Called By Blood

Chapter 1

Alex stood at the door, his heart pounding. He had no plan for this—he wasn't a planner at the best of times, and he was in no shape for last-minute stratagems. Even though the temperature hovered in the twenties, he was on fire. As he'd flown across the country, he'd imagined her as a beacon drawing him ever closer. Once he hit the tarmac and took his first breath of thin, bone-dry mountain air, the pull became tangible.

Yet he'd never met her. Three days earlier his mother had pressed a scrap of paper into his hand. On it was a name and a fragment of an address. Information she'd gleaned from a dream. The key to his future.

He stepped back and gave the house a dubious once-over. The sprawling behemoth was worlds different from the row house he'd grown up in, or the loft he lived in now. The faded pine wreath on the door, the basket of pinecones and deer antlers on the stoop struck him as exotically Western. The doormat said, "Bless this Mess." He stamped the snow off his feet, ran his hand through his hair, muttered "Fuck it," and rang the bell.

He heard the buzz, and on its heels, a furious yapping. Great, a dog.

"Quiet! No barks! No!"

A woman's voice, coming from deep inside the house. Was it her? He pricked his ears and caught a scuffling noise. Slippers on tile. She was on the other side of the door. The heat of her body radiated through the wood. He opened both his nostrils and sucked in her scent. She'd been eating popcorn, and some oily vanilla concoction covered her skin—hand lotion, no, bath oil. And beneath that… Damn.

A little dizzy, he leaned his head against the door. His mother wasn't wrong.

"Who is it?"

The peephole turned dark. Alex straightened up for inspection. It seemed the moment to say something profound, but that didn't happen. "Hi. My name is Alexander Faustin."

As she answered, he paid more attention to the intriguing, throaty quality to her voice than what she said. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Please, I have an important message for Helena MacAllister. Am I speaking to her?"

"What kind of message?"

Alex put his eye to the peephole. He couldn't see her, but he could feel her and all her considerable powers of resistance, and was beginning to fear she would never open the damned door. But he checked his impatience and smiled at the little circle of glass, praying he oozed charm. It was hard to play suave when his nerves jumped in anticipation of seeing her. "It's good news, but it's awkward talking through the door. Will you come out?"

"Uh, hold on a sec." He heard her bellow, "Mike! Pause the movie! I'll be just a minute."

Alex pretended to cough to hide his grin. There was no one else in the house. His wife-to-be was clever, cautious…

And very cute in her fuzzy pink bathrobe. Her wet dark hair swung in a blunt line at her jaw. Good—he hated fishing hair out of his mouth. On one side it was tucked back, revealing a neat, pointed ear made for nibbling.

A low growl broke his train of thought. She held a dog under her arm, and it was snarling at him like a stuffed toy from hell. He raised his brow at it, and it began another volley of yaps.

She shouted over the noise. "I'm sorry, she's not usually like this." Her tone was apologetic, but her eyes were suspicious. She was wise enough to trust her dog.

"It's okay." Alex lifted his hand toward the dog's muzzle.

"Oh, don't do that!" she cried. "She might bite."

The dog wouldn't bite. Instead it sniffed his hand like crazy, having never smelled anything like him before. Alex caught its eyes and demanded submission. It calmed, and she put it down with a shrug.

"So what's this good news?" Suddenly at ease, she leaned her shoulder against the door frame, her pixie face alight with mischief.

The foyer gleamed warm and gold behind her. All he wanted to do was come out of the cold and take her in his arms.

"Don't tell me I've won the lottery?" She leaned over the stoop and looked both directions. "Is Ed McMahon in the bushes?"

Alex swayed on his feet, overwhelmed by her presence. He'd hoped she'd be attractive, but attractive was a weak, sad word. She was…

"Are you okay?"

Intoxicating.

That was it. And still she waited for him to explain himself. Problem was his brain wasn't wired for talk anymore. All he could manage was her name. The three syllables rolled off his tongue like some old incantation. "Helena."

In response her pupils dilated, turning her blue eyes black. Her expression questioning. Curious.

Just as curious, he lifted his hand and brushed her cheek with his knuckles, then turned his hand over and cupped the side of her head, burying his fingers in her wet hair. Locking his eyes with hers, he thought on some level she had to understand who he was, what this meant. This was destiny.

Her pink mouth rounded in surprise, as if she'd just remembered something. There wasn't any fear in her. In fact, under his touch she let out a long exhale, her breath curling white in the air between them. Red velvet desire blanketed his brain. There would be time for explaining later.

"Helena, you are my only." No time for explaining at all. Not when he was falling into a vortex. He pulled her close, and she was there for him, her lips yielding, her body folding against his with a small moan. Soft, thick chenille bunched under his fingers.

She was the one. Definitely. Nobody else would taste so good. Hungry, he licked butter and popcorn salt from her lips. Blood roared in his ears. He clamped her head between his hands and plunged his tongue into her waiting mouth.

Her sweet scent drifted up from the collar of her robe, so pure he knew she was naked beneath it, there for the taking. Alex's vision went hazy. When she began to roll her hips against his erection in wicked, inviting circles, he lost all common sense. He wanted to consume, penetrate, possess this woman in every way possible, as soon as possible. Desperate to touch her skin, he yanked her robe open.

Awash in her fragrant heat, he staggered. They fell against the door frame. Still kissing her, he took the weight of her breasts in his hands. They fit his palms perfectly. Beneath his right hand her heart beat like a bird's wings. Had she known he was coming? Had she bathed to be sure that she would greet him all damp and soft?

Meanwhile, she'd found her way under his coat and was running an exploratory hand down the front of his trousers.

Holy mother. This is out of control.

He broke the kiss. They were within a zipper's length of public intercourse. Not that he usually had any problem with that. But this was different. Alex took a deep breath and fought to control himself.

Helena wasn't helping. He caught her hand just before it slipped inside his fly. Indolent, she leaned back, her robe wide open, her lips swollen, her eyes erotically unfocused. By all appearances, she'd been enthralled, but he hadn't done anything. Maybe they enthralled each other.

Making a lazy «mmm» noise, she rolled her head to one side and offered him her throat. Her perfect, unbroken skin shone pale gold in the porch light. It was an instinctive gesture of submission—and it made him forget all of his good intentions.

Yanking her to his chest he began to explore the length of her carotid artery. Using his teeth and tongue, he teased her with all the skill he could muster, alternating sucking kisses with little bites, going as far as he could without breaking her skin.

Helena purred with pleasure. He lifted her thigh, inviting her to straddle his knee. Peeling back the collar of her robe, he exposed the fluttering pulse above her collarbone. He nuzzled her throat, rubbing his face against her skin, his mouth open to pick up the scent of live blood coursing beneath the surface.

Helena gasped and clasped his head, clenching his hair in her fingers. The scent rising off her turned primal and lush. It made his nostrils flare and his saliva run. She was about to come. Alex couldn't repress a deep growl.

Dingdongdingdongdingdongdingdong. A terrible noise cut through the red haze. The doorbell. It took him a moment to figure out that Helena was leaning against the buzzer. He pulled her upright and the noise stopped. She began to thrash and shout, wild with desire. He could barely contain her in his arms.

"Beloved." Maybe he said it, maybe he only thought it, but he knew she understood. His mouth stretched open, his teeth raked her flesh.

Helena kneed him viciously, straight up between his legs. The pain dropped him to the ground. She retreated over the threshold. He scrambled after her on all fours. The door cracked against his skull.

"Ow!" He actually saw stars, just like in the cartoons. The dog was barking again.

Alex knelt for some time on the "Bless this Mess" doormat, one hand on his head, the other between his legs, moaning with the pain and thinking this would not happen to his brother Mikhail. Mikhail would have arrived at the door with a plan. And his other brother, Gregor—well, Gregor wouldn't let himself be beat up by a woman.

But within minutes of meeting his bride-to-be, Alex was on his knees, concussed and bellowing like a sick cow. Bull, rather. Former bull.

"Helena! You don't understand. I've come to marry you!"

"You'd better get out of here. I've already called the cops." Her voice came from above. Wincing in pain, Alex looked up. She was leaning out an upstairs window, her cell phone cupped to her ear. "I'm talking to 911. Oh. I'm not supposed to talk to him? Sorry. Well, he's tall, at least six feet, black hair. Yeah, tall, dark and handsome. I know, it is a shame. He's wearing an overcoat. I'm not sure how old he is. Maybe thirty? Said his name is Alexander Fast—Fastino? — something like that."

"Faustin!"

"Yeah, he's just kneeling on my porch. Making funny noises."

"Helena, call them off. Let's talk."

"Yeah, right, pervert. Like I'd get within ten feet of you without a cattle prod." She spoke to 911 again. "Yes, he came to the door, said he had a message for me and then attacked me."

"Attacked you? Oh, come on!"

"I think I hear sirens."

Alex had already heard them and knew how close they were. Of course, they might have sent a silent cruiser ahead. He considered firing up the rental car, but a pathetic chase through a strange city in a Chevy Cobalt would be the cherry on top of a failure of an evening. And vamps didn't do well in prison settings.

He'd have to go by his own power. Muttering to himself and all too aware of Helena watching him above, he went to his car and pulled out his rolling bag and laptop. The cops were almost there.

"We will marry, Helena MacAllister," he said in a parting salvo—a proud moment for his kind, to be sure. "You can count on it!"

Maybe he'd just immolate with the sunrise.

The cops took her report and impounded his car. Helena was glad he left it behind, proving that she was not crazy, proving that a god-like man had in fact knocked on her door, muttered something about "his only" and began to devour her like a quart of Cherry Garcia.

"Christ, Helena." Lacey guided her to the sofa like an invalid. "Maybe you should sleep at my place tonight."

"Thanks, but I can't. That lets him win." She shrugged her shoulders to throw off a case of the willies. "I almost think if I left the house, he'd come in here and sniff my underwear or something. You know, what I really want to do is take a run."

"Just like one of those doomed chicks in the horror movies?"

"I didn't say I was going to—I said I wanted to." How else was she going to take control of her body again? Common sense, safety, general decency, none of that mattered anymore. That was brain stuff. Her brain hadn't been in charge of her body since Alexander Faustin reached up and cupped the side of her head with his long fingers. She'd never seen such beautiful eyes on a man.

"Peter and I could spend the night here with you."

Startled out of her reflections, Helena managed a smile. "I'd like that. Can we make it a slumber party? All of us in the living room?"

Lacey smiled back and looked so concerned and sincere that Helena almost started to cry. She was a wreck.

"Will you bring Newland to guard us?"

Newland was Peter's Bernese Mountain Dog, far more formidable than her little Pom, Scully. But Scully had been right on the money. Helena reached out and ruffled Scully's thick fur. "You knew he was a weirdo, didn't you?"

"Do you want to take a shower or something?" Lacey asked. "I'll stand guard."

"No, I just took a bath before…" She threw up her hands. "Look, it is creepy to know he's loose, but all he did was kiss me." That's not true. "Really, I'm okay." Why are you covering for him? "I'm a victim of the Kissing Bandit. What was that, an old movie? Or a cartoon?"

"A Sinatra musical." Lacey loved corny old movies. "He could have done more. You're lucky."

"Yes…" He could have done much, much more. His hands and mouth were cold when they first touched her—he must have been outside for some time—but they warmed fast. It was like he knew her secret code or had been studying her fantasies. He kissed her like she wanted to be kissed. He touched her the way she dreamed of being touched.

And he was a pervert who accosted women on their porches. It figured. The single biggest erotic thrill of her life had come about in the commission of a criminal act. She'd basically given up on men already. Now it was time to make it official and start collecting cats.

"Yes, I'm lucky. I'm going upstairs to wash my mouth out…change, maybe…"

"Want me to come with?"

"No. Call Peter. Is Jojo's closed? I could use a pizza."

Helena drifted up the stairs in a stupor brought on by thinking too much about his kiss, from remembering details. She'd kissed him back. That was bad. Very bad. He came to her door under false pretexts and rendered her a mindless slut with his big brown eyes and his magic tongue. What did you call that? What did that make her? What did that make him?

Standing at the sink, she took a mouthful of Scope and swished it around, watching her cheeks puff like a chipmunk's. She had a zit on her chin. Her bathrobe was coffee-stained and fraying at the cuffs. Why had Faustin targeted her?

The cops had told her the car he drove was an airport rental out of Denver. Right before he vanished into the night, she'd watched him take a suitcase from its trunk and a briefcase from the front seat, calm as anything, and walk down the road. Just another day of what—business travel and stalking? Or maybe stalking was his business?

She told the police his final threat to marry her. They were good at wearing their neutral cop-masks, but that got their attention. The cops exchanged looks with each other. It meant he was definitely crazy and he was coming back.

They'd cruised around for a while, washing the hillsides and gullies with spotlights, but since no one had been murdered, they didn't bring out the German Shepherds and the SWAT team. Instead they gave her a number to call and promised to keep an eye on the house. Her house sat on a half acre of pine and scrub. There were plenty of places to hide. He may not have gone far at all. Then again, it was beginning to snow. He couldn't last long out there.

Helena spit and rinsed. Her robe flapped open and she saw a bruise at the base of her throat, just above the collarbone. A hickey. Classy, stalker man. Thanks. She hadn't had a hickey since junior high, when she lost a round of truth or dare and had to let Bobby Milburn give her one.

This one was a little different. Bobby's didn't make her come. Circling her finger around the purple mark, she remembered how Faustin's rough, sucking kisses brought out responses in her she could never have imagined. His hair was curly and thick, just long enough to grab by the fistful, and she had used it to hold him to her throat.

Thank God the doorbell had gone off like an alarm clock and she woke up to reality and realized how strange, how dangerous, her situation was. And he was wild, not listening to her protests, immovable though she was fighting against him with all of her strength. All his blood had drained from his brain and was residing in his erection—his damned impressive erection. Had she really made a grab for it? Crap. That wasn't like her.

The memory of tracing the hard, thick outline under the fine wool of his pants made her go all spacey and fuzzy in the head again. She really needed to go running. When she came out of her trance, she grimaced, remembering his cry of pain as he fell to his knees. Sorry, stalker man.

Alex sat on his suitcase, just up the road in the neighbor's front yard, snow collecting in his hair and on his shoulders. Cold couldn't harm him, but that didn't mean he liked it. He craved heat. Helena's vanilla-scented heat. A police cruiser passed a light over him, but they didn't see him. There were ways of sitting so as to make yourself…unremarkable.

A big man came to Helena's house carrying pizza. An equally big dog bounded out of his car with him, so he probably wasn't the delivery guy. Clever of Helena to bring another dog on the scene…and just who was that man?

The surge of jealousy surprised him. It was ridiculous. Helena didn't have a man. First off, she was his and no other's. That was metaphysical fact. And more practically, her kiss was too hungry and her bathrobe too frumpy for her to have a lover. Most likely this man belonged to the girlfriend who had rushed in earlier. Rushed to the aid of poor, helpless Helena.

Alex rolled his eyes at the idea. Maybe she'd injured her knee on his balls.

If he wanted to be spectacularly unethical he could have her tonight. It was almost tempting, but he figured mind control was no way to start a lifelong relationship based on trust and mutual understanding.

He'd fucked this up. Big time.

Alex raked his fingers through his hair, combing out the snow. By rights he should be making love to Helena for the second or third time by now. He should already have discovered what made her wiggle, what made her scream. She was responsive enough on the porch—just before she turned into a hellcat. He'd never had a woman turn on him like that. Then again, he'd never been so out of control. The chemistry between them was dangerously hot. He'd gone too far, too fast, and now his punishment was to sit outside her house doing his Frosty the Snowman imitation.

Friggin' fantastic.

It already hurt to be apart from her. He wondered how much of that was real, and how much was in his head.

A tow truck dragged away his car, but it would trace to a pseudonym and a dead end. While he waited for the cops to settle down, he found the number of a local cab company and confirmed his reservation at the Hyatt. At least the night would be a long one. That was his favorite thing about winter.

Thunk, thunk, crack.

The noise was faint, but persistent. Helena lifted her head. She was sleeping in her big chair. Peter and Lacey slept on the couch. The noise had not disturbed them or the dogs, who were both curled up like sweet rolls next to the fireplace. The clock on the DVD player said 2:07.

Thunk, thunk, crack.

It wasn't coming from inside the house. It wasn't the sound of a madman knocking down the door or forcing the window, either. Wrapping her blanket around her shoulders, she padded to the kitchen window. Because the house was built on a slope, the window sat high above the backyard, giving her a good view of the ground.

And yep, there was her stalker, splitting wood. The bright half moon made the scene look like a black and white movie. The wet wood was black. The snow was stark white. His clothing black. The snow shadows grey. His axe silver. Or her axe, rather.

She was impressed that he knew how to split wood. Not everyone did anymore. He worked with a graceful ease that was almost hypnotic to watch. The split wood piled up fast. His heavy overcoat was gone and he was working with bare hands in shirtsleeves dusted with snow. At two o'clock in the morning. In January. He was crazy as a loon and tragically, disgustingly handsome. Even from the kitchen window she could see his strong profile, his dramatic coloring. He paused to brush the snow out of his curls, then swung the axe again.

Helena did think about calling the police. She thought about it the entire time she watched him, fingering the card they'd given her. She also thought about waking her friends and siccing Newland on him. But she did none of these things. Instead she watched him split every log in the pile, and watched as he began to stack it outside her back door.

Brave because she was out of reach, she opened the window. He stopped in his tracks, his arms full of wood, and looked straight up at her. The outside air hit her face, sharp as a slap, and her nose began to run. She wished she could see his eyes, but he was too far away and his brow shadowed them. His eyebrows she could read, though, and those shot up, waiting for her to speak.

"You shouldn't be here," she hissed, making pathetic shooing gestures toward the road. "Go away and don't come back again. The police are coming."

"If that's true, why warn me?" His voice drifted up to sit in her ear, as if he stood just beside her.

Why, why, why…because I'm as crazy as you? "Because it's not your fault that you're insane. I don't really want you to go to jail." Though she spoke in a whisper, she knew he heard her just fine, judging by the amused expression on his face. "Just go stalk someone else. Oh, no, I don't mean that. Don't stalk anybody. Find a new hobby. Golf is obsessive, I understand. Go."

A dimple flashed in one cheek as he grinned. "I'd do almost anything for you, Helena, but please don't ask me to take up golf." He went to add the wood in his arms to the stack against the back of the house, and she could no longer see his face. "You see, Helena, you are my hobby from now on, or better, my vocation."

He had a slight accent, a New York accent perhaps. Funny vowels. He looked like a New Yorker too, with his pale skin and city clothes. Empty armed, he returned to stand beneath her window.

She said, "Now see, that kind of talk is just plain creepy."

He shoved his hands in his pants pockets and cocked his head at her. This close she could see the long, sweeping curve of his upper lip and the stubble that shadowed his sharp jawline.

"Do you believe in fate or free will?"

"Free will, of course."

"Ah, see, that's the difference between us. I believe in fate. I believe we are meant to be together. It doesn't make me crazy."

Helena didn't know what to say to that. Her ears stung from the cold and she trembled all over. She wasn't so sure that was due to cold.

"Come down, and we'll talk."

"Yeah, just you, me and the axe."

He chuckled, a warm sound. "You can hold the axe."

It wouldn't protect me from you.

"Thanks for splitting my wood."

He shrugged and snow fell off his shoulders. "I like to do it."

"Now please, go away forever."

That made him grin. "I'll be out here when you change your mind."

Helena imagined waking up the next morning to find him frozen to her woodpile. A stalker-sicle. "That's it. I'm really going to call the cops."

"No you won't. Don't worry about me." With that he went back for another armload of wood.

She closed the window and returned to her chair. No, she wouldn't call the cops. It seemed futile—he'd just stroll away like he had before, then come back. He was out there because he expected that she'd fall prey to his irresistibleness and let him pick up where he left off. He was sorely mistaken.

But why had she spoken to him at all? She'd only encouraged him. Generally speaking, she was not that stupid.

It was hard to sleep knowing he was so close, but she dozed on and off until first light, feeling oddly like it was Christmas night. Like something big was going on. And in the morning, it did look like Christmas outside. The snowfall had transformed the neighborhood into a glitter-coated winter wonderland. The flawless blanket of white hid all the dead weeds and abandoned dog toys in her yard. The trees looked like they'd been dipped in frosting.

And Alexander Faustin was nowhere to be seen, but he had shoveled the walks and the drive before he left, and taken her garbage cans to the curb so she wouldn't miss Monday morning pick-up.

Helena muttered to herself as she made coffee for her friends. "Damned domesticated stalker."

Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer were both attractive, charming men by all accounts. They probably were handy around the house, too.

The night clerk at the Boulder Hyatt thought the resident of room 303 was an elderly man named Jonas Liebovitz.

Alex disguised himself when he checked in, unsure of whether the police were proactive enough to send his description to the local hotels. He told the clerk he'd be sleeping through the day and wanted as dark a room as possible. Clerks loved it when someone actually volunteered to take a room looking out on a brick wall or a ventilation shaft.

With dawn coming fast, he rushed to tape a couple of space blankets over the window. Space blankets were a modern miracle for all vamp kind. Made for camping and survival situations, they were lightweight, reflective and completely light proof. Alex kept them on hand everywhere when he traveled, in his briefcase, his car, several in his suitcase for window blocking. Folded up, a space blanket was smaller than his fist. When he'd first learned the sun could kill him, he slept wrapped in space blankets for over a year, and dragged one around with him at all times because, despite his parent's reassurances, he worried that the sun might sneak up on him at night.

After he'd taped up the window, he tuned the TV to the Food Network. Alex watched cooking shows like other men watched exotic porn—fantasizing about things he was not ever going to experience. Solid food did not sit well with him. Soup he could do. A bowl of bullion would not nourish him much, but it would be warm. He ordered room service and sat down to check his email.

While he waited, he became more and more hungry. The night out in the cold, the hard labor, and not least, Helena herself, had sharpened his appetite and whetted his teeth. Her taste lingered on his tongue, her saliva and skin foreshadowing the flavor of her blood. While fasting for a mate was the romantic thing to do, he decided he'd find something to eat first thing the next evening, just so he could think straight in her presence.

The legends and movies were bullshit. Vamps did not have to kill to eat, and civilized vamps never killed their prey. Humans were blood-making factories. You didn't kill a cow to milk it.

Alex didn't hunt much anyway. He fed from his lovers, preferring sensual, leisurely dining to hunting by a long shot. His brother owned one of the most decadent nightclubs in New York. Women who liked blood play gravitated there, and for Alex it was a second home. Since he was fifteen he'd never lacked for a lover or a meal.

But all that would end soon. Once he tasted Helena, he'd only want to feed from her. That would begin the bonding, which would culminate with her conversion. During that honeymoon period he wouldn't be able to stand the taste of anyone else. Later, they'd hunt together.

It was a good thing he hadn't tasted her at the door. Before he bonded with her, he had to tell her what he was—and what he wanted her to be. If he bonded with her prematurely and she couldn't accept him, that would be bad. Maybe even tragic. Like the old vamp tearjerker, The Chanson of Roland and Illysia.

The bellhop arrived bearing a bowl of soup and a basket of nasty, inedible crackers. If he noticed the sealed window, he pretended not to see it.

"Put it down there." Alex pulled out his wallet for a tip, glancing at the soup as he did. Then he glanced back at the bellhop. The bellhop looked better. A boy just out of high school, blond, ruddy, a fine snack.

It was such a bad idea.

"Sign here please, sir."

If only he had not moved so close. If only he did not smell of beer. Alex loved beer in his blood.

Never bring it to your nest, his father always said.

Fuck it. Alex flashed his hand in front of the bellhop's face, stunning him. The bill, tray and pen fell to the ground. He kicked the door closed, tore open the boy's jacket and latched onto his throat, suddenly greedy as hell. The alcohol sugars in the kid's blood made it taste bright and thin at the same time. Pure soda pop.

The bellhop wilted in his arms. Because he was all wound up, Alex drank more than he should have. The kid would feel like crap as a result. After one last sip, he licked the wound closed and buttoned the jacket up again. The entire encounter had taken less than fifteen seconds.

"Are you okay?" The sound of his voice broke the thrall.

The boy opened his eyes, saw Alex's hands on his shoulders and blinked in confusion.

"You're white as a sheet," Alex said. "You'd better sit down."

The bellhop sat on the edge of the bed, his arms limp, completely dazed. And too pale. Alex felt a little guilty.

"Sorry… I do feel weird."

"I think you almost fainted or something. Are you sick? Tired? Dehydrated?" At «dehydrated» the kid shifted his eyes to one side. Alex winked at him like a co-conspirator. "Were you partying last night?"

"Yeah. Sort of."

"Try drinking a big glass of orange juice, then lots of water. It helps."

The bellboy staggered off, clutching a big tip.

Alex tried to berate himself for taking such a risk, but felt too satisfied to do it well. Not one to waste food, he drank the soup too. It was over salted. While he ate, the TV chef taught him how to deglaze a roasting pan by dissolving the scrapings at the bottom in wine. That he might be able to eat—the deglazing or whatever it was called.

Sleepy and bloated, he set a warding spell on the door and rolled himself up in the sheets. His last thoughts were of Helena flirting with him from her kitchen window. She was beautiful by moonlight.