Night's Kiss (Children of The Night 1)

She glanced around the room, wishing for a looking glass so that she might see how she looked, only then remembering that there were no mirrors in the house save for the small one on the medicine cabinet. Of course, she thought with a sheepish grin. Roshan had no need of mirrors, since vampires cast no reflection.

Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the door and made her way down the stairs. Morgana trailed at her heels, meowing softly. Going into the kitchen, Brenna opened the back door so the cat could go outside.

Brenna found Roshan sitting at his computer. Coming up behind him, she watched his fingers fly over the keyboard.

"What are you doing?" she asked, peering over his shoulder.

"Writing."

"Writing what?" She looked closer, frowning when she saw her name appear on the screen.

"My journal," he replied.

"Oh?"

"I've kept a record of my life since I became a vampire," he explained. At first, he had jotted his thoughts on scraps of paper; later, he had typed them up on a manual typewriter. With the advent of modern technology, he had transferred everything to his computer with the vague idea that someday in the future he might take a go at writing a novel based on his life story. He would have to sell it as fiction, of course. No one would ever believe any of it was true.

"I should like to read it," Brenna said.

"Indeed?" He closed the file, then swiveled his chair around to face her.

"Very much, especially since my name is in it."

"Perhaps one day," he replied. "What would you like to do this evening?"

"What did you say about me?"

"I wrote about how I found your name in a book and then how I traveled through time to find you, and what has happened between us since. Now, what would you like to do this evening?"

She stared at him, trying to imagine what it would be like to live as long as he had, to have seen all the wondrous things he must have seen in his long life.

"Brenna?"

"What? Oh, I should like to see more of the city."

"Let's go."

He showed her the city from one end to the other. When she expressed an interest in driving the car, he explained about turn signals and hand signals and then he drove to the outskirts of town and let her drive along a long stretch of quiet road.

She was a quick study. It was one of the things he liked best about her.

In the weeks that followed, he let her drive along quiet streets until he felt she was ready to handle heavier traffic, and then he let her drive in the city and finally on the freeway. He showed her how to put gas in the Ferrari and how to pay for it with his credit card. He found a copy of the Department of Motor Vehicles handbook and went over it with her until he was confident that she knew all the rules and traffic signals.

Late one night, he made a visit to the seedy side of town, and for a couple hundred dollars he obtained a birth certificate certifying that Brenna Flanagan had been born in a small town in Ireland in 1989. Another hundred dollars procured a driver's license from the same country.

He bought a washing machine and a dryer and together they learned how they worked. When she asked how he had washed his clothes before, he explained about dry cleaners and told her that some clothes could be washed at home but some had to be sent out. Not wanting to be bothered with laundry, he sent everything out, including his socks and underwear.

She learned how to run the vacuum and the DVD player, how to order takeout food over the phone.

Late one night, he spread a handful of currency and coins on the kitchen table and explained to her the value of each one.

Brenna spent part of her days watching television, trying to absorb what she was seeing. She understood now which programs were real and which weren't. For a time, she watched nothing but the news, completely astounded that she could watch things happening as they happened, not only in this place but on the other side of the world. She had never realized just how big the world was, or what a frightening place it could be. Sitting on the sofa in Roshan's house, she saw the grim faces of war and hunger and poverty. How blessed she was, she thought, to live in this country, in this time of peace and prosperity, a time when women were no longer considered chattel. No longer were they compelled to obey their husbands or marry for land or titles. Women were allowed to be independent now. They lived alone if they wished. They worked. They voted. They held public office. Truly, it was a wondrous age!

She spent hours experimenting in the kitchen. Once she got over her initial uneasiness at using the stove and the oven, she immersed herself in learning how to cook. Eating was, after all, a pleasurable experience, more so in this century than her own. There were so many foodstuffs she had never encountered before, so many ways of preparing various dishes.

One night, Roshan took her grocery shopping. She was aware of his wry amusement as she examined practically every item on the shelves. She was amazed at the way food was packaged, surprised to learn that you could buy milk when there wasn't a cow in sight, astonished that she could buy dinners that were already cooked and ready to eat. She discovered that bread came in a number of varieties. There was white bread and wheat bread, potato bread and egg bread, pumpernickel, dill, and rye. She was eager to try all of them, not to mention rolls and biscuits, croissants and cupcakes.

"I shall soon be as fat as old Mrs. McKenna," Brenna remarked as she placed several loaves of bread in the cart. "Do you not miss eating?"

He shook his head. "I can scarcely remember what solid food was like."

"How can you drink blood?" she asked with a shudder.

"It's normal for me." At first, he had been certain that he would rather die than do what was necessary for him to survive in his new lifestyle. He had gone for several nights without feeding, refusing to succumb to the hellish thirst that had plagued him. In the end, it had been the pain that drove him to it, pain so bad he would have done anything to end it. All it had taken was one taste, one drop, and all his revulsion had been swept away.

Brenna added a bunch of carrots to the basket. "But to drink nothing but… but that for such a long time. Do you never tire of it?"

He laughed softly, amused by the question and the expression on her face. "No," he said, "I never tire of it." Nor did he ever get enough. It was a thirst that could not be quenched, a hunger that was ever present, lingering in the back of his mind, always a remembered taste on his tongue.

"Do you like being a vampire?" she asked when they were finally on their way home.