"No. The dark doesn't seem so scary with you here." There was a certain excitement in sharing the darkness with this man who was a stranger, an intimacy that would not have been possible with the lights on.
"You're not tired?"
"No. It seems as though all I've done the past two days is sleep."
"Very well." He acquiesced with a slight smile. "Will you tell me about yourself?"
"There's not much to tell."
"Please." He sat down in the straight-backed chair beside her bed, careful to keep to the shadows.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything."
Kara laughed. "Well, I was born in Denver. My sister, Gail, was born when I was eleven. A few months later, my folks got a divorce."
She shrugged. Even after all these years, it still hurt. And even though she knew she wasn't to blame, she'd always wondered if the divorce had somehow been her fault.
"I guess they thought another baby would save the marriage," she went on, "but it didn't work. My mom moved us here to live with Nana my grandmother. When I was fourteen, Mom ran off with a truck driver and we never heard from her again. We hadn't heard anything from my Dad since the divorce, so Nana decided Gail and I should stay with her. My brother, Steve, had just started college when our parents broke up. Nana's been both mother and father to us since my mother left. I went to college for a couple of years, and now I'm a consultant at Arias." She shrugged. "That's it."
"Who, or what, is Arias?"
"Arias Interiors. It's an interior design firm."
"I see."
"What do you do?"
"Do? Ah, my work, you mean? I write."
"You mean books?"
Alexander nodded.
"What do you write?"
"Horror stories, mostly."
"Like Stephen King?"
"More or less."
Kara frowned. "Have you had anything published?"
"A few things. I write under the name of A. Lucard."
A. Lucard! He was the hottest, most prolific writer on the market. His books consistently made the New York Times Best Seller List. Personally, Kara didn't care to read horror. Out of curiosity to see what all the fuss was about, she had read oneof his books. It had kept her up all night.
"I read one of your books," she remarked candidly. "It gave me the worst nightmares I've ever had."
"My apologies."
"What are you working on now?"
"More of the same, I'm afraid."
"My little sister would love to read your books, but Nana won't let her."
"Indeed? I wouldn't think your sister would be interested in my work."
"Are you kidding? Gail loves monsters."
"And you? How do you feel about . . . monsters?"
"I don't believein them."
"Then I hope you never meet one." He glanced out the window. He could sense the approaching dawn, feel the promised heat of the sun. "I must go."
"Thank you for staying, Mr. Claybourne."
"Alexander."
"Alexander." She could see him a little more clearly now, a tall, broad-shouldered figure silhouetted against the pale green wall. He wore a black sweaterand black jeans. She wished she could see his face, the color of his eyes, the shape of his mouth. He had a most unusual accent, one she couldn't quite place. "Will you come tomorrow?"
"I don't know."
"I wish you would." She pursed her lips, reluctant to ask a favor, yet unable to resist. "Would you bring me one of your books?"
"Of course, but I thought you didn't care for stories about monsters."
"Well, I don't but now that I've met you . . . well, I'd like to give your books another try."
"Then I shall see that you get one. Good night, Kara."
"Good night."
She watched the door close behind him, wishing, inexplicably, that he had kissed her good-bye.
Alexander prowled the dark streets, aware, always aware, of the nearness of dawn, of the necessity of returning home before it was too late. Yet he needed to be outside, to feel the darkness that had become as much a part of him as his arms and legs.
He moved through the city, driven by a horrible sense of loneliness, of separateness. He yearned for a woman to share his life, but dared not take the risk of divulging the truth of what he was. He could only imagine the panic that would result.
He felt the heat of the sun at his back. Soon, the streets would be filled with people, people who lived and worked, loved and laughed, who took their world and everything in it for granted.
With an anguished cry, he sprinted for home, for the safety of shuttered rooms.
He bolted the front door behind him. The house was