like them.”
I thought of the mark on Tovah’s wrist and the way she’d deferred to Carlos. “I would never volunteer to be a vampire snack,” I said.
“Why not?” Quinton asked, taking my book and looking it over, keeping his face turned from mine.
“How can you ask that?”
He looked up, still holding the book in one hand, and took my arm, turning me so we could make our way out of the store. “Because I want to understand it. While I know you never would, I’m not actually sure why.” As we passed the elderly man at the frontcounter, Quinton tipped his hat with one hand and held up the book in the other. “Obrigado, Doutor Barros.”
“De nada, Senhor Smith,” the man replied, nodding and smiling as if we weren’t stealing his book.
Outside, Quinton continued to steer me along the streets, his expression serious as he kept his eyes on anything but me, and repeated his question in a soft voice. “Why would you not? I just want to understand what makes you certain you wouldn’t give in—I mean that is kind of their stock-in-trade.”
I replied in a low voice, feeling confused by his choice of topic. “Because they’re dead and they’re power mongers. Their glamour doesn’t affect me, so as far as I’m concerned, all vampires are just upright corpses with terrible habits. And they smell bad. Also, Carlos and Cameron have let it slip once or twice that there’s more to blood in the vampire community than just cells and plasma. I don’t want to give up a little chunk of my life or be under anyone’s control—no matter how slight, distant, or seemingly useful—regardless of the upside. Bitten by a walking corpse . . . ? Does that sound like a good thing to you?”
“No. But my own ideas about why turn out not to be the same as yours.”
“Oh? What was your idea?”
“I’d rather not discuss it,” he replied, blushing.
I frowned at him, thinking. “Oh. Yuck! I wouldn’t do that with a vampire, either!”
Quinton laughed. “I didn’t think so.”
“Oh, you did, too. You might not have believed it, but you thought it.”
“I blame popular fiction.”
I made a face. “When do you read pop fiction? I thought you were a politics and sciences guy.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time on trains and lurking around in public places. Having a book in front of your nose excuses a lot of just sitting around. But you have to pick a title no one is likely to ask you about. Oddly enough, few people want to pick the brains of men who read fantasy novels. Except those by George R. R. Martin—everyone wants to ask if you’ve seen the TV show.”
“And have you?”
“No. I’m more of a Doctor Who guy.”
I made a disbelieving noise in the back of my throat and let the conversation die.
I was managing the upheaval of the earthquake better now, but it was difficult until I let the sound weave into it, rather than trying to separate vision from hearing. I’d been a dancer longer than I’d been an investigator, and though I can’t sing, feeling the relationship of music to image and movement had once been a habit. The sad song of Lisbon’s magical Grid seemed to transform the events of 1755 into tragedy, instead of nightmare, drawing across the strands of my own energetic core like a bow over the strings of a violin. It urged me to slow down, to move with drooping, dolorous gestures, letting tears rise to the edge of my lashes until I had to stop and lean against a building to wipe them away.
Quinton paused and turned back to me. “Are you all right?”
“It’s this place—it makes me cry.”
“Earlier, it made you ache. Is this an improvement?”
“No. Pain I can work through. Anger I can use. Sorrow is difficult to turn into positive energy.”
“What can I do?”
“Just . . . be you.”
“I’m usually good at that, though I’ve been so many other people in the past eight months, I may be out of practice,” he replied, making his best effort not to slide back
I thought of the mark on Tovah’s wrist and the way she’d deferred to Carlos. “I would never volunteer to be a vampire snack,” I said.
“Why not?” Quinton asked, taking my book and looking it over, keeping his face turned from mine.
“How can you ask that?”
He looked up, still holding the book in one hand, and took my arm, turning me so we could make our way out of the store. “Because I want to understand it. While I know you never would, I’m not actually sure why.” As we passed the elderly man at the frontcounter, Quinton tipped his hat with one hand and held up the book in the other. “Obrigado, Doutor Barros.”
“De nada, Senhor Smith,” the man replied, nodding and smiling as if we weren’t stealing his book.
Outside, Quinton continued to steer me along the streets, his expression serious as he kept his eyes on anything but me, and repeated his question in a soft voice. “Why would you not? I just want to understand what makes you certain you wouldn’t give in—I mean that is kind of their stock-in-trade.”
I replied in a low voice, feeling confused by his choice of topic. “Because they’re dead and they’re power mongers. Their glamour doesn’t affect me, so as far as I’m concerned, all vampires are just upright corpses with terrible habits. And they smell bad. Also, Carlos and Cameron have let it slip once or twice that there’s more to blood in the vampire community than just cells and plasma. I don’t want to give up a little chunk of my life or be under anyone’s control—no matter how slight, distant, or seemingly useful—regardless of the upside. Bitten by a walking corpse . . . ? Does that sound like a good thing to you?”
“No. But my own ideas about why turn out not to be the same as yours.”
“Oh? What was your idea?”
“I’d rather not discuss it,” he replied, blushing.
I frowned at him, thinking. “Oh. Yuck! I wouldn’t do that with a vampire, either!”
Quinton laughed. “I didn’t think so.”
“Oh, you did, too. You might not have believed it, but you thought it.”
“I blame popular fiction.”
I made a face. “When do you read pop fiction? I thought you were a politics and sciences guy.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time on trains and lurking around in public places. Having a book in front of your nose excuses a lot of just sitting around. But you have to pick a title no one is likely to ask you about. Oddly enough, few people want to pick the brains of men who read fantasy novels. Except those by George R. R. Martin—everyone wants to ask if you’ve seen the TV show.”
“And have you?”
“No. I’m more of a Doctor Who guy.”
I made a disbelieving noise in the back of my throat and let the conversation die.
I was managing the upheaval of the earthquake better now, but it was difficult until I let the sound weave into it, rather than trying to separate vision from hearing. I’d been a dancer longer than I’d been an investigator, and though I can’t sing, feeling the relationship of music to image and movement had once been a habit. The sad song of Lisbon’s magical Grid seemed to transform the events of 1755 into tragedy, instead of nightmare, drawing across the strands of my own energetic core like a bow over the strings of a violin. It urged me to slow down, to move with drooping, dolorous gestures, letting tears rise to the edge of my lashes until I had to stop and lean against a building to wipe them away.
Quinton paused and turned back to me. “Are you all right?”
“It’s this place—it makes me cry.”
“Earlier, it made you ache. Is this an improvement?”
“No. Pain I can work through. Anger I can use. Sorrow is difficult to turn into positive energy.”
“What can I do?”
“Just . . . be you.”
“I’m usually good at that, though I’ve been so many other people in the past eight months, I may be out of practice,” he replied, making his best effort not to slide back
Similar Books
