AN ACRID SMELL woke her. Margrit gagged and coughed, trying to wave the scent away. Her hand slapped against cool flesh that barely gave with the impact; someone moved as she opened her eyes. Blue neon lights swam in her vision and she shut her eyes again, clenching her teeth against nausea.

“How do you feel?” The male voice, deep and gravelly, was vaguely familiar. Margrit pried her eyes open once more and sat up.

The world did a sharp plunge and twist to the left, taking her stomach with it. She rolled to her side and vomited. A minute later, tears dripping from her eyes, she saw there was a stainless steel bowl settled on the floor, clearly meant for the purpose for which it had just been used.

“Your aim is excellent,” the voice said wryly. “Lie down. I believe you have a concussion.”

“Where am I?” Margrit curled into a ball, unable to do anything but lie down even if she wanted to. The room spun every time she opened her eyes, so she kept them closed, her forehead wrinkled with pain and concentration.

“In a safe place,” he murmured.

“A hospital? Am I in a hospital? There was a…a car.”

“Not in a hospital. The car didn’t hit you.”

Margrit let out a feeble laugh. “Then did you get the number of the Mack truck that did?”

“I’m afraid that was me.” Some of the gravel left his voice, making it more familiar still. Margrit’s eyes popped open and she regretted it when the room lurched precariously.

“Alban?” She pressed her eyes shut again as she asked the question, unwilling to risk another bout of sickness.

“Yes.” His weight squashed the mattress and he put a cold cloth against her forehead. “You have a concussion,” he repeated. “Mild, but you should stay still awhile, and shouldn’t fall asleep.”

Sleep. An overwhelming exhaustion swept over Margrit. “Sleep sounds nice,” she whispered.

“No.” Alban slid fingers beneath her chin, turning her head slowly and gently. Margrit clenched her teeth.

“Don’t do that,” she said hoarsely. “I’ll puke again.”

“Better that than sleeping. I apologize for the concussion.”

“What’d you hit me with? And what’s wrong with the lights?” Margrit kept her eyes closed and tried swallowing to clear the rasp in her voice.

She heard, rather than saw, Alban shift and look upward. “The lights?”

“They’re neon. Or is it just my eyes?” She was afraid to open them again to find out.

“Oh.” Alban was silent a moment or two. “They are neon. We’re in…” Wryness filled his voice again. “Not the best part of town. I apologize.”

“You dress well for somebody who can’t afford a decent place to live.” Margrit lifted a hand to her forehead, still without opening her eyes, and prodded the swollen goose egg there. “You’re also very polite for a murderer.”

Some of the politeness left his voice, surprise replacing it. “You’re personally acquainted with a lot of murderers?”

“You’d be surprised who you meet in my line of work.”

A droll note infused his response. “I suppose I would be. I’m not a murderer, Margrit. If I wanted you dead, the car would have done a fine job of it.”

“Except it wouldn’t be personal. They say serial killers like to make things personal.” Margrit’s eyes opened again against her will. “Wait.” The neon lights lunged toward her and she moaned. “You were driving that car?”

“Of course not. I was trying to save your life.”

She frowned faintly and pressed her fingertips against her eyes. Squealing tires. Blinding lights. An impact of colossal proportions. “Are you sure the car didn’t hit me?”

Alban chuckled and moved from the edge of the bed. “Yes.”

“It felt like a car hit me.”

There was another silence. “That, too, would be easier to explain later. When you’re well.”

Even with her eyes closed, the lights seemed to pulse and wobble, making bright, sickening sparks behind her eyelids. There was something wrong with the way she felt, more than the pain and nausea of the concussion. Margrit swallowed, trying to pinpoint the source of discomfort. “Why am I not in a hospital?”

“I wouldn’t be able to talk to you in a hospital, and I need to talk to you.” He sounded patient but tired.

“Why can’t you talk to me in a hospital?”

“For one,” Alban said, “I seem to be wanted for murder.”

Margrit thought she might blush, if her head didn’t hurt so badly that the idea make her temples throb.

“For another,” Alban said more slowly, “hospital visiting hours tend to be during the day.”

“So, what?” Margrit wished she dared open her eyes, even just to stare at the ceiling. “You’re a vampire?”

He sounded a bit startled as he answered, “No. Not at all.”

“So I don’t see the problem, then.”

Alban went quiet again, except for small clinking sounds, as if coffee was being prepared. Water boiled, a kettle whistling, high-pitched enough to set Margrit’s teeth on edge. The screech cut off after a few seconds and she slumped in the cot, relief as palpable as discomfort. “I’ll help you sit up,” he said, his voice at her side. “I have a tea for you to drink. It’ll help the pain and the swelling.”

“They seem to be doing fine on their own,” Margrit said groggily.

Alban chuckled again and slid an arm behind her shoulders, enveloping one of her hands in his. The touch was gentle, his hands dwarfing hers in strength and size. Her heart hammered harder, making her temples pound, but it cleared her mind a little. She knew the thrill of feeling in danger: that was what was missing. She wasn’t afraid. In pain, yes, but not in distress for her life.

“I must’ve hit my head harder than I thought,” she mumbled.

Worry came into Alban’s voice. “Can you not sit?”

“No, I can sit. I’m just-” She stopped abruptly, unwilling to give up the only advantage she might have. A kidnapper didn’t need to know his victim wasn’t afraid of him. “I can sit,” she repeated instead.

Alban helped her upright. “There’s a wall to your left if you need something to lean on.”

She put her hand out, finding it, and shifted against it before Alban folded her hands around a sturdy mug. Margrit smiled without opening her eyes. “Nice cup.”

“Thank you,” he said with mild surprise. “I made it.”

“Really?” She opened her eyes, looking at neon lights reflected in yellow tea. The mug was stoneware, glazed a pale seaweed-green and had a chip in the handle. Spiderweb cracks lined the glazing at the bottom of the cup. “It looks old.”

“I was young when I made it.”

Margrit looked up cautiously, the room swimming and dipping alarmingly behind Alban. He appeared to be around thirty-five. “Yeah. ’Cause you’re so old now.”

He smiled. “Drink your tea.”

She lifted the cup, inhaling the scents of honey and lemon, then hesitated. “You said you were innocent. At the club you said you were innocent but you couldn’t go to the cops. Why? Are you here illegally? You said you needed to talk to someone who wasn’t easily frightened, and that’s why you wanted to speak to me. How do you know if I’m easily frightened or not? Why do you need someone who’s not?” She threw the questions out as if they were barriers to any harm that might come to her, words being her only weapons. They helped her focus through the throbbing in her skull, though the pain didn’t ease any.

Alban’s smile came again, sorrow touching it. “You could say I was an illegal immigrant, though it’s an oversimplification of gross proportions. The reasons I can’t go to the authorities are very much tied to the reasons I need to talk to someone who isn’t easily frightened, Margrit. I know a little about you. What I know gives me the irrational hope you can help me. Please.” He nodded at the mug she held. “Drink the tea, and we can talk.”

Ir. Rah. Shun. Al.

Margrit met his eyes, then drank the tea.