Chapter Four

The sunlight wasn't so bad during the Dark Ages.

The intense midday sun had forced Oliver to retreat and rest for a few hours. He was frustrated by this weakened state but accepted that it would worsen as the years passed. A few more centuries, and the sunlight would inhibit him even more than it currently did. The curse of the vampire meant that as his strength grew in power, so did his weakness. As the years ticked past, so did the amount of daylight his body could safely process. In the early days of his extended lifetime, the sunlight had only weakened him for a few minutes each day, but now he needed to slumber well hidden from the sunlight a good two hours of the day. Ravyn had reached an age years ago that had her hiding from the sunlight for eight hours a day and forced her to slumber for a good deal of those hours. It appeared to have leveled off for her, and he could only hope that if he survived as long as his maker, his limits might be similar.

Late afternoon brought him farther east of Chicago, entering a spotless, new live-in care center with a well-manicured lawn and bright spring flowers already blooming. It was, of course, the same care center to which he'd traced the Facebook IP address the night before. He cursed himself for not coming straight here and wasting time at the publisher"s offices, but he also admitted that knowing a name and room number made it much easier than a room-by-room search for someone who might know the author. A hidden drawer in the editor's office had housed an address book with only a few names and places listed in code. He'd broken the code, easily determined which address he needed, and was long gone before the assistant returned from her early break—if she even came back that day.

Oliver knew he was in the right place as soon as he entered the room. The security cameras didn't invade the privacy of the home's occupants. A quick perusal revealed books overflowing from shelves, a few even stacked in tidy piles. Awards for various authors adorned the walls, and full-size posters promoting each of the "Vamps in Hollywood" book covers hung on the walls. A corner desk held a computer whose screen lit up half the darkened room, and just out of reach of the light in a wheelchair sat an elderly woman with long, silver hair and bright but unseeing eyes.

Just inside the door, Oliver froze for several breaths, his eyes darting around the room, measuring any chance of danger, before coldly examining the old woman before him. The years clearly showed on her expressionless, wrinkled face. Oliver observed her quietly, feeling she knew he was there despite the glassy, unfocused eyes.

Finally, she spoke, breaking the room's silence, her voice sharp and clear. A futile attempt to feign fearlessness, but for her heartbeat speeding up and the slight catch of breath. "What will you be wanting . . .vampire?" Despite the straightness of her back and unshaken tone, her hands trembled ever so slightly as she hid them on her lap.

"How do you know I'm a vampire?" He carefully sniffed the air, relying on a third sense to ascertain possible danger. "Witch," he snarled out with a hiss. Moving closer to her desk with a careless ease he no longer felt, Oliver examined the notes on the computer"s speech-to-text program without turning his back to her.

"I should be flattered you feel any fear of me," the old witch admitted, "and the same as you; I could smell you when you entered the building. Not all of us can rely on sight alone anymore. Plus, I still have a few charms and alarms around the place. We're not as helpless here as one of your kind might expect," she spit out bitterly. "Child, I'm not your enemy."

She softened her tone, which still trembled. "I'm just an old lady, and I've never had any problems with your kind."

Oliver said nothing; her assurance meant nothing. Still, he examined her closely while her pale eyes stared in a direction near him but not quite at him. More and more layers. A witch. Barely any magic left, and a good chance that what she held in reserve kept her alive and protected her home. Most likely centuries old, if he were a guessing vampire. It was doubtful that her magic was what held a danger to Ravyn, even if she had a reason to do so.

"If you're needing a witch, you're looking at the wrong one. I'm depleted. There isn't much left of me. I just want to enjoy my final years here with my friends." Gesturing throughout the room with withered fingers, she continued, "My only power is the word, nowadays."

"Interesting, because that's precisely the power I'm looking for: someone who knows the power of words." After the proverbial pregnant pause, he added, "A writer."

"I"ve represented a few of them over the years, but now very few keep in touch. They're all dead and gone, or they've grown old and forgotten me. Sometimes, a family member sends a Christmas card, but more often than not, it"s a death announcement. It"s doubtful that an old witch like me could help someone like you." Her blasé attitude again didn't match the heart beating so rapidly that it might explode.

"I think . . ." he admonished, squatting down, not caring that his previously crisp suit was creasing. He placed himself face to face with her, knowing that she could sense the danger inches away. "I think you still keep in touch with this particular writer and that you do, in fact, know where she is."

Oliver stared straight into her unseeing, pale blue eyes creased with the wrinkles that spoke of her longevity. He gently grasped both of her ringed hands in his, caressing the aged, wrinkled skin in awe of the age they belayed. As he pulled one hand to his mouth, turning it over to expose a paper-thin, pale wrist, he saw the tears well up. She let out a tiny gasp as he nipped at her wrist, careful to avoid tearing her fragile skin, and then she told him everything he needed to know.

Imogene hadn't lied completely to him; truthfully, she'd never harmed an innocent, presented no danger to anyone, and probably never had.

Oliver had a town—no address, just a PO box—but most importantly, he had a name.

Josephine. Josephine Nance. "Posy" to her friends.