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“Stay where you are,” she insisted. The cold and her wet hair and clothes were beginning to have their way with her, and she was shivering uncontrollably. The hand she held out—in vain, she knew—to stop him from advancing, shook.
He’d stopped in place when he saw her outstretched hand, but this little concession did nothing to quell her sudden anxiety. What a fool she’d been, coming here to confront him. Alone. Alone in a house with a supernatural creature who had a predilection for chewing things to shreds. And not a soul on earth knew where she was right now.
Screw it, she thought, straightening her shoulders. I’m not going to be intimidated by a…by a—
“And when you’re angry or irritated,” Christian said softly, “it feels like fingernails scraped over my skin.”
“Stop that,” Ember hissed, a flush of heat rising in her face.
He examined her expression, her flaming cheeks, her stiff back, and shaking hands, and exhaled a slow, controlled breath. Watching her face carefully, he said, “I thought I might never see you again.”
Ember’s teeth began to chatter. She had to clench her jaws together to keep them from clattering right out of her skull. “I know…I know what you are.”
His left brow lifted, but that was all.
“You’re not human?” She’d meant it as a statement but it was still so unbelievable to her, standing with him so close, looking so normal, that it came out with a lift at the end like a question.
It brought a grim smile to his face. “I assume you already know the answer to that, or you wouldn’t have brought a knife. Not that it will help you.” He took another step toward her.
She blurted, “So you are dangerous…to me.”
“You already know the answer to that, too. Yes to the first part, no to the second. And I’m not answering any more questions unless you answer some of mine in return. Quid pro quo, September.”
His eyes were fierce and intent, burning with some unknown emotion that had her nerves singing. The term “quid pro quo” always reminded her of Hannibal Lecter and Agent Starling sharing information in Silence of the Lambs, something she really didn’t want to think about at the moment. Next he’d be telling her about eating someone’s fried liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.
Hysteria began to take hold of her body, sinking sharp teeth into her throbbing heart.
“Did you kill those—those men? In the alley?”
He nodded, and it took her breath away. She’d seen the pictures on the Internet, she’d read all about the mangled bodies, but it was still stunning. This beautiful man was a murderer.
A murderer. He’d eaten out someone’s heart.
She managed a horrified, “Why?” but he shook his head.
“My turn. What are those?” His gaze dropped to the chain around her neck and the two gold rings that hung from it.
She whispered, “My parents’ wedding rings. Why did you kill those men…people…creatures?”
He lifted his gaze to hers. Very composed, he said, “Because if I hadn’t, they would have killed us both.”
Ember opened her mouth, but no sound came out. They would have killed us both.
Christian asked, “Why did you come to Spain?” and took another careful step toward her.
She realized dimly that she was dripping rainwater in a widening pool onto the floor around her feet. “To forget,” she whispered, feeling her legs solidify to something like cement as he eased ever nearer, very carefully, watching her for any sign she was going to bolt.
“To forget what?” he insisted, but Ember shook her head; her turn.
“Is that what you do for a living? You kill things? That’s what your ‘work’ is?” Her voice was faint, tinged with disbelief and horror, until she had another chilling realization and her voice actually cracked. “Is that what you were doing that night—when you were late for our date?”
“That’s four questions. And the answer to all of them is no. Now, answer me this and I’ll answer all the rest of your questions, as many as you want: why did you come to Spain? And don’t tell me ‘to forget.’ I want a real answer, Ember. Tell me the truth.”
He was close now, within reaching distance, but he’d stopped an arm’s length away and wasn’t making any moves to come closer. Ember’s entire body was shaking now, her knees and hands and even her lower lip were trembling. The bravado she’d felt moments before had drained away, leaving only the cold, cold residue of fear. Water dripped into her eyes but she was too frozen to wipe it away.
“I-I came to Spain to forget…to forget…” she stopped abruptly when he stepped closer.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Christian said gently. “You should know that by now. Hurting you would only be hurting myself, September.”
Hearing him say her full name reminded her of something. She swallowed around the lump in her throat and asked, “How did you know my real name that first day we met?”
“I saw it.” When her brow furrowed in confusion, he explained, “There’s a framed newspaper article on the wall behind the register, with a picture of your father and you. ‘American artist opens rare bookstore in Gothic quarter.’ Both your names were beneath.”
For some reason, this was the little fact that finally embedded itself into her consciousness as incontrovertible evidence of his un-humanness. The wall behind the register was ten feet back from the counter; the framed newspaper article printed in—as newspaper articles are—tiny, six-point type. Her father had complained when the article came out that he could barely even read it with his glasses on, the paper held close to his nose.
- Writer
