Companions of the Night (23 page)

"Kerry," Ethan said.

She refused to turn around.

"We were both vampires, sharing for a time the same small town. We were temporary companions of the night. Never lovers in any sense of the word. But I thought I'd led them to her. I thought I'd done something, and they'd found me out, and followed me, and killed her because of me. I thought it was my fault."

The idea that he, too, had been blaming himself for someone else's actions caused Kerry to turn around, and she made the mistake of looking into his eyes She let him draw her in closer, let him kiss her—finally—on the lips. She put her arms around him, gently, so as not to hurt him, and for a few sweet moments let herself pretend that it could stay this way forever.

Which was a dangerous thought, considering.

"Ethan," she asked, remembering how he had made her fall asleep the night they had fled together so that she couldn't see how to get into the Rochester subway system, "can vampires affect people's dreams?"

"No," he said. He'd lied so often, about so many things, there was no reason to believe him now, except that she very much wanted to. And he did, she thought, sound puzzled by her question.

She could feel the strong but incredibly slow beating of his heart and knew that her own was going faster than it should have. He ran his hands over her back and shoulders, and she truly, truly didn't want to stop.

His kisses went lower, to her throat, which felt incredibly good.
I just want to know what it feels like,
she thought.
I'll stop him before it goes too far.
But then she thought that it had already gone too far. That it was already going to be the most difficult thing she had ever done to say—

"Ethan."

He kissed her lips again, perhaps to prevent her from speaking anymore.

She returned that kiss, then tipped her face away.

He resumed kissing her neck.

"Ethan."

He didn't stop, so she spoke even as he kissed her.

"Ethan, I just want you to know—not that anybody can ever
truly
know exactly how they're going to react to any given situation until they've actually been in that situation, and then it's too late because then you're saying how you
did
react instead of how you're
going to
react, so you can only guess. Which is what I'm doing, even though I don't have all the information, so you might think I'm being terribly naive, which I probably am. But I don't want you thinking I'm implying any sort of criticism of anybody who may or may not have been in the same situation, which is obviously impossible anyway because every situation is different...."

He had pulled back and was frowning, probably from concentration as he tried to follow what she was saying, and she couldn't fault him because she'd lost track herself.

Taking a deep breath, she said, "I just want to let you know that I don't intend to become a vampire."

He was studying her face, his blue eyes wide, but she couldn't tell what he was thinking, and it occurred to her that perhaps he had never intended to make her a vampire, that perhaps he was just going to get rid of the last witness in as kind and gentle a way as he could.

"In case the question ever comes up," she finished lamely.

He
was
startled, for he said, "Then why did you help me?"

"Because..." She looked away so he wouldn't see her eyes, which were suddenly filled with tears. "Because—stupid as it is—I love you."

He caressed her face and she threw her arms around him once again, sobbing into his chest before she remembered his burns and that she was probably hurting him. She pulled away and he leaned to kiss her, and she repeated, frantically, forcefully, "I don't intend to become a vampire."

She braced herself for the bite.

He hugged her, but without the intensity of before, and he rested his chin on her head as he rocked her slightly, more a comforting movement than anything else.

I could still change my mind,
she thought, both wanting to and not.

And, because it was the last thing she wanted to do, she pulled away from him.

"If you aren't going to kill me," she said, "I need to know what to tell the police. What do I claim happened?"

Ethan studied her face. Then he sighed, looking away.

Kerry stared at the toes of her sneakers.

"Your father didn't come to pick you up," he said softly, calmly, with years and years' worth of experience, "so you accepted a ride home from Ethan Bryne, a customer at the store whom you'd chatted with before."

"Did I like him?" Kerry asked.

Ethan smiled. "Not all that much, but you were desperate for a ride."

"I don't think I like this story."

"It gets worse," Ethan assured her "As the two of you walked out to his car, a man you did not then recognize, but who will turn out to be Gilbert Marsala, came out of the shadows. He had a gun and threatened to shoot unless Ethan drove where he was instructed, which turned out to be here, Marsala's home. Marsala put you in the sauna room in the basement, moving something heavy in front of the door so that you couldn't get out. You yelled for help, but apparently nobody heard you. After a long time—you had the impression it was the next night—Marsala came to get you out. You demanded to know what had happened to poor Ethan Bryne, but all Marsala would talk about was Satan and vampires."

"In favor or against?" Kerry interrupted.

"In favor of Satan but not vampires" Ethan stooped to touch a singed area on the rug where he had bled last night and where the sun had burned through.

She crouched across from him.

"I'll pour lighter fluid on these," he said, "and burn them even more. You can say Marsala raved about burning out all the vampire blood, including yours, which is when you shoved him, and he fell down the stairs. You were sure he was hurt but didn't realize he was dead; you just figured he'd be more furious than ever. You were sure that if you tried to go down those stairs, he'd grab you. You ran into the library and jammed the desk chair under the doorknob, certain he'd come banging on it any moment. You waited and waited. Eventually, you fell asleep. Finally, when you couldn't stand it anymore, you pulled the chair away and peeked down the stairs. It was only when you saw him in the same position that you realized he'd been dead all along. Unfortunately, because of your ordeal, you weren't thinking straight, so instead of calling the police from here, you walked home. Which will give me time to ... arrange things here."

"What about Ethan Bryne?"

"Never to be seen again, I'm afraid."

"Are you really going to let me go?" she asked.

Ethan, still crouched by the burned bloodstain, held his hands up to indicate he wasn't going to stop her "How can you ask that?" he said with what sounded like sincere hurt and amazement.

Which still might have meant either yes or no.

She made it to the door of the room before he stopped her.

He called, "Is there any chance you'd ever change your mind?"

She turned back. It was tempting. Faced with the prospect of never seeing him again, it was very tempting. But her only hope was not to let him see that "Is there any chance you'd change yours?" she countered.

"It would be nice not to have to be looking over my shoulder all the time," he acknowledged. "And to see your hair in the sunlight." He glanced away as though embarrassed at the sentimentality of that He made no assurances, which might have been more promising than if he did. "Good-bye, Kerry. In the future, be careful whom you rescue."

"Good-bye, Ethan," she said.

"Michel," he corrected, and because he gave it the French pronunciation, she thought maybe it was his real name.

It was more encouraging than any of his
honestlys
or
trulys.

"Good-bye, Michel," she said. She walked down the stairs, past Marsala's body, and out the door, heading for home.