He grinned and swept past me toward the bar. "Please, make yourself comfortable."
The closest place to make myself comfortable was a client chair that was currently occupied by a giant box. "Would you prefer I sit on a pile of folders or on top of this box?" I asked, perhaps a little snottily.
Behind me, at the bar, Kingsley had started to pour himself another drink. "Forgive me. We've been so busy lately; the place is a mess. Let me get that for you."
"Don't bother," I said, setting the heavy box on the floor.
Now back behind his desk, drink in hand, Kingsley watched me carefully. He took a sip from the highball glass. The bourbon sparkled amber in the half-light. I love half-light. I watched him watching me. Something was up. Finally, he said, "That box is filled with four fifty-pound plates," he said. "Two hundred pounds. And if you throw in the other crap in the box, that's well over two hundred pounds."
"I'm not following," I said, although I suspected I knew what he was getting at.
"It was a test," he said smugly. "And you passed. Or failed. Depending how you look at it."
I said nothing. I couldn't say anything. Instead, I found myself looking at his fading scars. Not too long ago I had stepped on a thick piece of glass; the wound had healed completely in a few hours. Unlike mine, Kingsley's face had a healthy rosy glow. And he had arrived at my home in the middle of the day and had not worn extra protection from the sun. He was not like me, and yet he had survived five bullet shots to the head.
"Well," I said, "I would have been in trouble had it been too much over two hundred pounds."
He pounced. "You only work nights, Mrs. Moon. You wear an exorbitant amount of sunscreen. Your windows, I noticed, were all completely covered. You lift two hundred pounds without a moment's hesitation. Your skin is icy to the touch. And you have the complexion of an avalanche victim."
"Okay, that last one was just mean," I said.
"Sorry, but true."
"So what are you getting at?"
He leaned back and folded his hands over his flat stomach. "You're a vampire, Mrs. Moon."
I laughed. So did he. Mine was a nervous laugh; his not so much. As I gathered my thoughts for a firm rebuttal, I found myself taking a second glance around his office. Behind his desk on the wall, was a beautiful picture of the full moon taken by a high-powered telescopic lens. There was a silver moon globe next to his monitor. Half moon bookends, which, if placed together, would form a full moon. On his desk was a picture of a woman, a very beautiful woman, with a full moon rising over her shoulder.