“You’ll need to, eventually,” Harris said. His voice softened, becoming gentler. “And soon.”
“I know that,” I admitted. “But I don’t want to frighten him.”
Harris again fell silent.
“Detective, are you still there?” I demanded, officially becoming annoyed. Perhaps I should’ve done an internet search instead.
“I am,” he said slowly. “Look, I’m just trying to put this together with everything I know about you. And it’s not adding up to a complete picture.”
“Spare me the interrogation talk.”
“Then let me put it bluntly. You called me at four in the morning to talk about Eli. Correct?”
I snorted. “Obviously.”
“And your intention isn’t to seduce him.”
“Not right now, no. I wouldn’t need anyone’s help with that, anyway.”
“Then you noticed he was sad, and you’re calling for advice on how to make him happy. Correct?”
“It lacks nuance. But yes, that’s accurate.”
Harris snorted. “And you’ve just admitted you’re worried about scaring him with the truth of what you are.”
“I’m delightful, of course. But I’m not sure the good doctor is ready to understand everything I am,” I replied airily—mostly to cover up the thread of unease that had wound itself through me.
The idea of Eli knowing me—really knowing me—and rejecting me…
It made something twist painfully in my stomach.
“You feel something for him, don’t you? Something real.”
I went quiet. I wanted to deny it. I hadn’t felt anything at all—real or otherwise—for a very long time. What he was suggesting was impossible.
Wasn’t it?
“Cole?”
“I’m still here, Detective.”
“Yeah, isn’t this honesty thing so much fun?” Harris asked, but without any heat. He sounded almost sympathetic. “And it only works if you’re actually willing to do the emotional labor.”
“I’m reasonably certain one needs to have emotions to do emotional labor, Detective.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Harris paused. “You swore to me you’d always be honest. And despite everything else, I’ve never doubted that.”
I sighed, suddenly not liking this conversation one bit. “Eli is… important. He must not be harmed.” I hesitated, searching for the truth and just the truth. I came up with, “And I dislike seeing him unhappy. I dislike it quite a lot.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Maybe you are a real boy, after all.”
“Detective, it’s four in the morning. Please don’t play games with me.”
“Oh, so now we’re playing the ‘four a.m.’ card?”
My eyes narrowed at the painting of the lavender field. I realized abruptly that the reason I kept staring at it was that it reminded me of the French countryside—of home.
“Harris, don’t piss off the psychopathic vampire. It’s unwise.”
