Besides whether we live or die? I shrug. “Maybe they’re checking my story.”
Stephen continues to chew, cutting the steak into bite-sized pieces with a butter knife. Must be tender. Even after a year, the sight of real food can kick-start my salivary glands. The temptation to reach over and grab a piece of that steak is strong but while I have no vampiric powers on this plain, I
To distract myself, I stand up and take a walk around the room. Is this real? Or something fabricated from the human collective memory? Unlike the room I found myself in when I first arrived with Samual, the floors and walls in this one are solid, the furniture physically exists. I run a finger along the back of a chair.
When I turn around, Stephen is watching. “What are you thinking?” he asks.
“I’m wondering how they conjured this up. If any of it is real.”
“You think it may be a figment of our imaginations?” He takes another bite. “Who cares? The steak is delicious.”
I return to my place at the table. “You’re taking this very well.”
“Is that a problem? Should I be curled up in a corner bemoaning my fate? I’m a realist, Anna. I was in Manhattan on 9/11. I’ve been a war correspondent in Afghanistan, spent time with the troops in Iraq. I’m a survivor. I have a feeling you are, too.” He scoops a forkful of potato. “Besides, who knows when we’ll eat again.”
He turns his attention back to his meal while I watch him. I’ve only known this man for what—I can’t even tell since time has all but stopped for us. I like him. He’s strong and brave. Self-sufficient. Practical. Maybe when we get back home. . .
“What’s it like being a vampire?”
This time it’s my pleasant little fantasy that gets popped like a pricked balloon. We’re both mortals here, but once we get home . . . I shake my head. “Like being anything else—good days and bad.”
“That can’t be true,” he argues. “You said you were ‘the Chosen One.’ What does that mean?”
I close my eyes for the length of a heartbeat. It’s hard enough to explain it to other supernaturals, how can I make a mortal understand? When I open my eyes again, Stephen is studying my reaction.
“You think I won’t understand, don’t you? Try me.”
“It’s not an easy story to tell.”
“The best ones never are. Give it a shot.”
I rest my elbows on the table, eyes downcast. Who knows what lies ahead for us? For this moment and in this place, we are merely two humans. I have no more power than he does over our fate. I look up at him. His expression is quiet, contemplative. His interest seems genuine enough. “Okay. Where would you like me to start?”
I expect him to say with my turning, but he surprises me. “Tell me about yourself. Before you became vampire. Has it been a long time?”
“No. I’ve only been a vampire for a year. And yes. It’s been a lifetime.”
He smiles at me again, waving his knife. “See? I knew it would be a good story.”
I can’t help but return the smile. “You sure you want to spend what may be your last moments hearing the story of my life?”
The smile becomes a grin, eyes twinkling. He places his knife and fork down on his plate and takes my hand. “You have a better idea?”
Wow. He works faster than I do. His expression makes my blood quicken.
“Maybe. But I’d rather save that until you hear the story. You may not feel the same way after.”
“Okay.” He takes up the utensils and resumes eating. “You have my full attention. Tell me your story, Anna Strong.”
ELEVEN
I FEEL STEPHEN’S EYES ON ME AS I COLLECT myself to begin. I’m wondering if I should back off, laugh the offer away as a joke. I’ve never done this before—spill my guts to a complete stranger. Is it because he’s a reporter? Does he work some kind of mojo to get subjects to open up? To
Or is it because if something happens to me and he survives, there will be someone who can bear witness to my existence?
God. This place is making me sappy.
Stephen reaches out, touching my hand. “Tell me.”
His hand is warm. His interest seems genuine enough. What do I have to lose?
I tell the story simply, unfold it in the order that makes the most sense. Start at the beginning.
Typical childhood. Raised in a loving family—two parents, both working professionals, an older brother. I was a tomboy, preferring my brother’s friends and their games of flag football and basketball to more girly pursuits.
Stephen smiles at that.
“What?”
“I can see it. You racing across a field with a football tucked under your arm or on the court in a game of horse. I bet you won more than you lost, too.”
“Damn straight.”
But I feel the smile fade from my face. I know what comes next.
Stephen sees it, too. He says, “Go on,” in a quiet voice.
“Everything changed when I was seventeen. My brother was killed in a hit-and-run accident.”
Stephen pushes his plate aside and leans toward me. “I’m sorry about your brother.”
I believe he means it. I acknowledge his words with a nod and go on.
“My parents never fully recovered. I doubt any parent ever does. They became overprotective of me, and because I understood what they were going through, I put aside my own career aspirations, to become a cop, maybe, or a private detective, and chose a safe career—teaching—to please them.
“It was a safe choice, not the right one. It only took a couple of tedious years in a classroom for me to realize it.”
“You didn’t like teaching?”
“It’s not something I’m particularly proud of. Teaching is not a career for one who has no interest in her students. When I realized I was probably doing them more harm than good, I took a hard look at my life—and my brother’s death. He played it safe and a drunken driver killed him. Something completely out of his control. I thought again about becoming a cop. But when my brother’s killer was finally caught and arrested, he spent only a year in prison. I couldn’t see myself part of a system that served more to protect the rights of the criminals than secure justice for the victims.”
I realize how bitter I sound. “You sure you want me to continue ? You probably never expected the rant.”
“But I think you’re getting to the good part, right? How you became a bounty hunter?”
I nod. “That’s when I met David.”
“The big guy? He’s your partner?”
“Yes. We met in a kickboxing class. He was a former football player and one day, he mentioned what he did. I’d never met a bounty hunter before. I suppose at first I was attracted to the romantic idea—bringing lawbreakers back to face their day in court. I invited him to coffee and peppered him with questions. When he said that business was so good he needed to take on a partner, I pestered him until he agreed to give me a shot. I proved I could handle myself. I loved the action. It was a perfect fit.”
“The action. Yeah. I saw you in action last night.” There’s just the briefest of pauses. “Are you more than business partners?”
“Why would you ask that?”
