Ever since Turner had come to the realization that Kian must’ve bitten him, and that his newfound vigor was caused by the injection of venom, he had been wracking his brain about how to deliver the news that he wasn’t a Dormant to Bridget.

Would she accept him in her life as a human?

If the venom had indeed cured his cancer, then not all was lost. He still had a couple of healthy decades in him, which was better than what he’d had before.

But would it be enough?

Maybe in the beginning, but not for long.

The phone call from Kian was like an injection of hope, blasting the sinking sensation in Turner’s stomach to the hell where it belonged.

It seemed like becoming an immortal was still on the cards.

If Kian was going all out for him and going to such lengths as asking his mother, the goddess, to give Turner her blessing, he must’ve believed there was a chance.

Otherwise, the most he would have done was go through the motions and not make a big production out of it.

Involving the goddess was a big deal.

Things didn’t add up, though, and it bothered Turner. Perhaps the easiest way to solve the mystery was to confront Kian about what he had done and why. On the other hand, it wasn’t a good idea to piss the guy off. Especially not on a day he was about to sink those fangs of his into Turner’s neck.

Again.

Victor walked into the master bathroom and closed the door behind him. Standing in front of the mirror, he unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, then examined his neck in the small magnifying one he used for shaving.

Left side, right side, there was nothing.

Except, there probably wouldn’t be any sign of it even if Kian had bitten him. According to Bridget, the saliva of an immortal male had healing properties.

“Victor? Are you in there?” She knocked on the door.

“Yeah, you can come in.”

She pushed the door open and then gave his bare torso an appreciative look. “What are you doing?”

“I was about to shave,” he lied.

For some reason, he didn’t want to share his suspicions with her. Mainly because he had no proof other than circumstantial evidence and his sudden robust energy and sense of well-being, but also because he didn’t want to worry her or conversely raise her hopes unrealistically.

It was enough that he was letting himself cling to hope based on a conspiracy theory that might have existed only in his mind.

Bridget lifted a hand to her lips, covering them with two trembling fingers. “I’m scared, Victor. I know I should put on a strong front for you, but I can’t help it.”

He turned away from the mirror and pulled her into an embrace, gently rocking her body that was now trembling all over. “I have a good feeling about this.”

She looked up at him with misty eyes. “What kind of a feeling?”

He took a long moment to collect his thoughts. Coming up with the best way to verbalize it wasn’t easy. Victor didn’t like using expressions like gut feelings, premonitions, intuition, or knowing something in one’s heart. Those were cop-out explanations for what was in reality complicated data processing happening on the subconscious level.

He had a theory, one he’d developed as a way to explain his uncanny prediction ability.

The mind was taking in many more stimuli than the conscious brain could process and submit for acknowledgment. That information was stored somewhere for later use. But it wasn’t stored as raw data. The mind was trying to make sense of it, organizing it to the best of its ability, and basing the organization structure on patterns it was familiar with.

If a person glanced at a complicated diagram without knowing the first thing about its components or what it represented, whatever got registered in the subconscious would follow a familiar pattern that might have nothing to do with the original purpose of the diagram.

In a dream, it might manifest as a map, or a maze.

But the same diagram would produce an entirely different dream for the specialist who understood it.

The problem was that the subconscious didn’t share its hidden database, and the thinking part of the brain had no access to the clues it was using to make its constructs. If Turner had access to the clues his subconscious had collected and was basing his gut feeling on, he could have made a more educated prediction.

“It’s hard to explain. Especially since this is such a subjective thing.”

“Try.”

He took her by the hand and led her to the bed. Sitting down, he pulled her to sit next to him.

“What I do for a living, what I’ve been doing most of my adult life, is collecting data. Everything gets stored up here.” He pointed at his head. “But that doesn’t mean I actively remember every little piece of information. It’s just there.”

Bridget looked at him as if she was waiting for him to get to the point.

“What I’m trying to say is that my gut feeling is probably based on real facts, but I don’t have access to them. My brain picked up the appropriate tidbits, building a scenario that exists only in my subconscious mind.”

She nodded. “Go on.”

Turner smoothed his hand over the back of his head. “From the very start, I didn’t feel as if I’m being irrational about this. You know me; I’m a logical guy. I also didn’t feel suicidal. I truly believed that transitioning was a viable solution to my problem.”

“But you weren’t aware of all the factors.”

“True. I had a few moments of doubt when I learned that I needed to be young and healthy to transition. My conviction was shaken on several occasions, but it withstood the shockwaves without shattering. I still believe that I will transition, and that all will end well.”

Bridget sighed. “Are you sure your conviction is not the result of wishful thinking?”

“I can’t be sure. But sometimes there is no way around a leap of faith.”