I shook my head. "But I haven't been cheating. This is cheating."
"Then have you been cheating on me, with Richard?"
I didn't know what to say to that. "Go get dressed."
"Do you really want me to dress?" he asked.
I looked away. I was embarrassed now and uncomfortable. "Yes, please."
He stood up, the towel gripped in his hands. I looked down at the floor and didn't have to see his face to picture the smile on it.
He walked away from me, and didn't bother moving the towel around behind him. Muscles moved under his skin from calf to waist. He walked naked into the bedroom, and I enjoyed the view.
I touched my finger to my tongue. It was still bleeding. That's what I got for French kissing a vampire. Even thinking about it made me nervous.
"Ma petite?" he called from the other room.
"Yeah."
"Do you have a blow dryer?"
"In my suitcase. Help yourself."
Thankfully, I'd dragged my suitcase into the bedroom beside the bathroom door. One point for laziness. I was spared another glimpse of his naked body. Now that hormones were receding, I was embarrassed.
I heard the dryer and wondered if he was standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror while he dried his hair. I was very aware that all I had to do was go to the doorway and I could see for myself.
I stood up, pulled my t-shirt down, tied my robe securely in place, and sat down on the couch. My back was to the bedroom. I wouldn't be seeing anything else. I took the Firestar out of my pocket and laid it on the coffee table in front of me. The gun sat there looking very solid, very black, and somehow accusatory.
The dryer stopped, and he called to me again. "Ma petite?"
"What?"
"Come talk to me as the sun rises."
I glanced up at the window he had opened. The sky outside was less black, not light yet, but not pure darkness anymore. I closed the drapes and went to the bedroom. I left the gun on the table. The Browning was in the bedroom anyway.
Jean-Claude had neatly folded the bedspread and blanket at the foot of the bed. Only the wine-dark sheet covered him. He lay with his black hair soft and curling over the dark pillows. The sheet was bunched at his waist. "You can join me if you like."
I leaned against the wall and shook my head.
"I'm not offering sex, ma petite; dawn is too close for that. I offer you your half of the bed."
"I'll take the couch; thanks anyway."
He smiled, a slow knowing curve of lips—his old arrogance peeking back out. It was almost comforting to know nothing had really changed. "It is not me that you do not trust. It is you."
I shrugged.
He raised the sheet in front of his chest, an almost protective gesture. "It comes." Fear in his voice.
"What comes?"
"The sun."
I glanced at the closed drapes against the far wall. They were double thick, but a line of greyish light edged them. "You'll be alright like this without your coffin?"
"As long as no one opens the drapes." He looked at me for a long moment. "I love you, ma petite, as much as I'm able."
I didn't know what to say. Saying I lusted after him didn't seem appropriate. Saying I loved him would be a lie.
The light grew stronger, a white edge around the curtains. His body slumped back against the bed. He rolled onto his side, one hand outstretched, the other curling the sheets against his chest. He stared at the growing light, and I could taste his fear.
I knelt beside the bed. I almost took his hand but didn't. "What happens now?"
"You want the truth, then watch." I expected his eyes to flutter, his voice to grow sluggish as if he were falling asleep. It didn't happen that way. He closed his eyes all at once. Pain flashed across his face. He whispered, "It hurts." His face went slack. I'd seen people die, watched the light fade from their bodies. Felt their souls slip away. That was what I saw. He died. The light grew against the drapes, and when it was a solid white line, he died. His breath went out of him in a long rattle.
I knelt beside the bed and stared. I knew dead when I saw it, and this was it. Shit.
I put my arms on the bed and propped my chin on them. I watched him, waiting for him to breathe, to twitch, something. But there was nothing. I reached out to his one outstretched arm. My fingers hovered above his skin, then I touched him. The skin was still warm, still human, but he did not move. I checked his wrist, and there was no pulse. No blood moved in this body.
Did he know I was here? Did he feel me touching him? I stared at him for what seemed like a long time. So this answered the question. Vampires were dead. Whatever animated them was like my own power, some sort of necromancy. But I knew death when I saw it. It gave necrophilia a whole new slant.