“I have to change my identity every couple of decades, remember? I like to think I can pass for forty before I have to move again.” He took his wallet back and tossed it on the dresser.

I shook my head in frustration. “But what about Cyrus? You said the same blood in my veins flows through yours. But he said he didn’t sire you.”

“He didn’t. Our blood is connected because the same vampire who sired Cyrus sired me.” Nathan cleared his throat. “I don’t normally talk about it.”

“Well, make an exception,” I snapped, and instantly regretted it. “I’m sorry. I’m just really tired, and all of this still freaks me out. Does it ever get any less weird?”

He smiled. “It hasn’t for me, so far. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” He must have realized he’d made the wrong word choice at the same time I did because an awkward silence lingered between us as we both tried not to look at the bed.

He stretched his arm behind his head and yawned to avoid eye contact. “Hey, about earlier tonight, when we—”

“Forget it,” I said quickly. I knew I would. There was no reason to hang on to the memory when we’d be enemies this time tomorrow.

I thought I saw disappointment in his eyes, but he shook it off with a contrived laugh. “Yeah, that’s probably for the best. We were just caught up in the moment and things got out of hand.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “It’s a total nonissue.”

“Well, then, I guess I’m going to go look over my insurance papers for the shop. Did you want to watch TV or something?”

“No, I’m actually pretty tired.” I looked at the bed. “Do you want me to take the couch tonight?”

He pointed a finger at me. “Today, Carrie. Get on vampire time. But no, I’ll be up for a while and I don’t want to disturb you. We can work out better sleeping arrangements tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” I said, suddenly numb.

With a look of concern on his face, he reached out and gave my arm a squeeze. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just tired.” It wasn’t a lie. But when we said our good-nights and he left me alone in his bedroom, I couldn’t fall asleep. Instead, I looked around the room for a pen and paper. On the floor, between the bed and the wall, I found a sketchbook with a drawing pencil tucked into the coiled binding. It would do.

I flipped open the cover and paused. An incredibly beautiful, almost photographic-looking drawing of a sleeping child took up the first page. In the margin, in distinctly masculine handwriting that sharply contrasted the skilled lines of the drawing, was written, Ziggy, age eleven.

Turning the pages, I found a succession of similar drawings. They were mostly of Ziggy at various stages of his teen years, sleeping. From what little I knew of Ziggy, I realized the only time he’d hold still long enough to be sketched would be while he was unconscious. The few portraits of Ziggy awake were accompanied by photos paper-clipped to them. I flipped to the last pages, hoping to find some blank sheets. The final drawing froze my blood in my veins.