He smiled sadly. “It’s hard to believe one day I’ll be the only person left who remembers what it was like to be alive in my time. Sure, people will remember the major things. They’ve got them written down in history books. But only I’ll be left to remember the price of eggs and milk in 1953. I’ll be the only one who remembers what Mrs. Campbell’s blackberry jam tastes like, or that Mrs. Campbell ever existed.”

I had no idea how old my sire was. Had Cyrus endured too many years of that kind of solitude? Is that what made him so desperate for a companion? My heart ached at the thought, and the tender emotion surprised me. “So it stands to reason you’d want to find someone to be with when the people you love die.”

He nodded. “I suppose. But I haven’t felt that way for a while. Maybe because Ziggy’s so young I feel like I have some time before I have to think about it again.”

I could tell from his tone that this was as close as I was going to get to the bottom of this particular subject. “So, where are you from?”

“All over.” He took another sip of Scotch. “I was born in Scotland, lived there until…” His voice trailed off for a second. “I went to Brazil in 1937. That’s where I was turned.”

“Oh?” I wasn’t sure how I should respond.

“From there, I moved to London, then Canada when the war broke out—”

“You were a draft dodger?” I interrupted.

“No.” He arched an eyebrow at me. “The Second World War. Eventually, I ended up here.”

“That’s a lot of moving.” I wondered if I would have to move that much. The idea didn’t hold any appeal.

He sighed. “That’s what happens. If you live too long in one place, never getting any older, people get suspicious. Believe me, it’s a real pain in the ass getting a new birth certificate and social security card.”

I mimicked a redneck drawl. “Especially when you’re obviously not from round these here parts.”

He chuckled, then did a pretty fair imitation of a Midwestern accent. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. I was born in Gary, Indiana, in 1971.”

“Seriously, though, how do you do it?” I took another swig of Scotch.

He leaned back, resting his long arm behind me on the back of the couch. “It’s not hard, especially in a town like this. There are a lot of illegals running around, so there are plenty of connections for forged documents. It’s all about networking. Once you’ve got the birth certificate and the social security card, you go down to the Secretary of State office and say, ‘I’m here to apply for a driver’s license, please.’”

He’d finished the last part of the statement with his ridiculously good Midwestern twang. I frowned. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” He half lifted his arm.

“The voice. I like your accent.”

Nathan looked at me as if he’d never seen me before. His eyes searched my face but provided me no clue to what was going on in his head.