by Sela Carsen
He released her arm. Too terrified to disobey, she reached out and switched it on. The man sucked in a quick breath, his eyes widening before he returned his gaze to her. He snatched her chin in his hand and studied her eyes.
“They’re green.” His face contracted as he regarded her suspiciously. “What’s your name?”
“Sabine Harper.”
“Sabine.” One muscled arm reached past her and picked up the lamp. He shone it directly into her face. “Your hair is too dark. And your eyes should be brown.”
“Well, they’re not. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Fear evaporated to be replaced with fury.
He was silent. The anger in his own face melted away, leaving a stoic mask.
“The blonde who was with you. Who is she?”
“That’s Lily. She’s my cousin.” Sensation rushed back to limbs gone numb with terror. Nerves pricked painfully in her head and blood pounded at her temple. “She and her stupid little friends were playing a game tonight, mumbling spells, trying to raise you from the dead. I can’t believe it worked.”
Willem shook his head. “It didn’t work. Not unless she’s Rose.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.” He looked down at his hand on her arm and grimaced. “You might be Rose and you might not. How long have I been…”
“Dead?” she supplied. “How long have you been dead? According to your tombstone, over one hundred twenty years.” Sarcasm dripped in her tone. This was ridiculous. Sabine wrenched away from his loosened grip. “If you knew a Rose during your lifetime, I can pretty much guarantee she’s dead, too. Unless she’s decided to go for a little walk tonight and stretch out her decayed skeleton. Who are you anyway?”
“My name is Willem Breaux. This used to be my house.”
She muttered an oath. “Great. Just great. Vampires, the walking dead, and now I live in a haunted house.”
“It’s haunted?” He leaned back from her.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” Sabine took deep breaths, keeping her eyes on the man who had invaded her home. His home. Whatever.
“Why, exactly, are you here?” she asked.
Willem rose stiffly and wandered over to the French doors leading to her spacious back yard. “I’m here to kill St. Ivraie.”
“Who?”
“Richard St. Ivraie. The vampire you saw tonight.”
“Fan-freakin’-tastic. Vampires. Dead man walking. I have completely lost my mind. You are a figment of my twisted imagination, right? That’s it. No more Stephen King movies on late night cable.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Sabine sighed and tried again. “You know what? Just for fun, I’m going to go along with this. I’m going to pretend this is real to see if my subconscious is trying to tell me something important.” She took a deep breath and pasted a patient smile on her face. “Okay. You’ve been dead for over a hundred years. Why now? Why after all this time?”
“Because he’s back. He stole my woman, turned her, and she murdered me. This time it’s my turn.”
Sabine snorted indelicately. “Nice. I thought vengeance was the Lord’s.” She rose and he followed her into the kitchen.
“I’m not a ghost,” he said, as if that would help.
Sabine filled her tea kettle with water. It soothed to her to go through the simple ritual during troubling times. “What are you?”
“I’m not sure.” He leaned against her counter and watched her assemble cups and teabags while she waited for the water to heat.
There was nothing left for her to do with her hands and she stopped. She turned to focus on him. There was a ghoul—imaginary, but very male—standing in her kitchen. He was dirty, but otherwise didn’t look as though he had lain decomposing for over a century. Maybe he wasn’t a ghoul.
He was something, though. His hair was probably dark blond under the dirt and since his clothing hung in rags, she had a pretty good idea that he had lived an active life, if his muscles were anything to go by.
The shrill whistle of the kettle broke the silence. Sabine poured hot water over her teabag, then hesitated. “I don’t know if you drink, or eat, or sleep. Should I pour you a cup of tea?”
“Yes, please.”
A ghoul with manners.
He smiled at her and he was beautiful. Fully male with a charming twinkle in his eyes. She shuddered and turned away as tears sprang again to her eyes.
“Are you all right?” he asked. Since they’d come into the kitchen he had watched her closely, examining her body, her hair, her face.
“Sure. I’m not usually a crier, but it’s been kind of a rough night. Anyway, it’s okay to cry during psychotic breaks.” She turned a half smile on him over her shoulder. Then, as if she entertained cadavers all the time, took the teabags out of the cups and asked if he wanted milk or honey.
He barely waited for the burning liquid to cool before he began drinking. The taste of something must have awakened his appetite because his stomach rumbled like the vibrating of a bass fiddle. She looked over at him. He might have flushed, but she couldn’t tell under the dust.
“Hungry?” she asked, smiling into her mug.
His lips tilted up and he put his empty cup on the counter. “Now that you mention it, I could do with something to eat.”
“As long as you don’t want to drink my blood or snack on my soul, I think I can fix you up.”
He ran his thumb under his lip as if to check for fangs. The dark gleam in his eyes, combined with the sensually assessing look on his face, made Sabine’s body tingle in a rush from head to toe. Not a ghoul. Definitely male. And so Sabine found herself frying eggs and ham at four o’clock in the morning for a man who had died generations before she was born.
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