As a child he experimented with solid food, despite his father's patient attempts to explain to him the difference between vamp and human digestive systems. Chocolate bars, popcorn, even a Nathan's Original hotdog all took the roundtrip journey down his gullet. One of his earliest memories was of stealing a carrot from a bodega. He ate it like a machine, like Bugs Bunny, reveling in the sweetness of the carrot, its strange, plant-kingdom texture, the satisfying crunching noise.
Fun to begin with. After two hours of misery he threw it up in an alley, careful that his brothers wouldn't see. Because pretending to be human was even lamer than pretending to be a girl. Which he'd also done. Just for a little while.
When he was really little.
Alex peered into Helena's fridge full of old condiments and reduced calorie yogurt. There were eggs at least, and milk of dubious age. A stack of bleak frozen entrees sat in the freezer, accompanied by several cartons of ice cream at various stages of consumption. She had a few staples, but the spices in her pantry probably dated to the mid-80's.
As far as he'd been able to smell from the basement, her diet consisted entirely of ice cream, pizza and red wine, and now that he saw her kitchen, he didn't think that was far from wrong.
He paused to tune-in to Helena. She was asleep, and dreaming. Her dreams were busy and maybe confusing, but at least she wasn't having nightmares because of him. He found a dusty copy of the Betty Crocker Cookbook above the stove and decided to make her breakfast.
Helena woke to the smell of food. It reminded her of childhood, of those slow starting Sunday mornings where her parents lingered in bathrobes, sharing out the paper and pouring endless cups of coffee for each other while she read the funnies.
She missed them so much. Sometimes she woke up thinking they were still alive, that she could call them and tell them about a movie they'd like or something silly like that.
A whiff of coffee coiled around her nose, so strong she could almost see it, like in cartoons. It wasn't her imagination. A pot of coffee was brewing downstairs. Who was cooking?
Bolting upright, she looked at the clock. It was 6:30 a.m. Past sunrise. Who the heck was cooking?
She threw on a robe and ran into the kitchen. It smelled great, not fancy, just happy. Like her memories of her parents. The coffeepot was full. Someone had set a single place at the counter, with a mat and napkin and everything. The syrup bottle and butter dish sat next to the plate. The oven was set to warm, and a sticky note was on the door. The handwriting was bold, stylish caps, like architect lettering, and it read "Better than elk?" Inside the oven she found a beautiful short stack of pancakes and a covered dish of scrambled eggs.
Alexander Faustin. Her mind twisted around, trying to imagine the naked, blood-soaked man who'd burst in her back door the night before cooking pancakes. His eyes had been crazy—shining and spinning like wheels, like he was tripping on something.
But then he'd sounded perfectly normal through the door. Like it was no big thing to hunt and kill elk with your bare hands. In the middle of the night. Naked.
Yet she believed him. Just as she'd known he was lying that morning when he left her and got burnt, she knew he was speaking the truth last night. Anyway, the night before had been his last night in her basement. There'd be no more of this weirdness after today.
That was good.
It was.
She poured a cup of coffee and took the food out of the oven. What did a vampire know about breakfast? A lot. The pancakes were fluffy and golden, the eggs perfectly cooked and rich with cheese. Alex could cook. It made no sense.
Vampires could cook but she couldn't. Jeff always said if she just tried harder—Helena squelched that thought. No Jeff thinking allowed. Most especially not anything he ever said to her. His words could still wound at a distance. Instead, she retrieved the paper and read the funnies while she ate.
While cleaning up she discovered Alex's secret. A pile of burnt and malformed pancakes hidden at the bottom of the wastebasket. That stack of three perfectly round, fluffy, golden pancakes was the cream of about fifteen tries. The corners of Helena's mouth twitched until she gave up and let herself grin. Those malformed pancakes made her ridiculously happy.
Thankfully the phone rang so she didn't have to think that one through.
"Hey, stranger," Lacey said. "Whatcha been up to?"
Helena squirmed a little. She'd been avoiding Lacey, because Lacey read her too well.
"Deadline," she said. "A big, bitchy grant application. It's almost done." She hated lying, but she'd already dug herself in this deep.
Lacey made a skeptical noise. "No grant application ever kept you from taking booze breaks. You sure something else isn't going on? You feeling bad? I know today is the anniversary…" She trailed off awkwardly.
The anniversary of the car wreck that killed her parents. Lacey was right, but the date had snuck up on her. No wonder she'd been thinking of them.
"Do you want to do something tonight? Go to a movie?"
She wanted to. But she also wanted to be there at sundown to make sure Alex left. And to say thanks to him for the pancakes. And the offer of marriage. She leaned her forehead against the refrigerator door and closed her eyes.
"Helena?"
"Um, the grant deadline is tomorrow. I have to work tonight. But tomorrow night would be good. After I take the grant to Fed-Ex, we'll par-tay." She made her tone deadpan. "Go to Milligan's. Rip our tops off and dance on the tables."
"You wild child." Helena imagined her friend's grin. It could light a city. "Okay. Tomorrow. But seriously, call me if you need me. You know I love you."
Well, Helena hadn't totally lied. She did have a grant application to work on, so she poured a cup of coffee and headed down to her office. As she passed the basement door a little tingle coursed down her neck and back. Yes, Alex was down there. She always knew when he was around. That was another thing she didn't like to think about too much.
She sat down at her computer, checked her mail, checked Facebook, did all she could to avoid actually working. By the time she'd actually settled into work she was feeling the effects of a big breakfast. The office was too warm. Her eyelids began to droop. She typed the same sentence twice. Gulping down the cold remains of her coffee didn't help at all. Sleep was a lure. A hook on a long line.
The subway doors parted and an old Chinese woman carrying a box of grapefruits walked off the train. Helena stepped on. It was a narrow car, two rows of seats facing each other, the aisle studded with upright poles. An abandoned newspaper fluttered at her feet. She smelled urine.
At one end of the car a young man wearing the loose pants and clogs of someone who worked in a kitchen slept with his head against the window. At the other end of the car sat Alex, handsome like he used to be, wearing the same chunky sweater and jeans he'd worn their first night together. Clothes that Mikhail had cut off of him after the burn. She'd lent him scissors to do it.
The doors shut behind her and the train began to move. She grabbed a pole so she wouldn't fall over.
Alex glanced up. His eyes widened. "Helena! What are you doing here?"
"Where are we?"
"In New York. On the 6 train, I think."
"What am I doing here?"
He laughed. "That's what I asked you."
The train lurched. Alex caught her and made her sit down next to him. His expression turning serious, he brushed the hair out of her eyes and said, "Maybe you came here because I was thinking about you."