Page 4 of Because the Night

“I needed a tour guide to this century and there you were.”

“Great.” I’ve spent my entire life never being chosen for anything. Being average height, average weight, and bookish, I tend to blend. Neither the cool kids, nor the jocks wanted anything to do with me in school, and men like him have looked straight past me ever since. “That’s just great.”

“People have begged me for the gift I just gave you. Offered me riches beyond imagination. Yet all you do is whine.”

“Dude, you killed me. You actually killed me. Do you seriously expect me to thank you?”

“How long is it going to take for you to get past that?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But when I do, we’re going to have a long conversation about consent.”

He shakes his head.

“When I was dying…you said something about me reminding you of someone?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Maybe I imagined it. My memories of the attack and him turning me are shadowy at best.

There are plenty of people out tonight, and so much traffic. He must have been awake sometime in the last century because he knows how to drive. And he drives my ten-year-old Prius so I don’t accidentally break it. Like how I cracked the wood banister as we were heading out. All I did was put my hand on it andbang. I obviously don’t know my own strength. Or speed, for that matter. Every move I make now needs to be slow and steady and careful. Given my general lack of patience, this is no easy feat.

The vehicle’s keyless start and automatic transition were new to him. I also had to talk him through the various electronics. For a while, he just sat and stared at the dashboard in a daze. Guess there are a lot of lights and information. Now I stare out the passenger-side window in a similar state. I think I’m in shock. I know this is happening, but it doesn’t seem real. Like I am watching it all from a distance.

“Women such as yourself used to be more accommodating,” he says. “Less sharp-tongued.”

“Women such as myself?” I ask archly.

He doesn’t respond. But the wordhomelyappears in a still and silent corner of my mind. And I absolutely bet it’s what he means. Asshole.

“How long were you in that room for?”

“A while.”

“Did we even have the right to vote the last time you were awake?”

“Yes. That happened in 1920,” he says. “You don’t wear a wedding ring. Are you a spinster or a widower?”

“Neither. I’m single. Spinster isn’t a term that’s used now.”

“No boyfriend?”

“No. And no girlfriend or partner either.”

“So you live with your family?”

I snort. “I have my own place. Thank you very much.”

He does the furrowed forehead thing. Like he is judging all of my life decisions. Again.

“You may not realize it, but there have been multiple studies done proving that single women living alone are one of the happiest subsets of people in the world.”

“Is that so? What does this button do?” He pushes something and music blares out of the stereo. A song by Halsey. “Is this if you want to torture someone at the same time as you’re driving?”

“No, it’s for enjoyment. Halsey’s great.”

We stop at a red light, and he examines the sports car beside us with interest—along with the handsome Asian man sitting behind the wheel. They exchange smiles, and I would really rather not be part of whatever he is doing. Hunting for sex or blood, or I don’t know what.

The air tastes different in the city. At that house it tasted of dust and stone inside, and sweet jasmine and the perfume from the climbing roses in the garden. But here there’s smog and a dash of salt spray from the distant Pacific Ocean. It has a definite aftertaste. As do the people nearby.

---