Zen and the Art of Vampires

"Oh." I thought about that for a moment, distastefully eyeing the refuge he'd found us. There was a suspicious rustling behind the bales. "You couldn't… you know… make someone give us a room without registering under your real name?"

He stared at me. "And how am I supposed to do that?"

"Well, I don't know!" I slapped my hands on my legs in exasperation. "You're a vampire, aren't you? Doesn't that mean you can mind meld with people? Or brain wave them into doing what you want?"

"With my mesmerizing powers, you mean?"

"Yes! Those!"

He sighed a martyred sigh. "I am a Dark One, Zorya."

"My name is Pia."

"I do not have magical powers that affect mortals. So no, I cannot stare deep into someone's eyes and convince them to give me a room without first providing my passport and credit card." He went back behind a half wall and brought out a really filthy-looking blanket.

"Well, what's the use in being a vampire if you don't get any special powers?"

"I didn't say I don't have any powers—I simply said that I do not have any over mortals. And the only one I can mind meld with, as you put it, is someone close to me, like a Beloved, and I sincerely doubt such a woman exists." He plopped himself down on a couple of the bales of hay, and pulled the blanket over him.

"What are you doing?" I asked, feeling somewhat lost and alone. I rubbed my arms against the cold—it was cold and dank in the barn, the night air teasing its way in through a dozen or more missing slats in the walls.

"Going to sleep." The words emerged with a surly edge to them.

I considered the black lump that he made in the near darkness of the barn.

"Where am I supposed to sleep?" I asked, hating the pitiful tinge to my voice, but feeling particularly vulnerable at the moment. Being helpless in the company of a murderous vampire will do that to a girl.

"I made you a bed over there."

The black lump bulged in the direction of the clumped bales of hay with the dirty feed bag. I looked at the so-called bed, moving hesitantly toward it. The rustling had stopped. Maybe it was the wind, not rodents.

"Turn off the flashlight."

"Not on your life," I said, edging my way over to the bed. One squeak, one sign that there were rats or mice near my bed, and I'd go sleep in the car, small as it was.

"Fine. If you want the police to come investigating who is hiding out in a barn that's supposed to be unoccupied, leave it on."

"Are you deliberately being as obnoxious as possible?" I asked, hefting the flashlight. It had a nice solid feel in my hand. It would make a reasonable weapon in case anything with four legs decided to attack.

Why did I have a feeling it was the two-legged predators I had to worry about more?

"I thought I was being pleasant."

"Pleasant." I snorted. "You wouldn't know the meaning of the word. Don't I get a blanket?"

"No."

I sat gingerly on the edge of my makeshift bed. "You have one. I'm cold. Why can't I have one?"

Kristoff sighed heavily and rolled over to glare at me, his eyes glowing with a teal light in the dimness of the barn. "Because I don't have a bloody bag full of clothing and you do. Now, will you turn off that light and go to sleep?"

He rolled back over, leaving me staring balefully at his back.

Chapter 11

I had to admit that Kristoff, no matter how brusque, had a point—I had all my clothing, while he had nothing but what he wore. I opened my suitcase and pulled out a sweater and scarf that were intended for use during a visit to a glacier… a visit I wouldn't get to make.

Bundled up as much as I could manage without actually crawling inside the bag, I sat huddled on my appointed bed and shivered, flicking the light around the barn to make sure there weren't bats or anything that could come swooping down on me while I slept, occasionally sending the light over to the lump Kristoff made.

He didn't move.

I told myself to stop worrying and just go to sleep, but tired though I was, the cold and discomfort kept me from relaxing. At every little rustle, every cold draft, every breeze wafting the smell of mildewed straw and ages-old manure, I hunkered down, more and more miserable, until I couldn't stand it any longer.

"I'm still cold, Kristoff."

He was silent so long, I thought he might be asleep. Finally he sat up and tossed me his blanket. It stank of mildew and horse and sweat, but it held delicious warmth from his body.

"I'm not going to take your blanket!" I said, reluctantly throwing it back to him. "Isn't there another one?"

"No." He didn't insist I take the blanket, just wrapped it back around himself and laid down. "Put on some more clothes."

"I've put on everything I have that's warm, and I'm still too cold to sleep."

The silence was even longer this time, and I could have sworn I heard another martyred sigh, but at last he yanked the blanket out from where it was tucked underneath him. "Get under the blanket, then."