Grace Cooper twirled the straw in her half-finished ginger whiskey and tried to ignore the skunk smell wafting through the bar. Rather, the smell of pot, which two kids were smoking in the back corner by the lone pool table, seemingly uncaring that recreational use of marijuana was illegal in bars in Colorado. None of the few folks ambitiously drinking in the place paid them any heed.

Darkness had descended outside along with a blistering snowstorm, and the wind howled against the few windows in an effort to sneak inside. Mother Nature had decided on a brutal end to January, which might explain why so few patrons had ventured through the storm for cheap booze and a stereo system from the early nineties that only played Bon Jovi songs. “Runaway” was currently blasting at a slightly slower speed than she remembered.

Why in the world had the vamp wanted to meet in this dump?

The bartender, a sixty-something man wearing a ripped T-shirt, snow pants, and thick boots, tipped back a couple of shots of tequila as he wiped down the bar, ignoring everyone unless they approached him for more alcohol.

This was the closest she would come to Denver, where she’d lived before going into a coma and then becoming an immortal mate. Well, kind of becoming one. She’d promised everyone, especially her sister, that she’d never return to Denver. But persistent questions kept her up at night; she had to know the truth. First, she had to survive for another week.

Grace turned her wrist, the healthy one, and read the time on her sports watch. She’d give Sebastian five more minutes.

The door opened, and wind blasted inside. A male wearing a baseball cap covered with snow kicked the door shut, looked around, and spotted her. He brushed snow off his long overcoat and strode toward her, his boots leaving a wet trail across the sawdust-covered floor. “Grace.”

He was thinner than he’d looked in his picture. “Sebastian.”

“I’m sorry I’m late.” He pulled out the wooden chair across from her small table and sat, his eyes an odd bluish hue. “I can explain.”

She held up her good hand, her temples starting to ache. “It doesn’t matter. Do you have it?” She hoped a vial would get her through until she could see the one and only expert on her condition.

He kicked back. “Yeah, but I thought we could maybe come to another arrangement.” With the hat bill low over his face, and the bar so dark, it was difficult to judge his age. Or rather, what his age appeared to be, considering he’d supplied proof through email that he was over two hundred years old. “What’s the hurry? There’s a storm out there.” He spoke with a very slight lisp.

She tilted her head. The overcoat was odd. “Take off your hat.” Adrenaline started to hum through her veins.