A mortal, Frank, enters a wannabe vampire bar in Manhattan and finds himself scrutinized by a beautiful real vampire.
“You're not an overgrown boy or a self-styled stud eager to add me to his sexual trophy case.”
“You can tell that just by looking at me?”
“That and much more.”
“Okay, tell me what you know.” Her gaze caught mine as I issued the challenge.
“You're an architect in his mid-thirties who would rather be a painter,” she said without hesitation. She leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers, her bright green eyes studying my every move.
“How do you know that?” Was she a mind reader or something?“There are traces of light green ocher paint under the nails of your index and middle fingers on your right hand.” I couldn't see anything, even when I held my nails under a light.
“I have excellent vision, especially at night.”
“There's nothing there to see,” I said.
“You failed to wash off all the ocher and pale yellow egg tempera paint you used.” She licked her lips.
Nessa had just described the colors I had been working with earlier in the evening. “I don't know how you guessed what I was using, but there's no way anyone could see the paint in this dim light.”
“A vampire could.” She leaned forward, opening her mouth, and showing the tips of sharp pointed fangs.
“Are those real?” I asked in a voice barely a croak. My heart beat faster and the hairs on the nape of my neck stood up.