I hum in agreement. ‘I get that.’
‘This has been the most difficult time period for it, though.’
‘It has?’
She nods, her eyes gleaming in the dim light. ‘Usually I’m good at change– I’ve had a lot of practice at adapting, after all– but the last thirty years have felt like the world’s on fast forward.’ Her little head shake sends a strand of hair tumbling over her collarbone and I track its path as subtly as I can. ‘It’s the language, more than anything. I used to have to learn a new set of words about every ten years, but now it’s more like ten months.’ She laughs, soft and breathy. “Body count” took a lot of getting used to. Especially when… well, you know.’
I stiffen. ‘You’ve killed people?’
She doesn’t reply for a moment, and when she does, her voice is a little more tentative.
‘Will you panic if I say yes?
‘No.’
Yes.
She winces. ‘It wasn’t anyone who didn’t deserve it.’
God help me, why am I a little turned on by that?
‘I’m not sure I want to know this,’ I say, ‘but whatisyour body count?’
She shrugs, like this is a very normal question. ‘Four, maybe five. And only when necessary.’
A prickle of fear trips its way up my spine. ‘Should I be rethinking being alone in this cellar with you?’
‘Yeah,’ she says gently, her eyes catching on mine. ‘You probably should. But you’re not, are you?’
My breath hitches a little, and it’s not because I’m worried she might murder me. It’s the pull I feel towards her that scares me the most. And I’m doing absolutely nothing to resist it.
In fact, I welcome it.
‘No,’ I say, tipping my chin up. ‘I’m not.’
There’s a crackle of tension between us then– something like the charge in the air before a bolt of lightning hits. For a moment we just look at each other. Then Florence looks away and breaks the spell.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ Her voice is steady too, low and soothing.
I nod, my heart rate easing just a little.
‘Do you know why you’re scared of blood?’ she asks carefully.
I don’t say anything at first. I’m too busy trying to put my thoughts in order. Because yes, of course I know why I’m scared of blood. I just don’t know if I can say it out loud.
‘I know that some phobias are totally irrational,’ she continues, her voice low and calming. ‘I just wondered if there was somethi?—’
‘It’s because of my dad,’ I blurt out. I guess Icansay it, after all. ‘He had an accident while he was showering and I found him. He’d slipped and cracked his head on the bath taps.’ I swallow, remembering. ‘There was so much blood I thought he was dead. But he wasn’t. Just passed-out drunk in the tub.’ I huff out a humourless laugh. It still makes me want to puke, even all these years later. ‘It looks like more in the water, that’s what the paramedics told me.’
She nods, her eyes still fixed on me. She takes my hand with one of hers, cool fingers slipping between mine. I still find it strange, the idea that she is, technically, dead. After all, plenty of the very alive women I’ve dated have hands colder than hers. Idly I wonder which other parts of her might be cool to the touch before I snap myself out of it.
‘How would you cope, do you think, if you were to fully turn?’
That question hits me in the gut. I’d like to say I haven’t really thought about it, but that’s not true at all. In fact, it would probably be easier to count the times I’mnotthinking about it.
‘Maybe it would fix me?’ I say hopefully. You never know. ‘Did it change for you?’
She shakes her head, the action making her dark waves fall around her like a cloak. ‘I was helping with unmedicated births at seven,’ she says with a soft smile. ‘I was never squeamish.’