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“Well,” she says, “if you’re just a figment of my imagination, then I know what I want to do with you.”
A trill of arousal—a sensation I haven’t felt in years—zips through my bloodstream. I rise and take her hands.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Dance with me,” Mariah says, already swaying to the music in her head. I haven’t danced in decades, but I remember the moves well enough.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s go.”
I pull her toward the house where the resident ghosts are always celebrating, convinced they’re attending a party that never seems to end. She hesitates as we approach the doorway.
“Wait, we can’t go inside—”
The doorman gives Mariah and me a onceover. She tries to hide behind me, pulling the hem of her shirt lower.
“Sir,” he says to me, “Do you have an invitation?”
“We’re with the band,” I say, and he opens the door for us.
“It doesn’t matter what you say to him,” I yell over the swing-style music. “He always lets you in.”
Mariah is still laughing as I draw her onto the dance floor. I pull her toward me and then spin her around. She laughs, and I can’t get enough of the sound, or this feeling. The lightness in my feet and in my body. It’s infectious.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to just have...fun.
The band slides into a slow song. Mariah eyes me nervously, like a girl at her first high school dance. She’s practically young enough to fit the description.
Again, I’m struck by the urge to pull her close and assuage her. So, that’s exactly what I do, taking her hand and resting my own on the small of her back. She leans her head on my shoulder. It’s a damn good thing I can’t smell her, otherwise my fangs would be buried in her throat.
Instead of savoring her taste, I revel in her solidity, as we sway to the gentle rhythm of the slow song. Her heart beats between us like a bird’s wings. I’m caught off guard by how remarkable it feels to simply hold her. She’s the only person I can touch within this realm, and it’s taking all of my patience and control not to overwhelm her with my desire to make contact.
Mariah clasps her hands behind my neck, pressing her body to mine. My control wavers as my awareness narrows to the places where our forms touch. My chest. Her breasts. Our arms and hands. I slide my palms to her hips and, without thinking, angle my face into the curve of her neck.
My fangs extend. If I were to bite her now, she would feel it, but no blood would flow from the wound. What’s odd is that I don’t wish to bite her out of hunger. For a vampire, feeding can be an intensely intimate act when it’s not a matter of life-or-death.
Under different circumstances, she might offer her blood to me freely. But that’s not the world we live in.
The song ends, and I suddenly recall why we’re here and what I need from her.
She pulls away, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, red-cheeked and flustered. The understanding that she’s aroused sends a rush of awareness to body parts that haven’t experienced pleasure in far too long.
“I’d like to see this old photo of me you were talking about,” I say.
She nods, no doubt grateful for the distraction. “It’s upstairs.”
What a fortunate coincidence that the mysterious photograph she wants to show me would be housed in the same cabinet as the keys to my cage. I’ve stood in this exact spot countless times, watching helplessly as Edward placed the keys in a small, hand-carved chest on the middle shelf of the cabinet.
“I don’t know,” I tell her, pretending to look carefully at the photograph of myself surrounded by relatives that are far closer relations to her than they were to me at the time. “He doesn’t look that much like me.”
“He looks exactly like you,” she says emphatically.
“The eyes aren’t right. Maybe if you brought it closer.”
She reaches out to grasp the handle on the cabinet, and her fingers glide right through. She gasps.
“That was weird,” she says.
“Try picking up the photo itself.”
