“Strong enough to stop a knife?”
“You want to try?” he challenged me.
It was Anasztaizia’s lack of reaction that told me it was a fruitless challenge on my part, even though I was tempted for maybe half a second or so. “Just asking,” I said with a nervous, shaky laugh.
“The only sure way to kill a vampire is to cut off head and burn body.” He emphasized the point with a dramatic slashing gesture across his throat.
Of course it was. Why didn’t I know that?
“Is that the only way?” I asked, because if there was a psycho-vampire bitch out to get me I wanted to be sure I had all the bases covered. Just in case.
Aleksei shrugged. “Well, there is also staking out in sun.”
“Does the sun have to be shining or will plain daylight do?”
He stared at me with suspicion. “Why do you want to know this?”
“Because sometimes having the proper information can make all the difference,” I told him. “So, which is it?”
“Daylight is for weakening, sunlight for burning.” He leaned forward, his expression almost gleeful. “But I should tell you no human can kill a vampire. Only one vampire can kill another vampire.”
The superiority of his tone was just a little too smug for my liking. It explained why he’d suddenly overcome his initial reluctance to answer me. I was no threat to any vampire whatsoever. And that really pissed me off. Granted, I could see how decapitation might prove a little tricky for someone not blessed with homicidal, maniacal tendencies—as well as a very big axe—but I was infuriated at how easily he dismissed the resourcefulness of the human race.
“You don’t think a human could stake a vampire out in the sunlight?” I asked, pursing my lips.
Aleksei adopted the kind of exaggerated patience rarely seen outside of a first-grade classroom. “First you must catch vampire and overpower him, something you have not the skill or strength to do. Even the weakest vampire will always be stronger than the strongest human.”
It took me a minute before I realized he wasn’t being a condescending asshole, he was just stating facts, and respecting me enough to be bluntly honest. I notched down my irritation, trying not to let it cloud my thinking.
“But what about crosses, holy water, and garlic?” I asked. “Couldn’t those be used to subdue a vampire?” The look on Aleksei’s face said his estimation of my IQ had just crashed through the floor. “Oh, sorry,” I mumbled, “I’m guessing they don’t have any effect, do they?”
“No silver chains or bullets either,” he added helpfully.
“I thought silver was only for werewolves.”
He scratched his chin, thinking. “So I have also been told, but I never met anyone who killed a werewolf, so I don’t know if such a thing is true.”
The kitchen tilted slightly. Not enough to disturb anything. The cabinet doors didn’t swing open, and my mug didn’t try to slide into my lap, but it was enough of a nudge to tell me my reality had just slipped a little further.
“Are you saying . . . werewolves are real?”
“Of course.” The corner of Aleksei’s mouth twitched as he tried to suppress a grin. “And I’ll tell you something else humans have wrong—they don’t change because of moon.”
Was this something I absolutely had to know? Of course it was. “So, why do they change?”
“Bad temper.”
The grin he’d been trying to contain refused to be held back. Do vampires ever need to floss? I pondered as the impressive display of his teeth dazzled me. I doubted they went to the dentist, but hey, you never know.
“All werewolves have bad temper,” Aleksei continued, his voice bringing me back to the here and now. “Actually, now I think about it, all shape-shifters have bad tempers.”
“You would too if changing broke every bone in your body,” Anasztaizia interjected.
I stared at her. “All . . . shape-shifters . . .” I muttered, gripping the edge of the table with both hands.
“Sure.” Aleksei nodded and seemed very pleased with himself. “Werewolves are just one kind.”
Of course they are. Silly me.
I told myself he was only giving me information he thought would be beneficial to my overall well-being. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure how to categorize this particular brand of helpfulness. The only way I could control a sudden attack of the shakes was to sit on my hands. The last thing I needed was for Aleksei to see just how badly I was rattled. It was hard enough accepting the existence of vampires. Other supernatural creatures were going to have to wait their turn.
I had the dismal realization I would be no match for Katja in a physical fight. In truth, I’d known that after seeing her take on Gabriel, but I’d been optimistic that Aleksei might reveal a possible vampire weakness. Anything that would give me an edge if I ever needed it. Now I realized that if Katja was truly determined to get to me, there was nothing I could do to stop her. Except stay in my house. Suddenly the idea of Aleksei being able to cross my threshold was rather comforting.
“I guess it’s safe to assume that you’re not immortal, then?”
“Nothing is immortal, Rowan,” Anasztaizia said in a soft voice. “Everything will die. Even vampires.”
“Then I don’t get it. I thought the whole attraction of being a vampire was the chance to live forever.”
“Is that what you would want to do?” Aleksei asked, giving me an unfathomable look. “Live forever?”
“I don’t know,” I backpedaled hastily. “It’s not something I’ve spent much time thinking about.”
“Well, it’s not something a vampire can give you.”
Somewhere close to midnight I managed to persuade Aleksei he needed to take Anasztaizia home. I promised him, cross my heart and hope to die, that I would be perfectly all right by myself. As long as the rule about vampires crossing thresholds was true, then I was safe. Katja had never been invited inside my house, and couldn’t cross any threshold, front or back, uninvited.
“Don’t underestimate her, Rowan,” Aleksei warned as he helped Anasztaizia put her coat on. “If she comes here, she will try to get you to let her in. Like most females, she is very cunning.”
“I get it, really I do, but unless she can hypnotize me into saying come into my house, there’s no way she’s getting through the door.” I paused as I realized what I’d just said. “Uh, she can’t do that . . . can she?”
“No,” Aleksei said with a shake of his head, “and female vampires must have physical contact to cross a threshold. Words alone are not enough.” He frowned, thinking about something. “She might pretend to be injured,” he told me.
“Why would she do that?”
“To get your sympathy. If you thought she had a twisted”—he pronounced it tvisted, which made me smile—“ankle, you might think her weak and let her in inside. All she would need is to hold your hand, yes?” He winked and gave me a sly smile. “Why do you think bride is carried over threshold?”
My mouth dropped open. That thought had never actually occurred to me, and I didn’t know if Aleksei was teasing me, but I wondered how many grooms would gladly chuck that tradition right out the window if there was any truth in the vampire’s words. Shaking my head, I assured the big guy I wasn’t going to open the door for anyone. At all.
“Not even for me?” he teased.
“Why would I need to? You’ve been given an invitation, and I know you can open locks.”
It was obviously the right answer because Aleksei looked very pleased with himself. And me. Now I had two vampires who could come and go in my house whenever they pleased. Of course, I wasn’t sure if Gabriel was going to make use of the privilege again. Or if I even wanted him to.
Of course you do, my inner bitch whispered silkily in my head. Not only can he tell you all the things Aleksei won’t, but I know you’re nowhere near done with that body of his . . . not yet . . . admit it.
I wanted to snap out something cutting to shut her
up, but my sarcasm well was currently dry.
“Come, we must let Rowan rest.” Anasztaizia bent to kiss my cheek. “This has been a difficult day for her.”
That was putting it mildly.
Taking Aleksei’s hand, she steered him toward the front door, something I found oddly reminiscent of a bear being led around a circus ring by the trainer’s beautiful assistant. It didn’t take much imagination to picture Anasztaizia in a sparkly costume with feathers in her hair.
“Lock door,” Aleksei instructed once he and Anasztaizia were on the other side, feet planted on my ho-ho-ho mat.
Even though I knew he had my best interests at heart, I wasn’t completely helpless. I was smart enough to lock a door, although I wasn’t really sure how much good it would do. What was to prevent Katja, with her own set of lock-picking skills, from opening it and throwing in a couple of tear gas grenades? Or regular grenades, come to think of it.
“Remember, not every vampire can open a locked door,” Anasztaizia reminded me.
“It is a skill Katja never acquired,” Aleksei added.
“Are you both reading my mind now?” I asked.
Aleksei gave me a sly look. “You play poker?”
“Not really,” I said shaking my head, “I’m not very good at reading cards.”
“Problem is with face,” he chuckled, “not cards.”
I refused to believe I was guilty of broadcasting my emotions so openly. If my face betrayed my feelings, especially now, then the stress of the past twenty-four hours was surely responsible. But hearing that Katja did not possess lock-picking skills made me feel better. And judging from the smile Aleksei gave me, my face hadn’t been shy about broadcasting this.
CHAPTER 8
I had promised Anasztaizia I would get some rest, but it was a promise I knew I was going to break the moment I said the words. Sleep was out of the question. I might be tired physically, but mentally I was Red Bull six-pack wired.
The first order of business was to try to get a handle on the information dump I’d been given, put it in some sort of perspective. Hah! Easier said than done. The more I sifted through all I’d been told, the more I realized just how totally unprepared I was to deal with this newfound knowledge. My inadequacy would be laughable if it wasn’t also completely terrifying. I found myself jumping at every sound I couldn’t immediately identify. Each creak and groan the house made as it settled, noises I’d heard all my life, now sounded sinister.
I set about tidying up the kitchen. After washing and rinsing our mugs and the coffee carafe and filter basket, I set them to dry in the draining rack. Next I rearranged the chairs around the table so everything was back in its proper place. Then I spent the next half hour or so moving aimlessly from one room to another, picking up this, putting away that. Being able to sense Gabriel’s presence in every room wasn’t helping my well-being. If anything, it only added to my anxiety. His presence surrounded me. Somehow he’d managed to saturate every space in my house with his essence. I could say, with all honesty, that I had no idea how I was going to react when we next came face to face, but I knew such an encounter was a foregone conclusion. It was simply a matter of when it happened, not if.
I desperately needed to talk to someone. Anasztaizia was a wonderful woman, but let’s be honest, when your boyfriend is six-and-a-half-feet of hulking Russian vampire, your opinion is bound to be a tiny bit biased. I’d never needed Laycee so much, but reaching out to her was impossible. What would I say? There was no way to spin this and make it sound believable, and Laycee could always tell when I was hiding something. She wouldn’t rest until I spilled absolutely everything to her in full detail. No, it was better to leave my best friend out of this. Probably safer as well, and I meant that in a very real way.
So it made perfect sense to seek refuge in my dad’s room. It was the one place that Gabriel had never been.
The faint trace of Old Spice aftershave took me by surprise as I opened the door. It was so slight I doubt anyone else would notice it—anyone human, that is—and it brought a hauntingly familiar ache to my heart. But as I opened myself up to the expected sharp pang of grief, I couldn’t help noticing it was not so overwhelming as usual. Was that time working its own brand of healing, or something being with Gabriel was responsible for? Was I moving on? I shook my head. Gabriel’s influence on anything remotely connected with my dad was not something I wanted to think about just now.
How long was it since I had last been in this room? Early spring maybe? I seemed to recall throwing open the window so the room could get a good airing, so . . . yeah, definitely before I’d met Gabriel. I slowly turned the brass knob that opened the closet where my dad had kept his clothes. About a year after he’d died, with the help of Laycee and her mom, I’d bagged up nearly everything and taken it to Goodwill. But I couldn’t bring myself to part with his work shirts or his heavy winter jacket. I think most people who’ve lost someone they love keep mementoes, things with a strong emotional attachment.
Reaching for the shirt closest to me, I took comfort in the feel of the heavyweight fabric in my hand. The cuff was frayed, and each elbow showed signs of wear. A loose thread on the second button down threatened to release its charge. I took a mental inventory of the contents of my sewing box, searching for dark blue thread, and my vision blurred. My dad wasn’t going to care if the button was missing. Sometimes the most ordinary things can elicit a memory, especially if the need is great enough. In this case, it was a button on a washed-out denim shirt.
I pulled the shirt off the hanger and slipped it on. It was too big, of course. My dad was long and lean. Rangy I think is the word best used to describe his build. His shirts didn’t swim on me the way Gabriel’s did, but the sleeves still reached my fingertips, and the hem fell below my hips. Turning my head into the collar, I sniffed, but any scent of my dad had faded long before. It made no difference. Knowing he had been the last person to wear it was enough. It brought me closer to him.
“I’m here for you, Baby Girl,” my father’s voice whispered in my head, “and you can always talk to me.”
So I did.
Although my dad was very easy to talk to, I think we were both grateful that he’d never had to have The Talk with me. Sex Ed classes in my high school were fairly comprehensive and covered a whole lot more than anything offered when he was a teenager. Any additional questions Laycee’s mom was more than willing to answer. She also took me bra shopping, and as luck would have it, my first period began during a sleepover with Laycee. The sudden appearance of a box of tampons in the bathroom reassured my dad that I was developing normally.
But getting a free pass on the physical stuff didn’t mean my dad was off the hook entirely. He got the joy of dealing with pimples, emotional meltdowns, and more angst than any teenage girl should be allowed to express. My hormonal outbursts were always dealt with on the porch swing, and always began with my dad saying, “Tell me what happened, Baby Girl.”
And so I’d pour out my heart to him, and he would listen solemnly to whatever foolishness guaranteed an Oscar-worthy performance in histrionics. It didn’t matter if my melodramatic outburst made absolutely no sense. I just needed to vent about the injustices of my life, both real and imagined, while seeking assurance there existed on the planet one adult who would always be on my side. No matter what. And my dad was smart enough to know this. Even when the subject matter was a bewildering catalog of events he couldn’t possibly be expected to navigate, his actions told me that my hurt feelings were all that mattered.
Not being picked for the cheerleading squad. Lacking overall gymnastic skill. I never asked to be the top of the pyramid, okay? Failing my driver’s test the first time. Seriously? How many sixteen-year-olds actually parallel park?
Steve Barnett admitting he only kissed me because of a dare. Shit! And to think I also let him put his hand inside my shirt and cop a feel.
My dad offered his opinion only when it was asked for, which wasn’t often beca
use, let’s be honest, teenagers don’t want answers. All their problems have implications that are way beyond the grasp and understanding of anyone outside their peer group. How could any adult, especially a parent, empathize?
But one look at my face after the crushing Steve Barnett humiliation had been enough. Arms around me, my dad had comforted me as only a father can—with the absolute belief that Mr. Barnett was raising a complete asshole who would never be good enough for me.
“How will I know, Daddy,” I sobbed, “when it is the right guy?”
“Because you won’t need to ask me,” he’d said, his large calloused thumb wiping away my tears. “You won’t need to ask anybody. Your heart will tell you he’s the right one. Always trust your heart.”
Now, lying on the same bed where my father had once loved my mother, and where I had possibly been conceived, I wondered what advice my dad would have given me about Gabriel. The conversation inside my head seemed very real.
Do you love him, Baby Girl?
I don’t know, Daddy.
Yeah you do, but it’s okay. We can let that pass. Tell me, do you like him?
I thought so, but now I’m not so sure.
What’s your heart saying, Rowan?
It’s not saying anything.
Yeah it is, Baby Girl, you’re just not listening.
I am listening, Daddy, but I don’t think . . . he can’t be the right one! Why not?
Because Mr. Right isn’t supposed to have a set of choppers that could shame a pit bull.
Oh, Baby Girl, that’s just your head talking, not your heart. You have to listen more closely. What does your heart say, Rowan?
That . . . it wants what it wants.
You bet it does. Listen to me, Rowan, every sentient being has the capacity to love, but we don’t always get to decide who our heart chooses. We can only decide whether or not we’re going to trust that choice.
So you’re saying the decision is mine?
It always has been, Rowan. Now, tell me all about this vampire of yours . . .
Emerging from a cocoon of memories, my face wet with tears I hadn’t realized I’d cried, I was absolutely certain of one thing. Vampire or not, my father would have liked Gabriel very much.
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