“We’re supposed to contact the marshal in question and ask if they need help before we leave the area,” he said.
“I think that means a phone call, not a face-to-face.”
He smiled, a brief curling of lips in the black beard-mustache frame. There was emotion in the depths of his equally black eyes, but it shouldn’t have gone with the smile. I fought the urge to shiver as he stared down at me.
“I am following the new protocol, and I get to see you in person, Irene.”
“I appreciate that . . . Sherlock.”
I took in a deep breath and let it out slow. I’d made a side comment to him once that I was the Woman for him—well, the only one he actually wanted to date instead of kidnap, torture, rape, and kill. He had never read the Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, so he hadn’t understood the comment. I’d explained, and to my surprise, he’d gone off and read the stories, so the next time we met, he’d suggested we have pet names for each other. I’d be his Irene Adler, and he wanted to be my Sherlock Holmes. I’d suggested he should be Moriarty instead of Holmes, but he didn’t think that made sense as terms of endearment since they’d never been a couple in the stories. My opinion had been not only no, but hell no. Edward had persuaded me to go along with it as a way to stave off the day when Olaf finally realized we’d never be a couple, or he just decided to move me from would-be girlfriend to victim.
“You know, I’m still thinking that Holmes might work better as a term of endearment,” I said.
“Have you decided that you would prefer Adler to Irene?”
“Let’s try it that way and see if it rolls off the tongue better.”
“Very well, Adler.” But he shook his head. “I prefer Irene.”
“I prefer Moriarty, but you said no.”
“You do not seem comfortable with our nicknames for each other.” His voice had gone lower, softer, and his face was sliding to something more neutral. I did not want him to look at me coldly; that could go badly for both of us. Damn it.
“I don’t have cute nicknames for any of the people in my life,” I said, which was absolutely true.
“Jean-Claude calls you ma petite.”
I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself. “He has cutesy nicknames for everyone. It’s just the way he is, but I’ve never come up with anything to call him.”
“You call him master.”
“Hell no, not unless there are other vampires around we need to impress, and even then, I usually forget.”
He smiled again, which even with the creepy expression in his eyes was better than him shutting down and going into full-sociopath mode. “I also have never given pet names to anyone.”
“Maybe we’re just not that kind of people,” I suggested.
“I enjoy calling you Irene, or Adler.”
“And I’m good with you using it for me, but I’m just saying that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t quite work on my end for you. That’s all.”
“And you think Moriarty would be better?” he asked.
“I’d like to try it if you’re game.” I couldn’t believe that I was standing here discussing pet names with him. He scared the fuck out of me. Under no circumstances did I want to call him anything but far a
way from me.
“Why Moriarty instead of Holmes? Give me your reasons.” His voice was serious, the smile gone. He studied me with those pitiless eyes of his.
I took a deep breath and concentrated on keeping my pulse and breathing even. He’d enjoy my fear if he could detect it, and I didn’t want him to enjoy it. “Moriarty is the bad boy, the mystery man. It seems to fit you better than Holmes’s cold logic.”
“He is addicted to cocaine. That is not cold logic,” Olaf said.
“True, but I see that as weakness, and you’re not weak.”
He smiled, and this time it was a real one or the closest his little black heart had to offer. It was good enough that I smiled back at him.
“Your reasoning is sound,” he said. “I will be Moriarty for you.”