Page 9
I’ve spent the whole night telling myself that what I saw downstairs had an explanation. That the horns were prosthetics and the silver light was some kind of projection and the man with too many teeth was on something. I had a very good list going. It’s gone now.
“Do that again,” I hear myself say.
One dark eyebrow rises. His fangs slide back up, then down again, slowly, like he’s doing me a favor.
I lean forward to get a better look. It takes me a second to notice that his chest has stopped moving. He isn’t breathing. He’s perfectly still, the way a cat is still, and I’m putting my face a foot from the mouth of a vampire.
I lean back again. A second later, his chest rises, as if he’s remembered to do it. The corner of his mouth curves.
The worst part is that the fangs suit him. On anyone else, they’d be terrifying. On him, they’re terrifying and I’d very much like to look at them up close, and I really need to see a therapist.
“Are you going to bite me?” I ask.
“Not this morning.”
That’s not very reassuring.
“Okay.” I write VAMPIRE on my legal pad in capital letters, under How much money?, and underline it. “Okay. Vampires are real. What else is real?”
“Rather a lot,” he says, and the door opens behind me.
The man who walks in has to turn his shoulders slightly to fit through the doorway, and it isn’t only because of the horns.
He’s huge. Six-eight, maybe more, and built heavy, all chest and shoulders under a black T-shirt that’s doing its best. His skin is a deep charcoal gray, and there are faint lines under it on his forearms and his throat, the dull orange of embers in a fire pit after midnight. His horns curve back from his temples, thick and black and polished at the tips. Behind him, a long dark tail flicks once against the doorframe.
His face stops me. I thought it would be monstrous. It’s not. It’s strong-boned and angular, with a wide mouth and dark eyes. He’s handsome, in a way that makes me want to take a step back and a step forward at the same time. Apparently the horns and tail aren’t going to be a problem for my survival instinct.
He looks at Lenart. Then he looks at me, and he doesn’t bother pretending he’s doing anything else.
“So this is her.”
“Merek,” Lenart says. “Tara Iverson. Desmond’s niece. Our new partner.”
“I heard.” Merek crosses the room in three steps, and the air warms as he gets closer, like I’ve walked past an open oven. I stand up without meaning to.
“You’re the woman who tried to stop that bastard last night?”
“Someone had to do something. He poisoned a woman right in front of me.”
“And you decided to stand in his way?”
“He was running straight toward her. What was I supposed to do?”
Merek studies me, then grins. “I think I’m going to like you.”
“That’s a pretty quick decision.”
“I’ve always been good at making those.” He holds out his hand. “Merek.”
I take it.
His palm is so hot that I yelp and nearly pull back, but it doesn’t burn. It’s just far warmer than any human hand should be, dry and rough, and the heat goes straight up my arm and settles low in my stomach.
The grin falls off his face.
His hand tightens around mine. The lines under the skin of his forearm brighten, from dull embers to a live orange glow, crawling up toward his elbow. He mutters under his breath in a language I’ve never heard, and it sounds like a curse.
I pull my hand back. He lets go, but his fingers flex in the air like they’re still holding on.
