Bloodshot by Cherie Priest

else to think about, and I settled on Ian Stott. I could call
him
, couldn’t I? And I could talk to him, and it would make me feel better all around. It was business, yes, but he was personable.
    Cal answered the phone, which surprised me more than it ought to have.
    To his credit, he didn’t ask any questions when I asked for Stott; he just handed off the phone to his master like a good littleghoul. Ian must’ve been somewhere else in the house. It took a minute or two for the phone to find him.
    “Hello?” he said, and ah, yes. I’d finally gotten my phone hello.
    “Hello,” I said back, trying not to sound too relieved. “Listen, I’ve got some questions I want to run past you, is that all right?” Simply the act of speaking normally was deflating my fear, which only meant that I kept on speaking well past the point where I should’ve let Ian have a turn. “If you don’t want to chat on the phone—you said that before, didn’t you? That you didn’t like to talk on the phone?—then we could meet again someplace. I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”
    He took a few seconds to answer me. I think he was making sure I’d finished babbling. “That would be fine. Is your preference still public but reserved? Or could I persuade you to join me at my suite?”
    “You have a suite?”
    “Well, I don’t live here in Seattle. I’ve made arrangements for myself and Cal downtown.” He named a high-end, high-rise establishment, and I complimented him on his taste. He said, “Thank you. Yes, it’s quite nice. You can find me in room number twenty-one sixty-seven.”
    “I’ll be there in an hour,” I told him.
    I was there in forty-five minutes.
    By then, I wasn’t quite such a wreck. I let the thought of seeing him again serve as distraction and comfort. I know, I know. He wasn’t good “friend” material just because he was pretty and he couldn’t see me very well. I’d learned the hard way, through the trial and error of almost a century, that other vampires and I are simply not meant to hang out.
    So what was I doing knocking on his door, feigning a business call, using him as a safe zone to bail myself out of a psychic meltdown?
    I have no excuse except for my own weaknesses, though when he opened the door, I was prepared to amend that list of excuses to include Ian’s cheekbones.
    He was wearing black slacks, soft leather slip-on shoes, and a fitted shirt with three-quarter sleeves. The effect was rich-guy casual, and it did a beautiful job of showcasing the long, lean lines of his torso.
    “Please, come in,” he said—and I was glad someone had said something, because I’d just been standing there with my mouth hanging open. As a second thought, I was also glad that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, because that meant he hadn’t seen me standing there with my mouth hanging open.
    Selfish? Yes, very. But also practical. Silver lining, and all that.
    “Thank you,” I said as I slipped in past him, because all this politeness was cheering me up and I felt like participating. I thought about my list of questions and how I’d left them at home beside my bed, but that was all right. I remembered what I wanted to know.
    Inside the suite the décor was exactly what you’d expect from accommodations that cost a few thousand dollars a night—understated luxury on a taupe palette with maroon and silver accents. The bed was offset by a pair of folding double doors, and a lovely sitting room ensemble was parked off to the side of a full kitchen. A fruit-filled gift basket sat ignored on the granite counter.
    “Could I offer you some wine? You preferred white last night, is that correct?”
    “That’s correct, and thanks for the offer, but no. I’ve still got a long night ahead of me.” And I didn’t add that I was feeling kind of stupid about coming down to see him in the first place. You’d think I’d learn, eventually—panic attacks pass. They pass, and I always feel