“Oh, well, I’m not a tourist, not really.” I hold a hand out. “Hi, I’m Daphne.”
Instead of taking my hand, he offers me a shallow bow of his head. “Barnaby. You must be new here, I don’t think we’ve met.”
“I waitress over at Ted’s, and I’m…” I’m not sure what to call whatever my relationship is. But standing here telling a stranger what we are for the first time, I can see the word clearly in my mind. “I’m dating Andri.” I tuck my unshaken hand around the ancient tome I’m holding.
His brows perk up. “Andri, well he’s quite the catch, congratulations.”
“I think so.” I smile.
“How are you finding Hallow’s Cove?” He sits on the edge of a desk, as if finding out that I’m a townie puts him immediately at ease.
“It’s lovely, I find it so interesting—I really want to know more about the history of how it came to be.”
I do. I feel it now that I’m with the man I love, that there’s a magic undercurrent to this place.
“Oh, there are all kinds of interesting tidbits about this place I could tell you. Did you know that the hair salon used to be the town morgue?” He grins.
“Oh! That’s kind of spooky, but cool!” I make a mental note to avoid getting my hair cut there, as I’m firmly a Hallmark holiday movie girl, and not a horror movie one. But besides the creepy factor, it is incredibly interesting.
“It was indeed a charming, spooky time then.”
I blink. Did he just saycharming timesabout a town mortuary?
“You know a lot about this town, I take it?”
“You could say I know the most.” He smiles for only a second as something sharp glints in the corner of his mouth. “I founded it.”
I chuckle nervously. “Sure, and I’m Martha Washington.”
He doesn’t laugh.
The pale man looks at me with eyes that are very old. Not old in a wrinkled and weary way—but just lit with a depth that only time can fuel.
The realization of what he is hits me like a bucket of cold water to the face. The darkness, the pale skin, the sharp tooth in his mouth.
“Oh my god, you’re a primary source!” I say with glee.
His lips twitch, in an almost laugh. “That’s…one way to say it. I’m actually a—”
“Vampire, yeah, duh.”
“You’re not concerned?” His brows shoot up, like this isn’t the normal reaction he gets.
“Me? I’m dating a yeti, it’s gonna take more than ‘I’m a vampire’ if you’re going for shock factor. A primary source!” I repeat even louder, because apparently when it comes to my love of history I can’t control myself. “I’ve got so many questions—I should sit down.”
He gestures toward the sitting area like a gentleman who has done this a thousand times before—leading overwhelmed mortals to cushions where they might faint.
“First, how old are you?” I plop into one of the nearby worn chairs and drop the leather book onto the side table next to it.
He tilts his head. “Do you want the truth?”
“Yes!”
“A few centuries.”
“Oh my god, you are a historian's dream,” I breathe. “Is this town that old? I thought this place was just like…quaint, maybe settled as a tourist town in the last twenty years or so—something recent. Is it as ancient as you?”
Barnaby wrinkles his brow. “I’m not ancient, merely old enough to have layers.”
