I was waiting at Starbucks.
It was evening and the sun still had not set. By my internal vampire clock, I knew it was about twenty minutes away. My internal vampire clock also told me that I should be asleep, to awaken just as the sun set. I think, maybe, that's happened only two or three times. And that was when the whole family was sick.
Now, of course, only I was sick. Eternally sick.
The Starbucks was near the junior college, which meant there were a lot of young people inside with longish hair, random tattoos, squarish glasses, fuzzy beards, and cut-off jean shorts, all working importantly on their laptops. These were hipsters feeding and drinking in their natural habitat.
As I sat with my bottle of water, keenly aware that the two young men sitting at the table next to me were not only barefoot but one of them had tattoos of sandals on his feet, a handsome older gentleman stepped through the door, blinked, and scanned the coffee shop.
I waved. He spotted me and nodded. I think my stomach might have done a backflip. Someone might have gasped. Actually, that someone was me, never mind. The closer he got, the bluer his eyes got and the deeper the cleft in his chin seemed to get, too.
Not to mention, the darker his aura got.
I'm familiar with dark auras. The aura of the fallen angel who had visited me last Christmas had progressively gotten darker. Robert Mason's aura wasn't quite as foul, but the thick black cords that wove around and through him were disconcerting at best. What it meant, I didn't really know, but it couldn't be good.
Especially since my inner alarm began ringing.
He stood over me and reached out a hand, but now my warning bells were ringing so damn loud that I automatically recoiled. Women stared. Men stared. Hipsters glanced ironically. It was surely an odd scene. A renowned soap actor and a skittish woman afraid to make contact with him.
After another second or two, he retracted his hand and sat without me saying a word. As he made himself comfortable, I noted that the black snakes now moved over and under the table, slithering like living things. I shivered. No, shuddered.
He watched me closely. "Some would be insulted that you didn't shake my hand."
"And you?" I asked, noting that my voice sounded higher than normal. I verified the mental wall around my thoughts was impenetrable.
He tilted his head slightly, studying me. "I find it curious. You seem to be having a sort of...reaction to my presence. Why is that?"
"Well, you are the great Robert Mason, famous for playing the evil Dr. Conch on One Life To Live."
He continued studying me as he adjusted the drape of his slacks. He was, I noted, the only man in Starbucks wearing slacks. Maybe the only man ever. His jawline, I noticed, was impossibly straight. The women all checked him out, but he paid them no mind. Indeed, he only looked at me. No, stared at me. So intently that he was giving me the willies.
After a moment, he said, "Or perhaps you didn't want me to touch you, Ms. Moon. Is there something about me that repels you?"
"Your jawline," I said.
"What about my jawline?"
"It's impossibly straight."
His right hand, which was laying flat on the smooth table, twitched slightly. The black snakes that wove through his aura seemed to pick up their pace a little. The jawline in question rippled a little as he unconsciously bit down. He said, "I think you see things, Ms. Moon. Perhaps things around me. Tell me what you see."
"I thought we were here to discuss Brian Meeks."
His lips thinned into a weak smile. "Of course, Ms. Moon. What would you like to ask?"
Except that before I could open my mouth to speak, I felt something push against my mind, against the protective mental wall, and it kept on pushing, searching, feeling.
It was Robert Mason, who was staring at me intently. The man was extremely psychic.
My thoughts were not closed to those who were psychic. Only to other immortals and often to my own family members. Someone like Robert Mason could gain entry...if I wasn't vigilant.
I knew this wasn't really a meeting, but a feeling out of sorts. He wanted to know who he was up against. By not gaining entry into my thoughts, he might have gotten his answer. What that answer was, or how close to the truth he got, I didn't know.
So, I decided to ask him the only question that mattered. "Did you kill Brian Meeks?"
The coiling, smoky black snakes that wove in and out of his aura seemed to pick up in intensity. They appeared and disappeared. Robert Mason didn't react to my question. He sat calmly, hands resting on the table, blue eyes shining. Although I think the dimple in his chin might have quivered a little.
After a moment, he said, "Ah, but that wouldn't be any fun, would it? Taking away all the mystery?"
His own thoughts, of course, were closed to me, which I was eternally thankful for. I was honestly afraid to know what was lurking inside that handsome head of his. Hard to believe that one of America's favorite daytime soap opera stars was so damn...creepy.
"There's a door in the prop room," I said. "A door behind the big mirror. Where does it lead to?"
I probably shouldn't have asked him about the door. I probably should have left well enough alone and directed Sherbet to the door later. But I wanted to see Robert Mason's reaction now, and I got the one I was looking for. His eyes widened briefly, just enough for me to know that I was onto something.
He said, "How do you about the door, Ms. Moon?"
"We all have our secrets. And taking away the mystery wouldn't be any fun, right?"
He looked at me. I looked at him. We did this for a few seconds, then he said. "I suppose. Very well, Ms. Moon. The door leads to another prop room. A long-forgotten prop room."
"Why did you call this meeting?"
"I saw you in the theater the other day. You looked interesting."
"Interesting how?"
He suddenly leaned over the small, wobbly table and whispered, "I know what you are, Ms. Moon. Mystery solved."
And with that, he got up, winked at me, and walked out.
