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Chapter Eighteen

There are no such things as vampires, unless you count Dracula.

Within the hour, Eva and Oliver met back up in the kitchen. Eva's wavy hair was now dry, secured back on one side with a clip. She had the backpack she seemed to carry everywhere and wore another borrowed black (of course) hooded sweatshirt and jeans that Oliver suspected Delta had swiped from her sister's closet, as the two sisters were the same size. Delta's complaints about clothes and their textures had included a tirade cataloging the uncomfortable stiffness of denim, a product apparently created by Satan himself.

Eva immediately zoned in on the one misfit of the garage filled with shiny black vehicles. The lone stand-out had been brought in the same day they'd arrived and, in fact, had been towed then pushed by two shifters into the spot it currently sat.

"Gram's Suburban made it here? Is this how we got here? I never even thought to ask."

Oliver noted tons of shock and awe in Eva's voice; after driving the vehicle, he felt the same.

"I just assumed it was destroyed. I remember so little about the trip . . ." Eva's voice trailed off as she grinned at the old SUV.

"It made it a few miles from here and then died. By that time, my men had convoyed up with us, so we rode the rest of the way in a different vehicle. Later, they towed it back and replaced quite a few parts, and got you a new battery, as well as tires." The trip had been rough on the old SUV and if it had been his own, it would have been retired to the junkyard, but something told him even then that it meant something to Eva. Oliver's heart swelled as Eva looked at him with shiny, bright eyes. It had been the right choice to fix it up.

Shrugging in a way that he hoped conveyed no problem, he placed an arm on her waist and led her toward the modern-day tank they were going to take out for the day.

"And new parts. I can pay you back. I have plenty of money." She seemed embarrassed. Oliver was getting better at reading her, he thought, strangely smug in the knowledge. "It just wasn"t a priority since I barely drive it, and usually Jackson takes care of things when he's back visiting."

His ego took a hit with those words. "Well, Jackson won't have to now," he clipped out, tightening his grip on her waist, feeling the flush of jealousy wash through him. "And the money is nothing." Despite the extensive background check that had been done on her best friend, who apparently had been born of a witch and was off serving his country on classified missions, Oliver couldn't stop the sting that came when Eva referred to him with such fondness.

Opening the passenger door of the monstrous, armor-plated SUV, he once again assisted her into her seat. Sunglasses in place, he opened the garage doors with a remote control, then rolled down the long driveway. Oliver knew that as they entered the roadway, two other vehicles with three men each would fall into place as a part of today's orchestrated event. One in front and one behind and if all went as planned, Eva wouldn't know they were there. And if she did, either something was going terribly wrong or his men needed additional training.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful; I just do miss my own things," Eva admitted as they drove. "I've gone from never, ever spending the night away from home, to now not even being sure if I have a home to go back to." She'd immediately opened the tinted window to let in the fresh late spring air and sunshine. Oliver removed another pair of sunglasses from his console and offered them to her.

"Is this okay? Not too much light? And thanks!" Lifting the sunglasses, she slid them on her face and let the sunlight dance across her face.

"The sunlight is fine. We've passed the hours I need to remain inside." Taking a breath, he added quietly, "Your home is being set to rights." Oliver had hesitated to tell her, despite knowing how much she cherished her childhood home. Somehow, Eva seemed reluctant to accept any help, although in reality none of this could be done alone. Things like her vehicle and house were easy; nothing money wouldn't solve.

"A crew repaired what they could, removed what they couldn't. Your belongings were set as right as they could be." He shuddered, remembering the size of the holes in and out of the house. The hellhounds must have run shoulder to shoulder trying to fit through the doorways in their eagerness to reach her. "I've had witches set protective spells and alarms around the perimeter again, not as specific as your grandmother's but acceptable until you decide what to do next." Cringing in memory, he continued, "Unfortunately, your clothes were all destroyed. Apparently, hellhound piss burns holes in whatever it touches." This also verified that the hellhounds had been after her; it didn't clear up, though, whether or not they were in league with whomever was after Ravyn.

Eva sat so silently that Oliver feared he'd made a terrible mistake in telling her. Finally, after several long moments, she turned to him with tear-filled eyes. His heart dropped. Had he messed up? Why did it seem like he never knew what to do around Eva?

"Thank you so much, Oliver. I know I'm not good at saying it, because I've been alone for so long. But thank you for fixing all of this. No one has ever done so much for me."

Thankfully, she wasn't angry and had seen it as the gift that it was.

"It's not all fixed yet, but you're welcome. And I do feel a bit of responsibility in showing them the doorway in."

A laugh escaped her as she lay her head in her hands. "And hellhound piss! Really? That's just ridiculously disrespectful. Of all the things to do, of course they do that. As if just destroying my home wasn't enough."

Eva fiddled with the radio, syncing it to her phone, and the playlist filled the background. Leaning back into her seat, she caressed the supple leather armrest, admitting, "I may have to spring for one of these. As much as I love the old Suburban, this is a much better ride. And maybe after . . . after Delta is finished, I'll be able to travel and take road trips like I always imagined."

"You think?" Oliver asked, raising a questioning eyebrow. Even though her books sold well enough, he wasn't certain if her budget would allow for the customized vehicle. He hadn't scrutinized her bank accounts during his investigation, and at this point, it was no longer necessary or appropriate. Maybe she could afford it if she skipped the bullet proofing and specialized satellite link up. "It's a nice ride," he agreed, "and one of my favorites."

"Sure beats a horse-drawn carriage, I bet." This was quite seriously spoken, nearly a question, but Oliver could hear the hint of amusement hiding behind the tone.

"Okay, now, I'm not that old."

"If you say so," Eva continued in her teasing tone. Oliver liked seeing this side of her. At his home, people were always around, magic spells needing broken, security issues and questions for his job. "So, why security? What made you go into that?"

"It makes a lot of money," Oliver replied flatly. Then flashing a smile, he continued, "And it's something I'm good at. Years ago, before, I attended engineering school. I like to build and create things, so I always kept my hands in the thick of things. Then at some point, I heard whispers of the military creating circuits, and a crazy new idea called a computer. I managed to persuade a few key players to teach me about them. Then I continued to keep up with them. If they learned it, they taught me. If they built it, I knew how and why.

Before that time, I'd also done some moonlighting as muscle and run with a few crowds of questionable character. I could often talk people out of causing trouble, and that was without compulsion, and I didn't have to rely on the old muscle part of it as much. I hired a few others, mostly shifters and vampires, then hired a few more. Eventually, I focused more on the logistics, setup, and cyber features, combining the two into a few viable businesses. And hey, like I said, it makes a lot of money."

"I thought the truly rich found it crass to talk about money?"

"I was born working class; of course I'm crass." This was nice; it had been too long since he'd had conversations regarding things other than work. "And writing? Why did you decide to start putting everything down on paper?" he asked, curious to learn what motivated her.

"Sometime after Gram passed, and most likely after that herbal mixture got out of my system, I began having the most vivid dreams about a little girl growing up in ancient times along the Nile, and progressively intense dreams that followed her throughout her life. My therapist at the time, and yes, several therapists over my lifetime . . . Childhood loss, losing parents; it's supposed to be helpful, and it was."

Pausing, she went on, "I'm getting all off track. She suggested I start writing the dreams down, sort of an additional journaling assignment, I suppose. They like having their assignments and love journaling all around. Perhaps she thought it would offer insight for me, or it was a secret reflection about how I was dealing and feeling. So I did, then I started adding in details. Remembered to fill out the who, what, when, where, and how we learned in elementary school. Took a creative writing course at the community college, then another, then dropped out of school all together. Took a break. Found on-line writing communities, then by luck my gram's old friend reached out to see how I was doing. Serendipity, kismet, fate, chance; whatever it was, she happened to be a literary agent—retired, but still willing to see what she could do for me. And here we are." Spreading her arms, she explained, "Writer extraordinary, magically linked to a vampire or two, with a few hellhounds thrown in the mix. All a part of my ten-year plan."

"Sounds like the makings of another bestselling novel."

"Maybe, if I survive it all. I mean, I'm having to borrow clothes from a witch ten years younger than me and a lot snarkier. I really don't have the snark to pull off Delta's wardrobe."

"Not many do, that's for sure," Oliver admitted. "And I can also assure you Delta isn't ten years younger than you."

Quizzically, Eva looked at him, doubting his words.

He mimed locking his lips with a key, not willing to share any woman's age.

"It's none of my business, but why does Delta work for you? Unless that's a secret too. It seems like her family and her coven have plenty of money and status. I can understand freelancing a bit as needed, but she puts in a lot of hours."

"Yeah, normally her hours aren't so . . . aggressive." Knowing Eva, she would feel a fair amount of guilt, but Delta was well compensated for her time, and he refused to apologize for that. "But she does have set hours. The High Priestess thinks the structure is good for her, or at least that's the story she tells. Delta is the witch who shouldn't be. Hecate had one daughter about seventy years ago. Athena, you met her." Glancing down at Eva, he added, "And whose jeans you're probably wearing."

"First, don't mention these jeans! Those sisters are tiny. I can barely breathe! And what, Athena's seventy? Hecate doesn't even look that age, and Athena looks younger than me."

Oliver glanced at Eva. "Well, you look younger than twenty-nine as well, a byproduct of the succubus blood, I assume." It hadn't taken much research to find out her age; a simple flip through her wallet and her license had freely given that information. Despite the fact that in a few weeks she was turning thirty, Eva also looked to be in her early twenties and would remain that way for at least several decades or more, if he were to guess. Demons were immortal and depending on how the human side fared, a hybrid could theoretically live much longer than normal humans. Malth had been alive for decades longer than Oliver, but had said on occasion that most hybrids had a shorter lifespan due to circumstances out of their control.

"Finally, a good side to all this! So, you're telling me I've been wasting time and money moisturizing daily for a decade, and this is all natural?" Eva fist pumped with feigned joy. "So, I'm guessing witches also don't age like humans?"

"No, and I don't dare ask the High Priestess her age. Typically, witches of her power have a single daughter during their lifetime. A protege, not just a daughter, but a novice who is trained, groomed, and will inherit the High Priestess position when the time comes. Only Hecate got pregnant again, years ago after fooling around with a visiting mage during some witchy moon ceremony, I'm sure. Thus Delta. To be honest, I don't think half the time Hecate knows what to do with her. Delta is powerful, definitely more powerful than her sister, and quite possibly will someday rival her mother and at a much younger age. But tradition says Athena inherits all that Hecate has: the title, the position, the wealth.

"Athena doesn't see Delta as a rival, but that doesn't mean it can't change in the future. If Delta didn't exist, there would be no question or threat to the future of the coven or Athena's future. But Delta does exist, and no one is quite sure what to do with her or what her existence means for the future. Sooo, she works for me. She's disrespectful, dresses inappropriately for the job, but hands down is the best witch I've worked with. Power levels aside, if she doesn't know something, she researches until she does. I've helped her make additional contacts around the world, and that has opened her up to learn even more, which also makes her even more of a threat to the standards that her coven lives and follows."

Oliver could almost hear the wheels turning in Eva's brain as she digested the story that wasn't truly his to tell, but what she said next surprised him. "You're a really nice man, Oliver Patrick." Holding up a hand and shaking her head, she added, "And no, don't try to tell me otherwise."

"I'm really not." Oliver suddenly became very interested in the straight road that lay out before them. He could feel Eva's eyes on him, and she laughed. Her laughter rolled through him, giving him the same feeling of contentment that her compliment had. He was no longer the man she imagined him to be, but perhaps he could become that man once again.

"Whatever you say, ‘Boss Man,'" she mocked. "Anyway, where are we getting lunch? I could eat a bit now. Your housekeeper, chef, whatever makes out of this world meals, but I would kill for a big ole greasy burger and fries. Not a chain, but someplace that uses real beef and if it has sticky floors, that's a huge bonus! And did I say huge? I hope I mentioned that as well."

"I think we can manage that. I have to admit, though, I expected you to go for a big ole cup of coffee first thing." Mimicking her tone, he considered the nearby options for her request.

"You jest! The day is young! However, I literally had a pot before you found me. And you have a setup that rivals most coffee shops. I need some food to soak up some coffee before the cycle starts again. And I swear if we get attacked before I get some junk food, I'm going to fight off the hellhounds with my bare hands myself!"

"Perfect," Eva moaned around the medium rare burger as she bit into it. Oliver suppressed a groan himself; if she kept this up, he would remain in a permanent state of hardness. Eva had moaned identically when she took the first drink of her beer from a glass he suspected wasn't quite clean. Oliver had polished his silverware with a paper napkin before digging into his own rare burger, hold the bun. Pushing the toppings to the side, he cut into the barely warm meat, savoring the taste as he rolled it around in his mouth.

"Good?" Eva asked through a mouthful of food as the neon bar sign flickered, alternating lighting her up in red and then darkness. She'd alternated between the thick burger and the extra crispy French fries. He needed to make a note to his chef to include a few less healthy options in the daily menu for Eva.

Smiling, he nodded. It was, in fact, quite good. However, as much as he enjoyed spending time with her, Oliver continually scanned the bar. They slowly enjoyed their meal and when Eva had a second beer, Oliver added one for himself. He could drink all day, and it wouldn't impair him or prevent him from noticing anyone who approached.

Perhaps emboldened by her second beer, Eva waved a fork toward him. "What do you normally eat, or how, I guess. I know you can have coffee, wine, beer and rare beef. Is it enjoyable?"

Carefully, Oliver wiped his face with a paper napkin before responding with a slow nod, "yes, I do enjoy those items, but they don't satisfy me. Of course, I drink blood." His voice dropped lower. "Ravyn taught me to survive on animal blood and the blood of the dying. War brings that in droves. But these days I get my meals discreetly packaged and delivered from a few local blood banks." After a breath he admitted, "I wouldn't down a meal directly from a willing source, if the opportunity allowed."

Giving a small smile, Eva considered his response. "But doesn't that lifestyle put you at the mercy of others. If the blood bank doesn't deliver or no willing donor is on hand then what? You starve?"

"Possibly, but not probable. A certain amount of hunger can be uncomfortable, but not detrimental. And Ravyn and I aren't the only ones who live like this. A European conglomerate has been working on creating a laboratory blood that can keep my kind sustained. I hear they are very close."

The jukebox played just loudly enough that the conversations around them were slightly muted—or would be to anyone who wasn't a vamp. Oliver heard nothing that worried him. He noted the six guards rotated through the bar as well, ordering a single beer or soda to sip as they sat casually, but on alert to any dangers. A few of them ordered food to go, and Oliver could imagine the werewolves' order of half a dozen rare burgers causing bemusement in the kitchen. Oliver could almost relax. Almost.

"Why do you use a pseudonym for your writing?" It was one of the things he couldn't understand. Her work was good. Successful. "Why remain hidden?"

Eva carefully wiped her mouth and hands with several of the paper napkins before tilting her head, considering his question. "In the beginning, it was sort of about not being seen. Would it be embarrassing for people I know to know or read my writing? Regardless of what is written, it's still a baring of your soul, personal. Then it evolved into realizing it didn't really matter if people knew who I was as a writer, because I've never really been seen. It was just an extension of that."

With a sardonic laugh, she continued, "And eventually, as my work actually became well-read, dare I say popular even, it became about ego. I could be sort of smug in the knowledge that they, the readers, didn't know who I was, but I did. They could guess, and wonder, but I could revel in the knowledge that I knew this secret that they didn't."

After they finished their food and only drops of warm beer remained in their glasses, Eva sighed in contentment. "I'm so full. And thanks; this floor is the exact right amount of sticky." Gesturing toward his partially finished plate, she asked, "Do you enjoy any other regular food? And drink?"

"I do, depending on what it is," Oliver admitted. "Any strong alcohol, although it doesn't affect me. And a bit of meat—the bloodier the better—although I have to be careful not to overdo it.

"Shopping next? Or just drive? Lady's choice today." And every day, he mentally added. Oliver cringed at his own thoughts. When had he become so needy and obtuse? He did feel a tad guilty at his selfish behavior. He craved spending time with Eva, and she'd appeared happy to stay in his home, content to watch movies and play board games, but clearly she was making the best out of the situation.

"Ugh, maybe I should have shopped before we ate!" She lay her head back against the green vinyl booth and groaned. "Maybe just a Walmart or Target if there's one nearby. I'm not picky. Just need a few things that fit me a little better."

"I think we can do a bit better than that. Besides, it's my treat." An assistant had already sent Oliver a list of various boutiques in the area that might appeal to her. While he might know a dive bar or two off the top of his head, boutique shopping was definitely out of his area of expertise.

"You really don't have to pay. I have money, and I barely spend what I have." She reached for her backpack, where he knew her ID and credit cards were kept.

He held up a hand to stop her, shaking his head.

"Yes, but I would like to buy you clothes. It's the least I can do. Perhaps those hellhounds wouldn't have gotten in so quickly if they hadn't followed me."

Looking him in the eyes, Eva questioned, "How about bras and panties? Because Oliver, that's what I really need. Delta and I aren't close enough to share panties, and that poor girl has no time to run around buying me stuff. And bras? Don't even get me started." Pointing to her chest, she reiterated, "We certainly aren't the same size, even if she was willing to share."

Don't look at her chest, Oliver ordered himself as his eyes were immediately drawn toward her full breasts despite the fact that a bulky sweatshirt mostly hid them from view. Where both Delta and her sister were thinner and several inches shorter, Eva was all curves and softness. It was no wonder their castoff clothes didn't fit her properly.

"Eyes up here, sir"—she pointed at her eyes—"and no, I'm not wearing any underthings at all. They were still wet from being washed last night." Hesitating and then emphasizing "wet" could have been his hopeful imagination, but her heartbeat speeding up definitely wasn't his imagination, nor was the wide-eyed look she gave him. "They have to hang dry, or they would already be in shreds."

Torn between apologizing for not thinking of his guest's needs after he'd dragged her away from her home in the middle of the night with barely the clothes on her back, or focusing on the fact that she wasn't wearing anything under her ill-fitting clothes, he remained temporarily speechless. His mouth went dry as he thought about the snug, borrowed jeans with nothing underneath them.

His fangs begged to drop, and his tongue ran along them, ordering them to remain in control.

"Yes or no to buying me the personal items I need?" Eva refused to look away, meeting his gaze with a steady, challenging look as her heart continued to beat rapidly, waiting for his response.

"Of course, whatever you need." Thankfully, he had enough experience in the art of interrogation to keep his voice as steady as hers, but Oliver still somehow felt as if he'd lost a round to the enticing woman in front of him. "I'll buy you whatever you need, Eva."

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