by Lynsay Sands
“So,” Santo murmured, drawing her reluctant attention back to him. “What do you want to know? What questions do you have regarding the . . . er . . . situation on your sister’s street?” he explained, lowering his voice somewhat and glancing at the tables around them.
Pet looked around again as well, this time noting that there wasn’t really anyone near enough to hear them. She then turned back just in time to see him straighten his shoulders as if preparing himself to face battle.
“I shall endeavor to do a better job of answering them than I did earlier,” he assured her when she hesitated.
Pet felt her mouth twitch with amusement. Really, the man looked like he had just agreed to a root canal without Novocain rather than simply answering some questions. It made her wonder about his earlier annoying lack of communication. Perhaps it hadn’t been deliberately irritating, or a rejection.
Sighing, Pet sat back and considered what she should ask. Her first concern was Parker. Not just his physical safety, which she intended to take care of by taking him to her apartment and keeping him there, but also his emotional well-being, which appeared to be tied up with concern for his friend and neighbor Mr. Purdy. “You said that Purdy’s cousin is dangerous.” When he nodded, Pet asked, “Do you think Mr. Purdy is safe?”
“I do not know,” Santo admitted, but when irritation flickered across her face, he added, “As you know, we have been watching the house, but we have seen no signs of life. We may already be too late.”
He didn’t look any more pleased to make that admission than she was to hear it, she noticed. “Then why haven’t you just raided the place or something?”
Santo hesitated, several expressions running across his face, and then he sighed and said, “Our orders are to watch and wait for backup.”
“Because this cousin is dangerous?” Pet guessed, and before he could answer, asked, “Why? How is he dangerous? What has he done?”
Santo seemed to consider her questions for a long time before finally saying, “If he is who we think he is—”
“Who do you think he is?” Pet interrupted at once.
“Dressler,” Santo answered simply, and then seeing her exasperation with his short answers, he expounded. “Dr. Dressler was a mortal scientist performing . . .” He hesitated, and then asked, “How much do you wish to know about Dressler? His recent history, or—?”
“All of it,” Pet interrupted promptly.
“Right.” Santo grimaced and then took a deep breath and said, “As far as we know, he started out performing genetic experiments on other mortals more than thirty years ago. But—”
“What kind of genetic experiments?” she interrupted again. This time he didn’t hesitate to answer.
“Splicing human DNA with the DNA from various animals to create hybrids.”
“Hybrids?” Pet sat back, a frown pulling at her lips. “You mean like snake men or cat people or something?”
“I did not see either of those,” Santo said seriously. “But there were winged mortals, mortals with changeable chameleon-like skin, creatures who looked like normal mortals but had both lungs and gills and could breathe under water as well as on land, and the boy in the cage next to mine had the body of a horse without its head, while where the neck would start was the upper body of a mortal from the waist up.”
“What?” Pet barely breathed the word, horror seeming to close her throat. “You mean like the mythical centaur?”
Santo nodded, his expression grim. “Sì. Like a centaur.”
“Damn,” Pet breathed, hardly believing it, and then she wondered, “What was this Dressler guy thinking? What kind of life will the poor boy have?”
“He will not,” Santo said solemnly, and when Pet looked confused, he explained, “The boy died. His lungs were unable to take in enough oxygen to sustain what was essentially almost an entire horse body and half a human body.”
Pet sighed sadly at that news, and then stilled as what he’d said earlier ran through her mind again. Horror growing in her, she asked, “You said he was in the cage next to yours?”
Santo stiffened, his expression closing. It seemed obvious he hadn’t meant to mention that part, and while she was dying of curiosity to have him explain that, she took pity on him, let it go, and instead prompted him to continue his explanations by asking, “So Dressler was experimenting with gene-splicing on mortals?”
“Sì,” Santo breathed, some of the tension leaving him. He started to open his mouth as if to continue, but then paused and sat back as their waiter, Dylan, arrived with their drinks.
“Thank you,” Pet murmured as the young man set a glass of Sprite in front of her and another in front of Santo. She leaned forward the moment the man slipped away, and sipped some of the cold sweet drink up the straw sticking out of it, noting that Santo aped her action, not picking up his glass, but leaning down to sip from his straw as well. She was just thinking that couldn’t be comfortable for such a big guy, when he straightened abruptly and blinked at her. Unsure why he was reacting like that, she asked, “Is something wrong?”
“It is bubbly,” he said with surprise.
Pet smiled faintly. “Have you never had pop before?”
“No,” Santo admitted, peering down at his drink as if unsure what to make of it.
“Then why did you order it?” she asked with amusement. “Why not get something you like?”
“Because I did not know what I would like,” he admitted. “I have never had any of the beverages listed on the menu but the coffee and did not want that, so just ordered what you did and hoped for the best.”
“Wait. What?” Pet stared at him with amazement. “You’ve never had any of the drinks they serve here?”
“Immortals often tire of food and other things after a century or two,” he explained quietly. “So while I consume meat and raw eggs on occasion to help sustain muscle without the need to consume too much blood, I do not usually bother with beverages.”
“Hmm,” Pet murmured, her gaze sliding over the muscles in question. He’d said after a century or two, but Santo had the kind of body she imagined medieval warriors or Vikings would have needed to wield their great swords. She was guessing he was older than a century or two. Forcing her attention away from his body and back to his face before she began to drool, Pet asked, “So did you like the flavor, or would you like something else to drink?”
Santo hesitated, and then leaned down tentatively to try the drink again. This time he actually sucked a good portion of it into his mouth, straightened, swished it around a bit as if testing a fine wine, and then swallowed.
“Well?” she asked with a grin.
“It will do,” he decided.
Pet shook her head and took another drink before prompting him with, “So, you said this Dressler guy was experimenting on DNA-splicing with mortals?”
“Sì.” He straightened a bit in his seat, his expression turning grim again. “He did that for decades, apparently.”
“Was it legal?” she asked, quite sure it couldn’t be.
“I do not know,” Santo admitted with a shrug, and then added, “Although, I would not think so, and the fact that he had moved his operations to a private island down in Venezuela would suggest not. It certainly was not legal for him to kidnap locals on the mainland, drug them, and harvest their eggs and sperm, and force the women to carry the resulting fetuses.”
“He did that?” she asked with dismay.
Santo nodded. “He even harvested his own wife’s eggs.”
“And she let him?” Pet asked with amazement.
Santo shook his head. “Apparently, she was unaware until her son was born with wings.”
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” Pet breathed. “What a bastard.”
“Sì,” Santo agreed, and then took another drink before continuing, “Unfortunately, a few years ago he encountered an immortal and found out about our existence. His interests turned and he dedicated himself to learning all he could about us.”
&
nbsp; Pet sat back in her seat, a small ball forming in the pit of her stomach as she saw where this was leading.
Santo was no longer looking at her. Instead, he kept his gaze on his drink and she suspected it was to hide some pretty heavy duty emotions. Clearing his throat, he said, “Of course, we are normally harder to kidnap and control than a mortal, but Dressler developed a drug that would knock us out. He then hired a small army of mercenaries and paid them handsomely to hunt down and kidnap immortals for him to experiment on.”
“And he got away with this?” Pet asked with surprise.
“No one realized what was happening at first. We are . . .” He hesitated, and then sighed and said, “Most immortals live a largely solitary existence until they meet their life mate. They avoid other immortals to avoid having to guard their every thought.”
Life mate. Pet considered the word solemnly. She remembered that word from her childhood and thought it was basically another word for wife or partner. Letting it go for now, she thought about what Santo had said about immortals living solitary lives. Pet shook her head and pointed out, “You don’t. You’re here with your cousin and aunt and uncle and that friend, Bricker.”
“Sì,” he agreed. “But I have only started to spend more time around my family for the last decade or so. Before that . . .” Santo shrugged. “I lived a very solitary life and probably would not have been missed for quite a long time. Perhaps even years.”
Pet considered him briefly, wondering if that was the reason for his usually short answers. He’d got out of the habit of actually communicating with people while living alone and was still struggling to relearn how to actually talk to people. He was doing much better at it now than he had earlier, but his speech was still very slow, careful, and stiff, as if he was picking each word with care. She suspected this was an effort for him, and felt herself soften toward him in appreciation that he would make that effort.
Forcing herself back to the discussion at hand, Pet asked, “What kind of experiments was he performing on immortals? Not DNA-splicing,” she guessed.
“No. Not DNA-splicing,” he agreed grimly, and then paused briefly before saying, “His tests on immortals were to discover how much damage we can take and survive, how long it takes to heal, etc.”
“So cutting, burning, shooting, maybe?” she guessed. “And then tracking how long the injuries took to close up and heal?”
“Sì.”
Santo was avoiding looking at her and she could tell he didn’t want to talk about this. She also suspected he would talk about it if she insisted, though. But as curious as Pet was, she hadn’t missed how pale he’d gone, or the way his hands were clenching on the tabletop. Whatever he’d gone through while in the cage next to the centaur boy, it hadn’t been pleasant, and she didn’t want him to have to go through it again there in a restaurant.
Deciding to move the subject along, she guessed, “But he also learned how to become immortal?”
“Sì.” Santo relaxed a bit. “Ultimately, that was his objective. His experiments were simply to find out what he could expect to survive and such once he became immortal.”
“And Mr. Purdy’s cousin is this Dressler?” she asked, finding the idea alarming. The man sounded like he’d been a living nightmare as a mortal. As an immortal . . . She shuddered at the thought.
“We think so,” Santo said carefully.
Pet’s eyebrows rose. “Think? Don’t you know? I mean, surely if he captured you, you’ve seen him?”
“I saw him as a mortal, an old man,” Santo explained. “I have no idea what he would look like as a young man at his peak health. However,” he added when she opened her mouth to speak again, “the man in Parker’s memory is definitely an immortal. He is also tall and thin like Dressler, and Mr. Purdy is a second cousin to Dr. Dressler, so the chances are very good.”
“Great,” Pet said unhappily, and then sat back when she saw that their waiter had returned, this time with food. Her eyes widened and her mouth began to water as a plate of fried pickles and a combo platter with a variety of appetizers were set in the middle of the table. With her stomach urging her on, she barely managed to wait for their waiter to say a cheerful, “Enjoy,” and walk away before reaching for a fried pickle.
“Professor Stone?”
Pet stilled, and lowered the pickle she’d been about to bite into as she turned her head to blink at the pretty young brunette standing at the end of the table. Forcing a pleasant smile, she asked, “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you. I work here,” she explained, holding up her small order pad as if to prove the legitimacy of her claim, and then added, “But I’m also a student at UAlbany.”
“I see,” Pet murmured. The girl had turned to Santo as she’d added that, her ponytail swinging and a huge smile stretching her lips as her eyes slid over his wide shoulders and muscled arms. Pet waited for the girl whose name tag read Brittany to continue, but when the girl just stared at Santo, Pet left her to her ogling and took the opportunity to bite into her fried pickle. If she hadn’t been in public, she would have moaned when the flavor burst in her mouth. Pet loved fried pickles anyway, but hungry as she was they seemed extra delicious today so she wasn’t pleased at the interruption when Brittany suddenly asked, “You teach Women in History, don’t you?”
Pet stopped chewing and glanced up at that question, but relaxed and continued chewing when she saw the girl wasn’t even pretending to look at her. She was still staring at Santo with hungry eyes. Pet shifted her gaze to the big immortal to see how he was taking the attention, and smiled with amusement when she saw that he hadn’t noticed. His focus was totally on the chicken wing he’d chosen from the combo platter and was now demolishing.
Swallowing the bite of pickle, Pet cleared her throat and said, “Yes, I do.”
“Huh?” The girl swiveled her head to peer at her blankly. “What?”
“I do teach Women in History,” Pet said gently.
“Oh, good.” Brittany nodded, and then turned back to Santo as he dropped the bones he’d gnawed clean and reached for another chicken wing.
Oh, good? Pet thought with exasperation. The girl obviously wasn’t the least bit interested in anything she taught. She’d just used her as an excuse to get closer to Santo. Or maybe she was being uncharitable and the girl had really wanted to ask something but got distracted by Santo’s impressive physique. Been there, done that, she thought, and decided to help the girl out by prodding her along with questions. “Were you interested in taking my class in the fall?”
“What?” Brittany glanced around, looking rather annoyed to have her ogling interrupted.
Pet narrowed her eyes but then offered a cool smile and said, “I presume that’s why you came and interrupted my meal? So you could ask questions about the class Women in History?” She didn’t add, and not just to gawk at my hunky dining partner, like she wanted, but simply said, “However, I do have office hours and I’m going to have to insist you use them and leave us to our meal.”
Cheeks flushing with either embarrassment or anger, Brittany opened her mouth, closed it, and then turned on her heel and walked away. Pet was guessing she wouldn’t see her in her Women in History class.
Grimacing, she turned back to Santo just as he started to open his mouth to ask something. To forestall him, she quickly asked, “So, do those nano things make you extra attractive to women or something?”
Santo closed his mouth, considered the question, and then nodded. “I believe so.”
Pet’s eyes widened. She’d actually been joking, kind of. The guy was a big beefcake and would attract female attention anyway. He had certainly caught her attention right away. But he seemed to be suggesting . . .
“Really?” she asked finally.
“No one has ever studied it that I know of,” he said in a slow rumble. “But most of the advantages the nanos give us, such as speed, strength, better hearing, and so on . . .” He shrugged. “They all make us better hunters, to gain the
extra blood we need. Making us more attractive to the opposite sex would aid in that too, so it seems likely the nanos make us secrete some kind of pheromone that would do that.”
Pet sat back and tried to look at him objectively without her hormones giving their seventy-five cents worth. Santo was really a super gorgeous man. He was big, muscular, with beautiful eyes and sexy full lips. He would make any woman take a second look. But if he also secreted sexy pheromones . . . well, it was no wonder women acted like idiots around him. Including herself. The thought actually made Pet feel better about her own responses to the man.
“You are a history professor at UAlbany?” Santo asked suddenly.
He sounded surprised, and she asked, “You didn’t know that?”
Santo shook his head. “I knew you worked at the university. Marguerite mentioned this morning that she was going to have to call there and explain your absence. But I did not know you were a professor. You do not look like a history professor.”
That made her grin. “What does a history professor look like?”
“Old and dusty, with glasses and corduroy sport coats with patches on their elbows,” he said without hesitation.
“And male?” she suggested with amusement.
Santo shrugged and picked up another chicken wing.
“So what would you have guessed I did at the university?” Pet asked with interest as she picked up another fried pickle.
Santo considered her briefly. “Something in the arts. Maybe music or dance.”
Her eyebrows rose slightly. “Why?”
“I do not know,” he admitted with a wry smile. “I just think of music when I look at you. Beautiful symphonies and—” Santo paused abruptly, embarrassment crossing his features, before he repeated, “I do not know.”
“Actually, music was my major and history my minor my first year,” she admitted. “But I switched them my second year.”
“Why?” he asked at once.
Pet smiled wryly. “My parents. The idea of my majoring in something as fluffy as music nearly killed them.”
“Music is not fluffy,” he growled.