How to Kiss a Vampire novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: No Heartbeat

Torsten tells her what he is in plain words; she asks about the clock he once fixed, and a man across the street who never blinks starts a countdown.

"Inside," Torsten said. "Please."

"No."

"There are people on the street."

There were three tourists with ice cream cones, taking pictures of a woman slapping a man outside a clock shop.

I went inside.

The shop was warm and dim and ticking.

It smelled like brass polish and cedar and machine oil, and my knees went soft, because it was the smell from the mask.

He locked the door behind us and turned the sign.

I did not like how quiet he was.

"Sit," he said.

"I'll stand."

"Then stand."

He went behind the counter and put his keys down very carefully.

I put the black wool mask on the glass in front of him.

"Yours."

"Thank you."

"You tore your own coat getting away from me."

"You have a good grip."

"I hang off buildings for a living."

The corner of his mouth moved.

It was the smallest smile, and I felt it in my stomach, and I hated that.

"Say it," I said. "Say what you are. I'm not going to guess like an idiot in your shop."

He took a long time.

When he spoke, he chose each word.

"I am a vampire."

I waited for the laugh.

It didn't come, from him or from me.

"Okay," I said.

"Okay?"

"I just watched a man jump twenty-two feet with a woman in his arms. I'm not going to tell you it's impossible."

"You're taking this well."

"I'm taking it like a roofer. Show me the part I can't explain."

He held out his left hand, palm up.

Then he walked to the front window, into the last red edge of the sunset, and stood there with his sleeve pushed back.

The light touched his wrist.

A wisp of smoke curled off his skin.

I said something short and sharp.

He stepped back into the shadow and looked at the burn.

It healed almost instantly.

"Sun," he said. "That's the one that works."

"Garlic?"

"It makes me sneeze."

"Crosses?"

"My mother was a Lutheran. I'm used to them."

I laughed.

It came out of me before I could stop it, high and wrong, and I put my hand over my mouth.

He watched me with those amber eyes, and he was not smiling now.

He held himself carefully.

"Hanne," he said. "You're not afraid of me."

"I should be."

"Yes."

"Why aren't I?"

His face did something fast and painful, and then it was gone.

"I don't know," he said.

It was not true.

I could tell.

"You fixed my grandfather's mantel clock," I said. "It took you three weeks."

"Twenty-two days."

"You never charged me."

"I charged you a dinner."

I had cooked him a dinner.

I could see my own little kitchen and a pot of fish soup.

I could see a big man at my table, ducking his head to get through the door.

I could see Eero in his high chair, throwing peas at him.

My eyes stung.

"You were at my house," I said. "You ate my soup."

"It was very good soup."

"And then you left me a note, and you never came back."

"Hanne."

"Why?"

He did not answer.

He looked at the counter, and his jaw was tight under the beard.

"Why?" I said again.

"I can't tell you that."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Can't," he said. "Both."

I wanted to hit him again.

I did not.

The muscles in his neck stood out.

He was holding himself back from something, and I had no idea what.

"Then tell me about the roof," I said.

He took a breath he didn't need.

"I have been on your roof most nights for four years," he said.

The ticking of the clocks filled the room.

"Why?"

"Because you have a boy," he said, "and you work on buildings."

I stared at him.

"You've been watching us."

"I've been keeping watch," he said, and the word was soft. "I never came in."

"You left the watch."

"I saw you fall." His voice went rough. "I had to be close enough. Hanne, I did not mean to be seen."

"The engraving."

"I didn't touch it."

"It's my handwriting."

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

"What does that mean?"

Before he could answer, his head snapped toward the front window.

It was like watching a dog hear a whistle.

All the humor went out of his face.

I turned.

Across the street, under the lamp, a man in a grey wool coat stood on the sidewalk with his hands at his sides.

He was looking straight at the shop door.

The tourists streamed past him, laughing, taking pictures of the bridge.

He did not move.

He did not look at them, or at his phone, or at the lake.

I watched him, and in all that time he did not blink once.

"Who is that?" I said.

"One of Ragnar's."

"Who's Ragnar?"

Torsten came around the counter fast and put himself between me and the glass.

Up close, he smelled like cedar, and my body knew it and leaned toward him anyway.

"They saw you walk in," he said, very low. "That's the thing I couldn't let happen."

"Why?"

"Because it is eleven days to Samhain," he said, "and the House counts what is owed."

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