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an alley, careful that his brothers wouldn t see. Because pretending
to be human was even lamer than pretending to be a girl. Which
he d also done. Just for a little while.
When he was really little.
Alex peered into Helena s fridge full of old condiments and
reduced calorie yogurt. There were eggs at least, and milk of
dubious age. A stack of bleak frozen entrees sat in the freezer,
accompanied by several cartons of ice cream at various stages of
consumption. She had a few staples, but the spices in her pantry
probably dated to the mid-80 s.
As far as he d been able to smell from the basement, her diet
consisted entirely of ice cream, pizza and red wine, and now that he
saw her kitchen, he didn t think that was far from wrong.
He paused to tune-in to Helena. She was asleep, and dreaming.
Her dreams were busy and maybe confusing, but at least she wasn t
having nightmares because of him. He found a dusty copy of the
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Betty Crocker Cookbook above the stove and decided to make her
breakfast.
Helena woke to the smell of food. It reminded her of
childhood, of those slow starting Sunday mornings where her
parents lingered in bathrobes, sharing out the paper and pouring
endless cups of coffee for each other while she read the funnies.
She missed them so much. Sometimes she woke up thinking
they were still alive, that she could call them and tell them about a
movie they d like or something silly like that.
A whiff of coffee coiled around her nose, so strong she could
almost see it, like in cartoons. It wasn t her imagination. A pot of
coffee was brewing downstairs. Who was cooking?
Bolting upright, she looked at the clock. It was 6:30 a.m. Past
sunrise. Who the heck was cooking?
She threw on a robe and ran into the kitchen. It smelled great,
not fancy, just happy. Like her memories of her parents. The
coffeepot was full. Someone had set a single place at the counter,
with a mat and napkin and everything. The syrup bottle and butter
dish sat next to the plate. The oven was set to warm, and a sticky
note was on the door. The handwriting was bold, stylish caps, like
architect lettering, and it read Better than elk? Inside the oven she
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found a beautiful short stack of pancakes and a covered dish of
scrambled eggs.
Alexander Faustin. Her mind twisted around, trying to imagine
the naked, blood-soaked man who d burst in her back door the night
before cooking pancakes. His eyes had been crazy shining and
spinning like wheels, like he was tripping on something.
But then he d sounded perfectly normal through the door. Like
it was no big thing to hunt and kill elk with your bare hands. In the
middle of the night. Naked.
Yet she believed him. Just as she d known he was lying that
morning when he left her and got burnt, she knew he was speaking
the truth last night. Anyway, the night before had been his last night
in her basement. There d be no more of this weirdness after today.
That was good.
It was.
She poured a cup of coffee and took the food out of the oven.
What did a vampire know about breakfast? A lot. The pancakes
were fluffy and golden, the eggs perfectly cooked and rich with
cheese. Alex could cook. It made no sense.
Vampires could cook but she couldn t. Jeff always said if she
just tried harder Helena squelched that thought. No Jeff thinking
allowed. Most especially not anything he ever said to her. His words
could still wound at a distance. Instead, she retrieved the paper and
read the funnies while she ate.
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While cleaning up she discovered Alex s secret. A pile of burnt
and malformed pancakes hidden at the bottom of the wastebasket.
That stack of three perfectly round, fluffy, golden pancakes was the
cream of about fifteen tries. The corners of Helena s mouth twitched
until she gave up and let herself grin. Those malformed pancakes
made her ridiculously happy.
Thankfully the phone rang so she didn t have to think that one
through.
Hey, stranger, Lacey said. Whatcha been up to?
Helena squirmed a little. She d been avoiding Lacey, because
Lacey read her too well.
Deadline, she said. A big, bitchy grant application. It s
almost done. She hated lying, but she d already dug herself in this
deep.
Lacey made a skeptical noise. No grant application ever kept
you from taking booze breaks. You sure something else isn t going
on? You feeling bad? I know today is the anniversary& She trailed
off awkwardly.
The anniversary of the car wreck that killed her parents. Lacey
was right, but the date had snuck up on her. No wonder she d been
thinking of them.
Do you want to do something tonight? Go to a movie?
She wanted to. But she also wanted to be there at sundown to
make sure Alex left. And to say thanks to him for the pancakes. And
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the offer of marriage. She leaned her forehead against the
refrigerator door and closed her eyes.
Helena?
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