“Nice video. Did you get it off of YouTube?”

Montrose Keegan ground his teeth. He had just spent an hour filling his host in on the events of the past few years and had shown him video footage of the vampires’ battle with Roland and Sarah.

Emrys’s reaction had not met Keegan’s expectations.

Upon learning that vampires existed, should Emrys not have hung on Keegan’s every word? Congratulated him on the genius and courage he had demonstrated in pursuing his research? Listened with awe? Been overwhelmed by all that Keegan had achieved, by his discovering not just vampires, but a new race of humans?

Because he wasn’t. If anything, Emrys seemed amused, as if it were all a joke.

“No,” Keegan said, restarting the video he had just played on his laptop. “I told you, one of the vampires shot it with his cell phone. The one in the middle there, with the glowing amber eyes, is an immortal. The others are vampires. That woman”—he waited until the cell phone’s camera panned left enough to show the small, dark figure—“is Roland’s Second.” “I’m not interested in investing in your film project or whatever it is you—”

“This isn’t fiction!” Montrose blurted out, anger getting the best of him. “This is real video of vampires! Look at their glowing eyes!”

“My son has software that adds those effects to his band’s music videos. In fact, you should visit his YouTube channel and pick up some tips. This is very poorly lit. I can’t even make out their features.”

“Why won’t you believe me? I told you what happened to my brother, what I’ve been trying to accomplish ever since he was infected. I told you about the immortals. I’m offering you access to my research materials and lab notes.”

“Montrose, I’m not sure what you’re hoping to accomplish with all of this. But if vampires existed, we would know it.”

When Montrose started to object, Emrys held up a hand to silence him.

“The general public might not know it, but we would.”

“Once again, I told you: The immortals have gone to great lengths to keep all of this secret. They don’t want anyone to know about the vampires, because then they would be exposed.”

“The immortals,” Emrys repeated skeptically. “The alternate race of beings who have somehow also escaped our notice.”

“Yes.” Why was he being such a prick? The two had studied together in college, had hung out, joined the same fraternity as legacies. The fact that Emrys had once worked in the military’s bioweapons program (or so he had boasted) should not have made him question Montrose’s work or doubt its validity.

“Won’t you even look at my research?” he asked in desperation. Now that John Florek had been killed, the only other person Montrose could ask for aid was his ex-girlfriend. And he really didn’t want to go there.

Or did he? Hell, it couldn’t be any worse than this.

“Research can be fabricated,” Emrys pointed out dryly, the condescending bastard. “Lab results counterfeited. It will take more than that to convince me.”

“But the video ... They’re moving so fast they blur.”

“Video speed can be altered with software.”

“But the trees are moving at regular speeds!”

“For all I know you could have videotaped those men fighting in front of a green screen, sped it up, then inserted the normal background.”

“I don’t know how to do any of that! I’m a scientist! A doctor! I’ve spent the last four years buried in my lab, not working as a fucking filmmaker!”

Emrys shrugged. “I haven’t seen you in years. How am I supposed to know how you’ve spent that time?”

Montrose rose and began to pace Emrys’s study. “Their eyes are glowing, and they have fangs.”

“The same could have been said of my son two years ago on Halloween. Personally, I doubted the safety of the glow-in-the-dark contact lenses, but he wanted them, and I tend to indulge the boy too much.”

“What is it going to take to convince you?” he demanded. John had not been nearly so difficult to convince. A glimpse of Montrose’s more intriguing research and a video of Casey sprouting fangs and draining a blood bag was all it had taken to draw him in. Time was short. Dennis grew more unpredictable every day. If Montrose didn’t give him the results he demanded ...

Well, he didn’t want to end up like John, did he?

“Bring me a live subject.”

Montrose stopped short. “You want a live vampire?” Excitement raced through him. He could do that.

“And one of your so-called immortals.”

That ... he couldn’t.

Emrys raised a taunting brow. “Why the hesitation?”

“I can get you a vampire. Dennis has assigned two more to work with me. But immortals are stronger and more resilient than vampires. I’ve been trying to get my hands on one for nearly two years now without success.”

Emrys leaned back and sipped his Scotch. “What seems to be the problem?”

“No matter how many vampires we throw at them, the immortals keep coming out on top. Nothing seems to faze them. They’re just ... that much stronger.”

Setting his drink aside, Emrys rose. “Wait here.”

Montrose watched him stroll from the room, then eyed the bottle of Scotch. Emrys hadn’t offered him any when Montrose had arrived on his doorstep unannounced. He had just poured himself a drink and proceeded to do his damnedest to make his old friend squirm.

Or beg.

Hell, if begging was all it took, Montrose would do it. Better to beg Emrys for help than return to Dennis empty-handed.

Emrys re-entered the room before Montrose could decide whether or not to risk pouring himself a drink. In one hand, he carried a metal briefcase, outfitted with a very high-tech lock, that looked as if it would survive a nuclear blast.

Emrys set the case down, facing away from Montrose, on the side table that separated the two armchairs.

Curious, Montrose retook his seat and waited while Emrys entered a security code.

A beep sounded, followed by a click. Emrys opened the case and spun it toward Montrose. “This should aid you in achieving your goal.”

Montrose looked at the contents, then up at Emrys.

What did Emrys know that he didn’t?

Hot water sluiced down over Marcus as steam rose all around him. The wounds that hadn’t yet healed stung at the contact as though being inflicted anew. Blood, some sticky, some crusty, softened and liquified, trailing down his flesh like paint following an artist’s brush.

Bracing his hands on the tiled wall, Marcus ducked his head under the pounding spray. His long hair straightened beneath the assault and fell in a sleek, gleaming curtain.

The water pressure dipped. The temperature fluctuated, shifting from hot to warm. Above him, Marcus heard the clink of metal rings as Ami stepped into the shower in her private bathroom and drew the curtain closed.

He turned the hot water handle until it almost shut off, wanting Ami to have as much hot water as she needed. Besides, cooler water would do him some good. His body ached with the need to race upstairs, join her in her shower, and run his hands over her glistening flesh.

He groaned.

The drive home from Roland’s had been a quiet one. Expectation had vibrated between them, lingering until they had arrived and stood staring at each other in the foyer.

Desire had burned through Marcus as Ami gazed up at him with shy invitation. But her shoulders had drooped with weariness, her face had been smeared with blood, and ... he needed to know the extent of her relationship with Seth before he considered taking things further.

Though Ami didn’t know it, the whole time they had been straining against each other on the sofa, Roland had been yammering in Marcus’s ear (a slight exaggeration—he had been whispering softly enough for his words to pass undetected by humans), asking Marcus why he was tonguing Seth’s woman.

You really are a suicidal bastard, aren’t you? he had demanded roughly. I had actually begun to have some hope for you, but ... anyone stupid enough to grab Seth’s woman’s ass must have a death wish. And she is Seth’s woman. Every time I see the two together, they’re joined at the hip.

Marcus had been able to block Roland out while Ami wrapped her legs around him and heated his blood with her kisses.

Now, however, those words fluttered back and wouldn’t stop pecking at him.

He reached for the soap and lathered up a soft cloth.

If nothing else, imagining Ami wound around Seth succeeded in dampening his arousal and rid him of the erection he’d sported ever since her lips had touched his. Just the thought of it made his gut clench and his fingers curl into a fist he wanted to plant in Seth’s face.

Which would probably be the last thing he ever saw if it came to that. He had no illusions over which of the two of them would win in a fight.

Ami began to hum upstairs. Marcus smiled, then winced as he scrubbed one of his cuts too hard.

Roland must be mistaken. Ami wouldn’t have kissed him the way she had if she were Seth’s woman as Roland persisted in naming her. Even Seth had admitted she couldn’t lie worth a damn. And keeping a relationship with Seth from him would be one hell of a lie.

The water pressure increased suddenly as Ami shut off her shower. Metal rings clinked.

Don’t picture her naked. Don’t picture her naked. Don’t imagine her smoothing one of those fluffy, white towels over her pale, slick, perfect body.

And, just like that, he was hard again.

Sighing, Marcus turned off the hot water and embraced the frigid cold.

After five minutes of such torture, he dried off and covered his icy flesh with a dark gray T-shirt, a pair of black sweatpants, and socks.

He spent another couple of minutes working a comb through the tangles in his long hair, which he left to dry on its own. It took too damn long to dry it with a hair dryer.

Maybe he’d cut it short like Roland’s. It would certainly be less trouble.

He had only let it reach this length—had even grown a beard he’d kept until a couple of years ago—for Bethany.

Setting the comb on the counter, Marcus paused.

The pain that had always accompanied memories of Bethany had dulled significantly.

He frowned. Did that say something about him? Something negative?

Everyone else seemed to think eight years an inordinately long time to mourn Bethany’s loss, but to him it seemed short considering the eight centuries he had loved her.

One of the things that troubled him so much about Ami was that he feared he could come to feel for her what he had for Bethany. Maybe even more. With Bethany, after all, there had been no reciprocation of his feelings. No real chance to build upon those feelings, to know each other as a man and a woman rather than just friends. No intimacy at all. Not one single kiss.

Ami ...

Ami blew Marcus’s mind. If he let her, she could be everything to him, including his undoing. Because she wasn’t a gifted one and couldn’t become an immortal. He would lose her.

It always came back to that.

He would lose her just as he had Bethany, only losing Ami would be worse. He had known her kiss. Her touch. Her innocent explorations.

And she did seem innocent, despite the fact that she appeared to be in her early twenties.

Marcus wondered if Roland had felt this conflicted with Sarah. If he had wanted to get as close as possible to her and, at the same time, run far and fast in the opposite direction.

Leaving his basement bedroom, Marcus headed upstairs. Though he called himself every kind of a fool, he found his morose thoughts falling away as every step took him closer to seeing Ami again.

“Sap,” he muttered.

But he couldn’t help it. He enjoyed spending time with her. When he reached the landing, Marcus opened the door to the ground floor and couldn’t stop the broad smile that stretched over his face.

Ami waited for him in the hallway, pacing back and forth. Like him, she had left her hair to dry on its own, merely combing it back from her face. The ends had already begun to lighten and draw up into curls that floated on the breeze her smooth movements created.

Her small bare feet trod the bamboo flooring with fascinatingly inhuman silence. Her clothing mirrored his: dark sweatpants that settled low on her hips and a matching T-shirt that hugged a slender waist and full breasts that swayed with each step despite the bra he could glimpse the outline of beneath the soft cotton.

As soon as she saw him, Ami leaped forward. “Finally!” Grabbing his hand, she took off down the hallway toward the front of the house.

Marcus grinned as she pulled him along after her.

No, he just never knew what she would do next.

His stomach fluttered as their palms merged and she twined her delicate fingers through his, reminding him how he had felt as a boy sneaking into the shadows to share his first kiss with the blacksmith’s daughter.

“Hurry,” she urged him, “before he leaves.”

He? Who the hell was he?

Marcus sent his senses searching as she swung him around the corner and tugged him toward the kitchen. His ears registered no vampire, immortal, or human on his property.

Into the kitchen she led him and over to the sink. Her sweet scent, free of perfumes, distracted him as she drew him up against her side.

“There,” she said, and pointed out the window.

Marcus leaned forward and peered into the night. Like most immortals, he lived apart from others in a relatively isolated location. No nearby neighbors. Only field and forest.

The years he had spent in the house next door to Bethany in her typical, middle class suburban neighborhood in Houston, Texas, had been—apart from the time he had spent with her—fairly miserable ones.

Living amongst the humans he protected hadn’t always been so. But, in recent decades, humans had become a noisy, inconsiderate lot, acquiring a narcissistic, fuck-you-I’ll-do-whatever-I-want-whenever-I-want-and-if-you-don’t- like-it-you-can-kiss-my-ass attitude, blasting music in their garages, on their back patios, and in their homes for hours on end and booming ludicrously loud music in their cars and trucks every time they drove past. It was an assault on the senses that raised blood pressure and eroded peace of mind in humans who still believed in practicing common courtesy and proved physically painful, sometimes agonizingly so, to immortals with hypersensitive hearing.

Those brave (or insane) few immortals who lived in cities and suburbs sometimes had to spend tens of thousands of dollars soundproofing their homes just to achieve some level of peace.

Thankfully, Marcus no longer had that particular problem, surrounded as he was by nature rather than humans.

Beside him, Ami leaned forward and flicked on the back lights installed purely for her benefit.

Marcus could see clearly without them and scoured the backyard, looking for predators of any kind.

The trees in the yard itself were young, planted in the meadow when his house had been built eight years ago. Little could hide behind them. Nothing moved in the much larger and thicker trees that horseshoed around the yard and house. No figures lurked on the back deck, seeking entrance.

He and Ami had transferred their combined multitude of potted plants into the garage the day before to protect them from the freezing temperatures that would blanket the area for the next few nights, leaving the deck sadly bare save for several hanging bird feeders, a bowl of birdseed on the wooden planks, and a small, furry creature that stood with one foot in the bowl.

“You see it?” Ami asked.

Marcus glanced at her, followed her gaze, and realized she was watching the creature stuff its furry face. “Yes.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“An opossum,” he said.

“Opossum,” she repeated, seemingly fascinated.

Marcus smiled. Like him, she had proven to be a softie when it came to animals. “Many people simply call them possums. They’re the origin of the saying playing possum.”

She glanced up at him. “I haven’t heard that one. What does it mean?”

“Playing dead. When an opossum is frightened badly enough, it will lie on its side with its mouth and eyes open and emit a revolting smell, dissuading predators who prefer fresh meat by convincing them it’s been dead for several days.”

Brow furrowing, she looked back at the young marsupial. “What an odd tactic.”

The opossum, hearing their voices, looked up at the window, crumbs clinging to the white fur around its mouth and pointy snout, then went back to eating.

“It’s sort of creepy looking,” she said, brow furrowing. “Its paws look like hands. And its tail looks like a rat’s.”

Marcus nodded. “The opossum sort of reminds me of the platypus. Both look like an amalgamation of several other species.”

“What’s a platypus?”

Marcus leaned against the sink, still holding Ami’s hand, and contemplated her thoughtfully. “It’s a mammal native to Australia that lives near rivers and lakes.”

Shouldn’t she know that? The platypus was right up there with kangaroos, koalas, elephants, and giraffes in terms of peculiar animals that sparked children’s curiosity. It seemed odd that she wouldn’t know it or at least have heard of it.

Added to the myriad of other things that were new to her, yet commonplace in much of the world, it left him wondering anew about her background.

“Where were you born, Ami?” he asked.

Turning away from the window, she looked up at him.

He hadn’t seen that spark of fear in her eyes since the night he had suggested taking her to the network for medical care. It disturbed him to see it now and know he had inspired it.

Her gaze slid away from his as she nibbled her lower lip.

“Why don’t you ever talk about your past?” he queried softly, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand.

“You never talk about yours,” she countered hesitantly.

An unpleasant laugh escaped him. “Yes, well, my life has been a fairly open book. One that damned near every immortal and his or her Second has read and reviewed ad nauseam. Don’t tell me you don’t know. You referenced it the night we fought the first wave of vampires together.”

She cast him a sympathetic look from beneath her lashes. “I’ve heard a few things.”

He started to withdraw his hand, but she held on tight. “How much do you know?”

“Only what I’ve gleaned from Seth’s and David’s conversations with Roland.”

So Roland really had been worried about him. Who would’ve thought? “And what might that be?”

“That a few years ago you lost a woman you’d loved for a very long time.”

He sighed, not wanting to go into all of that. But he couldn’t expect her to share her past with him if he didn’t share some of his own with her. “If it came from Seth, Roland, or David, whatever you heard was probably far kinder than what some of the others have said. It’s getting late. Why don’t I start dinner, then we can talk?”

She nodded and released his hand. “I’ll make the salads.”

“No, you won’t,” he admonished. “Roland may have healed your wounds, but you lost a lot of blood before he did. You need to rest, Ami.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted.

She wasn’t, but would never admit it, so he played the card he knew would gain her cooperation. “You’ll either sit and rest while I do the cooking, preferably in here where you can keep me company, or we can make a quick trip to the network so you can get a blood transfusion.”

Her pretty face paled. Lips tightening, she all but stomped out of the kitchen, then returned carrying one of the dining room chairs. Plunking it down facing the sink, she sat down and crossed her arms.

His lips twitched. It would no doubt infuriate her if he admitted he thought her adorable when she was pissed.

“Why do you loathe the network so much?” he asked as he filled a pot with filtered water and put it on the stove to boil.

“I don’t loathe the network,” she responded, choosing her words carefully. “I just don’t like doctors. I don’t trust them.”

He smiled. “Neither do most older immortals.” He crossed to the refrigerator, retrieved the pot of homemade pasta sauce they had prepared together earlier, and put it on another burner to warm.

He started transferring organic vegetables from the refrigerator’s veggie bin to the counter beside the sink.

Immortals were predominantly vegetarian. Foods that raised blood pressure and cholesterol and increased the risk of heart disease, cancer, diabetes, Alzheimer’s, and other illnesses in humans caused the same damage in immortals. The virus simply repaired it. Those repairs, however, necessitated greater consumption of bagged blood, which was generously donated by Seconds, their families, and network employees, and immortals didn’t want to take advantage of their magnanimity. Plus, immortals’ acute sense of taste enabled them to taste the chemicals in non-organic foods that humans couldn’t.

“Why don’t they like doctors?” Ami asked.

“If you knew how primitive medicine was in medieval times, you wouldn’t ask that question. Most illnesses and injuries were treated with leeches, shaving heads, and cutting or bleeding us to relieve the buildup of foul humors.”

She looked appalled. “Do you share their sentiments? You’re considered an ... elder, aren’t you?”

Again he smiled. (He did that a lot around her.) “It’s all right, Ami. You can say it. I’m old.”

She waved her hand in a pshaw gesture and, with an exaggerated lack of care, said, “What’s 850 years, give or take a decade?”

Marcus laughed and glanced at her curiously as he washed the vegetables. “It doesn’t bother you? That I’m so much older than you?” Did that question reveal too much?

She shrugged. “No. Why should it? I’m older than I look. Does that bother you?”

“Not the same thing, really, but I see your point.” He dried his hands on the dish towel, then retrieved the peeler and his favorite knife. “And, to answer your question, I don’t fear or dislike doctors because my mortal life was very different from that of most immortals my age, thanks to the influence of two very unique women.”

“Was one of them the woman in all of the portraits?”

“Yes.” The living room, his study, his music room, and his armory all boasted portraits, drawings, and photographs of Bethany with Robert and their children in the past, with her brother in recent times. Marcus was in many of them as well.

“My father died when I was very young,” he stated baldly, his eyes on the carrots he peeled, the celery he chopped.

“I’m sorry,” Ami said softly.

“Less than a year later, my mother was forced to wed an abusive bastard who ultimately murdered her.”

She gasped.

“I knew my stepfather would kill me, too. He needed little excuse to deliver a beating that would lay me up for days at a time and despised what he called my madness, viewed it as a weakness.”

“You mean your gift?”

“Yes.”

“Were you ... Did you see someone at Roland and Sarah’s house tonight?” she asked.

Surprised that she had noticed, he glanced at her over his shoulder. “I did. Bastien’s sister.”

Her eyebrows flew up. “Sebastien Newcombe’s sister?”

“Yes. Well, her ghost or spirit or whatever you want to call it. She’s been hanging around Roland and Sarah ever since Bastien nearly killed Sarah and Roland nearly killed Bastien. I’ve seen her at Roland’s place several times, but haven’t said anything because it tends to creep people out knowing someone they can’t see is watching them.”

She considered that a moment. “Does she mean them harm?”

“No. I think she’s just curious about them. And, perhaps, grateful to Roland for bringing her killer to justice and not slaying her brother.”

She frowned. “I thought ghosts haunted places, not people.”

“That’s what most believe. But, based on everything I’ve seen, ghosts can attach themselves to places, people, or possessions. Furniture. Clothing. Toys. Jewelry. And inanimate objects don’t have to be antiques to be accompanied by spirits.”

She glanced around uneasily. “Are there any ghosts here?”

“No. The network is aware of the unique problem my gift presents and has been very cooperative. When I moved here, I was given my choice of several construction locations and allowed to carefully inspect them. This was the only one that wasn’t haunted. A lot of blood has been spilled in North Carolina.

“The house was then built by men I handpicked to ensure no ghosts hitched a ride. And instead of inviting Roland, Sarah, or other immortals who might have unseen companions over here, I meet them at David’s place. That’s actually one of the things that worried me when Seth assigned you to be my Second. I didn’t know if you came with baggage of the spirit variety.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” she said.

He smiled. “You don’t.” He added organic pasta to the churning water, stirred the sauce beside it, and resumed preparing the salads. “Your furry friend now has both front paws in the bowl as he continues to stuff his fuzzy face.”

Rising, she moved to stand beside him in front of the window and laughed.

Marcus returned the unused vegetables to the veggie bin. “Salads are done. Why don’t we relax for a bit in the living room while we wait for the pasta to finish cooking?”

“Okay.”

Marcus set their salads on the dining room table as they passed it, then followed Ami over to the sofa and seated himself beside her. Turning, he stretched an arm across the back of the sofa and drew a knee up on the cushion between them.

Ami did the same. “Did no one bring your stepfather to justice for killing your mother?”

“It was an accident,” he said in a gruff, gravelly imitation of his stepfather’s voice. “She stumbled in the dark on the way to meet a lover and fell down the stairs.”

Ami scooted closer and covered the hand he had rested on the back of the sofa with hers. “Did he try to kill you, too?”

“I left before he could. I knew my stepfather was a coward at heart, fighting only those he could easily defeat. So, I went to one of the fiercest men in England and declared myself his new squire.” Marcus drew his thumb across her skin, marveling at its softness. “The Earl of Fos-terly was something of a rarity back then. Though powerful and feared by many, Lord Robert was a kind man. When I stumbled into his keep, half-starved, he took one look at my bruised and swollen face, accepted me as his new squire, and treated me as if I were a long lost relative. I loved him like a brother and admired him more than any other.”

She smiled and gave his hand a squeeze.

“When I was ... oh, sixteen or thereabouts ... some problems arose with an enemy, and Robert left to parley with neighboring noblemen, see if they were having the same difficulties. When he returned home, a woman—wearing blue jeans, a tank top, and one of Robert’s spare tunics—rode in front of him.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Women wore blue jeans eight hundred years ago?”

Her query raised more questions about her background. Even people who never cracked open a book knew clothing had been vastly different in the Middle Ages.

“No,” he answered. “Jeans weren’t created until the nineteenth century. Bethany had traveled back through time from this century.”

Her eyes widened. “I thought time travel hadn’t been achieved here yet.”

Here as opposed to where? he wondered. “It hasn’t. Or rather it has, but only by Seth as far as I know.”

“Seth sent Bethany back in time? How—”

He held up a hand. “Another long story and our dinner’s almost ready, so let me get to the heart of it. I fell head over heels in love with Bethany. But she thought of me as a younger brother.”

Ami grimaced in sympathy.

“Beth fell in love with Robert, who absolutely adored her. The two married. And, because I loved them both and knew they belonged together, I never said a word about my feelings to either of them.”

She was quiet for a moment. “And Robert is the man in so many of the pictures?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes lit up suddenly. “Are you the teenager in the older portraits?”

He nodded sheepishly.

She smiled. “You were handsome even then.”

And damned if his spirits didn’t immediately lighten as the boy who lived in his memories poked his head out and shouted with glee, She thinks I’m handsome! She thinks I’m handsome!

I’m in serious trouble here.

“The pasta is ready.” Rising, Marcus strode to the kitchen.

Ami followed. While he drained the pasta and turned off the burner beneath the sauce, she retrieved two plates from an upper cabinet. As she stood beside him, holding a plate for him to fill with spaghetti, her stomach growled loudly.

Both grinned.

“Smells good,” she said.

Amused, Marcus piled her plate as high as his own. Fighting vampires burned a hell of a lot of calories and fat. Nothing wrong with a healthy appetite. And Ami’s rivaled that of Sarah, who—even as a human—had eaten as much as Roland and Marcus at every meal.

He couldn’t help but wonder if Ami possessed other appetites that would rival a warrior’s, then cursed himself for letting his thoughts again stray in that direction.

Once both of their plates boasted steaming pasta topped with fragrant sauce, Ami carried them into the dining room. Marcus followed with utensils, two glasses, and a pitcher of green tea.

They spent the next several minutes in companionable silence as they tucked into their meal.

Even quiet was comfortable with Ami.

“So, you never met anyone else? You never felt that way about any other woman?” she asked when the ragged edges of their hunger had at last smoothed.

Not until now. A terrifying thought he swiftly banished.

“I mean, you were so young,” she added.

He sighed. “There were ... women in my life.” He took a sip of tea. “But none were much more than acquaintances. Companions I sought out when the loneliness became too much to bear.”

“You never loved them?”

He shook his head. “I felt mild affection for some. But, in a way, being with them left me feeling just as empty as being alone. It was a bit like someone who eschews healthy foods attempting to satisfy a craving for rocky road ice cream with a carrot.”

She nodded slowly, eyes on her plate.

“I loved Beth until she died an old woman. When no other woman made me feel that way in the ensuing decades, I suppose I lost hope and satisfied myself by simply waiting patiently until I could see Beth again when she was born centuries later.”

“And eight years ago she went back to the past?”

“Yes.”

“She won’t be returning?”

“No.”

“Do you miss her?” she asked, voice soft.

“I miss all of them,” he said, and looked over his shoulder at the portrait that hung over the hearth in the living room. It featured Robert, Bethany, their four children, and Marcus as a twenty-something-year-old man. “Beth. Robert. Their children. Their grandchildren. I miss them all. They were my family.”

“But you miss her the most,” she persisted.

He let his gaze rove over Ami’s pretty face, her drying hair, which was kinking up in the usual fiery disarray. “I did.”

Her gaze held his for a long moment, then slid back to her plate.

Marcus resumed eating, wondering if she had gleaned his meaning. It was difficult to tell sometimes with Ami. Her lack of verbal response could reflect understanding and polite rejection of the message he had decided to not so subtly send or it could reflect obliviousness. Her fascination with things most adults had seen so often they no longer even noticed wasn’t the only thing that lent her an almost childlike innocence. She also sometimes took things literally, the colloquial meanings eluding her.

Perhaps English wasn’t her first language. Though she sounded American, he had run into similar misunderstandings with immortals and Seconds in other countries. He had, in fact, made similar mistakes himself while learning new languages.

Silence descended upon them once more, still comfortable.

Ami helped Marcus clear the table. After that, however, he insisted she rest. Thus far, he had seen none of the adverse symptoms that could accompany significant blood loss. No rapid pulse, except for when he had kissed her. (And, since his own heart had been thump-thump-thumping away, he discounted that.) No dizziness or weakness. Her skin didn’t feel clammy. She exhibited no confusion. At most, she looked a bit pale.

Because of her quiet introspection, he half-expected her to retire when he monopolized the dishwashing. Relief and pleasure suffused him when she instead carried her chair back into the kitchen and sat down to keep him company.

“The opossum is gone,” he told her.

A second later a plaintive meow sounded at the back door.

Ami rose with a smile. “Slim must have been waiting for it to leave.”

“He’ll never admit it, but I think opossums intimidate him.”

Her laughter trailed after her, drawing another smile from him, as she unlocked and opened the back door.

Slim trotted in, jibber-jabbering in that funny feline way of his that sounded like the teacher speaking in the Charlie Brown cartoons. The scratches the crazy kitty had suffered shortly before Ami’s arrival had healed, leaving pink marks and bare patches of missing fur that would take longer to grow back. If they did.

Slim brushed against Marcus’s calves while Ami locked the door and returned to her chair. As soon as she sat down, Slim leaped up into her lap and leaned against her breasts.

Lucky bastard.

Rumbling purrs filled the kitchen as Marcus washed the dishes. He and Ami chatted, exploring a variety of topics, contemplating the latest global news.

Through it all, Ami stroked and petted Slim, seeming a bit distracted.

The dishes done, Marcus popped open a can of salmon cat food for Slim and dumped it in his bowl. As Slim jumped down and feasted upon it, Marcus peeled off the label, rinsed the can, then tossed it into the recycling bin under the sink.

“It’s been a long night,” he said, washing his hands and drying them with a towel. He turned to face Ami. “I think I’ll go ahead and turn in.”

“Oh.” She rose. “Okay.”

He hesitated. Ami tended to hide her emotions about as successfully as she lied. And right now her features reflected disappointment.

She turned to pick up the chair.

“I’ll get that,” he said, hurrying forward to take it from her.

“Thanks.”

She followed him into the dining room, watched him return the chair to its place at the table.

Together they strolled to the hallway, where Marcus paused and looked down at her. “Good night, then.”

She opened her mouth, hesitated, then offered him a slight smile. “Good night.”

He stood there for a moment, feeling about as awkward as he had when he had bedded his first woman. And that had been pretty damned awkward.

Frustrated with himself, he turned and headed for the door to his basement quarters. As he reached for the handle, Ami spoke.

“I like kissing you,” she blurted out.

Marcus spun around so fast he probably blurred. His pulse spiked. His heartbeat quickened. And his body went rock hard. “What?” he asked hoarsely.

She licked her lips, shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

Slowly, he ambled back toward her.