EIGHT
Letter from Mrs. Edwina Fitzwilliam to Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam, dated October 29
My dearest Frederick,
I am in receipt of your most recent letter. Reading it has done nothing to assuage my concerns. Your decision to remain in Chicago and to put your safety in the hands of a wastrel like Reginald and a young human woman is unwise at best—and DANGEROUS at worst. This poor decision-making is MOST UNLIKE the Frederick I once knew!
I fear it is but further evidence that your mental state is compromised from your century of slumber.
I would be remiss in my duties as the eldest remaining member of our family—and as someone who cares for you, DESPITE our history—if I allowed you to cancel our family’s arrangement with the Jamesons. If Miss Jameson is sending you gifts I daresay that is a GOOD thing! It is a sign of her continued affection for you despite your continual rebuffs. You MUST open her gifts, and should send her some gifts IN RETURN as a sign of the long-standing goodwill between our two families.
Do not continue to vex me like this, Frederick.
Yours,
Mother
Hey Freddy
Whats with the packages
They are from Esmeralda Jameson.
I do not want them.
Shes still sending you stuff?
Yes.
I have asked her to stop, to no avail.
Mother refuses to intervene.
She thinks it’s a GOOD thing.
So you’re giving them to me?
The ones I think you’ll enjoy, yes.
One of us might as well get use out of them.
What am I going to do with a cross-stitch that says “Home Sweet Home” made from what looks smells and tastes like human entrails, Freddy
Why did you think I’d want this
I thought it matched your decor, Reginald.
Okay, that’s fair
Frederick was already at a table in the back when I arrived at Gossamer’s, taking in his surroundings with the dazed, wide-eyed wonder one might expect from a tourist visiting an exotic location halfway around the world.
He always looked good, but even by his own standards he looked like an absolute snack. A single dark lock of his hair fell beautifully over his forehead like he’d sprung fully formed from the pages of one of his Regency novels. Seeing him sitting ramrod-straight in his chair, wearing a three-piece suit that fit like he’d had it tailor-made, I began to doubt the wisdom of us meeting in public after all. Because other people were also noticing how good he looked. Two women wearing Northwestern University sweatshirts and drinking coffee at the table beside his kept stealing surreptitious glances in his direction.
A strange, unfamiliar possessiveness I neither recognized in myself nor liked swept through me.
What if one of those women started hitting on him?
I bumped their table a little as I breezed by them, telling myself it was purely accidental.
Frederick held my gaze as I approached him. His thick, long eyelashes were just as wasted on a man now as they’d ever been.
In truth, it was strange seeing him here. This was the first time we’d interacted outside of the apartment, and until now I hadn’t realized how much I’d come to think of him as a fixture of the lavish place where he lived. Seeing him outside of it was as jarring as seeing a flamingo on the El.
His gaze slid over me, nose twitching a little when his eyes fell on my awkwardly bandaged left hand. Could he smell the cut on my hand? I didn’t want to think about it.
His brow furrowed. “What happened to you?”
I hid my injured hand behind my back.
“It’s nothing.” It was the truth. That afternoon’s trip to the recycling center had been productive, in the sense that I found several usefully large pieces of scrap I wanted to take back with me the next time I had access to Sam’s car. But on my way out I snagged my hand a little on the jagged underside of an old bicycle seat. It barely even rose to the level of a bad paper cut, and it stopped bleeding almost immediately—but the guy working there had freaked, babbling about tetanus risk and liability. He insisted on bandaging me up before letting me go.
I’d been such a tangle of nerves on my way over, I’d forgotten to take off the bulky padded bandage and swap it for a more appropriately sized Band-Aid.
“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Frederick countered, still staring at me. He sounded genuinely concerned. “Show me.”
He leaned in closer, and I could smell the shampoo he must have used that evening before arriving. Sandalwood and lavender. The scent-memory of that moment just outside his bathroom—me, dripping wet, in just a towel—hit me like a tidal wave, crowding out more rational thinking.
I dug my fingernails into my palm before I could do something stupid. Like run my fingers through his thick, luscious hair in a public place.
Leaning in so that he could hear me but no one else would, I whisper-hissed, “I’m not about to show a vampire an injury that was bleeding an hour ago.” My tone was harsher than I intended, and his face crumpled a little. I fought to ignore the pang of guilt that shot through me. “Just . . . just trust me when I tell you it’s fine. Okay?”
His eyes fell to the table. “Okay.”
I glanced back at the ordering counter, where Katie was grinding beans for the next morning’s brew. It was a slow night, and no customers were in line.
“I’m getting a drink.” I jerked my thumb towards the counter. “Want anything?”
Frederick shook his head. “No. I am unable to consume anything other than . . .”
He arched an eyebrow meaningfully rather than finish his sentence. The coffee bean grinder started up again behind the counter, loud and abrasive.
“Oh.” I wondered if this was something I should have known. I couldn’t remember if Spike or Angel ever drank coffee in Buffy. “Not ever?”
“It would be like you trying to consume metal,” he said, quietly. “My body simply does not recognize anything other than you know what as sustenance.”
I wanted to hear more about this. Had he really consumed nothing but blood since becoming a vampire? It was a hard thing to wrap my mind around. For starters, it seemed incredibly inefficient. Assuming his caloric requirements were roughly the same as a human of his size, how much blood did he have to drink every day?
More than anything, though, a diet consisting of only one thing for literally forever sounded terrible. And boring as hell.
I made a mental note to ask follow-up questions concerning his dietary habits later.
“May I come along with you while you purchase your drink?” He looked around at the other customers at Gossamer’s, taking in how each of them had drinks or food in front of them. “As I will explain in more detail shortly, I need to learn how to blend in with modern society. I have not ordered coffee in over one hundred years. I suspect the process has changed.”
My eyes widened.
In over one hundred years.
This was the second time he’d made an oblique reference to how old he was, but it was just as jarring hearing it now as it had been the other night. He didn’t look a day over thirty-five. The cognitive dissonance required to look at him and believe he was centuries old was staggering.
My mind flashed once again to the moment before I fled his apartment. He’d said, I need your help. Sitting with him in Gossamer’s—watching him regard our surroundings with equal parts confusion and fascination—I thought I finally understood the kind of help he needed.
And, perhaps, why he’d placed an ad for a roommate in the first place.
I fidgeted with my purse strap to disguise how rattled I was.
“Yeah, why don’t you come with me?” I suggested. “Coffee shops are a big thing in Chicago. You said you want to blend in—”
“Yes,” he cut in, emphatic.
I swallowed. “Okay. Well, if you want to blend in, you need to learn how to order coffee. Even if you never actually drink what you order.”
He pushed back from the table without another word, the wooden legs of his chair scraping loudly against the linoleum floor. He followed so close behind me as we made our way to the register that I could feel his cool, solid presence at my back as we moved. I shivered—in part because his proximity was more exciting than I wanted to admit to myself, but also because his body radiated cold in a way I’d never experienced with anyone else.
I thought back again to when we’d collided outside of the bathroom. I’d been so mortified I hadn’t fully registered just how cool, how unyielding his chest had been when my nose brushed against it.
I was thinking about it now, though. Just how many clues had I missed?
Katie looked up when we reached the counter, her yellow flowery Gossamer’s apron as bright and chipper as her personality. She was easily the nicest supervisor I’d ever had, one of the few managers who didn’t try and pull rank when it came time to clean the milk frother or handle obnoxious customers.
“Here on your night off?” she asked, clearly surprised to see me. Her surprise made sense. I rarely came here when I wasn’t working.
“I was in the neighborhood,” I lied. She didn’t need to know I was meeting Frederick at a place I worked because it would make me feel more empowered for the conversation we were about to have. And because I wanted witnesses, just in case I was wrong about him being a friendly vampire and this went south in a hurry.
Katie nodded, then asked, “Can I get you something?”
Frederick was already staring up at the chalkboard menu above Katie’s head, with an intensity one might use to translate ancient hieroglyphics. The menu listed nearly two dozen drinks in chalk pastel lettering, written in Katie’s flowery handwriting.
“We Are Bountiful,” Frederick read, as slowly and awkwardly as though the words were in a language he did not speak. “We Are . . . Soul Searching.” He turned to look at me, bewildered. “I thought you said this establishment served coffee.”
“It’s kind of a whole thing, the way we name things here.” Katie rolled her eyes. “The owner attended a wellness seminar in Marin County a few years ago. When she came back all the drinks had to have inspiring names.”
“They’re the same drinks you’d get anywhere, though,” I clarified. “So don’t let the names throw you.”
“The same drinks I’d get anywhere,” Frederick repeated.
“Right,” I said. “So just let me know if you want a translation.”
He seemed to consider that, and then turned to Katie. “I would like to purchase coffee.” He said the words slowly, carefully—and loudly. Like a stereotype of a stupid American trying to make himself understood in a different country to people who don’t speak English.
“Coffee?” Katie asked.
“Coffee,” Frederick confirmed, looking extremely pleased with himself. And then, as an afterthought, he added, “Please.”
Katie looked at him patiently. We got people in there all the time who were conscientious objectors to our owners’ naming system. She knew how to handle this.
“What kind of coffee?” she asked.
A beat. “Coffee,” Frederick replied.
“But what kind?” With a practiced motion, Katie pointed to the menu above her head. “We Are Sparkling is our light roast, We Are Exuberant is our dark roast, and We Are Vivacious is—”
At some point, more customers must have shown up, because a line of people had formed behind us. Frederick paid them no mind as he turned to me. “These names are ridiculous.”
“You still have to order something.”
“I never drink coffee, Cassie,” he reminded me, looking so affronted I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep a giggle from escaping. “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”
“Just pick one,” I advised. “If you’re not going to drink it, it doesn’t matter what you order. Right?” I leaned in closer so the people behind us wouldn’t hear me and whispered, “It’s good practice for blending in.”
He tilted his head as he considered that. “You’re right.” He turned back to Katie. “I will have one—” He paused, looking up at the pastel lettering above her head, and grimaced. “I will have one We Are Vivacious.”
“One We Are Vivacious.” Katie pushed a button on the register. And then, with the patience she usually reserved for customers over the age of seventy-five—which, given the circumstances, was more appropriate than Katie realized—she asked, “What size would you like? Our We Are Vivacious comes in Moon, Supernova, and Galaxy sizes.”
This seemed to be Frederick’s limit.
“I recognize each of the words you just said as belonging to the English language,” he said, looking dazed. “When taken all together, however, none of what you just said makes any sense whatsoever.”
“Frederick—”
“A liquid expands to conform to the size and shape of the container it is placed in. Coffee does not have a size.”
Frederick’s voice was getting louder. The line behind us was now five customers deep. I turned around and noticed that some of them were whispering to one another and staring at him.
I needed to intervene.
“What she means, Frederick, is what size mug of coffee do you want to order?” I pointed at the menu display hanging over Katie’s head. At the bottom were little chalk-drawn cartoons of small, medium, and large coffee cups—or, Moon, Supernova, and Galaxy—and their corresponding prices. I’d drawn the mugs for that display menu my first week there. That had been fun. “The drinks here come in different-sized mugs depending on how much people want to drink. Each size has a corresponding space-related name.”
Understanding dawned across his handsome face. “I see.” He glanced at Katie. “You should have said as much from the beginning.”
For the first time, Katie’s patience was showing visible cracks. She glanced at me and murmured, “You know this guy?”
“Sort of,” I admitted sheepishly. “Frederick, what size mug do you want Katie to get for you?”
He seemed to ponder the question very seriously. “What do normal people purchase here? That is the size I would like.”
“He’ll have a large We Are Vivacious,” I blurted out before Katie had a chance to answer. This conversation needed to end as soon as possible. “Sorry—I mean, he’ll have a Galaxy-sized We Are Vivacious. I’ll have a Moon-sized We Are Empowered, with extra foam.”
I dug into my wallet to pull out my credit card, but Frederick put his hand on my arm.
“I will pay for the drinks,” he said, his tone brooking no opposition. Out of nowhere, he pulled out a neon-purple bag that looked a lot like the fanny pack my grandpa used to wear on our family vacations to Disney World. He unzipped its front pouch, and a motley assortment of coins—dozens, hundreds of them—spilled out of it and all over the counter in front of us.
I stared down at the pile in complete bafflement. There must have been at least fifteen different currencies on the counter. Some sort of looked like gold doubloons. Were those actually a thing?
Katie, to her credit, didn’t even bat an eye. “Sorry. We’re cashless.” She pointed to the credit card reader in front of us.
Frederick stared first at it, then at her, with an utterly blank expression. “What is that?”
“I’ll pay for the drinks,” I said, hurriedly. Frederick allowed me to elbow him out of the way, still staring at the credit card reader in abject confusion.
“But—”
“You can pay me back later,” I said, inserting my credit card in the machine. “With your gold doubloons.”
Frederick glanced at me over the rim of his We Are Vivacious. He sniffed its contents with obvious distaste.
“I remember loving coffee,” he mused, setting it back down on the table. It was still full, and still steaming hot. “Now it just smells like dirt water to me.”
He sounded sad. How much of his old self had he lost when he’d changed into what he was now? But there’d be time for exploring that question later. I needed other answers first.
I cleared my throat.
“So,” I began. “Before I ran out the other night, you said you could explain everything. That you had more to tell me.”
If Frederick was surprised by my sudden change of subject, he showed no sign of it. “Yes. It . . . is a long story,” Frederick said. His eyes were sad and distant. “And one I should have shared with you from the outset. I apologize again for not telling you sooner, but if you are willing to listen, I would like to share it with you now.”
“It’s what I’m here for,” I said. “I hope at least part of this long story has to do with why a centuries-old vampire with no apparent need for money placed a Craigslist ad looking for a roommate.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up into a smile. I refused to be distracted by how handsome he looked when he did those half smiles. Especially when they made his dimple pop. “It does.”
“I had a feeling,” I said. “Go on, then.”
“Perhaps I should give you a condensed version. Otherwise, we will be here all night.”
I sipped my cappuccino (it was good—Katie made a mean We Are Empowered) and then licked my lips. Frederick’s eyes tracked the movement of my tongue with interest. I pretended not to notice.
“A condensed version is probably a good idea,” I agreed. “Gossamer’s closes at eleven. Katie won’t like it if we’re still here.”
“I wouldn’t want to anger her,” he mused. “I suspect she has had just about enough of me already.”
I smiled. “Probably.”
“All right, then.” He sat up straighter and fixed me with a gaze so sincere it took my breath away. “Cassie, I need someone to live with me because one hundred years ago Reginald, while practicing his turning wine into blood charm, accidentally poisoned me at a costume party in Paris. Which subsequently sent me into something akin to a century-long coma. I woke up in my Chicago home one month ago, knowing nothing of the changes of the past one hundred years.” He smiled again, but there was no humor in it. “I am as lost and helpless in the current era as a babe in the woods.”
The room started spinning as I tried to process what he was telling me. My grip on my coffee mug tightened without my even realizing it until my knuckles went white.
“I see,” I said, not seeing at all.
Frederick tilted his head to the side, gauging my reaction. “I believe I have surprised you. I understand. It was rather a lot for me to comprehend as well. And I was the one who went through it.”
“Mm.”
“Perhaps I should not have given you the condensed version after all,” he mused. “Maybe a more nuanced, detailed description with dates, place names, and settings would have helped ground the story and made it easier to understand.”
I doubted that. “I don’t think there’s anything you could have said or done that would have made that easier to understand.”
His face fell. “Perhaps not.”
“And so,” I said, piecing everything together. “You need a roommate because you need someone to help you navigate the modern world.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But I need to do more than just navigate it. It is imperative to my survival that I blend into my current surroundings as best as possible. Or at the very least, that it is not too obvious that I am an anachronistic vampire living in the entirely wrong century.”
“Because . . .”
“Because it can be . . . dangerous, for someone like me to stick out too much. Deadly, even.”
What could be dangerous to a vampire? Weren’t vampires supposed to be powerful immortals who killed humans for sport? I waited for him to clarify, and for a moment he looked like he wanted to say more. Ultimately, though, he must have decided against it, because he simply leaned back in his chair, eyes on his untouched coffee.
I still had a zillion questions, though.
“Okay, but . . .” I shook my head. “Why me? Why am I the roommate you chose to live with you?”
His eyes widened.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No.”
He shrugged. “Who better to teach me about life in the twenty-first century and help me adapt to a modern Chicago than a young human like you who glides effortlessly through it?”
He met my gaze. His dark brown eyes were so soft and inviting.
I could get lost in them, I realized. My stomach did something that felt like a somersault.
Dangerous.
No, I yelled at myself. We are not going to be thinking about how hot and sad Frederick looks right now.
“Also,” he continued, “you were the only person who replied to the ad.”
Of course. The two-hundred-dollar price tag probably scared everyone else away.
“Okay, but . . .” I cleared my throat, trying to pull myself together. “Why couldn’t you just live with Reginald? He seems to be managing the world okay.”
“Unthinkable,” he said, flatly. “Reginald may be more familiar with the modern era than I am, but he is also the reason I am in this predicament. Additionally, he is chaos incarnate. Before you moved in with me, I was entirely dependent on his assistance. It was at least as terrible for both of us as you might imagine. The practical jokes he played on me, even while I was still in a coma . . .” He shuddered, then shook his head. “Though I concede that without him, I would likely have starved during my century of slumber. Or been run over by a car within an hour of my reawakening. Or been captured by vampire hunters.”
The room started spinning again. “Vampire hunters are real?”
“They were real a century ago. But in Chicago? Today?” He made a seesawing motion with his hand. “There are rumors that they are still out there. Though I admit I do not know how reliable those rumors are, especially since I suspect Reginald started most of them.”
“Ah.”
“Right,” Frederick agreed. “Cars, however, are absolutely real. I wish very much to avoid being struck by one while going for my nightly constitutional.”
“Would . . . would that kill you? Getting hit by a car?”
His mouth quirked into another half smile. He had to know how potent those were. “Probably not. But I suspect it would not feel very good.”
I couldn’t help but smile back at him at his dry attempt at humor. “Yeah, I can’t imagine it would feel good for anyone.”
“Maybe I should suggest that Reginald attempt it and ask him to report back.”
That got a small laugh from me despite everything. Frederick’s posture visibly relaxed, and his smile grew. He really had such an incredible smile. It lit up his entire face and made him seem . . .
More human, I realized suddenly.
That brought me back to reality.
This was ridiculous. I couldn’t let myself get distracted by my attraction to him. I still had so many questions, and it felt like the more answers he gave me, the more questions I had.
“I should have told you the truth from the outset,” he said again, eyes on the floor.
The contrition in his voice was unmistakable. “Yeah. You should have. My roommate was a vampire, Frederick. And I had no idea.”
His eyes fluttered closed, the corners of his lips turning down a little. When he looked at me again his dark brown eyes were apologetic. “I hope you can understand why I was initially reluctant to share the truth of my situation with a complete stranger.” He paused. “Or, at the least, that you will one day find it within yourself to forgive me for starting things off so badly.”
He looked away again, chastened.
“I . . . think I understand,” I began. “And I might be willing to help you, if you still want my help.”
He sat up straighter in his chair. “Really?”
“Possibly,” I clarified, holding up a hand.
I thought of how he had made me feel while we lived together—with his gifts of fruit and cookware, his warm glances, and his sincere interest in my art. And my financial situation was no better now than it had been when I moved in with him two weeks ago; the two-hundred-dollar rent would come in just as handy now as it had before.
Even still, I needed to do some more thinking. This whole situation was objectively surreal.
“I understand,” Frederick said.
“Good,” I said. “I need to think about whether providing live-in, hands-on life instructions to a vampire is something I can deal with before committing to doing it.”
Frederick held his hands up in front of his face, frowning at them. “Hands-on? I will admit I had not imagined using our hands as a part of the instruction process. But if you think touching would help . . .”
If I’d been drinking my cappuccino at that moment, I’d have spat it out all over the table. Suddenly, it felt like the temperature in Gossamer’s had increased by ten degrees. “Oh my god. No—it’s just a figure of speech.”
He looked at me. “It’s a figure of speech?’ ”
“Yeah. Hands-on just means learning by doing.”
A pause. “Learning by doing?”
“Yes,” I said. “The way you ordered your drink tonight, for example. I’d consider that hands-on instruction. You learned how to order a drink by ordering a drink.”
Recognition dawned on his face. “Oh, yes. I see.” His eyes dropped to his mug.
And then, he leaned in a little closer to me across the table.
A smart person in my situation would probably have reacted to that by backing away and putting more space between us. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It wasn’t just that he looked incredible, though that was certainly part of it. Despite everything—who and what he was, and the fact that he hadn’t been totally honest with me when I’d moved in—I wanted to trust him.
I did trust him.
But I didn’t trust him enough to let myself be drawn in like that again. Deliberately, and with more difficulty than I would have liked, I made myself shift back in my chair to increase the distance between us again.
He seemed to understand my intent, because he added, “I understand if you still need time to think things through.”
He didn’t sound happy about it at all.
Which made no sense.
“Even if I can’t live with you again, Frederick, you’ll just find someone else who can.”
His eyes went hard. “Impossible. I . . .” He trailed off, then shook his head. “While yes, I suspect I could find another roommate, given adequate time, I will not find anyone who can instruct me so well as you.”
That surprised me. “I’m nothing special.”
His brow furrowed. Something about what I’d said bothered him, though I couldn’t imagine what it might be.
“Over the past two weeks I’ve discovered that in this city of millions, you are one of a kind.” His words carried a quiet intensity I could feel in the pit of my stomach. Suddenly, there was no one in that noisy place but the two of us. The din of the room dropped away, inaudible over the sudden rush of blood in my ears. My eyes dropped reflexively to the table.
The Galaxy-sized coffee mug he was cradling looked positively tiny in his hands.
I cleared my throat. “I’m sure that’s not true, Frederick. I’m—”
“Do not think for one moment that you are replaceable, Cassie Greenberg,” he said. He sounded almost angry. “For you are anything but.”
I turned my conversation with Frederick over and over in my head all the way back to Sam’s place.
The apartment was dark when I let myself inside. I vaguely remembered Scott mentioning an event that night at his university for faculty and their partners. That must be where he and Sam were.
Given how muddled my thoughts were, I was grateful to have the apartment to myself. I wouldn’t be able to handle it if Sam were there with his nosy but well-intentioned questions.
If I was being honest, I was already leaning towards moving back in with Frederick. But I didn’t want to rush this decision, no matter how badly he seemed to want me to live with him. If I said no, he’d be fine. Regardless of what he’d said, he’d easily find someone else just as qualified to do . . . whatever this was.
He was distraught when I suggested it, even though it was true. Because of that, I owed it to him to give him an answer as soon as I had one and not just sit on this decision.
I glanced at my phone. It was nearly eleven at night. Frederick wouldn’t think it was late if I called him, though. Eleven at night was basically late morning for him. He might think I was being a bit pathetic and overeager, though, since we’d just said goodbye an hour ago.
Then again, maybe he’d be glad I’d made up my mind so quickly.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
On the train ride back home I decided that if he could reassure me about one very specific thing, I’d be satisfied. The rest of my questions could wait.
I counted to ten, willing my racing heart to slow. Then I called him.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Cassie.” His voice was bright with surprise. “Good evening.”
“I have one more thing I want to go over with you,” I said, leaping right in. This was not the time for small talk. “If we can agree on a few parameters now, I can agree to move back in.”
The sound of street traffic—a honking car horn, someone laughing—filtered in from Frederick’s side of the phone. He must be out, doing . . . whatever it was he did at night.
I didn’t want to think about what that might be.
“What is it?” he asked, unable to hide the eagerness in his voice.
I closed my eyes again, trying to steel my nerves.
“We need to discuss food,” I began. “Specifically, your food.”
“Yes. I had assumed you would want to discuss this eventually.”
“You assumed correctly.” I bit my lip, trying to think how to phrase what I wanted to ask him. “I believe you when you say you don’t feed from living humans—”
“Good,” he said, emphatically. “Because I do not.”
“You get food from blood banks, then?”
A pause. “Usually, yes.”
I made the intentional decision not to think about what usually meant. Or about the ethical dilemma stealing from blood banks raised. Drinking blood meant for human patients who needed it would also lead to human deaths, even if indirectly. But I supposed Frederick was just doing what he needed to do to survive in as humane a way as possible.
“I think I can handle the fact that you drink blood, given how you limit yourself.”
“I am very glad to hear that.”
“But,” I continued. “I cannot handle another experience like the one I had the other night. Where I open the fridge and, bam—blood.” I paused, trying hard not to think about the sickening smell of all that blood in the place where I kept my food. The way Reginald had sucked it down like a kid digging into a juice box at recess. “If anything like that happens again, I’m gone for good.”
“I understand,” Frederick said, very quickly. “You neither want to see blood in the apartment nor see me eating it.”
“That’s right.”
“I will make it so,” he promised. “All kitchen food storage space will be for your use only. I will store my food in a special refrigerator I will keep in my bedroom for this express purpose. Or else keep it out of our home altogether.”
Our home.
I ignored the warmth that flooded me at those words.
“That should work,” I agreed, glad he was not there to see how flushed my face was.
“Good.” He paused, then added, “Please believe me when I tell you I never meant for you to see the blood. Or to see one of us eat. I swear I believed you would not be home that night until much later.”
I believed him. “What Reginald did wasn’t your fault.”
“Either way, I will only eat in the apartment when you are not around to see me do it.”
“Thank you.”
“It is no hardship. There are only a few hours each day when we are both at home, and even fewer when we are both awake.”
“You really aren’t awake much during the day, are you?”
He paused, and then sighed. “An aftereffect of having been asleep for a century, I’m afraid. I was once able to be awake during daylight hours like any mortal human, even though being in direct sunlight has always been mildly unpleasant. But . . .” He trailed off and sighed again. “I am still regaining my strength, Cassie. For now, the best way for me to do that is to minimize the time I am awake during the daylight hours.”
“Of course,” I said, as if I understood. But I didn’t. I still had so many questions about how his life—or, nonlife—worked. Everything I had ever learned about vampires was from fictional sources. Even among the fictional vampire worlds I’d seen or read about there were a lot of inconsistencies. The vampires in Anne Rice novels, for example, didn’t act like the vampires in Buffy or True Blood.
I assumed Frederick didn’t sparkle in the sun like the vampires in Twilight, though even that was just a guess. Beyond that, I had no idea how any of it worked.
I figured there’d be time to puzzle it all out later, though. For the time being, I put a mental check mark beside Food, reasonably satisfied by what he’d just promised me.
“I still have a lot of questions,” I admitted. “And concerns, too. But I’m willing to take a lot on faith, assuming you’re up front with me about the big stuff going forward.”
“If you agree to live with me and help me adjust to life in the twenty-first century, I will never again omit anything about myself that might impact your life in a significant way.”
“Good,” I said. And then, before I could stop myself, I added, “I will move back in tomorrow.”
I couldn’t know for sure, but when Frederick said good night to me a few minutes later I thought I could hear him smiling.