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I thought it would look good under disco
lights, but out here in the open . . . ’
    I shrug. I like the way they look, but if I said so it’d sound lame, like I was hitting on her. Which I
am
, but I don’t want to be obvious about it.
    ‘I’m sorry I came,’ she says, lowering her voice. ‘Shar invited me, but she invited lots of her clients and I’m about the only one who turned up. I think I was
supposed to give her a card and a big tip and make my excuses.’
    There’s another pause, during which we smile awkwardly at each other and try thinking of things to say. This time she breaks it by holding out a hand. ‘Deleena Emerson.’
    ‘Ed Sieveking,’ I respond, touching my hand to hers. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ As our hands part I say, ‘
Deleena
? I haven’t heard that name before.
Where does it come from?’
    ‘It’s not a real name,’ Deleena says. ‘Just something my mother thought up.’
    ‘It’s nice. I like it.’
    ‘Me too,’ she says, and blushes sweetly. ‘Ed Sieveking,’ she murmurs, running the backs of her fingernails down her left cheek, as if trying to wipe the rosy glow away.
‘Did you know there’s a writer called Edward Sieveking?’
    I stare at her, momentarily thrown. ‘What?’
    ‘A horror writer. Worth checking out if you like that sort of thing.’
    I’m caught off guard. I’m not used to strangers recognizing my name, unless it’s at a convention. Deleena stares at me uncertainly as I gawp at her. I think about saying
nothing, letting the moment pass. For some ridiculous reason I’m almost ashamed to admit to my identity. But then I take a deep breath and squeeze it out. ‘
I’m
Edward
Sieveking. The writer.’
    ‘No,’ she frowns, suspecting a joke.
    ‘Yes,’ I grin, gaining in confidence.
    ‘
You
wrote
Soul Vultures
?’ The disbelief – as if no mere mortal could have been responsible for such a wonderful book – makes me preen like a
peacock.
    ‘Yes,’ I drawl. ‘And
Nights of Fear
and
Summer’s Shades
. I used to write under a pseudonym . . . ’
    ‘ . . . E.S. King!’ she finishes, whooping with delight. ‘That’s how I discovered
Summer’s Shades
. I mistook it for a Stephen King book. When I realized it
wasn’t, I decided I might as well buy it anyway, since there was nothing else I was interested in.’ She covers her mouth with a hand. ‘Oh, what an awful thing to say! Like I only
bought your book because I was desperate.’
    ‘That’s OK,’ I laugh. ‘I’ll take any sale I can get.’ Licking my lips, I fish blatantly for a compliment. ‘Did you like it?’
    ‘I bought the other two, didn’t I?’ she replies impishly. ‘Actually, I wasn’t
too
keen on
Shades
– I think it’s your weakest –
but it interested me enough to make me pick up
Nights of Fear
, then
Soul Vultures
when it came out.’ She studies me again. ‘This is weird. I’ve met plenty of
writers at parties and functions but I’ve never bumped into one of my favourites by accident. And to think I was regretting coming.’
    ‘You don’t regret it any more?’ I smile.
    ‘No,’ she says. ‘I’m only sorry I didn’t know in advance that you’d be here. I could have brought my books to be signed.’
    ‘Maybe I can sign them for you another time,’ I suggest.
    ‘Maybe,’ she agrees, eyes half-slit as she considers that.
    We talk about my books and what it’s like to be a writer. As much as I love discussing my work, I try steering the conversation on to other topics a couple of times, afraid she’ll
think I’m in love with myself. But she won’t have it. She asks about sales and royalties, how long it takes to write a novel, how I research my stories. She’s dismayed when she
learns how little I make.
    ‘That’s terrible!’ she cries, resting a sympathetic hand on mine. The heat almost moulds the flesh of my palm to the rail.
    ‘I knew you weren’t on the best-seller lists but I’d no idea your sales were that