by Roh Morgon
“What?” I ask.
He laughs. “I just enjoy looking at you.”
I frown and shake my head, though I can easily say the same thing about looking at him.
We turn onto a smaller road, and I start seeing signs for Keystone Ski Resort, ski shops, parking lots . . .
Ski resort?
Wide-eyed, I look back at Nicolas, and now he’s grinning.
“Skiing? We’re going skiing?”
“It seems I owe you several ‘snow checks.’ I am hoping this might be an acceptable method to make good on them.” He smiles, and humor dances in his pale eyes.
“I’ve never skied before.”
“I do not believe that will be a problem. I have made arrangements with the local ski school for instruction. I am sure they will find you to be the most apt student they have ever had.”
I laugh. Yeah, he’s probably right.
We stop in front of a ski shop, and the driver gets out and opens the back door.
I peer at the sun barely visible through the clouds and put on my hat and sunglasses anyway. The gloves I shove in my pockets. The sun is muted enough that I shouldn’t burn, but who knows how bright it might be later.
We get out and Nicolas looks at the driver. “Thank you, Alfonso. Will you see about getting ski racks installed on the car? I will call you when we are ready to be picked up.”
“Yes, sir,” Alfonso replies, his accent thick, but I can’t place it. He gets back in the car and drives away.
Placing his hand on my arm, Nicolas says, “Shall we do a little shopping first? This store should have ski clothing as well as equipment.”
“Do we really need the clothing? I mean, the cold is irrelevant, so it seems like a waste of . . . money.” My words fade as I realize that the cost of ski clothing would be less than pocket change to Nicolas.
“No, but we are skiing with humans. We will be less noticeable if we are dressed in their manner.”
I chuckle. “You and I tend to be noticeable no matter what we wear. But you’re right. We should at least appear to be as bundled up as they are.”
Nicolas smiles, opens the door of the ski shop, and follows me in. The store is crowded—Fridays are the lead-in for the weekend, and everyone is anxious to get out on the slopes. We spend the next hour or so picking out clothing and ski equipment. When the technician is almost finished mounting the bindings on our skis, Nicolas calls Alfonso and tells him we’re ready.
Less than a minute later, Alfonso walks into the shop, gathers our packages, and heads back out the door. He returns almost immediately and collects the skis and poles, then follows us out to the waiting car and opens the back door. We climb in while he snaps the equipment into the roof-mounted ski rack.
“Thank you, Alfonso,” Nicolas says as the man shuts the door.
We head down the street and follow the signs to another area of the resort, finally stopping in front of the main entrance. I check for the sun once again. It has now disappeared in a sky that is solid clouds. Nicolas smiles at me.
Hell, he probably ordered the sky to be cloudy this afternoon.
We’d purchased our ski clothing without changing back into our street clothes. All we need to do now is put on our ski boots, which we do while Alfonso gets the skis from the rack.
“Alfonso, you are free to enjoy the resort after you have parked the car. We plan on being here for quite some time. But please be available by phone should we need to leave sooner than anticipated.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Alfonso replies. I finally place the accent. Italian, I think.
Nicolas takes my free hand, and we walk up the steps carrying the skis and poles against our shoulders. We weave our way through the crowds and I catch a trace of tightness in his jaw, something I noticed in him when we were in the shop that was packed with people. I’m usually okay with crowds, except for physical contact—that I don’t like. It also helps if I’m not hungry.
We get in line for the ticket window, keeping a little distance from the people ahead of us. Nicolas stands facing me and says, “Have I told you how attractive you are in your pretty new ski outfit?” He’d insisted on the powder blue one.
“Yes, you have, several times. Thank you. You can say it as much as you like. And I think you look quite dashing in your new attire as well.” The dark grey goes well with his black hair and pale green eyes.
He laughs, but then his smile fades and he stiffens, staring behind me. At about the same time I realize whoever is behind me is now very close. I look over my shoulder at two college-age guys standing barely a foot away.
“Excuse me,” I turn partially toward them, my hand pressing against Nicolas’s chest. “Would you mind giving us a little space? There’s no need to crowd.”
“Uh, sure, ma’am. Sorry.” They grin and step back a couple feet. Fortunately, they are still staring at me, and haven’t noticed the venomous glare Nicolas is directing at them.
“They’re fine,” I whisper to Nicolas. The chest muscles under my hand begin to relax.
This is odd. I don’t recall him reacting this way when we visited the museums and the opera. He’d basically ignored the people around us, and his interactions with them, though few, had been polite.
I study his face, which has returned to its civilized mask, but I can still sense some residual tension.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Perfectly.” He steps to my side, and puts his arm around my waist, pulling me close, and keeps me there the rest of the time we are in line.
Possessiveness? Jealousy? I’m a little puzzled. It’s a bit uncharacteristic for someone who seems so confident and in control of the world.
We finally get to the window and I wait a little off to the side while Nicolas speaks to the cashier. I notice that he’s fine now, talking pleasantly to her and even smiling.
Huh.
Leaving the window, we make our way to the ski school area. I glance again at Nicolas and admire the sure and expert way he negotiates the terrain in his ski boots. He moves in sharp contrast to the throngs around us, like he does this every day.
“How long has it been since you last skied?”
“Ah, well, let me think. Several decades, I believe.” He looks down at me, smiling. “Why do you ask?”
“You just look like you ski all the time, like you belong here.”
“Well, perhaps not here. But I have spent time on ski slopes in the past.” His smile has a hint of mystery to it. I decide not to pursue the topic further—at least in public.
We arrive at the instruction area. Nicolas has reserved a private lesson for me, and I wait while he informs the instructor that I’m ready. He walks back toward me, his gracefulness unaffected by snow or ski boots.
“So, what are you going to do while I have my lesson?”
“Watch, of course.”
“Well, why don’t you just teach me yourself?” I ask, frowning.
“I will, my dear, once you have been shown the basics.” He glances up the slope.
His impatient tone surprises me. Maybe it’s a good thing he’s not the one teaching me the beginner stuff.
A bleached blond with a skier’s sunburn walks over, smiling, and introduces himself as John. Nicolas frowns and walks a short distance away, then stands, arms folded as he watches us. Though I’m focused on John’s instructions, I can’t completely ignore the intensity radiating across the snow from Nicolas.
He follows us as we ski over to the lift for my first trip down the slope. John explains how to get safely into and out of the lift chair and, since each chair holds only two people, suggests that Nicolas either ride in the one behind us or wait at the bottom of the slope. From John’s tone, I’m guessing he prefers the latter, as Nicolas seems to be making him nervous. Hell, he’s making me nervous.
Nicolas’s expression darkens in response to John’s comment, and he elects to ride in the chair behind ours.
We shuffle up through the instructor’
s entrance, followed closely by Nicolas. As the chair comes around, we step into position and it scoops us up. I giggle and slowly wave my skis in the air. John laughs and waves his too, though I’m sure he does this dozens of times in a single weekend. He starts making little jokes that rapidly give way to full-on flirting, and I realize Nicolas has been cramping this guy’s style. That might explain Nicolas’s behavior. He sensed what I hadn’t during my lesson. I grow quiet, all playfulness gone, but John doesn’t notice.
I wait a moment, then say, “Look John, I’m here strictly for a lesson. Let’s stick to business, okay?”
“Oh yeah, no problem. Sorry if I offended you.” He seems taken aback, but I don’t care.
Dumb ski bum. Offending me could get you hurt. Offending me in Nicolas’s moody presence will likely get you killed.
We’re almost to the end of the lift, and John reminds me how to exit safely. As the chair nears the ground, I touch down and smoothly glide to a flat area and stop. John says something about an awesome dismount, not like a beginner at all, but I ignore him and wait for Nicolas.
Nicolas gracefully skis up behind me and, taking me by the shoulders, kisses me on the side of the neck. He then looks up at John, and I can pretty much guess that his expression is gloating. This is mine, his body language says. I lean into him, give a small laugh, and reach back to touch his face, smiling as his lips caress my palm.
John looks down, embarrassed, and asks if I’m ready to ski down the hill. We walk over to the launching point, where he reviews the basics yet again. He tells me to follow him and to try to stay in his tracks as best as I can, turning where he does, and that we’ll stop halfway down to see how I’m doing. I nod and tell him I’m ready.
I look at Nicolas and he smiles, and then I take off after John. Nicolas trails a little off to the side.
Easily following John’s tracks back and forth across the slope, I discover that my speed increases if I angle my skis more downhill. I start shortening the turns, then abandon John’s trail altogether. My turns become smaller and smaller S’s, and I go faster and faster. Nicolas catches up and passes me, and I start following him as he leans into his skis one way and then the other. He then drops into a crouch and flies straight down the mountain. I mimic him, laughing as the cold wind rushes past my face. He reaches the bottom, makes a gentle arc, and comes to a halt. I do the same and wonder why all the nonsense about snowplowing to stop.
John arrives a minute or so later, a mixture of confusion and anger on his face. “I thought you said you’d never skied before.”
“She hasn’t. Her newfound skill must be due to her excellent instructor.” Nicolas gives me a sidelong glance and smiles. He isn’t talking about John.
I laugh. “Thank you, John, for a wonderful lesson, but I think we’re done now. Nicolas?”
He takes my outstretched hand, and we leave John standing there, shaking his head.
We spend the rest of the short afternoon exploring the various runs. I have little problem keeping up with Nicolas, although certainly not in quite the same style. Poetry in motion, as cliché as it sounds, is one thought that comes to mind as I watch him. He embodies all the grace and artistry of a figure skater as he weaves his way down the slopes. I marvel at what a magnificent being he is.
Late in the day, we reach a ski run that is quite steep and obviously constructed for speed. Nicolas shoots me a look, challenge in his eyes, and takes off. I launch after him and try vainly to catch him. But he is a rocket and I am quickly left in his exhaust. I drink in the wind as it whips past me, crouching low and straight, trying for more speed, but don’t catch up to him until reaching the bottom. He’s standing there, nonchalantly waiting for me, Cheshire-cat smirk on his face. He’s probably been holding back all day.
Laughing, I bend down and scoop up a handful of snow to throw at him, but he’s no longer there. I look around and he’s halfway across the slope. I throw it anyway, but it only hits empty air. Oh yeah, I forgot how fast he can move. Silly me.
Thwack! The snowball explodes against my back. I groan and collapse as though injured, and he’s bending over me before I hit the ground. I plant a fistful of snow in his hair in revenge.
Chuckling, he grabs me, pulls me to my skis, and kisses me, hard. I go still, then start to respond, and he gently shifts back.
“Ah, you see? I still know the best way to win.” He laughs again and then rubs snow in my hair.
I brush it out and suggestively answer, “You’re right, I give up. To the victor goes the spoils . . . do with me as you will.”
At that his eyes grow intense, and the crimson starts to creep in. He roughly pulls me to him and kisses me again, longer this time. He breaks away, holding me by the shoulders, question in his eyes.
“You see, two can play that game.” I stare mockingly back at him and shift out of his grasp. He looks at me a moment, then relaxes and tips his head, holding out his hand in concession. I take it, and we ski over to the edge of the paved area and step out of our skis.
It’s about four o’clock, and most of the outlying runs and lifts are shutting down for the day. But the main runs and lifts stay open for night-skiing, and Nicolas suggests we find a place to have some tea and wait for the crowds to thin out.
CHAPTER 22
We walk into yet another restaurant-bar. Like the previous two, it’s packed with people both sitting and milling around. Nicolas’s jaw tightens, and without stopping, we turn and walk out.
He reaches into his jacket’s inside pocket and takes out his cell phone. As he’s talking to Alfonso, we head back to the entrance.
“Are we leaving? What about the skis?” I ask. They’re locked in a rack back at the first place we’d stopped.
“No, not yet. We will wait in the car for nightfall.”
“Okay.” Again, I’m puzzled by his sudden intolerance toward people.
The limousine is double-parked out front and Alfonso is standing next to it with the rear door open. I get in and take my earlier seat, while Nicolas resumes his. Alfonso closes the door, then heads into the restaurant area.
Nicolas stares out the window, faint lines creasing his brow.
I gather my courage and touch his arm.
“Nicolas? Is something wrong?”
“No, my dear. Everything is fine.” He glances at me, and his eyes, distinctly darker than earlier, carry a hint of a warning.
Fine? Doesn’t look that way to me.
My lips pressing into a tight line, I slowly remove my hand.
He frowns, reaches out, and gently squeezes my arm.
“Please forgive me. Excuse me for a moment.”
Nicolas opens the door and gets out of the car. He crosses the parking lot, his cell phone against his ear. When he reaches its edge, he begins pacing back and forth, reminding me of a caged panther.
A cough outside the window on the other side of the car startles me. Alfonso’s holding a tray with a chrome teapot and two cups, and I bite back a laugh at the picture he makes. He’s just not the butler type. He’s more like a bodyguard, or perhaps an Italian mobster, and would look more comfortable holding either an Uzi or an old-fashioned Tommy gun.
I open the door for him, then turn and watch Nicolas as he returns to the car, still talking on the phone. Why would he need a bodyguard? His physical abilities far outweigh that of any human. But five hundred years is enough time to make a few enemies—of any origin.
Nicolas slows as he nears us, nods several times, then tucks the phone back inside his jacket before opening the door and climbing in. He seems calmer now, but his smile is still tight.
His gaze meets mine, flickers away, then returns, filled with the sparkle of amusement. His mouth quirks and he tips his head.
“Sunny? Your tea?”
Alfonso’s leaning into the car, holding a steaming teacup in my direction. He’s probably been holding that cup the whole time I was watching Nicolas.
“Oh. Sorry.” I duck my head. “Thank you, Alf
onso.”
Some alert hunter I am.
Nicolas is smiling as he takes his cup from the swarthy driver. Alfonso shuts the door and gets into the driver’s seat, and we slowly cruise to the back part of the parking lot. Nicolas, his expression sober again, sips his tea and watches me speculatively. I resist squirming in my seat.
“So,” he says, “how did you like your first time skiing? Are my snow debts paid?”
“Yes, I’ll consider your ‘snow debts’ paid, several times over. I really enjoyed it. Thank you for bringing me.”
“Good. And you are welcome. It has been my pleasure.
“But,” he continues, “the best is yet to come. Night skiing has a particular appeal, especially to our kind.”
I take a breath, debating whether to ask him a question I’ve had since I first saw him standing across the street from me. I look over my shoulder at the closed partition between the driver’s section and ours, then back to Nicolas.
“Do not worry. The partition, as well as this entire compartment, is soundproof. He cannot hear anything we say.” He looks at me curiously and waits.
“You’ve . . . mentioned ‘our kind’ several times. Are there many others here in Colorado like you? I mean, like us?”
“Sunny, I have been wondering why you have avoided asking this question. I assume it is but one of many unasked inquiries you have. I do not understand your hesitation, but please rest assured you may ask me anything about The Chosen that you would like to know.” Nicolas reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from my face, then continues.
“The answer to this one is . . . yes. There are other Chosen here, mostly in Denver and the Springs. And since your curiosity has finally overcome your apprehension, I believe you might be ready to meet some of them.” He looks at me, head tilted, gauging my reaction.
Which isn’t real great. I knew there had to be others and was somewhat prepared for his answer. But the thought of coming face-to-face with them sends icy panic through my veins and I’m sure he can sense it.
