Zen shrugged again. Because really, the words had just come out; she didn’t have a clear reason for them. “Don’t ask me to explain.”
“Uh-huh.” He tilted down a few sips of the hot brew. “If you say so.”
“So it’s as easy as that?” Zen asked. “I tell you not to ask questions and you don’t. Whew. You must have a heck of a closet filled with your own skeletons.”
He smirked and approached her, laying his hand over her heart. Zen flinched but didn’t want to pull away from the surprising touch of his big warm hand over her breast.
“What are you—” It didn’t matter what he was doing. She just didn’t want him to ever stop.
“Your heart is racing,” he said.
“Well, duh. A handsome man is touching my boob.”
He flinched away at that statement. Shook his head. “Sorry. Just wanted to know if you were for real.”
“I am real. I’m standing right here. What doesn’t look and feel real to you?”
“The whole not-knowing-things part. You can tell a lot about a person by measuring their heartbeats. Just thought I’d give it a try.”
With a nod he turned and pulled out another coffee pod and set it in the machine to brew.
“All righty, then.” Zen sat at the counter, more confused about the man than ever. So her heartbeats were fast. To be expected.
And what did she have to do to get him to touch her like that again?
* * *
There was something about this woman that was accepting and open, Blade thought. But also too damned curious. Dare he tell her what he’d encountered inside the house while she had been wandering about the field? That would then lead to a discussion on how he was familiar with demons, and...
Destiny?
There was certainly something other about her. But Blade wouldn’t necessarily label it destiny. Whatever that meant. When he’d laid his hand over her heart it had felt sure and strong—and fast. His sensory perception of other paranormal beings was excellent. Vampires he could tell by touch. Vamps gave off the shimmer, a knowing tingle. Werewolves were a scent thing. And faeries were a more difficult tell, even though faery blood ran through his veins, but some were just...bright. And that wasn’t a glow but rather a feeling he got.
As for witches, he felt a twinge in his spine when near them. Demons gave off a sulfurous scent and they generally had a difficult time hiding their red eyes.
He met Zen’s eyes as she sipped the coffee. Hers were blue.
“Yesterday they were green,” he said suddenly, leaning forward to closely inspect her irises.
“What?” She met his gaze, and then shook her head. “Listen, after your emphatic statement that we could never be friends, I find your gazing longingly into my eyes a little befuddling, not to mention the free feel you just took.”
“They’ve changed color.”
“What? My eyes? No, they’re still—” She touched her cheek below her eye. “I guess I’ve never given them a good look in the mirror.”
“Yesterday the color resembled emeralds. Today they are azure. Not red.”
“You’re hanging on to that theory, eh? Demons have red eyes. Or so the mythology states as much.”
“Zen.” Blade set his coffee mug on the counter and leaned forward. “That old lady back at the house where I met you? She wasn’t old or even a lady.”
“Sure she was. I spoke to her. Told her I was there to find myself. Though she did say something odd about finding herself. If she wasn’t an old woman, then what was she?”
“What you saw and spoke to was her human facade. I saw her shift into three demons. And then I slayed them.”
Tapping her fingernails against her mug, Zen surprised him in that she didn’t protest or stand up and dash off. The woman was reading him, delving into his words to glean their integrity. Trustworthy? Always. Upstanding? Rarely.
“What kind of demons?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know.” He narrowed his gaze on her. She wasn’t running. And asking questions was a good thing. Right? “The standard nasty-assed terrors that disperse into black dust when I draw my blade down their sternums.”
Zen clutched her chest and made a gagging face. “And you think I’m one of them?”
“No. Maybe.”
She gaped at him.
“I don’t know. But I do believe they were after you. When I was in the house, one of them said something like ‘she’s ours.’ You’re really cool with this conversation? Because most humans would not be.”
“I haven’t decided yet. I know demons exist. In mythology. As do bazillions of other breeds and species. But they are fiction, Blade. You do know that, right?”
He sighed. The conversation about paranormals was never easy, and he didn’t have it with humans unless it was absolutely necessary. Something about Zen made him believe this was a necessary conversation, so he decided to jump in with both feet and hope she didn’t freak.
“Demons are real, Zen. As are all other creatures of myth you believe are fiction. If you don’t have your memory, what makes you think your beliefs are real? That they have merit? Maybe you only think you don’t believe in mythological beings?”
She opened her mouth to say something, then paused. He had even confused himself with that question.
“I know some things,” she insisted. “As you seem to believe you know things. So I’ll play along. Say demons do exist. And you, apparently, are aware they exist. What does that make you? Are you some kind of creature, Blade?”
The million-dollar question. And she couldn’t hide the smirk of laughter that niggled at the corner of her mouth. But he wasn’t going to lie to her. Because to shuffle around the truth wouldn’t get him anywhere. And after slaying three demons he felt as though he’d become involved in something. A something that demanded he pay attention for Zen’s sake.
“Vampire.” He sipped the coffee and set it down. He ran his fingers through his hair and offered a tiny smile. He wouldn’t mention his faery half. That would only complicate matters.
He waited for Zen to digest his confession, and expected a calm reaction, as she’d displayed thus far. So when she stood abruptly and grabbed her backpack, nearly knocking the coffee cup off the counter in the process, he knew he’d gone too far.
“Quit playing with me,” she said. “I need help and I need answers. Not some idiot who thinks he can one-up the town asshole. Brock may have been the better choice last night.”
And she marched away from him and down the stairs.
Blade leaned over the sink and watched through the small window as she stopped halfway down his gravel driveway. She realized she no longer had a vehicle. The town was ten miles south. Would she make the walk? In a long dress?
Or would she come back inside and ask for his help? She hadn’t asked for his help thus far. And yet, he had willingly offered, and had gone above and beyond by giving her the roll of cash.
What was with that?
Normally Blade Saint-Pierre stood off and to the side, in the shadows. He didn’t call attention to himself. He didn’t like confrontations. Nor did he engage in small talk and friendships. It was easier that way. The unseen were not challenged, or tortured.
Too late for that, eh?
