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Gabriel leveled me with his serious, paternal gaze. “Jane, do you want to have sex with Zeb?”
My eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. “Lord, no.”
“So, this couldn’t be your fault. The voice in your head? That’s just a blood thought.” Gabriel laughed and cupped my face between his palms. “It’s the vampire brain’s response to live fresh blood, a physiological attempt to keep the vampire as well fed as possible for as long as possible. We never know when our next meal will be. So the receptors in your brain that interpret pleasure all start firing at once. You get overloaded with endorphins, and you start having thoughts … well, thoughts I’d rather you didn’t describe to me. But it’s perfectly natural, particularly for those who rarely feed on live blood. Your brain was just overcompensating for time lost.”
“So I don’t really have dark, hungry feelings for Zeb?”
“In a universe that is decent and good, no.” He shook his head.
“Thank you,” I breathed, leaning against him. “I thought I was having some sort of bizarre psychic reaction to the wedding. Or maybe an aneurysm. I was hoping for aneurysm.”
Gabriel’s voice tightened. “That does, however, mean that I must have a talk with Zeb about appropriate behavior for engaged men, particularly engaged men who expect to continue to spend time with you and retain the use of their limbs.”
I snorted. “And if that doesn’t work, what’s next? A paid chaperone?”
“If necessary. I’m sure Dick could use some extra cash,” Gabriel muttered, tensing when I shot him a warning look. “I am very fond of Zeb. He’s a fine young man, and I enjoy spending time with him. But if he thinks he can make advances toward you because of a misguided case of cold feet, he is sorely mistaken.”
“I’m pretty sure I got that point across when I made his nose bleed,” I told him.
“You hit him?” he asked, grinning. “That’s my girl.”
“I don’t think he even realized he was doing it. He had this odd, glazed-over look in his eyes, and he just leaned in. We were both pretty mortified once we got his nose mopped up. Is it possible his brain was just overreacting to being bitten? I mean, Andrea’s reaction when I fed from her was sort of … happy. But she didn’t try to make out with me.”
“It’s possible,” he conceded. When he saw the relief flood my face, he groaned. “This is one of those issues you’re going to insist on handling yourself, isn’t it?” I nodded. “If he does it again—”
“If he does it again, you have my permission to break his legs and arms and make him believe he’s a rodeo clown from Walla Walla,” I promised. “We can make him call himself Slappy the Wonder Clown.”
“Fine. On to less disturbing subjects; can I see what you’ve found so far?”
I turned my laptop to show Gabriel the sad little “No records found” screen. “I can’t find him registered in the state’s database of the undead. According to this, he died almost fifteen years ago, so why wouldn’t he register? He’s an old vampire, hardly threatening. What’s he afraid of?”
“Maybe he’s not a vampire,” Gabriel said.
“But what else could he be?”
“I honestly don’t know,” he admitted.
“Well, you’re no help,” I grumbled. “I’ve tried reading his thoughts, but he must be one of those people I can’t get through to. Because I got nothing.”
“You can’t just go around thumbing through people’s brains when it suits you, Jane.”
“Oh, you’ve wiped my parents’ memories like Windex, and now suddenly there’s a boundary?”
Gabriel gently pried the laptop out of my hands and put it on the coffee table. “I can only guess that Wilbur is a lonely being, either natural or supernatural, and he genuinely enjoys your grandmother’s company.”
“No, that can’t be it,” I muttered, grabbing the laptop and clicking into another search engine. I typed in Wilbur’s name. “Does this seem like a lot of results in the wedding license section?”
I scanned the folder. The name Wilbur, Will, Bernie, or Gus Goosen showed up six times over the last fifteen years. “Each wife died within a year of their marriage.”
“Can you tell what they died of?” he asked, intrigued.
“I’m going to do something slightly illegal, so you might want to turn your head,” I told him. Gabriel, unfazed, merely smirked. I gave an exaggerated sigh. “You have been warned.”
I clicked on an online database that was supposed to be limited to licensed medical examiners. It said so right at the top of the screen, in big red letters. I entered a valid user name and password, prompting Gabriel’s jaw to drop. I explained, “Jolene has a cousin working in the county coroner’s office. He can be bought with summer sausage.”
Gabriel sighed. “Well, of course she does.”
“OK, first up, first wife, Dulcie, had a stroke in 1991, age seventy, nothing suspicious,” I said, poring over the digitized paperwork. “Here’s a death certificate for Wilbur, dated 1993. Cause of death listed as natural.”
