“Listen, I need to talk to you about something.”
He shrugged. “Fine. Come in.” He turned on his heel and strode back through the front door, letting the screen door slam behind him. Apparently being over 900 years old gave one the license to be rude.
I managed to refrain from growling and followed him into his living room. Again, totally not what I expected. The living room was large and light and airy, like any Cape Cod. The floors were beautifully polished maple wood and the walls were painted a creamy, pale buttery yellow. The entire place smelled of cinnamon.
He plopped down on the chocolate chenille couch, which matched the two chairs opposite it, and stretched his jean-clad legs out in front of him. He seemed oblivious to the girly throws and pillows in robins’ egg blue, chocolate and butter yellow. I wondered who’d designed the place for him. I just couldn’t visualize an ancient Templar Knight mucking about with throw pillows and designer swatches. Then again, you never knew about people.
The throws might have been girly, but he certainly was not. His muscular chest under his pale blue T-shirt was giving me heart palpations. Honestly, did he pick out his T-shirts to match his decor? And did they have to be so bloody tight? He was worse than Inigo.
His jeans were well worn and hugged his thighs just right. Don’t even get me started on the other places they were hugging. I swear every time I was within ten feet of this man I had to resist the urge to fan myself.
I crossed over the Persian rug in the middle of the room that was breathtaking in its beauty. It was all creams and blues with hints of reds and browns, and I had the sudden urge to take off my shoes so I could feel the fibers with my bare toes. Gorgeous, just gorgeous. And probably nearly as old as Jack himself. Not that I knew anything about rugs, but it just looked way too yummy to be cheap polyester.
Add the expensive bookshelves crammed with books and the glossy grand piano in the corner, and it looked more like my rich aunt’s house (if I had a rich aunt) than the lair of a Templar knight. I mentally corrected myself. A former Templar knight.
Then I saw the falchion sword hanging over the fireplace. It wasn’t a replica. It was the real deal. Now that had knight written all over it. Wonder how he explained that?
“I tell them it’s a family heirloom.” He’d caught me looking. Well, if you don’t want people staring at your sword, you shouldn’t hang the thing over your mantle piece.
“It’s beautiful.” It was. I knew my swords.
His smile was a little grim. “It’s deadly. You wanted to talk to me about something?”
How to broach the subject delicately? “I want to know how you were turned.” When in doubt, go for the jugular. I was never any good at subtlety.
“I was bitten.” Apparently, neither was he. I gave a mental eye roll.
“Yes, I figured that.” My voice fairly dripped with sarcasm. “What I want to know is specifically what happened when you were turned. How exactly did it happen? And why didn’t you turn vampire? Why Sunwalker?”
He sighed in what sounded suspiciously like annoyance. He leaned back, crossed his arms and started rattling it off like he was giving a report. “I don’t know why Sunwalker instead of vampire.” He shrugged. “I was stationed in Jerusalem with my brother knights. We found evidence that there was something of value buried beneath our headquarters on the Temple Mount, so we excavated. And we found … ” he hesitated.
“A cave,” I prompted him, remembering the details from my dream as though I’d been there myself.
He frowned at me. “Yes, a cave.”
“A cave with a smooth stone floor and dirt walls painted with some sort of mural. There was a flat stone, like a seat or an altar, in the middle of the cave and an earthenware jar next to the stone. On the floor were two bodies, one a skeleton and the other perfectly preserved as though he’d only just fallen asleep.” I stopped, my heart thudding in my chest, waiting for his response.
He made none, so I finished telling him what I’d seen. I told him everything, including the deaths of his comrades and his own attack.
He sat there, expressionless. His voice was totally even but I could feel the tension in him from where I sat. “How did you know?” He bit out the words.
I let out a long sigh. “So, it was real. That really happened.”
“Yes. I repeat, how did you know?”
“I saw it. In a dream.” In a way, it was a relief to know what I’d seen was real. In another way, it totally freaked me out. I was dreaming about events and people that had happened hundreds, even thousands, of years ago. This was not normal.