“Hey! You there, wait up!”
I didn’t break stride.
“Beautiful girl, wait a minute! I was hoping I’d see you again!”
It was the “beautiful girl” part that flung a noose around my foot, the voice that snagged it tight. I raked a hand through my recently butchered hair and looked down at my dark, baggy clothes. The compliment was balm to my soul, the voice young, male, and full of fun. I skidded to a halt. Shallow, I know.
It was the dreamy-eyed guy I’d seen in the museum the day I’d been searching it for OOPs.
I turned bright red. That was the day V’lane had amped up the death-by-sex thing and I’d stripped in the middle of Ireland’s famous Ór exhibit, right there in front of God and everybody.
Flushing, I sprinted off again, splashing through puddles. It was raining—of frogging course—and the sidewalks of Dublin’s craic-filled Temple Bar District were nearly empty. I had places to go, darkness to race, guys who’d watched me strip to avoid.
He dropped into a long-legged lope beside me and I couldn’t help myself, I slanted a look at him. Tall, dark, dreamy-eyed, he was boy-on-the-cusp-of-man, in that perfect stage where guys are velvet skin over supple hard bodies, without an ounce of fat. I’d bet he had a six-pack. He was a serious leftie. Once upon a time in my life, I’d have given my eyeteeth for a date with him. I’d have dressed in pink and gold, swept my long blond hair up in a playful ponytail, and painted my nails and toes to match, Young-Hearts-Beat-Free-Tonight Blush.
“Fine, I’ll run with you then,” he said easily. “Where you off to in such a hurry?”
“None of your business.” Go away, pretty boy. You don’t fit in my world anymore. How I wished he did.
“I was afraid I wouldn’t see you again.”
“You don’t even know me. Besides, I’m sure you saw more than enough of me at the museum,” I said bitterly.
“What do you mean?”
“You know.”
He shot me a quizzical look. “All I know is I had to leave right after I saw you. I had to go to work.”
He hadn’t watched me strip? Some of the ugliness of my life melted away. “Where do you work?”
“Ancient Languages Department.”
“Where?” Hunky and smart.
“Trinity.”
“Cool. Student?”
“Yeah. You?”
I shook my head.
“American?”
I nodded. “You?” He didn’t sound Irish.
“Little of this, little of that. Nothing special.” He smiled and winked. Dreamy eyes, long dark lashes.
Wow. Right. This guy was special all the way down to his toes. I wanted to know him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to feather my lips on those lashes. And he’d probably end up dead if he hung around with me. I killed monsters other people couldn’t see and had just spent the entire day in the police station on suspicion of murder for the death of a man I hadn’t killed instead of the sixteen I had. “Leave me alone. I can’t be your friend,” I said bluntly.
“That’s way too intriguing to pass up. What’s your story, beautiful girl?”
“I don’t have a story. I have a life. And you don’t fit in it.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Dozens.”
“Truth?”
“Is.”
“Come on, don’t dis me.”
“Consider yourself dissed. Fuck off,” I said coolly.
He held up both hands, “All right. I get it,” and stopped.
I pounded down the sidewalk away from him and didn’t look back. I wanted to cry.
“I’ll be around,” he called. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
Right. Ancient Languages Department at Trinity. I made a mental note never to go there.
“I think they know me,” I said when I pushed through the front door of the bookstore. Barrons was behind the counter, not Fiona. That was weird. He was actually ringing up a purchase, like a real person doing a job. He cut me a look of warning—mute it, Ms. Lane—and jerked his head toward the customer.
“Flip the sign,” he said when the patron left. He slapped a cardboard placard on the counter and began writing on it. “Who do you think knows you?”
“The Shades. They get…I don’t know, agitated when they see me coming. Like they recognize me and I piss them off. I think they’re more sentient than you know.”
“I think you have an overactive imagination, Ms. Lane. Did you turn the sign over yet?”