“Trisk.” She jumped when he took her hand, not moving as he searched for words. “I’m serious. Tell me what it is, and I’ll change. You are a smart, intelligent woman. I like you, and I want to spend more time with you than ten minutes here, five minutes there in the hall or lunchroom. Just give me one night. One lousy candlelit dinner at Celeste’s. If you don’t have a good time, I’ll walk away and not talk to you again.”
“Daniel,” she pleaded, never having imagined she’d be in this position. She’d never given him any indication of wanting anything other than a professional relationship. “That’s not what I want.”
“Then tell me what you do want,” he said. “Is it because you’ve made it on your own? I’d never take that away from you, though kids would be nice . . . someday.”
The elevator chimed and the silver doors opened. Relieved, Trisk strode out. She could feel Daniel’s tension as he walked beside her, his frustration that she was putting him off. An unexpected pain took her at the mention of children. He wanted kids, lots of them, probably. So did she, eventually. But how could she tell him it would never work? That the biology wouldn’t cooperate without intervention, and even then, her father would never accept him. Marrying Daniel meant the already slim chance that she’d have a healthy elven child would be completely gone, and with that, the possibility she could make something of herself, for when your species was on the brink of extinction, having healthy children equaled power, status. A voice.
She slowed as the doors to the cafeteria loomed close, and Daniel came to a stop before her. Trisk didn’t know what she was going to say, but she couldn’t walk into that room with this between them. Her breath shook as she inhaled. “Daniel . . .”
“There you are!” Barbara called as the door to the lunchroom opened and the woman bounded out, completely missing Daniel’s dark look as she took control of his arm. “We need you in the cafeteria,” she said loudly. “Right now!”
“We?” Daniel caught his balance as she jerked him to the door. “We who?”
Trisk didn’t move as Barbara all but pushed him into the lunchroom. Miserable, Trisk crossed her arms over her chest when the entire building shouted “Surprise!” and began to sing “Happy Birthday.” Her eyes closed, and depressed, she slumped back against the wall beside the doors. Her birthday was in the spring, but elves weren’t known to celebrate them, as there were too many memories of babies who never grew up.
Unable to go into that room full of happy people and pretend, she opened her eyes and pushed herself up from the wall.
Starting, she jerked to a stop, almost running into the man standing before her. She hadn’t even heard him approach. “Oh!” she exclaimed, her gaze going first to his ID badge before dropping to run over his tall frame. He looked almost exotic in his slim-waisted suit inspired by the latest British fashion, his narrow, brilliantly red tie the only nod to old-school business Americana. Dark, gently waving hair almost dared to touch his broad shoulders, and her face warmed at the unusual pull she felt toward him. “Excuse me,” she added, faltering at his intent gaze, his pupils widening ever so slightly to make his dark eyes even darker. They seemed to be looking right to her core, and she stifled a shudder, becoming very much awake despite it being noon.
“You must be Felecia,” he said, his mellow voice sounding as if he should be announcing jazz on the radio, not standing in the hallway of a scientific center.
A faint hint of brimstone tickled the back of her throat, and in a cold wash, she realized she wasn’t standing with a human. Suddenly his allure became . . . threatening. Don’t witches smell like brimstone? “I’m sorry. Are you supposed to be here?”
Smiling with his lips closed, he extended his hand. “I’m Rick Rales. The new CEO.”
“Oh.” She cautiously tapped a line, letting a bare hint of it run through her as she took his hand. If he was a witch, he’d notice and give himself away. Only witches and elves could tap into and use ley lines. But the man’s hand gripped hers with only a professional strength. “Everyone calls me Trisk or Dr. Cambri,” she added, pulling away when she remembered: Witches didn’t smell like brimstone. Vampires did.
He was a vampire. Not an undead one, as the sun was up, but a living vampire, born to parents who were the same before they died and became truly undead. He’d have some of the strength and charisma of his undead brethren, but none of the liabilities, and he probably only dabbled in blood whereas the true undead needed it to survive. Probably. What is he doing here?