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“He’s in jail now, but he’s not going to stay there unless they get some proof that he committed those murders. They know he did it, they just don’t have evidence.”
She paced back and forth along the foot of the bed. Her shoulders tightened, and she hugged herself.
“I think you should go talk to them, Helen. You can testify, Blake will go to prison, and he won’t bother you again. You’ll be safe.”
“I can’t do that, Rick. I can’t say anything. He’ll kill me, he’ll—”
“Not if he’s in prison.”
“But what if he gets out? The first thing he’ll do is come after me.”
“I’ll kill him first,” Rick said.
“Rick, no. I don’t want you to get in trouble over me. I don’t even know why you’re looking out for me, you barely know me—”
“I’m doing it because I can,” he said. “But if you go to the police, they’ll take care of Blake.”
She moved close, pressing herself to him, wrapping her arms around him, and resting her head on his chest. This again. She was so close, he could hear blood pouring through her veins, near the surface. She was flushed and so warm. He rubbed his face along her hair, gathering that warmth to him.
“Helen,” he said with something like despair.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“I’m not . . . right for you. This is dangerous—”
“Why?” She stepped away. “What’s up with you? You’re so nice, but you’re not afraid of Blake, and you keep talking like I ought to be afraid of you. What aren’t you telling me?”
Such a large answer to that question. He shifted her, so that he could see her face, trace the soft skin of her jaw, then drop to trace the pulse on her neck. He should send her to sleep and make her forget all this. He never should have taken her on that first date. And life was too long for that kind of regret. It didn’t matter how immortal you were, you still needed friends.
“Have you ever read Dracula?” he said.
“What, like Bela Lugosi?”
“Not quite like. But yes.”
“Yeah, ages ago. I like the movie better.”
“Vampires exist. They’re real.”
She chuckled. “Sorry?”
He took her hand and placed it on his chest, where his dead heart lay still. “What do you feel?”
Her smile fell. She moved her hand, pressing it flat to his chest, his ribs digging into her palm. She stared at him. “What am I supposed to say? Tell you you’re crazy?”
“Lie still,” he said.
“What?”
He sat her on the bed, stacked up the pillows, and forced her back so that she reclined against them. He kissed her, and she kissed back, enthusiastic if confused. Taking in her scent, her warmth, and the feel of her blood, he let the appetite grow in him.
Planting a final kiss on her neck, he held her hand and drew her arm straight before him. No hypnotism this time, no shrouding her memory. Let her see what he was. He put his lips to her elbow—more kisses, slow and tender, tracing her veins with his tongue. She let out a moan.
He sucked on her wrist, drawing blood to the surface.
“Rick? What are you doing? Rick?”
“I said lie still.” He pushed her back to the pillow and returned his attention to her wrist.
