“Whatever it was, it didn’t leave a mark.” He turned his head and twisted his shoulders to examine his back in the mirror, and my mouth went dry as the muscles of his torso moved beneath his skin.
In the living room, the apartment door opened and slammed shut, followed by the heavy fall of combat boots against the floor. “You guys aren’t doing it, are you?”
Nathan gave an exasperated sigh. “Ziggy, manners!”
The young man appeared in the doorway, dark circles around his eyes. “I’m supposed to give you this.” He handed Nathan a card with a police-shield emblem printed beside a name and phone number. “The cop said the books and merchandise are trashed. And they want the owner of the building to get in touch with them because they can’t seem to locate him.”
“The owner?” I looked from Ziggy to Nathan. “I guess I thought you owned the building.”
“I do.” Nathan slipped the card into his jeans pocket. “I’ll call them later.”
Ziggy let out a huge yawn. “I’m going to bed. I’ve got a big test tomorrow and I don’t want to be involved in any other vampire shit today, got it?”
“Got it,” Nathan replied with a smirk. “But I’m gonna need your help in the shop later tonight to find what we can salvage.”
“Can do.” Ziggy shot me a sharp and knowing look. “You feeling okay now, Nate?”
“Yeah, I must have grabbed a stale bag, gotten a little food poisoning.”
His expression hard, Ziggy stared at me. “Yeah, that must be it. I mean, it couldn’t have been anything else.”
But he didn’t mention the trip to Cyrus’s place. I hoped he’d have the sense not to say anything. When I left, he’d believe I’d gone of my own accord. I would make him believe it.
Ziggy bade us good-night and retreated to his room. As soon as his door closed, loud rock music blasted away.
“When he gets moody like this, I just leave him alone.” Nathan yawned and strolled into his bedroom. I followed him, not sure why. His upper-torso nakedness probably had something to do with it as he moved like an R-rated pied piper.
He opened his dresser and pulled out a T-shirt. Gray, like his eyes, I thought as I watched him pull it over his head. No. I didn’t need to remember his eyes, or any other part of him for that matter.
Except for his beating heart. I could take some solace in the fact I’d added another saved life to my tally.
I tried not to think of the price that would cost me. “Nathan, who’s Nolen Galbraith?”
He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing strands that had gotten mussed from the shirt. “That would be me. Actually, I should say that used to be me. Where did you hear that name?”
“It was on the fax from the Movement. And it’s what Cyrus called you.” I placed my hands on my hips. “He said he didn’t sire you.”
Giving me a crooked smile, he sat on the end of the bed. “Why all the questions?”
Because I just traded my life for yours. “You told me your name was Nathan Grant, and you told me Cyrus was your sire. Why did you lie?”
“I didn’t lie.” He reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. “Look.”
His driver’s license, besides having a criminally unfair good picture, bore the name Nathan Grant.
“I have to change my identity every couple of decades, remember? I like to think I can pass for forty before I have to move again.” He took his wallet back and tossed it on the dresser.
I shook my head in frustration. “But what about Cyrus? You said the same blood in my veins flows through yours. But he said he didn’t sire you.”
“He didn’t. Our blood is connected because the same vampire who sired Cyrus sired me.” Nathan cleared his throat. “I don’t normally talk about it.”
“Well, make an exception,” I snapped, and instantly regretted it. “I’m sorry. I’m just really tired, and all of this still freaks me out. Does it ever get any less weird?”
He smiled. “It hasn’t for me, so far. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” He must have realized he’d made the wrong word choice at the same time I did because an awkward silence lingered between us as we both tried not to look at the bed.
He stretched his arm behind his head and yawned to avoid eye contact. “Hey, about earlier tonight, when we—”
“Forget it,” I said quickly. I knew I would. There was no reason to hang on to the memory when we’d be enemies this time tomorrow.
I thought I saw disappointment in his eyes, but he shook it off with a contrived laugh. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best. We were just caught up in the moment and things got out of hand.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “It’s a total nonissue.”
“Well, then, I guess I’m going to go look over my insurance papers for the shop. Did you want to watch TV or something?”
“No, I’m actually pretty tired.” I looked at the bed. “Do you want me to take the couch tonight?”
He pointed a finger at me. “Today, Carrie. Get on vampire time. But no, I’ll be up for a while and I don’t want to disturb you. We can work out better sleeping arrangements tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I said, suddenly numb.
With a look of concern on his face, he reached out and gave my arm a squeeze. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just tired.” It wasn’t a lie. But when we said our good-nights and he left me alone in his bedroom, I couldn’t fall asleep. Instead, I looked around the room for a pen and paper. On the floor, between the bed and the wall, I found a sketchbook with a drawing pencil tucked into the coiled binding. It would do.
I flipped open the cover and paused. An incredibly beautiful, almost photographic-looking drawing of a sleeping child took up the first page. In the margin, in distinctly masculine handwriting that sharply contrasted the skilled lines of the drawing, was written, Ziggy, age eleven.
Turning the pages, I found a succession of similar drawings. They were mostly of Ziggy at various stages of his teen years, sleeping. From what little I knew of Ziggy, I realized the only time he’d hold still long enough to be sketched would be while he was unconscious. The few portraits of Ziggy awake were accompanied by photos paper-clipped to them. I flipped to the last pages, hoping to find some blank sheets. The final drawing froze my blood in my veins.
It was like looking at a photograph of the night we’d first met. He’d obviously drawn it from memory, as the coat I’d worn ended at the hips, not the knees, and my hair had been up, not curling softly around my shoulders. But it was unmistakably me.
I was flattered, but I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of freak spent time in moony daydreams about someone they’d known for less than two weeks.
But then again, what kind of freak trades their freedom for the life of someone they’ve known for less than two weeks?
Trembling, I pulled the page free from the binding and folded it small enough to fit into the back pocket of my jeans. Something to remember him by, I supposed. Then I tore out a blank piece and started writing.
The first letter I wrote was easier than I expected. My resignation from the hospital was simple, professional and, as it was handwritten in pencil on notebook paper, probably the last nail in the coffin of my medical career.
But it really wouldn’t matter. Nathan was right. Eventually, people would notice I didn’t age. Unlike