The woman seemed to be part of the menage of memories floating loose in her mind.
"Where do I know you from?" Rachel repeated a little louder, as if expecting the monitor to answer. It didn't, but a sudden creaking from behind her did. Rachel whirled, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. There was an old-fashioned coffin along the wall next to the door that she hadn't noticed upon entering, and now its lid was slowly pushed upward until a pale hand propelling it could be seen. It continued to creak all the way open, revealing a wrist, an arm, and then a shoulder.
A moment passed, seeming to stretch into hours; then Rachel's breath left her in a whoosh and her legs gave out as the coffin's occupant sat up. Rachel crashed to the floor, kneeling, mouth agape as the blond man from her dreams peered around until he spotted her.
"Oh." He seemed surprised by her presence. "Hello. I thought I heard someone talking, but I didn't sense your presence, so I wasn't sure I wasn't simply dreaming. I should have known. I worried that you might awake on your own and be afraid."
"Oh, fudge," Rachel breathed as the room began to spin. "I'm going to faint."
"Really?" he asked. "You seem to do that a lot."
Rachel dropped weakly onto her butt with a thump as the muscles in her thighs turned to putty. However, she didn't faint, and after a moment the room's spinning slowed and steadied. She was even able to ask, "Who are you?"
"Sorry." He made a face and bounded out of his coffin in one smooth move, then let the lid fall closed. "Rude of me not to introduce myself. I'm your host," he announced with a courtly bow. "Etienne Argeneau, at your service."
"You're the dead guy!" Rachel gasped as he moved closer. She noted his silver eyes.
"You remember me." He seemed pleased by the news, though she couldn't imagine why. Rachel certainly wasn't pleased to find herself talking to a dead man--a man who had, in fact, died twice, she realized. He was easily recognizable as the gunshot victim she had managed to convince herself had been a fever-induced hallucination, but it had taken her a few more moments to recognize him as the crispy critter from last night... or whenever it was she had stopped the armed guy from hacking his head off, she corrected herself. She frowned as she recalled the attack.
"Get back, he's a vampire," the madman had yelled.
Rachel's gaze slid to the coffin, then back to her self-proclaimed host. There were no such things as vampires. Yet this guy had just leapt out of a coffin and apparently got up twice and walked away from death.
"Vampire?" He echoed the word with amusement, making Rachel realize she had spoken aloud. "Now, what would make you think I was a vampire?"
Rachel gaped at him, then glanced toward his coffin. Her host followed her gaze, and his expression turned slightly sheepish. "Well, I realize sleeping in a coffin must seem odd, but it helps clarify my thoughts. Besides, you were in my bed and I didn't think you'd appreciate my joining you."
Rachel shook her head. No. She wouldn't have been happy to awake with a stranger in bed with her. Especially a dead stranger. That was taking the idea of bringing work home with her a bit far. Not that she was home, she reminded herself.
"Where am I?" That seemed the obvious question at this point.
"My home," her host answered promptly. "Mother wanted to take you to the family manse, but I insisted we bring you here."
"Ah." Rachel nodded as if her question had been answered, then asked, "Your mother?" Did vampires have mothers? She supposed they must. They were made, not hatched. Or was it turned rather than made? Rachel was a little fuzzy on the point.
Aware that he was moving toward her, she instinctively reached for the cross that usually hung around her neck. It wasn't there, of course. Silly to imagine it would be, Rachel supposed. Her host would hardly ignore such a threat to his well-being. Without the cross, she did the only thing she could think of--she made a cross out of her pointer fingers and thrust them out. She was most amazed when it worked and her host paused.
He didn't look properly horrified, however. Tilting his head, he appeared more curious than cringing. He said, "I just thought you might be more comfortable in a chair." Apparently unaffected by her makeshift cross, the man then swept her into his arms.
Hooking the desk chair with his foot, he tugged it out, and before Rachel could draw enough breath to either protest or scream, he set her in it. He then stepped back to lean against the L-shaped desk. "So, tell me a little about yourself," he suggested in a chatty tone. "I know your name is Rachel Garrett and you work in the hospital morgue, but--"
"How did you know that?" Rachel snapped.
"It was on your hospital ID card," he explained.
"Oh." Her eyes narrowed. "How did I get from there to here?"
"We brought you."
"Why?"
He seemed surprised. "Well, they couldn't help you, and we knew you'd need time to adjust."
"Adjust to what?"
"To your change."
"Change?" she squeaked. Rachel was beginning to get a very bad feeling. Before he could respond, she blurted, "Some crazy man hit me with an ax."