before?”
“Yes. These are her nesting grounds. There are very few giant crocs left. Humans have killed them all.” He shrugged. “The island is large enough to share, so I don’t mind granting refuge to another creature who needs it from time to time to raise her babies.”
And just like that, the crocodile became an animal instead of a monster. Albeit, a really large, caution-inducing animal.
“I like you. You’re gallant,” he said unexpectedly. His dark eyes were suddenly fastened on mine, and I swear that they looked right past mybody and into my soul. Radiant heat welled up inside of me, urging me to get comfortable, to take a place at his fire and never leave. “I didn’t think I would take to you. Not this way. But that’s life, isn’t it? Unexpected.”
I couldn’t think of any reason why he had taken to me—or I to him. But I didn’t think about it too much just then. These things happen, right?
I nodded reluctantly and looked away, beginning to be fearful of something other than zombies and crocodiles. I wasn’t sure if I welcomed the distraction of more mundane concerns like the possibility of falling in love—or at least lust—with an inappropriate person.
Hard lessons had taught me that personality, identity, it’s all about keeping clear edges, definite borders that outline who we are.
Here, here, here and here
—this is me; daughter, Democrat, dog-lover, whatever. But heedless and hopeless and often completely blind love smudges those boundaries. Sometimes it rubs them out altogether and you begin to blur into the other person, to blend your tastes, schedules and even beliefs. Next thing you know, you’ve moved to a foreign country and agreed to write a biography about a person you don’t like just to please someone else.
It was probably good that I did this once with Max, since love is an important and almost universal part of the human condition, but I felt resistant to the idea of risking such entanglement again. It isn’t a pleasant fact to admit even now, but at that point Ambrose’s personality was stronger thanmine—hell, he was practically a superhero who had saved me from a flesh-eating zombie—and only a fool would have ignored it. I could be an idiot—this was already proven—but I have always tried not be stupid in the same way twice. There would be no more blind, unquestioning love for me, I assured myself with a confidence I almost believed.
I did like him, though. Something about him fascinated me as no person ever had, and physically I reacted to his presence in ways that I never had before. That was probably partly because of who he was—Ambrose Bierce, the great American writer.
As though guessing both my wary thoughts and my unease with the sudden intense attraction, he added: “That wasn’t a proposal of marriage or anything. You needn’t look so concerned.”
He blinked, and his eyes were again just eyes, although very dark ones. I smiled ruefully and nodded while I finished my scotch. What was I thinking? Of course it wasn’t a proposal of marriage. Bitter Bierce would never marry again. He liked me. He probably even wanted me. Which was okay. I could do
like
and
want
.
“Why is Saint Germain doing this—coming after you?” I asked, changing the subject. “I know he must be crazy, but even crazy people do things for a reason.”
“I’ve given this a great deal of thought while you were sleeping, and I believe that he wants a new viral ally.”
Viral ally
. That was code for…I couldn’t even guess.
“What?” I was saying this a lot.
What?
That was code for
whatthefuckareyoutalkingabout?!?
“I think that he has been looking for a way to raise and control the dead that doesn’t involve magic. There were some suspicious goings-on in Mexico a couple years ago in a region known for having vampires. Rumor on the supernatural grapevine at the time was that he ended up killing the local death god and taking over his vampire priestesses.
“Yes. These are her nesting grounds. There are very few giant crocs left. Humans have killed them all.” He shrugged. “The island is large enough to share, so I don’t mind granting refuge to another creature who needs it from time to time to raise her babies.”
And just like that, the crocodile became an animal instead of a monster. Albeit, a really large, caution-inducing animal.
“I like you. You’re gallant,” he said unexpectedly. His dark eyes were suddenly fastened on mine, and I swear that they looked right past mybody and into my soul. Radiant heat welled up inside of me, urging me to get comfortable, to take a place at his fire and never leave. “I didn’t think I would take to you. Not this way. But that’s life, isn’t it? Unexpected.”
I couldn’t think of any reason why he had taken to me—or I to him. But I didn’t think about it too much just then. These things happen, right?
I nodded reluctantly and looked away, beginning to be fearful of something other than zombies and crocodiles. I wasn’t sure if I welcomed the distraction of more mundane concerns like the possibility of falling in love—or at least lust—with an inappropriate person.
Hard lessons had taught me that personality, identity, it’s all about keeping clear edges, definite borders that outline who we are.
Here, here, here and here
—this is me; daughter, Democrat, dog-lover, whatever. But heedless and hopeless and often completely blind love smudges those boundaries. Sometimes it rubs them out altogether and you begin to blur into the other person, to blend your tastes, schedules and even beliefs. Next thing you know, you’ve moved to a foreign country and agreed to write a biography about a person you don’t like just to please someone else.
It was probably good that I did this once with Max, since love is an important and almost universal part of the human condition, but I felt resistant to the idea of risking such entanglement again. It isn’t a pleasant fact to admit even now, but at that point Ambrose’s personality was stronger thanmine—hell, he was practically a superhero who had saved me from a flesh-eating zombie—and only a fool would have ignored it. I could be an idiot—this was already proven—but I have always tried not be stupid in the same way twice. There would be no more blind, unquestioning love for me, I assured myself with a confidence I almost believed.
I did like him, though. Something about him fascinated me as no person ever had, and physically I reacted to his presence in ways that I never had before. That was probably partly because of who he was—Ambrose Bierce, the great American writer.
As though guessing both my wary thoughts and my unease with the sudden intense attraction, he added: “That wasn’t a proposal of marriage or anything. You needn’t look so concerned.”
He blinked, and his eyes were again just eyes, although very dark ones. I smiled ruefully and nodded while I finished my scotch. What was I thinking? Of course it wasn’t a proposal of marriage. Bitter Bierce would never marry again. He liked me. He probably even wanted me. Which was okay. I could do
like
and
want
.
“Why is Saint Germain doing this—coming after you?” I asked, changing the subject. “I know he must be crazy, but even crazy people do things for a reason.”
“I’ve given this a great deal of thought while you were sleeping, and I believe that he wants a new viral ally.”
Viral ally
. That was code for…I couldn’t even guess.
“What?” I was saying this a lot.
What?
That was code for
whatthefuckareyoutalkingabout?!?
“I think that he has been looking for a way to raise and control the dead that doesn’t involve magic. There were some suspicious goings-on in Mexico a couple years ago in a region known for having vampires. Rumor on the supernatural grapevine at the time was that he ended up killing the local death god and taking over his vampire priestesses.
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