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up.
    ‘No, it is more than that. Much more.’
    Theo met my eyes. His raven-black hair curled around his beautiful face, and I couldn’t help noticing sweat glistening on his forehead.
Theo never sweated.
This was too weird. What the heck was going on? Something was seriously off with him. He winced, as though in sudden pain.
    ‘Theo?’
    ‘It is nothing,’ he said. ‘A headache.’
    A headache? Since when did my Maker, of all people, get headaches?
    I shivered, and Theo noticed my reaction. ‘Do I frighten you, little one?’
    ‘No,’ I whispered, scared out of my mind. ‘I just don’t want you to do anything you might regret.’
    ‘You should be afraid,’ he said, crushing me tightly in his arms and leaning his face a little closer to mine. ‘You should be afraid of what I will do to anyone who destroys that which is mine.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ I croaked. ‘How is Nicole yours?’
    ‘She created me,’ he replied, his voice shaking with rage and grief. ‘Nicole was my Maker.’
    Oh no.
That’s why it all felt so terribly wrong. I mean, beyond the obvious. This was even worse than I’d feared: his Maker was dead.
    We could lose Theo over something like this, and I wasn’t sure that I knew how to bring him back.

Chapter Four
Painful and Necessary
    We stood on the roof of his house, Theo and I, watching the stars and not talking about the thing we were actually
supposed
to be discussing: the fact that Nicole had Made him, turned him into a vampire almost one hundred and seventy years ago.
    Theo didn’t seem to be in a hurry to talk about much of anything at all.
    His eyes gleamed silver in the half-light, and I watched him as I thought of the very first night we met. I picked at the memory like a scab, afraid that if I let it heal it might fade forever and not even leave a scar.
    Some memories are both painful
and
necessary.
    I am sitting in my favorite spot along the Charles River, watching the sailboats and a lone canoe heading back to harbor. The air is still and the sunset perfect. My sketchpad lies beside me on the slatted bench. I came out here to escape, but I don’t feel like drawing right now. All I can think about is Mom and the news we got from her oncologist – yet
more
bad news.
    I become peripherally aware of someone sitting at the other end of my bench. Joining me, but giving me the illusion of space. I stiffen, refusing to turn my head to see who has disturbed my peace.
    ‘May I?’ A low voice, smooth and filled with warmth.
    I look at my uninvited guest, wishing I had the right to ask him to leave. His hand is resting on the closed cover of my sketchpad, and his face is tilted in question as he regards me curiously. I realize that he is asking about my drawings rather than whether or not I mind him joining me.
    Holy crap
, I think.
Holy crap, he looks like an angel.
Or maybe more like a devil, with hair as dark as mine and a black suit that seems to flow with every movement of his lithe body. I have never seen anyone who looks quite like this. He could be a model, a movie star  . . . or something else entirely.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ the beautiful stranger says. ‘You wish to be alone, I can see that.’ He shifts on the bench as though to stand.
    ‘It’s fine,’ I reply, struggling to move my dry lips.
    ‘You’re an artist,’ he says, making it a statement.
    I shrug, feeling a blush stain my cheeks.
‘Trying
to be. There aren’t many female artists in the mainstream, superhero comic book industry, but that’s not going to stop me.’
    My sketches lay open on his lap. His hands are long and fine, and I suddenly want him to touch me. I turn away, confused by the way this stranger makes me feel. Something isn’t quite right and, even though I know I should be afraid, all I want is to go on sitting here with him.
    Forever.
    I squeezed my hands into fists and pushed the images away, not wanting to remember any of it. Childish memories had no place here, no matter how