She closed her eyes. His arms went around her, pulling her close. His fingers stroked her hair. She resisted only a moment. Then she opened her eyes and looked into his face. As he kissed her, she imagined it was Charles’s mouth covering hers.
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
Walter, who was dicing carrots, stopped chopping for a moment. “I don’t know,” he answered. “Do you?”
He resumed his knife work. The nick-nick-nick of the knife against the wood was annoying. Jane’s nerves were already frayed, and the sound grated on her ears as if someone were rapping ceaselessly on a door. Who can it be (cried I) who chops these unoffending vegetables? she found herself thinking. She wished he would stop.
“I used to see them,” she said, speaking more loudly than usual to be heard above the noise. “When I was a child.”
Walter finished the carrots, swept them into a pan, and picked up an onion. “Really?” he said. He didn’t sound incredulous or mocking, and Jane wondered if he’d even heard her. “My grandmother believed she could see ghosts.”
Jane was making the salad to go with dinner. She’d been told to tear the lettuce into smaller pieces. She’d done such a thorough job that she now had a pile of what resembled wet green confetti. It was useless, and she quickly deposited it in the trash can before Walter could see it. The conversation was not going as well as she’d hoped, mainly because she had no idea how to begin.
“Yes,” she said. “Several times. Once it was a man who stood on the stairs of a church, and another time it was a little girl who appeared in our garden. She said she was looking for her cat. She said its name was Mogger.”
“She spoke to you?” Walter said as he cut the onion in half. Although she was several feet away, Jane’s eyes began to water almost immediately.
She nodded. “Isn’t that odd?”
Walter shrugged. “Who can say?” he answered. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
“Hamlet was mad, of course,” Jane replied. “But the sentiment is appreciated.”
“Why are you asking?” said Walter. “Have you been seeing ghosts?”
Jane shook her head and tore violently at a fresh piece of lettuce. I wish that were all it was, she thought. To Walter she said, “No. It’s just that today Lucy was talking about something to do with them and it made me realize that I don’t know much about what you believe about … things,” she concluded inadequately.
Having finished with the onion, Walter rinsed his hands and dried them on a dish towel. “Things,” he repeated.
“Yes,” said Jane. “Things.”
“Like ghosts,” Walter said.
“Ghosts,” Jane agreed. “And … I don’t know. God, I suppose. Heaven. Hell. What happens when we die.”
Walter raised one eyebrow. “Those are big questions,” he said. “I think I’m going to need a drink if we’re going to tackle them. Would you like one?”
“Please,” Jane answered.
Walter took two glasses from a cupboard and selected a bottle from the half dozen cradled in the wine rack. He uncorked it and poured some into the glasses. He handed one to Jane.
“This has about another thirty minutes,” he said, nodding at the lamb stew that was bubbling on the stove. “Why don’t we go sit down?”
Jane gratefully abandoned the disastrous salad and joined Walter in the living room. He’d lit a fire, and the room was warm and smelled faintly of pine smoke. Under other circumstances she would have felt relaxed, but considering what she was about to do, she could enjoy none of it.
“Do you want to start with ghosts and work our way up to God, or start with him and work our way down?” Walter asked as he sank into the cushions of the couch. Jane began to seat herself in one of the chairs, but Walter patted the place beside him. “Sit here,” he said.
Although she’d been hoping to keep some distance between them, Jane did as Walter asked. However, she sat as far away from him as she could without appearing to be rejecting him. He turned sideways, his arm along the back of the couch, and looked at her. “God or ghosts?” he asked.
“God,” Jane said. “Might as well get the biggest thing out of the way first.”
Walter rested his glass of wine on his knee as he spoke. “I was raised Episcopalian,” he began. “Mostly we were Christmas and Easter Christians, but I did like all of the ceremony.” He chuckled. “At one point in college I actually considered the seminary, until I realized it was only because I didn’t think I could afford grad school. If it weren’t for a scholarship, I might very well be delivering sermons instead of refinishing wood floors and restoring Victorian façades.”
“So you don’t believe in God, then?” Jane asked.
Walter drank some wine before answering. “There’s no way of really knowing, is there?” he said. “It’s not as if it can be proved one way or another.”
“A bit like ghosts,” said Jane cautiously.
“Except you say you’ve seen and spoken to them,” Walter reminded her. “Some people believe they talk to God on a regular basis, and that he talks back. Just because you or I don’t doesn’t mean they’re lying.”
“Very true,” Jane said. “So then do you think that things—creatures—might exist that to most people seem completely impossible?”
“Give me an example,” said Walter.
Jane thought for a moment. “Unicorns,” she blurted. “Angels. Werewolves. Vampires.” She clamped her lips shut on the last word, so that it came out almost as a whisper.
“Now I know what brought this on,” Walter said. “You and Lucy were reading those Posey Frost novels to each other, weren’t you? I know you said you think they’re trashy, but I had a feeling you couldn’t resist.”
It took a moment for Jane to realize that he was making reference to a wildly popular series about a woman who was a celebrated designer of lingerie by day and a monster hunter by night. They were terrible novels, but they sold out as quickly as they came in. Jane had tried to read one but had given up after the first fifteen pages when the heroine, the sultry Vivienne Minx, had dispatched a demon with a corset stay.
“You caught me,” said Jane, making a face that was supposed to look comically guilty.
Walter thought for a moment. “People certainly love to pretend that those things exist,” he said. “But whether they do or not, who’s to say?”
“Arrgh,” Jane growled. “You’re impossible.”
“What do you want me to say?” asked Walter, holding his hands up. “Do I think it’s possible that there’s a God, or ghosts, or … werewolves? Sure. Anything is possible. But have I seen one? Do I know that they exist? No.”
“Fine,” Jane said. She could tell that that was as much as she was going to get out of him.
“Don’t be mad,” said Walter.
“I’m not mad,” Jane said in a voice that contradicted her words. “I just think that if we’re going to continue seeing each other, we should be able to talk about anything.”
“We are talking,” Walter said. “Are you sure there’s not something else you want to say? Do you really want to know what I think about God?”
“No,” Jane said. “I mean yes. Not about God. I don’t really care what you think about God.”
“Then what is it?” Walter asked.
Jane turned and looked at him. It was now or never. “There’s something you need to know about me,” she began. “Something important. It’s about who I am. It’s about what I am.”
“What you are?” Walter said. “I don’t get it. What are we talking about here?” His eyes widened. “You’re a Scientologist!” he said. “That’s it. Or Wiccan! Hey, that’s fine with me.”
Jane held up her hands. “No,” she said, stopping him. “I’m not any of those things. I’m …”
Walter was looking at her questioningly. Jane looked into his honest, kind eyes and saw that he believed with all his heart that whatever she told him he would be able to handle. That’s how much he cares for me, she thought.
“I’m going to be published,” she heard herself say.
Walter blinked. “Published?” he said.
Jane nodded crazily “Published,” she said, wondering where in the world that had come from. “A novel.”
“You wrote a novel?” Walter asked. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I don’t know,” said Jane. “I guess I was afraid I would look foolish if it didn’t sell.”
“A novel,” Walter said again. He was beaming. “Well, congratulations! I’m so proud of you.”
He scooted over on the couch and gave Jane a hug. “What’s it called?” he asked her.
For a moment Jane couldn’t remember. “Constance,” she recalled finally.
“Constance,” Walter repeated. “When does it come out?”
“May, I think,” Jane answered.
Walter clapped his hand on her knee and gave it a squeeze. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Here you had me thinking we were going to have some big talk about how we’re incompatible because of our religious views. Unicorns. Werewolves.” He laughed. “You really had me going there.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Jane said. “Well, now the secret’s out.”
“How long have you known?” Walter asked.
“Not long,” she told him. “A few weeks, really.”
“Is that why you went to New York?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Jane murmured.
Walter shook his head. “You’re certainly a sly one,” he said. “Wow. A novel. That’s amazing, Jane. Really amazing. I can’t wait to read it.” Then he gave her a serious look. “Are there any other secrets you’re keeping from me?”
“I don’t think so,” Jane said. She took a sip of wine and choked as it went down the wrong way. “No, I think that’s it,” she added when she could speak again.
“Does anyone else know?” Walter said.
“Just you,” said Jane. “And I’d like to keep it that way for now. I don’t want people making a big fuss about it. It’s just a book.”
“It’s not just a book,” Walter said. “It’s your book. And that is a big deal.” He grinned. “You’re a published novelist,” he said.
And an immortal blood-drinking monster, Jane thought as she flashed what she hoped passed for a smile. “That’s me!” she said cheerfully.
Over dinner Walter grilled her about the book. She fed him details as if they were morsels of food, enough to keep him satisfied but not so much that he knew everything. Now that she’d revealed her impending publication, she found that it was actually a welcome distraction from her real problem. That still lingered in the back of her mind. She had not told Walter her most important secret, the one that would likely result in his death if she withheld it for much longer.
“We’ll have a big launch party at the store,” Walter said. “Oh, and you’ll have to do a reading.”
By the end of the evening, Jane was exhausted from listening to Walter talk about her novel. At half past eight she thanked him for dinner, kissed him good night, and left with an enormous sense of relief coupled with a growing burden of guilt. She’d done nothing to improve his situation as far as Byron’s threat was concerned.
The house was quiet when she entered. She’d half expected to find Byron seated in her living room again. She would almost have preferred it if he were. At least then she would know that Walter and Lucy were safe for the moment.
“I don’t think he’ll do anything for the present,” she said aloud as she walked upstairs to the bedroom.
“I won’t, will I?”
Jane, startled, gave a small scream. On her bed Byron was stretched out, his hands behind his head, completely naked. Tom was perched on his stomach, looking at Jane without interest.
“What are you doing here?” Jane demanded.
“Waiting for you,” said Byron. “I assume your talk with your boyfriend went well. He seemed to take the news surprisingly well.”
“I don’t know if I’d go quite that far,” Jane replied. Then a thought occurred to her. “You were watching us,” she said.
“Guilty,” said Byron. “To be honest, I was expecting more of a scene. It was really rather disappointing.”
He saw us, Jane thought to herself. But did he hear us? If so, then he would know that she hadn’t really told Walter about herself. But if that was true, why wasn’t he mocking her for failing to do it? Did he know she was bluffing?
“Walter is surprisingly open-minded,” she said.
Byron rolled onto his side, pushing Tom off the bed. The cat padded from the room, leaving them alone. Jane tried to avoid looking any lower than Byron’s face, but he was making it difficult.
“And have you told young Lucy?” he asked.
“Not yet,” said Jane.
Byron rubbed his fingers over his chest. “Then I can still pay her a visit,” he said. “That’s certainly an … appetizing possibility.”
“Don’t you dare!” Jane exclaimed. “I’m going to tell her.”
“Ah, but you haven’t,” said Byron. He sat up and reached for his pants, which were on the floor.
Jane grabbed his arm. “No,” she said. “Please.”
Byron stroked her face with his free hand. “Sweet Jane,” he said. “My beautiful, sweet Jane. For you I would do most anything.”
“Then leave Lucy alone,” Jane pleaded.
“Very well,” said Byron. “But if I’m not to share her bed, then I require a substitute.”
Jane, understanding all too well his meaning, started to pull away. Then Byron’s lips parted to reveal two sharp fangs.
“I’m hungry, Jane,” he said, his voice low and seductive. “Oh, so hungry.”
Jane imagined Lucy asleep in her bed, Byron looking down at her. He had already fed from her once. Another bite and she was likely to turn. Unless he killed her. And the thing that would decide the matter was whatever words Jane next spoke. She closed her eyes and pictured Lucy laughing and smiling.
“All right,” she said. “Stay with me.”