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“Have you ever read the statistics regarding accidents in air travel?” he asked.
“Yes, they’re lower than the rates of accidents while driving. And you’re pretty much indestructible, as long as you fly at night.”
He frowned. “Well, once one has survived one plane crash, tempting fate again seems ill advised.”
“You’ve survived a plane crash?”
“In the 1940s, when air travel for passengers was very new,” he said. “Kicking your way out of a crumpled fuselage rather ruins the thrill of vacationing.”
“And you never tried flying again?”
“I haven’t left the area immediately surrounding my house since 1948.”
I spluttered, “H-how? Wh-why?”
“Delivery services. An understanding undead business manager who was willing to handle many of life’s little details for me. Friends who were willing to bring human donors to the house. And there’s a ready supply of wildlife in the area if I wanted to vary my diet.”
“But how do you make a living?”
“Until my withdrawal from society, I made my living in the antiques business.”
“You had a store?”
“It was a speculative venture,” he said, his tone hedging.
“The fact that you don’t seem to want to explain that cryptic remark is going to make me ask you lots more questions,” I promised him.
He sighed and explained, “Say I was sitting in a tavern, and I just happened to sense that a fellow’s brother was about to gamble the family fortune away or that a man’s favorite daughter was about to elope with the help, causing a disastrous scandal. If I just happened to befriend that fellow and be there for him when his tragedy struck, offering my discreet monetary help in return for a few family knickknacks, who would be the wiser? Of course, I offered a reduced price for those knickknacks, and the families were so grateful for aid in their times of distress that they didn’t question my offer.”
“But that’s so mercenary!”
“On the contrary, the families I did business with desperately needed the money I offered them. I was helping them.”
“You were helping yourself!”
“I was using the tools I was provided with to make my way in the world. I was raised in a fine house with carefully chosen furnishings. And although I didn’t stand to inherit any of it, I was taught their history, their value. I can’t be faulted for using that knowledge.”
“And the fact that you believe that is what is so very troubling.”
Eyebrows raised, I glanced at the case securely wedged against his side in the booth. That certainly changed my guesses about the case’s contents. Crown jewels? Priceless art? Ancient coins?
That would be sort of exciting, to know that I was helping complete some Council project or bringing scary-ass Ophelia, the forever-teenage head of the local Council branch, her personal art collection. Maybe that would make her more lenient when I inevitably ran afoul of the local vampires.
“Why live out in the middle of nowhere?” I asked.
“I’ve never been much of a joiner. And as technology has improved, I’ve felt less and less alone. Thanks to the telephone, color television, the Internet, I’ve been able to keep up with current events, terminology. I’m not left entirely out of the loop.”
“Why haven’t you left your house in so long? Is it because you were traumatized in the crash? Do you have PTSD?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. That was an interesting change in role. “Not exactly.”
The tone of his voice didn’t invite further questions, so in the interest of the progress we’d made so far, I chose to shut up. He glanced down, as if he could see my carefully bandaged hand through the table, despite the fact that I’d kept it folded in my lap and out of his sight. It seemed rude, otherwise, like waving a Twinkie in front of someone on Atkins.
“What’s happened to your hand?” he asked. “Why are you being so careful with it?”
“Nothing,” I said, tucking the injured hand under my jeans-clad leg.
His lips twitched in disapproval as he leaned forward, his voice sultry and persuasive. And I had to clamp my thighs together, because that was just unfair. “Miss Puckett, do you honestly think I can’t sense fresh blood? Even in an environment as foul as this, I can smell it on you. Frankly, its pleasant distraction is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind in this crowded restaurant. Now, be a good girl and show me your hand.”
