Sarah had only read the Bible from cover to cover once and tried to remember Cain’s fate. “You’re right. There were other people. I had forgotten that.”

“Who we are is anybody’s guess,” he went on. “Alien race? Separate species? Either would explain why our gifts have lessened over the centuries, why younger immortals have fewer gifts than older ones. The bloodline has been diluted over the millennia as a result of procreating with humans, the gifts weakened. Some, we know, have been lost altogether.”

“What about the older immortals? Who is the eldest amongst you?”

“That would be Seth.”

“Doesn’t he know why you’re different?”

He hesitated. His gaze slid toward the guest room, making her wonder if perhaps he was debating telling her something he didn’t want Marcus to hear. “He refuses to speculate.”

“I sense a but in there.”

He smiled faintly. “But he knows. He confessed as much to me when I was … at a particularly low point in my existence and questioned him on the subject. I think he didn’t want to add to my disappointment.”

She couldn’t help but wonder what that low point was. “What did he say?”

“That revealing the truth inevitably leads to a great deal of bloodshed, so he has resolved to keep his counsel.”

She frowned. That not only sucked, it raised more questions.

“I don’t imagine he will change his mind after so many millennia, so I doubt we’ll ever learn the truth.”

Sarah rested her hand on his muscular forearm. “I’m sorry, Roland. I hope he does change his mind. I can tell it troubles you.”

He covered her hand with his own. “Thank you.” His thumb caressed her knuckles, speeding her pulse.

When she dampened her lips, his gaze dropped to follow the delicate swipe of her tongue. His grip on her hand tightened.

He leaned forward.

She held her breath.

“I take it I missed dinner?” A voice spoke from the dining room’s entrance.

Sarah and Roland sprang apart.

Marcus, clean but clad in his dirty clothes, raised one ebony eyebrow.

Roland cleared his throat. “I thought you were sleeping.”

Marcus nodded to their empty plates. “Got any more of that?”

“In the oven. Still warm.”

“Thanks.”

Marcus headed into the kitchen.

From his position at the table, Roland could see him opening and closing cabinets and drawers in search of plates, flatware, and a glass.

Her back to the kitchen, Sarah turned her gaze to the table-top near him.

Roland glanced down to see if he had spilled something and saw nothing amiss. “What is it?”

Surprising him, she took the hand that had just been stroking her own and studied the mottled dark pink scars that marred it. There were two: one where the spike had entered and another where it had exited.

As she drew the fingers of her free hand gently across his skin, a sensual tingle raced up his arm. He could not seem to get enough of her touch, no matter how casual or innocent.

“I can’t believe how quickly you heal.”

“All immortals do after the transformation. But I was like this before, when I was human. It’s part of the gifts I was born with.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Marcus open the refrigerator door, extract a bag of blood from the meat compartment, and close it again. The bag rattled faintly when he lifted it to his lips and sank his fangs into it.

Roland sent Marcus a scowl, not wanting him to feed in front of Sarah. (Vampirism was easier to accept when the more unpleasant aspects of it weren’t tossed in one’s face at every turn.)

Marcus shrugged.

Sarah gripped Roland’s hand more firmly. Though her eyes were wide when they met his, indicating she had guessed what Marcus was doing, she didn’t turn around to look.

“Is he drinking blood?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Out of a bag?”

“Yes.” Her expression lent him no hint of her thoughts.

“How do you feel about that?”

Even Marcus contemplated her curiously now, awaiting her response.

“I don’t know. Does blood taste as gross as I think it does?”

He fought a smile. “Do you remember what I told you about its scent?”

She nodded. “You said it smelled as good to you as chocolate does to me.”

“The same holds true for the taste. Immortals and vampires find it very appealing.”

“Hmm.”

Marcus tossed the empty bag into the trash. After filling his plate, he carried it, the utensils, and his glass into the dining room and sat across from Sarah.

“You don’t think we’re damned for drinking blood?” he asked dryly.

They had heard whispers and shouts of such from humans all of their existences.

She appeared to ponder it for a moment. “There are a lot of commandments regarding diet in the Bible. Not drinking blood is just one of them. So if you two are damned for drinking blood, then anyone who eats rabbit, pork, meat with blood in it, shellfish, things that swarm, and birds of prey or scavenger birds is damned, too. And those are just the restrictions I can remember off the top of my head.”

It was a surprisingly logical and pragmatic approach to take.

Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Do you eat any of those foods?”

She wrinkled her nose. “No. If you ask me, that crap just isn’t healthy, which is probably why it was banned in the first place. Pigs eat their own feces and tend to carry more diseases and parasites. Rabbits eat their own feces, too, so—yuck. Shellfish are the vacuum cleaners of the ocean and can accumulate high levels of toxins. No thanks. Scavenger birds eat roadkill. Again, yuck. And I’ve personally never seen the appeal of eating things like chocolate-covered ants or roaches.”

Roland laughed. “Neither have I. What about meat with blood in it?”

“As far as I know I don’t. I don’t eat red meat, so no rare bloody steaks. And any fowl I prepare is organic and either boiled or baked until the meat is so tender it falls off the bone. I assume any blood there might be in it would be cooked away.”

“Well, technically speaking, we don’t drink the blood,” Roland said. “Our goal is to get it into our circulatory system, not our digestive tract. So our fangs behave like IV needles, drawing the blood in and carrying it directly to our veins.”

Sarah pursed her lips. “But you do swallow some.”

Marcus nodded. “There’s always a drop or two of overflow.”

“And you like the taste of it?”

“Yes,” they answered.

Again she wrinkled her nose. “Weird.”

Both men laughed.

As Marcus went back to eating, Roland wondered how long it would take Sarah to realize she was still holding his hand. (He hoped a long time.) “What did Lisette say when you talked to her?”

“That all vampires appear to have fled Raleigh. She hasn’t so much as caught a glimpse of one in the last two nights.”

“That’s because they were all too busy attacking me,” Roland said. “Or rather us.”

Marcus nodded, chewed, swallowed. “She said she would be more than happy to come join the fun if we need her.”

Roland considered it. If the attacks continued to escalate, they could use the backup. However, killing him was not the vampires’ sole motive. They wanted to get their hands on an immortal for undoubtedly unsavory purposes, and he would never forgive himself if the French Immortal Guardian were captured.

“Let’s hold off on that, shall we? I don’t want to risk her falling into the vampires’ clutches.”

“I agree.”

* * *

As the men discussed the other woman in fond, protective tones, Sarah became aware of a semi-seething emotion infiltrating her that she eventually identified as jealousy.

“Who is Lisette?”

Roland answered, “She’s the Immortal Guardian stationed in Raleigh.”

“Do you know her well?” Jeeze, don’t beat around the bush.

“No, we’ve only run into each other a few times over the centuries.”

Marcus grinned. “He’s antisocial.” While Roland shot him a glare, Marcus filled his fork again and started to raise it to his mouth. Pausing with it halfway there, he turned to Roland, looking puzzled. “Do you have a dog?”

Roland released a long-suffering sigh. “No.”

Lowering his fork, Marcus looked into the kitchen.

Sarah turned to follow his gaze and saw nothing. Was he staring at the door on the opposite side?

“What the hell is that?” Marcus went on. “It sounds like a wolf or coyote howling, but not really.”

Sarah didn’t realize she was still holding his hand until Roland gently withdrew it, pushed back his chair, and rose. “It’s Nietzsche, my cat. He howls like a dog whenever he’s about to pick a fight with something.”

Marcus frowned. “Nietzsche? Didn’t you have a cat named Nietzsche, like, forty years ago?”

Roland shrugged. “I like the name.” As he walked past Sarah, he briefly rested his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Her pulse gave a little leap. “Okay.”

Lips tilting up in that handsome smile of his, he strode through the kitchen and opened the door. Beyond she saw a room the size of her bedroom that seemed to be a mud room/laundry room and boasted two doors.

Roland headed through it without turning the lights on, bypassed the door that she assumed led to a garage, unlocked and opened the back door, slipped outside, then closed it behind him.

Silence fell in his absence.

Sarah turned around and found Marcus staring at her thoughtfully.

She gave him a tentative smile.

As though it was a sign he had been waiting for, he set his utensils down, leaned forward, and braced his forearms on the table. “It appears a window of opportunity has opened before me, Sarah, and I’ve decided I’m going to take it.”