The Melancholy Man

By Michelle Montague Mogil

Esther Blackwell thought she had written works of fiction: two novels about a middle-aged couple who, through an odd series of circumstances, become blood-sucking creatures of the night. Then, her characters start showing up in her life and stirring everything up. Esther finds herself drawn into their surreal world by one particularly long, lean ancient Irishman who can't seem to keep his hands — or his teeth — off of her. It would seem she had finally found the love and devotion she'd always longed for. Unfortunately, he's already bound to another mate, a green-eyed, red-haired beauty who is not ready to let go and more than willing to cause trouble.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Montague Mogil
• Release date: Feb 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311156587

Michelle Montague Mogil

Michelle was born in Buffalo Children's Hospital in Buffalo, NY, on March 1, 1960, thus depriving her mother of a surf'n'turf dinner. She has spent the last 50+ years trying to make it up to her.Michelle has worked in various jobs over the years including hay baler, cow milker, cleaning woman for the rich lady down the road, waitress, darkroom technician, gas station attendant, horse exerciser, dog sitter, cat feeder, egg picker, and, yes, systems analyst and bartender.She is owned by two cats, one greyhound, and ten chickens.But she is also blessed with three daughters, three grandsons, and a very tolerant husband.

Book preview

The Melancholy Man

by Michelle Montague Mogil

Copyright 2015 Michelle Montague Mogil

Michelle can be found muttering about things here:

A Place for My Mind

This is mostly a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author's fevered imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This one’s for Kestral… wherever you are…

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter One

FWAP! Two books landed on the table in front of me. I jumped in my seat and jerked my head up to see Clark Kent’s identical twin brother grinning down at me.

What the— I began, then stopped short and sat back warily as he leaned over the table, his cobalt-blue eyes gazing deep into mine. His face was tense, but he beamed a smile at me, bracketed by two chiseled dimples. One thick lock of dark hair curled over his forehead and did its best to soften his expression.

Ms. Blackwell, he pronounced. "This is fiction, right?"

I blinked. What the hell kind of question is that?

Of course it is, I answered, and slid my gaze left to seek out Michael, my boyfriend, who was supposed to be my buffer against this sort of thing. He was far too busy, chatting up some cute little cosplay wench and was blissfully unaware of the strange but gorgeous hunk of man who confronted me.

Fiction, he repeated. He straightened again and tapped a finger on the books. It’s so realistic, like it actually happened. How did you get it so right?

I stared a moment, measuring my response. This must be one of the wackos Michael warned me about when I first floated the idea of attending a Fantasy Con in New York City to promote my books. He had suggested I go along with whatever weird trip they were on — play the passive role, is how he put it. Hopefully it would satisfy them and they would just go away. So I swallowed the stab of anxiety that poked at me and chuckled with a nonchalance I wasn’t really feeling. I leaned forward to give him a conspiratorial wink and forced my lips into a wicked grin.

Yesss, I whispered. "As far as these foolish mortals are concerned, it’s fiction."

His whole face relaxed into a laugh, then, and his deep blue eyes sparkled. Very good, Ms. Blackwell. You’d make a great Elvira.

That elicited a slow blink from me. Elvira?

Mistress of the Dark? She was the host of a TV show in the 80s? He shrugged at my blank look and pushed a business card across the table toward me. Steve Arlo, blog writer for Indie Authors On-Line, and fellow Ithacan. I’d love it if you could find the time for a chat.

About what? God, Esther, my conscience scoffed, sounding suspiciously like Michael. You are clueless. What do you think he wants to talk about? Your good looks?

Your books, of course! Steve flashed me a grin worthy of a toothpaste ad. Local author angle, using real-life events to flavor her novels. Stuff like that.

Oh, hey now— I started to protest, then stopped, worried. Did I unconsciously use real incidents in my fantasy stories? They are fiction, I said with a forced firmness.

Of course they are, Ms. Blackwell. Anyway. He tapped his books again. At least sign my copies and maybe we can get together later this evening. Say, around nine? Hotel bar? Not the main bar. There’s a little hole-in-the-wall back by the kitchen. It’ll be quieter, more… intimate. He actually winked at me, and I’m ashamed to say, my heart fluttered a little.

Hey, pal! A heavy-set woman stepped forward and poked Steve in the back of his shoulder with two stiff fingers. You wanna get your autograph and move on? You’re holding up the line!

Steve glanced around her at the two other people waiting by my table and raised a cocky eyebrow at the woman.

What line? He cast an apologetic grin at me. Oh, no offense, Ms. Blackwell.

None taken, I muttered as I scribbled in Steve’s books.

I’ll be finished in a moment, he said to the woman. His voice was mild, but his eyes sparked with anger. I just need to—

You just need to get moving! the woman growled and poked his shoulder again. You’ve been hogging her long enough. Get along now!

Steve turned back to me with an air of urgency.

Nine o’clock at the kitchen-side bar, Ms. Blackwell, he murmured. I really would enjoy talking to you. And only you. He nodded toward Michael, then held my gaze for a long moment. His lips were smiling, but his eyes bore into me. I was mesmerized and intrigued.

I’ll try, I said, wondering exactly how I would accomplish this particular feat.

Hey, pal! Big Woman was at it again. She gave Steve a shove and he took a couple of steps back, brows dark and lowered. Unfazed, the woman jutted her chin at him. You gonna move, or do I hafta help you move?

Is there a problem? Michael managed to tear his attention away from the cosplay wench long enough to take note of the skirmish at my end of the table. He sauntered over and moved between Steve and my impatient fan.

No problem, Michael. I held Steve’s books out to him with one hand and palmed his business card with the other. Here you are Mr., um, Arlo. And thank you.

Steve took his books, but stood his ground a moment longer. He gave Michael a quick, cautious glance, but he was occupied with placating the angry woman.

Can I expect you? Steve murmured. He tipped a head toward Michael. Alone?

I’ll try, I murmured. I also had one eye on Michael, but for a different reason. I’ll do my best.

Steve nodded, then flashed me another strobe-light grin and strode away from my table. I watched his broad back recede with a pang of regret. There’s no way I would ever be able to meet with Mr. Arlo alone, not if Michael had anything to say about it. So why had I bothered to agree to it? Maybe I was daring myself to break with my meek and mild behavior. Maybe I was tired of living under a heavy and controlling thumb. All day long, I had felt something prickling at my psyche, as if I could sense a change in the air. Something wicked this way comes, whispered a dread voice in my mind.

I mentally shook my head at myself, turned back to the irate woman before me, and flipped her books open to the fly-pages.

What would you like me to write? I said, with pen poised.

Greedy little prick, she muttered.

I gulped in dismay as I began to inscribe her books with G-r.

To Greta, she said, and I smiled with relief. Ana Trent’s biggest fan.

I nodded. She’s quite the character, isn’t she?

Oh, I know! Greta gushed, a complete change in demeanor that was a little unsettling. I’m a lot like her, you know. I could so relate.

I struggled to keep a straight face, but inside I was giggling. Anastasia Trent, one of the main characters in my stories, was a svelte, middle-aged beauty who had attracted the attention of an ancient, lovelorn vampire. She was quite a far cry from the large, coarse woman who stood before me. But Michael’s advice stuck with me — play the passive role — so I nodded, smiled, and finished her inscription. I breathed a sigh of relief as she meandered off. Michael lowered himself into the chair next to me and favored me with a suspicious stare.

What the hell did that jackass want? He nodded toward Steve, who had stopped at another table. He was kinda creeping on you, Monkey.

I don’t know, I said, wincing at the hated nickname. More intense than creepy. I slipped Steve’s business card into my jacket pocket.

So! We’re almost done here. Michael looked around at the dwindling crowd. Want to go get some dinner?

Oh, er… I fumbled my cell phone out of my handbag to check the time. It was eight o’clock already and Steve had suggested nine for our meeting. I was intrigued enough to toy with the scary idea of slipping Michael’s invisible leash and daring to meet with another man behind his back. But how in the hell was I going to accomplish this daunting task? Then I brightened.

I have an idea, I said, sugar-sweet and all smiles. How about we get room service? Just relax up in our room? I’ll get a bottle of wine. I waggled my eyebrows, trying to look sexy and suggestive, while inside my stomach was churning at my audacity.

Michael didn’t seem to notice my agitation. He favored me with a raised eyebrow and a quirk of one corner of his mouth.

Okay, wow. He draped an arm around my shoulder and planted a kiss atop my head. Let’s go, Chunky Monkey.

I cringed, lowered my head to hide my angry eyes, and forced down the biting retort that rose in my throat. Oh, how I hated that nickname. I was short and a little on the plump side, to be honest. But Michael wasn’t exactly in prime shape, either. An ex-jock, he had let himself go to seed a little; he even had the beginnings of a beer belly. But I didn’t ever dare point that out to him. It was best to just let him have his stupid little joke.

Okay, great, I murmured and followed after him.

~*~*~*~

By the time we got to our hotel room, I was shaking so hard I could barely punch the button on the phone for room service. Scanning down the menu, my inclination toward frugality was to order a couple of burgers and a shared side of fries. But then, Michael was footing the bill — he was a steak and potatoes man — and I had to think of his gratification, didn’t I? Ah well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Sirloin it was. I added a pricey bottle of Merlot to the order.

Michael shrugged out of his suit jacket and stripped off his tie, all the while grinning at me. He was not used to me taking the initiative like that. Michael could be a little rough and thoughtless and, to be honest, I kind of dreaded having sex with him.

I’ve got to say, Esther, this is a nice surprise.

I flashed him a guilty smile and ducked into the bathroom to snatch my bottle of Ambien from the counter. I stuffed it into my trousers pocket just as Michael crowded in behind me.

Wanna take a bath? he drawled. He nodded toward the tub and drew my jacket from my shoulders. It’ll loosen you up, don’t you think?

Oh, Michael, I pulled my jacket back on, covering the lump of pill bottle in my pants pocket. I would love to, but dinner will be here soon. Are you planning to answer the door in the buff?

Michael released a loud snort. I have my bathrobe here, Esther, he said. You’re such a dopey monkey.

Michael, I ventured, could you maybe not call me that?

What? He grinned. Dopey?

I sighed and flapped a dismissive hand at him.

C’mon, woman, he said and tried to press my jacket from my shoulders again. Let’s get soaped up.

I stiffened like a recalcitrant child. I just don’t… I stuttered. I just don’t feel dirty.

Yeah? Michael pushed harder at my jacket. I can fix that.

No, Michael. Please…

But he had me backed against the vanity and his tongue, thrust between my lips, stifled my protests. I knew better than to struggle or go limp. Either act would only anger him, so I took a neutral stance: pliant, but not submissive. I was trying to give him the impression that I was interested but reluctant. Some call it playing hard-to-get. I call it survival tactics.

The mauling went on for some time. I think Michael interpreted my heavy breathing as excitement. It was more like I couldn’t get enough oxygen into my lungs. Just as he had worked his way down to the button on my slacks, there came a knock at the hotel room door and a muffled Dinner service!

Later, honey, I gasped and peeled him off of me. I slithered my way out of the bathroom and threw open the hall door on a startled young woman in hotel uniform.

Perfect timing, I whispered. Thanks.

She gave me a puzzled glance as I pressed a ten into her hand and shooed her back out.

Fine! Michael muttered from the bathroom. I hope you don’t mind if I take a quick shower then. At least one of us should be clean.

Of course I don’t mind, I said, quickening at the chance. I’ll take one after dinner, how’s that? Then we’ll both be clean.

Another growl was my answer and the bathroom door slapped shut.

I wheeled the dinner cart into the far corner of the room and positioned it at the end of the queen bed. The sound of the shower started and I breathed a sigh of relief. A moment of respite.

I fished Steve’s business card from my jacket pocket, pulled my cell phone from my purse, and fired off a quick text message: might be a little late, maybe 930. Then I felt the pill bottle in my trousers. My stomach jumped as I drew the bottle out and stared at it.

Are you really going to do this to him? Before I could think about it too much more, I popped the top off and fished out two of the pills. I dropped them in one of the wine glasses, paused a moment, then shook out another and dropped that one in, too. It took all the strength from my wobbly arms to pull the cork from the wine. The neck of the bottle rattled against the glass as I tipped a good measure in.

Damn it. I could see the three white pills nestled in the bottom of the glass. Just then, the shower stopped and I heard the squeak of Michael’s feet on the bathroom floor. Damn it damn it damn it. I stuck my finger in the wine and desperately poked at the unyielding little bastards.

They gave up and dissolved just as the bathroom door opened and Michael emerged, wrapped in a towel and followed by a puff of steam. I whipped my free hand behind my back and, smiling brightly, held the glass out. He frowned at me.

Well, I feel better, he said and reached for the glass. Thanks.

I watched him take a big swallow and was dismayed when I could see the dregs of the damned pills slosh around the bottom.

Let me pour you another! I plucked the glass from his hand and turned my back to him as I poured more wine and stirred at it, silently begging the pills to just disappear already.

What the hell are you doing, aerating it? He snatched the glass back and glared at me over the rim as he gulped at the wine. I held my breath, watching the last dregs slide out of the glass and down his throat.

I exhaled, poured my own glass of wine, and began to remove the covers from the dishes on the cart.

This smells great, I said. I got all your favorites: sirloin, garlic mashed potatoes, sautéed green beans. So, dig in!

He hunkered down on the bed and did, indeed, dig in. I picked at my steak, alternately watching his eyelids for signs of droopiness and surreptitiously glancing at my cell phone for the time. It was nearly nine thirty before he finally let his fork drop. He gave a couple of owlish blinks, then put a hand to his head.

Wow. I’m getting old, he said.

What do you mean? I gave him my best concerned girlfriend look. Are you okay?

Two glasses of wine and I’m— He blinked at me. I’m sorry, was I saying something?

Michael? Seriously. Are you all right?

Hey, Monkey. He grinned at me, his head wobbling. C’mere an’ gimme a big, wet… He went over backwards onto the bed and began to snore.

Holy shit. It worked. I was too shocked to move for a minute, then I started as my phone beeped, sending a thrill of fear through me. It was a return text message from Steve, wondering where I was. Shit.

I grabbed my purse and hurried for the door.

Chapter Two

So, tell me about yourself. Steve flashed another one of his brilliant white grins my way, took a sip of his beer, and waited.

What do you want to know? I was beginning to have second thoughts about this meeting. He seemed genuinely interested in me, but I couldn’t think of an interesting thing to say. I wasn’t at all used to anyone paying me such rapt attention.

Well, let’s see. You have a boyfriend, right? A real protective sort?

My stomach clenched at the reminder that Michael was up there in our room, drugged at my own hand. The nerve, said my conscience. You’d better hope you didn’t kill him. I pushed down the anxious twinge in my gut and forced a smile.

Yes, I said. He loves me very much.

Of course he does. Steve’s mouth twitched. So much that he can’t let you out of his sight for one minute?

I looked around nervously, half expecting to see Michael staggering toward us across the barroom.

What do you know about it? I said. This Steve guy was acting like a know-it-all and I found it annoying, and very worrying.

I know the type, he answered, his mouth drawn down. Bully with anger issues, inflated sense of self-worth.

I’m not the most sensible person in the world, Mr. Arlo, I said. Michael takes care of me.

Does he take care of you? Or does he control you?

What the hell? I frowned. Getting a little personal, aren’t you?

That’s the idea, Ms. Blackwell. Another shiny grin. Up-close and personal with an indie author!

I tucked my chin and frowned. I don’t think the Internet is interested in my love life. And what a glorious love life it is, I sighed to myself. Michael wasn’t a real romantic kind of guy.

Steve peered at me a second, then beckoned the bartender over to the shadowy corner where we sat. He was a tall, gaunt, white-haired man with the personality of a pet rock. I wondered why he was in the hospitality industry.

How about a nice glass of wine? Steve asked me. "In vino veritas, right?"

Yeah, it might help calm my nerves, I said, with a wry smile and nodded to the mournful bartender. Glass of Merlot, please. He turned away without a word to fetch it.

What’s there to be nervous about, Ms. Blackwell? Steve said. Most people love to talk about themselves.

There’s not much to talk about. The bartender set a glass of wine before me and I took a grateful swallow. But I’m not going to answer questions about Michael, who’s not here to defend himself.

How ‘bout this, Steve said. Tell me about your books. That might get the gears turning.

Well, they’re fantasy romance novels, I said, feeling the heat of a blush creep up my neck. I was a little embarrassed about my choice of genre. I’m not terribly romantic myself, so it surprised me that I could pen such hopeful and loving tomes. I wrote them between temp jobs—

Temp jobs?

I have my name in at a temporary staffing place. I shrugged. Michael expects me to contribute at least something to my upkeep.

Your… upkeep?

I’m not a totally kept woman, okay? I shot Steve an annoyed look. Enough with the way too personal questions, please. Anyway, the first one was about a middle-aged woman who goes through a particularly weird change of life…

And they’re works of fiction, I reassured myself as I outlined the plot of each book for Steve.

The first one was Anastasia Trent’s story. Suffering from a neglectful husband, she succumbs to the ardent attentions of an eight-hundred year old vampire, and then has to deal with the horrifying consequences.

The second novel was Ethan’s story. Ethan was Ana’s husband, betrayed by his wife, but willing to come back and help her try to rebuild her life after a devastating tragedy.

I had a lot of fun writing the stories, amazed at how easy it was to put myself — a thirty year old woman in the prime of life — in the comfortable shoes of a pre-menopausal woman. The second story was even less probable, written from a middle-aged man’s perspective. I am not a middle-aged anything and men truly mystify me. But I found I had scribbled down the stories with ease, as if I had lived each and every weird, frightening event. Steve latched onto that fact.

So, you found it easy to write these stories, he said. "Almost too easy, right?"

Yeah, I said. The stories just flowed out of my mind like a stream of consciousness. It was like I was writing someone’s history or something.

Steve perked up at that. How do you know you weren’t? he asked.

Well, I drawled. First and foremost, there is no such thing—

—as vampires. Yeah, stock phrase. Of course there isn’t. Steve tapped the side of his nose with a finger and winked. But how to explain the ease with which the stories were told?

I chuckled. A very accommodating muse?

Bingo!

I started at his outburst. Excuse me?

That’s exactly it, Ms. Blackwell. A very accommodating muse! Anastasia Trent, itself!

Itself? I mentally squinted. Ana was a woman.

Okay, I said slowly. My muse is a fictional character that I invented?

Not fictional, Ms. Blackwell. Steve leaned forward, his face eager. Not invented. Very real, and very much— His next word stuck in his throat as his eyes rose up to focus on something just behind me.

A-liiiiiive! A hollow voice intoned the word from behind as a strong and ice-cold hand gripped my shoulder. I gasped and whirled in my seat.

She was slight — almost ethereal — a slender five foot five. Dark auburn hair coiffed in waves framed her thin face, and light steel-blue eyes shined down at me. Porcelain-smooth skin stretched over high cheekbones and the tiniest of laugh lines bracketed her pale pink lips. She was elegant in dove-gray slacks, a gray tunic, and dark maroon draped cardigan. One slender hand rested on my shoulder, the cold from it seeped through my jacket and blouse to my skin.

Standing just behind, her companion was a few inches taller than herself. His dark curly hair was flecked with gray and his pale brown eyes brimmed with amusement. He was dressed in a conventional pair of tan khaki pants and a light blue button-down shirt.

I do apologize for my wife, Ms. Blackwell, he said. She just can’t resist behaving badly sometimes.

I scooted my chair backwards in an arc around the table to sit next to Steve, inwardly berating myself. I usually make a point of taking a seat against the wall of any establishment. It’s the paranoia in me: who knows who — or what — will sneak up on you?

Ethan Trent, he said, unfazed, and held out a hand, smiling.

Esther Blackwell, I responded automatically and shook his chilly hand in a daze. His handsome, well-lined face tickled a memory in the back of my mind — I could swear I had met him before — but couldn’t put a time or place to it.

And I, of course, am Ana, the little woman said, a hand to her chest. I’m sorry I scared you. Well, no I’m not. It’s just too much fun.

I had a nagging feeling I had met her before as well but, the harder I tried to get a handle on it, the more it eluded me.

Ana? I mumbled. Ethan? Not possible.

Very possible! One of Ana’s eyebrows shot up and a smile twitched at her lips. "She’s standing right in front of you! Was behind you, but…" She shrugged and made a whirling gesture with one finger.

I don’t believe it, was my brilliant comeback.

I wouldn’t expect you to. Ana laughed and tilted her chin toward Steve, who sat frozen like a frightened puppy. What’s he been telling you?

I glanced at Steve: his face had gone whiter than Ana’s and his lips were quivering.

I, uh, we were just talking about my books. Weren’t we, Steve? I nudged him, feeling like we were two naughty kids caught doing something dirty. Weren’t we?

No answer. I turned to look at him, still frozen and staring at Ana.

Mr. Arlo? You in there? Ana waved a hand in front of his face.

He startled and sat up blinking.

"Noapte, he said, his voice hoarse. Yeah, talking about her books. That’s all."

What’s a no-optee? My scrambled brain fixated on the odd way Steve addressed Ana. I stared at Ana as if the answer was in her pale face.

That’s nice, she was saying, and she crooked one slender finger at him. Now you need to move on, okay? We’ll take it from here.

Steve straightened his spine and squared his shoulders, like he was manning up, or trying to.

"We haven’t finished our chat, noapte. We still have a lot to talk about."

What’s a ‘no—’ I started to say.

No, I don’t think so, Ana interrupted. She leaned forward, her hands on the table, and sent a sharp glare into Steve’s eyes. Anything Ms. Blackwell needs to know I’ll be glad to tell her.

Steve’s pupils had shrunk to pinpoints and his mouth hung open. I squinted at him then directed my puzzled gaze to Ana. She kept her attention steady on Steve, though, as if I wasn’t even there.

Besides, you’ve got that blog post to write, don’t you? Ana said. She lifted a corner of her lip and I saw something glitter in the dim light of the bar, something sharp and shark-like: one of her canines did not look normal. The one about the monsters in our midst?

Yeah, Steve stood up, knocking his knee against the edge of the table. He didn’t even wince; just strolled away as if his mind was on something far more important than me. Monsters in our midst, he said, the words trailing behind him like aimless butterflies.

So! Ana slid onto the chair Steve had just vacated, while Ethan took the one across from me, cutting off any chance I might have for escape. Let’s have a drink or two and hash this thing out.

Hash what out? I said. What’s there to hash out?

We almost missed our cue, Ana said, ignoring my question. "Ethan lingered over his dinner." She sent a near-tangible glare at him; I expected to see burn marks on his skin.

I grimaced, half in sympathy, half in confusion. Ethan made a show of hanging his head with shame, but cast a sidelong smirk at Ana.

She was a little too cute for her own good, he said.

I started to chuckle along with him, then hiccupped when his meaning sank in. She? No. Fiction. My books are fiction.

Old goat, Ana muttered and sent a warning look at him as the Pet Rock bartender meandered our way.

A pinot grigio for me, she told him. Whatever’s your cheapest is fine.

Jack on the rocks, Ethan ordered.

The three of them looked at me as I stared silently.

Well, c’mon Esther, Ana nudged me. I’m buying if that’s what you’re worried about.

Um, I— My brain whirled and tried to adjust. From drinks with handsome blogger guy to drinks with a weird older couple posing as the main characters from my books. The bartender cleared his throat and I started. Oh! Ah, Grey Goose on the rocks, please. I relinquished my half-finished glass of wine. I felt it was time for something a little stronger.

The bartender nodded and turned away.

I’ll bet you’re wondering why we’re drinking alcohol, Ana said. Especially after my struggle with it those last few days before I, you know, changed.

No, no. I took a breath and looked from Ana to Ethan and back to Ana. I’m wondering if you are for real.

You should know, Esther. Ana chuckled. You wrote it.

"I wrote two books of fiction. Fantasy! What is this, some kind of joke?"

Life is one long joke, isn’t it? Ana said with a twisted smile. My life especially, don’t you think? Every time I turn around, it seems I’m getting pranked.

Aw, come on, Ana. Ethan said. Admit it. A lot of that is your own doing. He gave me a wink and a wide grin.

He said something else then, but his words were drowned out by my pulse, pounding loud in my ears. My gaze was riveted on his teeth: his shiny, white shark-like teeth. Ana seemed to notice my distress; she nudged Ethan and nodded toward me. He sobered, one hand over his mouth.

Sorry, he mumbled. Still not used to the damned things.

There was an uncomfortable silence as the bartender returned with our drinks. I handed him my Visa card.

Keep a tab open, thanks, I said.

Esther, Ana admonished me mildly. I said I was buying.

It’s okay. I peered at her; she gazed back. If you’re really who you say you are, I’ve made a little bit of money off you. I owe you.

So, just like that, you suddenly believe? Ana chuckled.

Let’s say I’m curious about why you are doing this. And I have a lot of questions.

Ask away! Ana waved a hand and leaned back. Though, I can’t guarantee you’ll get the answers you want.

I took a bracing gulp of vodka and winced as it burned its way down my throat.

Okay, I gasped when I caught my breath again. First of all, what did you mean before by ‘almost missed our cue’? And why did you chase Steve Arlo away?

Because we were late getting here, Ana said, and because I didn’t want him talking to you.

I waited for more, but she just gazed at me in silence.

That doesn’t really answer my question, I said.

Questions, Ana said. And technically, it does.

Do I have to drag it out of you, bit-by-bit?

It may go easier if you asked the right questions, Ethan put in. We can’t lie, but we can prevaricate with the best of ‘em.

I’m going to be here all night, I groaned.

We’re okay with that, Ana grinned. In spite of her earlier reprimand to Ethan, her own two sharky teeth were revealed and glittered in the dim light of the bar.

I took another swallow of vodka as a sharp jab of primal fear hit my stomach. Ana raised a hand to hide her mouth.

Sorry, she murmured. We’re being cruel, I think, teasing you. You don’t deserve it.

No! I certainly don’t! I frowned a moment, trying to think of a question she, or Ethan, would be forced to answer directly. Then, the obvious one came to me. Are you vampires?

Yes. Ana winced but nodded. Though we’re not real fond of that term.

Yes? It was my turn to lean back and wave a hand. Just… yes?

Ana looked puzzled. What else do you want me to say?

I don’t know. I guess I expected some of that prevarication of yours.

Ana shrugged while Ethan chuckled.

It seemed a pretty straightforward question, he said, with another grin, hidden behind his hand this time. Why mess around?

So, my novels—

Aren’t fiction after all, Ana interrupted. They’re my — our — stories. She patted Ethan’s hand. He gave her a small, sad grimace.

Wait, I said. Everything I wrote is actually true?

All of it, yes, Ana said, turning her ice blue eyes on me. I, in fact, told you the whole story, chapter by chapter. Then, Ethan, in his turn, told you his. Two stories, two books.

This is the first time we’ve met. So, how did you manage all that story telling?

We’ve met many times, Ana said, and smiled. I’ve discovered that I’m very skilled at hypnotism.

Hypnotism? I doubt it. I don’t think I’m very susceptible to it. I tried it once to control my over-eating. I wound up eating more just to prove something to the hypnotist.

Well, Ana said. You are certainly entitled to your doubts. It does seem pretty fantastic, doesn’t it? She leaned forward, her eyes boring into mine. Doesn’t it? she repeated, her lips curved in a strange-looking smile.

I felt a weird little hiccup in time, like a jump cut in a movie, then Ana sat back and said, Tell me something, Esther. What were we just talking about?

I stared at her — a spot in my brain seemed to be blank — then I said slowly: I don’t know… Um… I wrinkled my forehead. We were talking about me over-eating?

I just told you the name of the hospital in which I was born and my mother’s maiden name. She raised one elegant eyebrow. Tell me again how impossible it would be for me to hypnotize you.

Umm. I blinked a couple of times. Wait a second. How can I be sure that’s what happened?

"I guess you’ll have