As long as you can vouch for her.”

Apart from the fangs, the guy really didn't seem like a vampire. Vampires weren’t supposed to wink.

Caine grabbed Rosalind’s hand and led her to the bar. She shot him a quick glance. His features were relaxed. Impressive lying—a crucial skill in any mage’s repertoire. Is there a chance he’d been lying about incubi?

Apparently, she was supposed to pretend to be his girlfriend. She could live with that if it meant she could get her life back. All part of the mission.

Caine led her to the silver bar stools, where Aurora was already knocking back a glass of blood.

Blood-drinkers and demons. This was her new crowd. She took a seat next to Caine, who leaned on the bar.

Drying a Martini glass, Jorge nodded at him. “What can I get for you? The usual?”

“The usual. And the same for my girlfriend.”

Jorge nodded. “Two bourbons, and two dinners of food.”

She turned to Caine, her stomach rumbling. She didn’t have high hopes for the menu. “Two dinners of food?”

He leaned in to her. “He hasn’t eaten food in several centuries. Don’t expect anything amazing.”

“What are you implying?” Aurora asked. “Vampires can’t cook?”

He stared at her. “You tried to make me ramen noodles in a tea kettle.”

Aurora shook her head. “What’s the problem? That’s what I ate when I was a human.”

“I guess that’s what happens when you die in college,” Caine said.

Jorge filled two tumblers with bourbon, sliding them over the bar.

Rosalind cocked her head, glancing at Caine. “You don’t drink blood?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Why would I drink blood?”

“I thought mages drank human blood. From skulls. But if you’re an incubus…” She let the thought die out on her tongue. There was no way she wanted to vocalize that he gained power through sex.

“Right. Mages drink blood. Just like we all have to glamour ourselves to hide our deformities.” He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “No. I’m pretty sure we’ve established that’s bollocks. I’m gorgeous, and you’re the blood-drinking human.”

Shit. She’d forgotten about the ambrosia. Maybe it was possible. After all, Blodrial was known as the sacred god of blood. The Guardians were a little obsessive about the drink. It wasn’t human blood, but—on the other hand—maybe trying to rationalize blood drinking was not a good sign.

Jorge dropped off two white plates, piled with food. At least, technically it was food: a pile of Swedish fish, two uncooked tortillas, a stack of American cheese slices, and a frozen pancake, artfully presented on a doily.