Page 23 of What Happened on Roslyn Street?
There is a small scattering of students sitting about… including Caldwell.
His head lifts, and our eyes meet. Again, the watch in my pocket is hot, warmth radiating through the thick fabric of my coat. I inhale, attempting to summon my courage. There are a lot of empty seats, an entire table I can have to myself, but I make my way toward him.
Without asking if the seat is available, I sit across from him, embracing his penetrating stare.
“Good morning,” I say with a forced smile.
“And good morning to you as well,” he drawls. “You’re up early. Any particular reason for that?”
I try to be subtle as I make my observations. Caldwell doesn’t drink from the bottles of blood the way the other vampires do, perhaps because he’s had his fill in other ways. He may preferfresh, like Margaux.
His plate is full of the usual things—sausage, scrambled eggs, and two pieces of toast. A cup of black coffee sits in front of him. It’s half-empty. His plate is full, but he does not look well-rested or well-fed. There are dark circles under his sunken eyes, and his complexion is sallow.
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, squinting as if he’s observing me in return.
“I have early classes,” I say. “I registered late, so it was impossible to avoid.”
“Mm…” He looks down at his plate, cutting one of his sausages into quarters. “The vampires and demons snatch the night classes up quickly.”
“Is that so?”
“It is,” he says. “You’ll forgive me if I’m not the best company. I’m not a morning person myself.”
Of course, he’s not. He’s a vampire.
“I figured,” I say. “Why are you up so early, then?”
It feels like a safe question, one that couldn’t possibly be prying, except itis. I need to know more about him.
He meets my gaze, eyes clicking into place again. “I couldn’t sleep. Could you?”
“I fell asleep eventually.”
“You seem like the morning type,” he says, with little inflection in his tone. “I can see you… sitting on a balcony with a cup of black coffee and a newspaper. Accurate?”
It’s accurate enough to make me blush. I hate being an open book, and Caldwell certainly makes me feel like one.
“Why does it sound as if you’re painting me as a middle-aged dad?” I ask, lifting a brow.
“Is it true?”
I roll my eyes, reaching for the pot of coffee. It’s a confirmation to his assumption, but I add a cube of sugar, a small deviance from the image he painted.
“There’s no balcony in my dormitory,” I say.
“What a shame.” He smiles that tiny, rare, secret smile. His eyes crinkle in the corners. “There’s nowhere to drink your coffee and read the newspaper.”
I’m not here to answer his questions, but I feel like it’s the right thing to do. If I question him without answering anything in return, it may come off as strange. If I let him ask his silly little questions, it’s an ordinary conversation.
“How did you spend the rest of your evening?” I lift the white mug to my lips, watching him over the rim as I sip.
The coffee warms me to my bones, enough to stop the nervous chill running through my body.
“The same as everyone,” he says. “I’m sure we all spent the night ruminating on the horrors.”
“Ah…” I laugh. “Yes. The horrors.”
He wets his lips, fixated on me as he leans closer. “You’re braver than the rest, though, aren’t you? You keep walking around campus alone.”
