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actually, have no lines around them, and that his jaw is not just firm, but smooth.
    Nineteen? Twenty? Certainly not much older than that…which makes him, at most, a few years older than me, yet too old to actually be interested in my never-going-to-grow-a-real-chest self.
    Alarms go off. Shields go up. I barely resist the urge to fold my arms across my barely a blimp on the radar boobs. “What gives?”
    He shakes his head, obviously confused.
    “Why do you want to hang with me?”
    “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”
    My jaw drops open. I don’t bother to repeat the I’m-a-vampire line. If he didn’t get it the first time, there’s no hope for him. The door opens, revealing another hall like the one below us on B-level, only this one is well lit and now has two soldiers with guns guarding the door to the mess hall at the end. Marine isn’t taking any more chances.
    “Hey guys.” John steps forward, arms down at his sides in a relaxed, non-threatening pose.
    “John.” The soldier on the left nods, clicking on a penlight he’d been holding in his other hand. “Heard you were part of the rescue team.”
    “Yup.” John suffers through the pupil test. He passes, and when the soldier drops the beam, steps aside.
    The soldier gestures with his chin toward me. “What’s with her?”
    John glances over his shoulder at me, his brown eyes holding all kinds of messages that I can’t read. “This is Eva.”
    He doesn’t expand. Probably smart. Marine hasn’t released his statement yet, and trying to explain who and what I am, and why I’m covered in blood, might get complicated. It’s hard not to notice, though, and both men tense.
    “You look like you’ve been through some serious shit,” the talkative soldier says.
    “Nah, just the standard.” I step forward, hands clasped in front of me as I present myself for the pupil test. Soldier one shines the light back and forth, back and forth. It spears into my skull like a laser beam and I swear my brain starts to fry. I know I look bad, but come on, my pupils are constricted. Way constricted.
    “Huh.” The soldier clicks off the pen light. A couple feet away his partner’s grip eases on his rifle. “Shouldn’t she be down on C-level?” This is directed at John. As if I’m not even there. Love a guy like that. Not.
    “I’m showing her around,” John replies, neatly avoiding any real explanation.
    The soldier’s gaze falls to the Sheriff knife strapped to my thigh. Busted. Though maybe not. If I were Marine, after the latest fiasco one of my first orders would be to make sure everyone—including child, mother, elderly, or ill—have at least one weapon for the hell in a handbasket scenario. Must be the case because the soldier turns and punches in the code to open the door. John and I step through, two sets of eyes still studying me curiously. My Glock itches like a witch’s mark where it’s tucked into my jeans and lays against the small of my back. Knives might be common accessories to everyone down here, but the gun isn’t. If the soldiers are astute enough to notice it, there are going to be more questions.
    I relax a little when the door closes behind us. I look around the near-empty mess hall. Mid-morning and I’m guessing that most peeps living down here are either up on command, out on missions, or in the training areas. My presence still draws the eyes of the few men here. Marine warned me from the beginning that there are only a handful of women among the ranks of soldiers. Weaker sex and all that. No matter how independent, how smart or athletic, when all other things are equal and it comes to mass and muscle comparison, a man is going to have a greater chance of survival in this kind of environment. There are simply not that many kick-ass women left alive to serve, and the rest of the fairer sex are coddled commodities down on C-level. It’s obvious where these men think I should be. It takes all my restraint not to curl my lips