He knew the look in them, and withdrew his hand. “I don’t know. I think I may have been twenty-seven when I became a vampire. I didn’t keep track of the years after that. There were seven centuries, if that helps.”

“Seven—” She choked on the word. “I thought I was old.”

He laughed out loud at the absurdity of her innocent statement. “Hardly.”

With a sigh, she dropped her hand over the side of the tub, sliding it gracefully through the water at his side. Her fingers came mere centimeters from his flesh, and for a moment he thought she would touch him. She never did. He stared at her face to try and gauge her intent, but there was no sign of sly seduction or nervous timidity there. She gazed at the cinder block wall, but it was obvious she saw nothing.

“How can you forget how old you are? Don’t you look forward to your birthday?” She rested her head on the rolled edge of the bathtub, still twisting her fingers through the water.

One slender digit brushed against his ribs. It took all his willpower not to shudder. “I don’t know when my birthday is. My mother died a few days after I was born. From a fever. My father took a new wife, but she didn’t know what day I’d been born and my father hadn’t kept track.”

Mouse turned to him, looking very close to tears. “That’s so sad.”

“Not really,” he assured her. “Birthdays didn’t matter much then. There wasn’t as much emphasis on them as there is now.”

“You could still have one,” she offered. “Just keep track from the day they brought you back. Or the day they—”

“Let’s not talk about that.” He didn’t want her to have any knowledge of his vampire world. Didn’t want to hear their sordid terminology cross her lips. Forcing a smile, he said, “I have good news.”

He could tell she didn’t want to believe him. To get her hopes up would only serve to see them dashed again. She couldn’t seem to resist temptation, though. “What is it?”

“When I talked to the vampire woman last night, she said they’d bring us more food.” He glanced worriedly at his lean stomach. He’d have to watch his intake, or he’d grow fat. That was something he’d never had to think of before.

“Where are they getting it?” Mouse’s expression became troubled.

Whatever could be the matter with her? Did she want to starve to death? “I don’t know. Maybe they have some here. It is a church. Don’t they give out alms for the poor?”

“The food pantry is for the low-income families of the parish.”

“Yes, and they believe it has burned to the ground.” He frowned. “Mouse, we don’t have much left.”