If I were superstitious, I'd worry that the recurring dream was an omen, but when I got warnings about the future, they didn't come as vague metaphors in my sleep. They used to come as merciless reenactments where I had a full sensory experience of whatever was going to happen, but I hadn't had one of those in weeks. I'd long wished that I didn't pull impressions - and images of worst sins - through a single touch, but now that I needed the ability, it was on vacation.
That thought chased me out from under the covers. I swung my legs over the side of the mattress and stepped off the raised dais that made the large, curtained bed look even more impressive. Then I went straight to the fireplace and knelt in front of it. Most of the flames had died down during the night, but the collapsed logs still smoldered. I pushed the grate aside, held my hand over a log for a second, and then plunged it straight into the crumbling wood.
The stab of pain made me gasp with relief until I realized it only came from one finger. The rest of my hand felt fine despite being immersed up to the wrist in the hotly glowing embers. I waited another few moments to be sure and then pulled it out. Aside from a splinter jutting from my index finger and a decade-old scar, my hand was unmarred, not a hair singed on it.
Damn. Six weeks later, and it still hadn't worn off yet.
Some women caught venereal diseases from their boyfriends. That was mild in comparison to what mine had given me - an immunity to fire that inexplicably also blocked my ability to psychically discern information through touch. Of course, I shouldn't be too surprised. Dating the unofficial Prince of Darkness was bound to have consequences.
I yanked the splinter out, sucking on my finger despite being one of the few people in this mansion who didn't like the taste of blood. Then I fumbled around until I found a large male shirt, the fabric soft as cashmere. It probably cost more than what I used to earn in a month working the carnival circuit, but it had been thrown on the floor with expectant indifference. I never saw anyone clean this room, but I also never saw it dirty. The servants must wait like ninjas for me to leave so they could render this place spotless again.
They wouldn't have to wait long. I had to pee, and despite the splendor of my boyfriend's bedroom, his bathroom lacked a toilet. Being a centuries-old vampire, he didn't need one.
I put on the discarded shirt. It was long enough that it covered my tank top and panties, though I'd never run into anyone on my way from his room to the one that was officially mine. The lounge that bridged the two bedrooms wasn't used by anyone else. Its privacy and elegance made for a more dignified walk of shame, at least.
Once I was back in my room - a lighter-hued, smaller version of the midnight-green and mahogany magnificence I'd just left - I went straight into the bathroom.
"Lights on," I said, adding, "dim," when the instant blaze of brightness made me squint.
Soft amber illuminated the creamy marble, highlighting its gold and celery-green veins. A glass shower the size of a compact car also lit up, as did the vanity counter. I'd been awed when I first saw all the fancy fixtures. Now I muttered under my breath as I hurried to the discreetly screened corner.
"Fifty-yard sprint every morning because he won't add a toilet to his bathroom. It's not like he doesn't spend more each night on the dinner he never eats."
Part of me knew my griping was to mask my uneasiness about the increasingly empty bed, but my bladder twisted as if in agreement. After I'd dealt with it, I got in the shower, careful to only touch things with my left hand. Although the currents radiating from me were muted at the moment, there was no need to fry the pipes by accidentally sending a dose of voltage through them.
After I showered and dressed, I descended four flights of stairs to the main level. At the bottom of the staircase, a hallway with soaring ceilings, stone pillars, antique shields, and ornate frescos spread out in front of me. Only the indoor garden kept it from looking like Bill Gates's Gothic Getaway.
At the end of that hallway was my frequently absentee boyfriend, Vlad. Yes, that Vlad, but few people made the mistake of calling him Dracula. His dark hair was the same color as the stubble that shadowed his jaw in something thicker than a five o'clock shadow. Winged eyebrows framed eyes that were a blend of copper and emerald, and sleek material draped over a body hardened from decades of battle when he was human. As usual, only his hands and face were bare. The rest of him was covered by boots, black pants, and a smoky gray shirt buttoned up to the neck. Unlike most well-built men, Vlad didn't flash a lot of skin, but those custom-tailored clothes flaunted his taut body as effectively as running shorts and a sleeveless muscle shirt.
My appreciation was cut short when I saw that he had a coat draped over his arm. He hadn't just slipped in and out of bed while I was asleep; he was also leaving without a word.
Again.
Ever have a moment where you know exactly what you shouldn't do . . . and you do it anyway? I didn't need my missing psychic abilities to know that snapping "Where are you going?" while striding down the hall was the wrong way to handle this, but that's what I did.
Vlad had been talking to his second-in-command, Maximus, a blond vampire who looked like an avenging Viking come to life. At my question, two gazes settled on me, one gray and carefully neutral, the other coppery green and sardonic. I tensed, wishing I could take the question back. When had I turned into one of those annoying, clingy girlfriends?
Right after the main reason Vlad became interested in you vanished, my inner insidious voice mocked. You think it's coincidence that he began acting distant right after you lost your ability to psychically spy on his enemies?
At once, I began to sing KC and the Sunshine Band's "That's the Way" in my head. Vlad wasn't just an extremely powerful vampire whose history inspired the world's most famous story about the undead. He could also read humans' minds. Most of the time.
His lips curled. "One of these days, you'll at least take requests on your method of keeping me out of your head."
If I didn't know him, I would've missed the irony that tinged his tone, heightening his subtle accent and adding an edge to his cultured voice. I doubted he'd ever forgive the vampire who taught me how to block him from my thoughts.
"Some people consider that song a classic," I replied, berating myself for what he would've heard before I stopped him.
"Proving again that the world doesn't lack for fools."
"And you didn't answer my question," I countered.
Vlad put on his coat, that slight smile never leaving his face. "That wasn't an accident."
My hand tingled as the currents within me surged to it. Thanks to an incident with a downed power line, my entire body gave off electricity, but my right hand was the main conduit. If I didn't lock down my temper, it might start sparking.