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"Did they believe Monica was responsible?"
"Nope. But there again, Jake wouldn't believe it either until she attacked him."
"How is his arm?"
"Stitched. The hospital's let him go home.” She hesitated, and met his gaze. “You said earlier Monica had to return home? Why?"
"It's instinct for the newly turned vampire to return to the place of its birth. I think it's part of the centering process. To understand what you have truly become, first you must understand what you have lost.” He shrugged. “The fledglings must also find something of the past to carry with them through eternity."
"What the hell for?"
He shrugged again. “Perhaps as a reminder that once they too were human."
"Weird,” she muttered. Then she frowned. “You seem to know an awful lot about vampires."
"I have studied them for many years."
"Why?"
He hesitated. “Because my brother was killed by one."
Jasper, Nikki thought. That would at least explain Michael's fierce determination to catch the man. Or vampire, as the case may be.
"Why didn't the wood kill her, then? I thought you said wood was deadly to vampires?"
"It is, but like any weapon, you have to hit something vital. You punctured her gut. A wound like that will be painful and can take a long time to heal, but it's definitely not deadly." Then next time she'd aim for the heart, she thought, and shivered. “Why aren't we chasing her now?
She's still back at her father's place."
"And how will you explain to the police the fact that you have stabbed Monica through the heart?"
"I thought vampire bodies turned to dust when staked?"
"Only in the movies.” He smiled. “The sun will burn a vampire's flesh to dust. Otherwise, it's just a body, like any human body."
"But can they rise again? I thought it was part of the legend that vampires can heal any wound?"
"Most wounds. Which is why it is best to also decapitate. Once the head is separate, there's no chance of rejuvenation."
They approached the restaurant. Michael opened the door and ushered her inside. A waiter approached, an apologetic look on his face.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we've just closed."
"Surely you could reopen for half an hour?” Michael said, an odd edge behind the lightness of his words.
"I'm sorry—"
The waiter's words faltered. A sliver of power caressed the air, then the waiters’ eyes widened, became lifeless. A chill ran through her. It was Tommy, all over again. She dragged her arm from Michael's and punched him in the shoulder. “Stop—" He turned, and she took an abrupt step backward. Just for an instant his eyes held a darkness that burned her soul.
Then he blinked, and his gaze became guarded, wary. “Stop what?" She took a deep breath. “Release the waiter. I ... I don't like the meals here anyway." He hesitated, then nodded. Power whispered around her, then the waiter cleared his throat and gave them another smile.
"I'm afraid the chef has already gone home for the night. I'm sorry, but we can't help you." She spun and made a quick exit. The cold night air touched her fevered skin but wasn't responsible for the tremors running down her spine. Michael had controlled the waiter's mind too easily—as if it were something he did every day.
She stopped several houses down from the restaurant and took a deep breath. What kind of man so casually possessed the mind of another and then forced them to do as he asked? A man like Tommy, she thought, rubbing her arms. A man who just didn't care.
The back of her neck tingled with sudden awareness. Michael had stopped just behind her.
"I'm sorry,” he said softly.
