by J. R. Ward
"I'm sorry?"
Ivie waved a hand. "Nothing. So tell me, what's an aristocrat like you doing in a human place like this? I thought your kind only socialized with itself."
As his stare narrowed, she thought, Gotcha.
A couple more comments like that and he was going to huff off and leave her to Uber home in peace. #perfect.
Or...#inevitable might be more like it.
"What makes you think I'm a member of the glymera?"
Ivie counted things off on her fingers, one by one. "That's a cashmere sweater you're wearing. Your watch is gold and weighs as much as this bar. And your accent screams multi-millions and a bloodline back to the first time the Scribe Virgin sneezed. Honestly, you stretch those vowels out any longer and we're going to have to put you on life support."
He recoiled, and for a second, something crossed his face. But it was too quick and she didn't know him well enough to read it.
"Maybe I'm a self-made male posing with good enunciation."
"Bone structure," she ticked off.
"Plastic surgery."
"That signet ring."
"Pawn shop."
"FYI, this is the best I've ever done at playing tennis."
As he laughed again, she shrugged. "Why don't you want to be who you are? Most folks in the species would kill to be in the aristocracy."
"How about you? Do you want that?"
Ivie took a drink to buy herself some time and she was glad that things were getting watered down in her glass. She'd ordered the V&T even though she usually wasn't into alcohol, to take the edge off that failed job interview. But with this guy sitting next to her? She found herself wanting her brain to function at its highest level.
"The money would be fun," she hedged. "I mean, I have to stay in the kind of budget where getting clothes from Nordstrom Rack and shoes from Zappos is a treat. It would probably be exciting to have to agonize between whether you're buying the Porsche or the Rolls--and then say, Screw it, I'll take them both."
"There's a 'but' in this statement, isn't there."
"Well, here's the thing. I'm not sure aristocrats are any happier than I am. I mean, especially the females, given all the social restrictions on them. But more to the point, from what I've seen at my job, health is the great equalizer. If you're sick or old, it doesn't matter what your bank account or your family tree looks like."
"What do you do for a living?"
She glanced over at him--and promptly got lost in his lashes. Jeez, they made Kyle Jenner look like an alopecia patient. And his weren't fake.
"Do you like what you see?" he said in a quiet voice.
"Nurse!" she blurted too loudly. "I'm a nurse. I work at Havers's. As a nurse."
That chuckle of his was grating as all get out. "Sounds rewarding--"
"Listen, could we just stop right here." She pushed her tall glass away and got her purse and coat from the back of her chair. As she rose to her feet, she offered him a professional smile--the same one she used when she had to take out a catheter. "It was nice to meet you, blah, blah, blah, but let's cut the crap and stop wasting good oxygen on this going-nowhere conversation. I am not into casual sex, I don't get picked up in bars--or anywhere else, for that matter--and I can't fathom any good reason why a male like you would be out on a night like this sitting next to me."
"No reason? How about the fact that I saw you and I wanted to talk to you."
"I said no 'good' reason. There are a lot of bad ones." She went back to ticking things off on her fingertips. "You're mated, but bored and looking for a little nookie before you go home to your judgmental shellan and your two perfect kids. You have a fetish that involves feet, bunny ears, Krazy Glue in strange places, or maybe, God forbid, gerbils. You have a bet with some other incredibly good-looking male vampire in here about how long it will take you to get the plain girl's number. You're a serial killer looking for a victim. You think I'm a lesbian and want a challenge. Maybe you're mentally ill and believe we're all going to get abducted by aliens at midnight and you figure, what the hell, I better get it in one more time before we're all dead. How'm'I doing here? I can keep going."
The smile he gave her was slow and breathtakingly beautiful.
As in she literally couldn't breathe as she looked at him.
"I am so impressed you used 'nookie' in a sentence."
Now it was Ivie's turn to blink like she'd forgotten the language they were using.
"And," he said as he finished what looked like bourbon or scotch in his rocks glass, "I can tell you with all honestly, I am none of those things. I am not mated, I don't have any fetishes, I know no one else in this cigar bar, I'm not a serial killer, and I don't believe in extraterrestrial life." He leaned in, his lids going half-mast. "Oh, and with the way you've been looking at my mouth, I don't think you're a lesbian. I also find you far, far from plain."
"Is it hot in here?" she said out loud.
"When I'm next to you, yes, it is."
Ivie looked away, to the wall of windows in the front of the bar. The name of the place had been painted on the glass so it showed toward the street, the old-fashioned, 1920s' writing all cursive and outlined with gold when you were on the sidewalk. When you were inside, however, you couldn't read it, the reversed pattern opaque and black.
Kind of like destiny, she thought. You didn't know what was going on until you were out on the other side of things.
"I have to go."
God, she would have given anything not to have had that sadness creep into her voice right then.
"I'm not even going to ask if I can take you home," he said.
"Good."
"But I will see if you'll meet me for dinner tomorrow night." When she glanced at him, he put his palms up. "Public place. Let's say Sal's Restaurant. Do you know the one?"
"Who doesn't."
"Ten o'clock."
Ivie frowned. "You know...you're making me think of something my father always told me."
"What's that?"
"If something looks too good to be true, it is." She put her coat on. "It was weird meeting you."
"So dinner is a no?"
"Yeah, it's a no."
"If you change your mind, I'll be--"
"I won't."
She turned around to start working her way to the door, when he said, "Ivie."
"What." She focused on the door, aware that she was being rude, but too discombobulated to care.
Wonder if he would like the way she used the word "discombobulate."
"It was nice to meet you."
Glancing over her shoulder, she found him staring at her, those pale eyes intense, his elegant hand turning his squat glass slowly around on the bar. He was like an ad in a lifestyle magazine with his elbow braced on the mahogany, his legs crossed at the knees--
Oh, look, his loafers had tassels on them.
Come on, like she'd expect him to be sporting a pair of fuzzy slippers down there?
"Wow, that's a picture."
"What?" he said.
"Never mind. Have a good life. I guess. Or...yeah."
Cutting her losses, before her departure involved a pratfall or a wardrobe malfunction that flashed her butt, Ivie squared herself and weaved her way through the various humans until she could put the exit to good use. Outside, she took a series of deep breaths and was glad it was a cold January night and not the middle of August.
Head clearing and all that.
The neighborhood was full of gourmet restaurants, high-class boutiques that were currently closed for the night, and walk-ups that had brass door knockers and lots of molding around their entrances and windows. Going down one block, she found a nice little dark alley...and dematerialized back to her normal life.
Which did not include a male like that.
Nope. Not even close.
Chapter Two
The following evening, Ivie leaned into the mirror over her bathroom sink and tried to hold herself steady so she c
ould hit her eyelashes with some Maybelline that was probably...three years old?
Yeah, yeah, she knew that you needed to throw makeup out after a year--or was it six months?
"Whatever."
Either way, the stuff had ossified in the tube, reverting to a solid that got her nowhere.
Pitching the green-capped wand and the pink lower half into the trash, she killed the lights and went into her bedroom. Her apartment was your bog standard starter, with a galley kitchen, two windows, and floors that were pine and stained with a low gloss. The walls had been freshly painted so many times, the linen white was thick enough to qualify as wallpaper, and the appliances and plumbing fixtures were new-ish. But the building was secure, and her neighbors were humans who slept at night when she was working, and away at jobs when she was sleeping.
Was it the safest for someone who faced molecular immolation if they were exposed to sunlight? Probably not. But her bedroom didn't have a window in it, and there was an interior staircase to the communal basement that she could use if necessary. A fire during the daytime would put her in some difficulty, although in her opinion, you couldn't spend your life worrying about what-ifs. You made yourself as safe as you could and then you just did your thing.
Right before she left, she smoothed her skirt and checked to make sure that she had everything on correctly. Yup, bra was under the blouse, not on top of it, and her flats were on the right feet--
Coat. She needed a coat--no, not the puffy parka that made her feel like Violet Beauregarde from Wonka's chocolate farm. Yes, the wool one she'd had on last night--
Oh, God, she smelled like a cigar now.
Ivie shuffled back to the bathroom, and looked around for some perfume. No luck. The one bottle of DKNY stuff she had was nearly dried up. What could she...
Febreze. Fair enough.
After giving herself a good misting, she wafted her way to her door and let herself out, making quick work going down the stairs and through the little lobby. By the time she reached the sidewalk, her heart was pounding like she had bench-pressed a Civic.
It took her about a decade and a half to dematerialize...and when she re-formed it was in the shadows of Salvatore's Restaurant. The time was ten o'clock on the dot.
And clearly she had lost her mind.
Walking forward like she knew what she was doing, she had no one around to impress with her false composure. The parking lot only had three cars in it, the humans who packed the place for normal dinner service hours gone, so, yup, it was just her and her nerves as she strode under the awning and entered the place. Inside, it was all Rat Pack chic, the flocked wallpaper and red-and-black high-end everything making Sal's feel like a throwback to the past when life was more interesting and sophisticated.
The hostess wasn't at the stand, but Ivie didn't need anyone to show her where to go.
Looking into the dining area on the left, she saw him.
Silas was the only one at a table, the other two dozen four-, six-, and eight-tops empty, and as if the staff recognized his station, they'd given him prime position next to the huge stone hearth. Which was kind of not fair...like putting a Rolls-Royce under special showroom lights.
Wow. He'd worn a suit. A proper, deep navy blue suit with a bright white formal shirt and a pale blue tie that had a subtle pattern in it. And as he sat there, he looked more businessman than date. Flickering yellow light from the low fire played over his face, creating dark shadows all around his intense expression. With his brows down low and his eyes trained on the crackling logs, it was as if he were searching for some kind of answer in the kindled heat.
Running her palms down her skirt, which was exactly where it had been when she'd left her apartment, she went over to him. With every step, she expected him to look up at her, but whatever he was thinking about was consuming.
Maybe this was a mistake.
Well, duh--
At that moment, he shifted his stare, and the instant he saw her, a slow smile transformed his face. Pushing his chair back, he got to his feet.
"I didn't think you were going to come."
"Neither did I," she said.
As she stopped in front of him, it was awkward. Hug? No hug? And yes, she was eyeing that broad chest of his and wondering what it would feel like under her hands.
"Let me help you with your chair."
He pulled the seat across from him out, and then pushed it in a little as she lowered herself down. God...that scent of his.
"Would you like another vodka and tonic?" he asked as he sat again.
"No. I'm not much of a drinker, actually. Last night I was frustrated."
"About what?"
"It's not important." Except then she realized there was going to be a whole lot of silence if she didn't get to chatting about something, anything. "A job interview, actually. It didn't go well."
"Why not? If you don't mind me asking."
"I'm not a right fit for that household. You know, as a private nurse. Too young."
"How old are you?"
"Eighteen years out of my transition. You?"
He raised his cocktail glass. "Three hundred fifty-eight years and two months."
"Not even middle-aged."
"No." He smiled. "Not old. Now, if we were humans, this would be inappropriate."
"Well, you would be dead. So yes, necrophilia is creepy."
Silas blinked. And then laughed. "Yes, that would be...creepy, as you say."
The human waitress who came up to their table was in the wrong job. Dressed in a tuxedo that somehow managed to emphasize her spectacular body, she had blond hair pulled back in a sleek bun and a beautiful face so expertly made up, she needed to be in Manhattan getting waited on after a photo-shoot.
This whole slinging linguini in Caldwell thing was a waste for the likes of her.
And as Silas looked up, Ivie braced herself for his inevitable double take. After which was going to come the joy of watching from afar as two physically perfect specimens did the secret handshake of the photogenic set.
Actually, it was probably more like a brow arch, two snaps, and an air kiss--
Unbelievably, Silas didn't seem to notice the woman one way or the other. Instead, he looked across the table. "Would you like a glass of wine, Ivie?"
Ivie put her napkin in her lap and smiled a little. "Sure. The house would be fine. White, though, please."
"Would you like a little more time with the menus?"
Naturally, the blonde addressed Silas, and he was pleasant enough to her, telling her, yes, they needed more time, and could she please bring some bread. But that was it.
When they were alone again, he cocked his head to the side. "Yes?"
"Nothing."
He leaned in. "You know, I'm fine with silence, and if that's all you're comfortable with, I will sit in front of this fire with you and relax. But I'd find it even more interesting if you'd tell me what is on your mind."
"I guess I was just thinking...compliments don't have to be spoken. That's all."
Silas's voice dropped down. "Is this the part where you look at my mouth again? Because if it is, I am so ready for that."
Ivie put her hands up to cheeks that were suddenly hot.
He chuckled and sat back again. "I'll stick to safer topics--for now. Why don't you tell me what changed your mind about having dinner with me?"
She took a sip of water. "I don't know. I guess I thought of something else my father always told me."
"What was that?"
"Take a chance. I mean, I have the night off. I was just going to binge-watch Gilmore Girls and eat popcorn--which is not a bad gig. Especially when the alternative is a full nursing ward and all kinds of bodily functions that aren't working right. But the thing is, I do that a lot, you know? Stay in. Rubes is always telling me there's more to life than work, and I know that's true. I am just so tired a lot of the time."
"You must be on your feet a lot at work."
"
I don't mind that part." She touched her sternum and then her temple. "It's the heart and mind stuff that is exhausting."
"Do you ever...I mean, you've watched patients die, yes?"
Ivie slowly nodded her head.
"How do you do that?" he said softly. "How do you get through that?"
"Well." She took another sip. "First of all, not everyone passes. There are so many people we help at the clinic. And Havers, I mean, he's old school and a half--his idea of casual night is a pastel bow tie instead of his more serious navy blue and maroon ones. But he is a phenomenal healer."
As Silas laughed, she realized that she liked the sound. Liked that he thought she was witty.
Really liked that he was listening to what she was saying so closely.
Ivie took a deep breath. "When it does come time for someone to leave and go unto the Fade...I'm not numb to it. Not at all. But I also see it as my job to try to ease their way. I'm not scared of death, it's the suffering that bothers me--and I know I can help that. It's the journey, not the outcome, that I can change, if that makes sense."
"You're not afraid of death?"
She shook her head. "It's peaceful. Death can be a release and a relief for the person, and that is a blessing. The thing is, a lot of times, it is work to die. It requires physical and emotional effort. What sucks is that for most, particularly if they're dying out of sequence, it's a job they don't want. It's about loss of control, loss of function, loss of identity and independence...loss of choice and decision, of family and friends. But if you can let go of all that, what comes with it is freedom. A soaring freedom, the soul released from its temporary prison of mortality."
When he just stared at her, she flushed. "Annnnnd now is when we switch to sports and weather, right. Sorry, but you did ask, and I'm not good at half answers."
He stayed silent as her wine arrived, and the waitress read them correctly, backing off without revisiting the whole ready-to-order thing.
"I'm terrified of death," he said. "What if there is nothing afterward? What if the Fade is a bunch of bullshit, a self-medicating fallacy created by the living and breathing because they don't want to consider the likelihood we are nothing but worm food?"
"Yeah, except here's the thing." She put her hands up. "Ya dead, either way. So it's a win/win. You get eternal life with calorie-free M&M's and fettuccini Alfredo--or, you're worm food with no consciousness so you won't know and won't care. Might as well assume the best because it's less likely to drive you crazy with a depressing distraction while you're whooping it up on this side, right?"
