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“Here.” I wrap the note around Laura’s collar and clip it into place with the small metal tab we added to the leather for this exact purpose. “Don’t take no for an answer. I’ll keep the phone plugged in so he can call if he needs more information, but don’t let him put you off. Make sure he reads the note and at the very least speaks to me on the phone. But it’s preferable if he comes with you immediately.”
Nodding her agreement and understanding, Laura hurries back out the front door, letting in a swirl of churning snowflakes. I have to lean heavily into the door to get it to close, making me worry that Laura’s errand might be doomed. If the storm is this bad, the chances that Dr. Price will still be at home are slim to none. By now, someone’s likely been injured by a falling tree, lost control of their car on the road, or gone into labor.
There’s something about storms in Nightfall that sends women into childbirth at an alarming rate. Half the children in town can claim they were born in the eye of one terrible storm or another.
The same can be said for deaths. The tombstones in town are a monument to how many we lost in the hurricane of 1910 and the freak spring snowstorm of 1972.
But Annie’s name won’t be added to the list of tonight’s victims. I refuse to let that happen, no matter what I must do to stop it.
Jaw set and will for the fight swelling in my chest, I race downstairs, gathering the thin blanket from my cot and zipping back to drape it over Annie, as well, but when I touch her forehead, it’s as terrifyingly cool as it was before.
Cursing myself for not having more blankets or anything but one damp towel on hand, for a moment I consider ripping the heavy curtains from the window and covering her with those. But if I do that, I’ll have no protection from the sun’s light come morning and the logical part of me knows more blankets alone aren’t the answer. Blankets hold heat, they don’t generate it, and it’s going to be at least fifteen to twenty minutes before the fresh logs take the edge off the chill.
What Annie needs is a warm body next to hers.
Hope flaring in my chest, I stride into the kitchen, fetching one of the bags of blood that usually last me two to three days and dumping the entire thing into a soup pan that I set on my two-burner stove. I crank the gas to high and pace back and forth between the kitchen and living room, adding logs to the fire and smoothing Annie’s hair from her forehead, silently demanding Death stay the fuck out of this house.
I can still save her. I must save her.
Again, I’m possessed by a wave of emotion so intense the only name I can give it is…love.
Even though I know it’s impossible to love a stranger. Even though I’m sure Annie would be repulsed if she were awake to watch me guzzle hot blood straight from the pan like an animal before stripping down to my boxer briefs and climbing under the covers with her.
I’m far too coarse, too rough a creature for a delicate, refined woman like her.
But at least I’m warm.
As I pull her close, tucking her beneath my chin and wrapping my arms arounder her chilled torso, I can feel the change in her almost instantly. Her skin begins to heat, and her muscles to relax. Her breath comes easier and after a few moments she moans in her sleep and shifts closer, wrapping her arms around my chest.
My ribs clench in response until my heart feels like it’s being gripped by a giant fist.
I ache for a hundred things I can’t name, but I’m also suddenly rather calm.
Almost…content.
I can’t remember the last time I was this at peace, not even in sleep. Most days, I can’t rest at all. I toss and turn on my cot in the darkened cellar or lie staring at the ceiling, scenes from the worst night of my life playing out across the wood beams, over and over again. And even when I do sleep, the nightmares are always there, waiting with bated breath and knives sharpened to a razor point.
That’s what you get when your conscience is as guilty as mine—pain, alleviated only by the vow you’ve sworn never to take the easy way out.
I could have walked into the sun that first morning after finding the bodies of my wife and children, but I didn’t. I forced myself to live, to remember them, to suffer their loss every day in hopes that it might make up for the fact that they suffered and died because I was too proud to see how easy it would be to lose everything that mattered.
Life and love and happiness…they’re all so delicate, so fragile, so taken for granted until it’s too late to recover all that’s been lost.
That’s what I’m thinking of—the loss, the heartbreaking, soul-crushing loss—when Annie opens her eyes and gazes up into my face with compassion that takes my breath away.
She cups my face in her still-cool hand and brushes her thumb gently across my bottom lip. “It’s okay. Don’t be sad. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
Fighting the lump rising in my throat, I whisper, “Rest. You’re out of your head.”
“No, I’m not. I remember everything up until a second ago, when I woke up naked with you,” she says, still stroking my face with that sweet, magical thumb, the one that makes me feel things I haven’t felt in centuries.
I never thought I’d want a woman again, let alone crave a kiss like my next breath. I want to press my lips to hers so badly the longing twists in my gut like a stake from a vampire hunter with poor aim, but I can’t indulge that weak part of myself.
Which means I need to remove myself from this perilous situation.
Now.
“I was just warming you up.” I try to ease out from under the covers, but her leg loops tighter around mine, until we’re tangled together from the knees down. I clear my throat and insist, “But I should go. I can fetch you some of my clothes to put on until I wash and dry your—”
