To Tom H.
Without the inspiration
of your phenomenal storytelling skills
this book would not exist.
One
Tanya peered through her binoculars again. It was 6:30 on a balmy late August evening and Dr. Walker should be making the trek between the L station and his apartment, coming home for the weekend.
She shifted her weight on the rusty fire escape and saw something move at the end of the alleyway. This was the most vulnerable point of his journey, a secluded shortcut through a little-used space between buildings. A quick glance in the binoculars showed shaggy dark hair, glasses, and the tan trench coat he always wore. He was even carrying something, which was a bonus. A target with his hands full was a distracted target.
"You can do this," she whispered to herself. "You've killed them before, and you can do it again. You have to. No one else will."
She gripped the binoculars tightly, wishing that life was more like the TV shows she watched as a kid. They made it look so easy: just cartwheel, throw a few kicks and punches, pointy bit of wood to the chest and poof. Reality couldn't be more different.
In fact, reality was a bitch. If she closed her eyes, she could still see Jake’s face, pale, staring, splattered with blood. It had been five years, and killing the monster responsible had gone a long way towards making it better, but it still wasn’t enough. She wasn’t sure if it would ever be enough.
The memory of a second face assaulted her: gray eyes, greasy hair, and a vicious smile. She fought back a long-familiar wave of panic Maybe if she could find the other one, she would have some kind of closure. She wasn’t sure anymore. But at least she was doing something about it. The rest of the world just went on pretending that vampires were only stories.
It didn’t help that even she wasn’t sure anymore, especially where this one was concerned. She’d tailed him for over a month, and it just didn’t add up. Dr. Seth Walker, Professor of Egyptology at the Field Museum, was lanky, a bit unkempt, and looked like your average middle-aged intellectual. A little older in appearance than most of her targets, but she’d long since learned that appearances could be deceiving. He spent an inordinate amount of time in the local clubs and bars, but never looked drunk. There was never any food in his apartment trash. And the one time she’d gotten close to him, at the museum, there had been that feeling—an electric tingle like the space in front of an old cathode ray TV-screen—that she’d come to associate with powerful Master vampires.
But there were no bodies. No disappearances. No guests to his apartment which were never seen again. It didn’t make any sense, but she had no other leads. She’d come all the way to Chicago to follow this one, and the money she’d made off her last job in July was running out, so she had to strike now.
Another look through the binoculars showed that Dr. Walker was getting close. Setting them aside, Tanya climbed down the iron structure as quietly as she could, stopping at the top of the final ladder. There was a pile of trash bags on the first landing that blocked him from her sight, so she listened for his footsteps.
They came crunching down the gravel, even and unhurried. About ten yards out, he paused, and she panicked a little. Had he seen her? Don't peek, Tanya. He's probably just checking his phone. She couldn’t risk poking her head out, even in this dim light her short red hair would look like a beacon. Sure enough, after a moment he continued on, slowly, like he was distracted. When he finally came into view, walking beneath her, she jumped down behind him.
He startled and turned around. "Can I help you?" he asked innocently.
Tanya had a moment of panic—she’d forgotten how much taller than her he was—but she squashed it. "Yeah," she said, and roundhouse kicked him in the head. Whirling around, she dropped into a defensive stance, ready for his first strike.
Instead, she saw that he had fallen onto the ground. The bag he had been carrying was torn, strewing some kind of pastry across the gravel street. She froze, confused. Then he groaned in pain, and her heart sunk into her stomach.
"Oh my god," Tanya breathed. She stood up, hesitating, and then ran over to him. His glasses were broken, and through the mud on his face she thought a bruise might be forming on his temple where she had kicked him. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" She pulled him up so he was sitting against the brick wall. "Are you okay?"
"I-I'm not sure..." he touched his forehead, it looked like maybe a lump was forming. He looked up at her, his pale blue eyes full of fear.
This guy is definitely not a vampire, she thought. "Oh god, oh shit, I'm so sorry," she rattled off nervously. "You're not wha—who I thought you were. Please be okay?"
Dr. Walker cleared his throat, glancing up at her apprehensively as if she might hit him again. "Who did you think I was?"
"I... It's a long story. We gotta get you to the hospital. I think maybe I gave you a concussion." She glanced around the alley, for help or potential witnesses.
"No," he shook his head a little then winced. He moved to stand, and she offered her hand. He hesitated a moment, but at last accepted her help. The plain, solid warmth of his hand made him feel entirely too human. “I think I'm all right, and anyway my flat's just around the corner."
"Okay," she said. She didn’t really want to explain to the ER that she had kicked him in the face. "But I'm coming with you. I have to make sure you're okay. It's the least I can do after... after that." She blushed.
Dr. Walker smiled shakily, and she felt another twinge of guilt at the vulnerable expression. "All right." He looked around for his things, blinking through the cracked lenses of his glasses. His face fell when he saw the pastries on the street.
She cursed and dashed to retrieve the torn paper bag. "There's still a couple inside. I am so sorry."
"That's all right," he held out a hand and took the bag. "I was thinking of having company this evening. But this should be enough for just the two of us.”
Tanya blinked at him. "Are all British guys this ridiculously polite?"
He chuckled, and when he smiled she felt her cheeks heat up. "Yes, I'm afraid so," he joked.
Tanya giggled nervously. Are we actually flirting? The evening had taken a distinctly surreal detour.
She helped him to the apartment and stood by awkwardly as he fumbled to get the key in the lock. So much for effortless grace. "It's not much," he said as he opened the door and turned on the light, "but at least it's tidy."
Tidy was a good word for it. It was a tiny studio apartment, crammed full of books, a kitchen counter barely four feet long, a small bistro-style table with two tall chairs, and a daybed that doubled as a couch. It was spotlessly clean, but there was something about it that made it feel lived-in. Maybe it was the smell of all the books—they lined every wall, and a couple sat open on the table.
"Here," he cleared them away, setting them reverently on the bed, and pulled out a chair. "I'll make some tea." The room seemed a little too small for him, his tall frame filling the space and giving it a rather intimate sense of closeness.
"Hey, let me do that," she offered and eased the teakettle he had grabbed out of his hands. She noticed they were long and slender, and when her fingers brushed against them
