Chapter 1
Helen?
Too dignified. I've never been terribly dignified.
Rachel?
A pretty name . . . it didn't feel right, though. I wasn't in
the mood for Rachel. I paused, digging my toes into the sand.
Overhead the sky was clear, its black dome fuzzed by the lights
ahead. Galveston isn't large, but tourists like a place that's
lively at night. I do, too, but prefer to live outside the city
proper.
Beside me the great, briny mother was in a quiet mood, her waves
lapping at the sand like curled cats' tongues. That made me think
of my neighbor, Mrs. Jenks--a nice woman, but with no talent
for naming cats. She had three. The one she called Mona was a
particular favorite of mine, sleek and black, who referred to
herself as Wind-Who-Leaves-The-Grasses-Silent. Quite a mouthful
in English, I'll admit.
Well, what about Mona? A better name for a woman than a cat.
No, it was too close to Molly, which was my current name. I'd
be forever signing checks wrong.
I sighed and started walking again. Walking in sand is good
for the calf muscles. Doing it at night with the ocean whispering
beside you is good for the soul.
I'll admit to being vain about
my legs. Otherwise I'm on the nice side of average, with my weight
holding steady at fashionable-plus-fifteen and a thoroughly Irish
face, complete with freckles and pug nose. More motherly than
cute these days, I suppose; I let my hair go white several years
ago. But my legs are still excellent.
Not that I was out walking
for the sake of my muscle tone tonight. My calves were in better
shape than my soul.
Self-pity is so wearing. Unattractive, too. Really, I needed
to settle on a name. It was time to move on. Just last night
Sam had commented again on how I never seemed to change.
Dear Sam. I sighed again. I would miss him. And several of the
others, too, and Galveston itself. I loved the historic section
and the view /name hotel/ and the /name a food/, and I lived
so close to the ocean that the salt-and-sea scent drifted in
my window, and I could indulge in the private splendor of walking
the beach at night . . .
I was lucky, reminded myself. Most women wouldn't feel safe
alone on the beach at three in the morning. There have always
been predators. But some would say that's what I am, too. I'm
not easy to harm.
I'd reached the narrow road that divided
the public beach from the trailer park where I live. Not that
the owners call it a trailer park, mind. It's a mobile-living
village. That's the name, in fact--"Beachside Village." I suppose
a touch of pretension is inevitable if you want to charge such
outlandish prices to rent a spot, and the location is wonderful--outside
the city proper, right on the ocean. I stepped onto the soft
asphalt, still warm from the summer sun.
There was a soft sound, sort of a pop-whoosh! And a naked man
lay at my feet. A beautiful, unconscious, bleeding naked man.
Oh, dear.
The air turned crisp and my hearing sharpened as those trusty
fight-or-flight chemicals did their thing. But there was no one
to fight--thank goodness--and I couldn't simply run away.
I do not need this, I told myself as I knelt on the soft, tacky
asphalt. My heart was galloping. I had no idea where he had come
from or how he'd arrived, but those slashes across his chest,
belly and legs looked intentional. Someone did not like this
man. I should head immediately and call 911.
I touched his throat, found a pulse, and exhaled in relief.
The moon was nearly full, and I have excellent night vision.
He was a breathtaking man, with skin so pale the sun might never
have touched it. Pale everywhere, too, not just in the usual
places. His hair was short, very dark, and almost as curly as
my own. His eyelashes were absurdly long, giving him the look
of a sleeping child . . . a look quite at odds with one of the
loveliest male bodies I've ever seen. And I am something a connoisseur
of male bodies.
And the slashes on that lovely chest, flat stomach and muscular
thighs were slowly closing. Blood barely oozed now.
Whoever he was, he wasn't entirely human. Not as most people
counted such things, anyway. And though I loved Texas, there
was no denying most people here were not very tolerant of those
of the Blood. Not that he was lupus or Faerie or anything else
I recognized, but who else could heal a wound so quickly?
One of the Old Ones could.
I shivered and shut a mental door before a Name could slip into
my thoughts. No point in taking any chances of disturbing Their
sleep. Besides, one of Them wouldn't be so poky about healing
a few cuts. The bleeding had stopped, but the gashes remained.
A couple were quite deep--though not, thankfully, the one in
his stomach.
One of Them could have made those cuts, though. And zapped Their
victim here, or anywhere else They pleased. I did not need to
be part of this. I'd call 911 and let them deal--
He opened his eyes.
