But why had she spoken to him at all? She'd only encouraged him. Generally speaking, she was not that stupid.
It was hard to sleep knowing he was so close, but she dozed on and off until first light, feeling oddly like it was Christmas night. Like something big was going on. And in the morning, it did look like Christmas outside. The snowfall had transformed the neighborhood into a glitter-coated winter wonderland. The flawless blanket of white hid all the dead weeds and abandoned dog toys in her yard. The trees looked like they'd been dipped in frosting.
And Alexander Faustin was nowhere to be seen, but he had shoveled the walks and the drive before he left, and taken her garbage cans to the curb so she wouldn't miss Monday morning pick-up.
Helena muttered to herself as she made coffee for her friends. "Damned domesticated stalker."
Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer were both attractive, charming men by all accounts. They probably were handy around the house, too.
The night clerk at the Boulder Hyatt thought the resident of room 303 was an elderly man named Jonas Liebovitz.
Alex disguised himself when he checked in, unsure of whether the police were proactive enough to send his description to the local hotels. He told the clerk he'd be sleeping through the day and wanted as dark a room as possible. Clerks loved it when someone actually volunteered to take a room looking out on a brick wall or a ventilation shaft.
With dawn coming fast, he rushed to tape a couple of space blankets over the window. Space blankets were a modern miracle for all vamp kind. Made for camping and survival situations, they were lightweight, reflective and completely light proof. Alex kept them on hand everywhere when he traveled, in his briefcase, his car, several in his suitcase for window blocking. Folded up, a space blanket was smaller than his fist. When he'd first learned the sun could kill him, he slept wrapped in space blankets for over a year, and dragged one around with him at all times because, despite his parent's reassurances, he worried that the sun might sneak up on him at night.
After he'd taped up the window, he tuned the TV to the Food Network. Alex watched cooking shows like other men watched exotic porn—fantasizing about things he was not ever going to experience. Solid food did not sit well with him. Soup he could do. A bowl of bullion would not nourish him much, but it would be warm. He ordered room service and sat down to check his email.
While he waited, he became more and more hungry. The night out in the cold, the hard labor, and not least, Helena herself, had sharpened his appetite and whetted his teeth. Her taste lingered on his tongue, her saliva and skin foreshadowing the flavor of her blood. While fasting for a mate was the romantic thing to do, he decided he'd find something to eat first thing the next evening, just so he could think straight in her presence.
The legends and movies were bullshit. Vamps did not have to kill to eat, and civilized vamps never killed their prey. Humans were blood-making factories. You didn't kill a cow to milk it.
Alex didn't hunt much anyway. He fed from his lovers, preferring sensual, leisurely dining to hunting by a long shot. His brother owned one of the most decadent nightclubs in New York. Women who liked blood play gravitated there, and for Alex it was a second home. Since he was fifteen he'd never lacked for a lover or a meal.
But all that would end soon. Once he tasted Helena, he'd only want to feed from her. That would begin the bonding, which would culminate with her conversion. During that honeymoon period he wouldn't be able to stand the taste of anyone else. Later, they'd hunt together.
It was a good thing he hadn't tasted her at the door. Before he bonded with her, he had to tell her what he was—and what he wanted her to be. If he bonded with her prematurely and she couldn't accept him, that would be bad. Maybe even tragic. Like the old vamp tearjerker, The Chanson of Roland and Illysia.
The bellhop arrived bearing a bowl of soup and a basket of nasty, inedible crackers. If he noticed the sealed window, he pretended not to see it.
"Put it down there." Alex pulled out his wallet for a tip, glancing at the soup as he did. Then he glanced back at the bellhop. The bellhop looked better. A boy just out of high school, blond, ruddy, a fine snack.
It was such a bad idea.
"Sign here please, sir."
If only he had not moved so close. If only he did not smell of beer. Alex loved beer in his blood.
Never bring it to your nest, his father always said.
Fuck it. Alex flashed his hand in front of the bellhop's face, stunning him. The bill, tray and pen fell to the ground. He kicked the door closed, tore open the boy's jacket and latched onto his throat, suddenly greedy as hell. The alcohol sugars in the kid's blood made it taste bright and thin at the same time. Pure soda pop.
The bellhop wilted in his arms. Because he was all wound up, Alex drank more than he should have. The kid would feel like crap as a result. After one last sip, he licked the wound closed and buttoned the jacket up again. The entire encounter had taken less than fifteen seconds.
"Are you okay?" The sound of his voice broke the thrall.
The boy opened his eyes, saw Alex's hands on his shoulders and blinked in confusion.
"You're white as a sheet," Alex said. "You'd better sit down."
The bellhop sat on the edge of the bed, his arms limp, completely dazed. And too pale. Alex felt a little guilty.
"Sorry… I do feel weird."
"I think you almost fainted or something. Are you sick? Tired? Dehydrated?" At «dehydrated» the kid shifted his eyes to one side. Alex winked at him like a co-conspirator. "Were you partying last night?"
"Yeah. Sort of."
"Try drinking a big glass of orange juice, then lots of water. It helps."
The bellboy staggered off, clutching a big tip.
Alex tried to berate himself for taking such a risk, but felt too satisfied to do it well. Not one to waste food, he drank the soup too. It was over salted. While he ate, the TV chef taught him how to deglaze a roasting pan by dissolving the scrapings at the bottom in wine. That he might be able to eat—the deglazing or whatever it was called.
Sleepy and bloated, he set a warding spell on the door and rolled himself up in the sheets. His last thoughts were of Helena flirting with him from her kitchen window. She was beautiful by moonlight.
Chapter 2
Lacey offered to spend another night with her. Helena refused.
But she did let Lacey meet her after work, and they opened the house together, checking all the rooms, all the windows and doors, making sure everything was locked tight. He had not been there, but he'd be back that night. She knew he would, but she didn't think he'd harm her. There was something about him, something gentlemanly, something trustworthy. Yeah, a gentleman stalker. Good one.
Truth was, she wanted to talk to him from the window again. And if he wanted to spend another night doing yard work, her fence needed mending.
She hadn't been able to concentrate all day. At an important lunch meeting she'd embarrassed herself by spacing out mid-sentence. More than once. After that she'd gone straight to the high school track. That seemed a safe enough place to run. But even running failed to do the trick.
Alexander Faustin just wouldn't leave her thoughts. It was like she was in heat or something, and as her temperature rose, her intellect dropped by equal degrees. She didn't want to tangle with him again, but another moonlight talk was tempting. Because as horny as she was, she was also curious. The journalist in her wanted to know more. Why would a man like that stalk her? She had good instincts—not for relationships, admittedly, but for strangers—and he honestly didn't seem dangerous. If he didn't mean to harm her, why did he lie to her? Was it a habit of his? Did he get a buzz from the risk? Maybe another talk would help her see the outlines of his subtle insanity. Then she'd feel better about turning him over to the police.