Dacey picked up her coffee. “Let the Right One In, right?”
“Pfft. That’s Sweden.” He spread his hands as he stood upright. “Do you want proof? He’s buried on the hill behind the house. In the pine trees.”
Wow, that wasn’t creepy at all. Dacey tried to picture the land around the cottage. There were lots of trees and lots of snow. She definitely didn’t remember a graveyard. A little uneasy, Dacey pointed out, “All that proves is that he existed.”
“True.” The waiter grinned, teasing. “But maybe his vampire is still out there, waiting. Polar nights, you know. Perfect for lurking in the dark.”
“Now you’re just trying to scare me.”
Laughing, the waiter said, “If I were trying to scare you, I’d tell you that the cottage is haunted.”
With a relieved smile, Dacey waved him off. He was so full of it. She didn’t believe in ghosts, vampires, or quirky regional myths. The closest she got to encounters with the supernatural were the hallucinations when her insomnia got superbad.
But people loved legends, and there had to be more. If she couldn’t get the camera to work, her editor would be just as happy with a local folklore and mysteries story.
She did a little dance in her seat and then dug into breakfast, recharged.
Striding through the cottage, Dacey held her phone in front of her as she talked. She’d gone through the camera manual page by page, spent a very tedious hour wiping all the lenses down in exactly the right way, and then shot another hundred pictures of the gold-edged dusk. Every single one of them was smudged.
“No, that’s what I’m telling you,” she said. “It doesn’t matter where I go, the pictures are messed up. Right, I tried different locations. Yes.”
She stopped to peer at one of the window frames. She hadn’t realized it before, but someone—perhaps the legendary Kristian—had carved roses into the wood. They bore faint traces of paint, red and gold and blue.
Trailing her fingers over them, Dacey warmed at the detail. She could imagine masculine hands carving into the wood. Almost see them, paint smeared and rough, filling in the little details with so much care . . .
The tech on the phone interrupted the thought. “And you’re using it outside?”
“Um, yeah. My dad bought it because it was recommended for outdoor stuff.”
Dacey turned to grab the manual and stopped abruptly. It wasn’t just that window—the room was full of rosemaling. Delicate curves and swirls framed all the doors and windows. The mantle matched, and so did the cupboard panels.
Suddenly, the cabin shifted. The distressed, faint streaks of paint turned vibrant. Gold poured into darkened outlines, glimmering in the light. The room swelled with color; thousands of hand-painted roses bloomed. Everything else faded—the furniture, even the light outside. A masculine scent hung in the air, musky and clean.
A cool touch raised the hair on Dacey’s arms, and she distantly heard herself telling tech support that she didn’t know how cold it was outside, just that it was.
“Are you wearing a scarf?” the tech asked.
The question broke the spell. Colors drained away, faded again. Aged again, her delirious brain insisted.
Rubbing a cold hand against her face, Dacey shook herself, catching up to the conversation she was trying to have. “I . . . no, what difference does it make?”
Gently, and surprisingly without condescension, the tech replied, “It’s probably your breath. The flash reflects off the frost when you breathe. That’s why you see it in all your photos.”
A blush crawled up the back of her neck, heat to drive away the lingering chill that had touched her skin. “I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s a common problem,” the tech said. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
“No, that’s all, thank you,” she said, and hung up without waiting for a reply. She kept waiting for the colors to come back, or the cold. Prickles raced on her skin again when she realized that the scent of musk still hung in the air.
Patting her face sharply, Dacey started for the bedroom. The insomnia was getting to her, obviously. She didn’t like to take sleeping pills because they didn’t work very well. Sure, they left her dreamlessly unconscious for a few hours. Afterward, she’d wake with a hangover, aching and tired. But sometimes it reset her brain enough that the hallucinations faded. Better exhausted and gorked out than exhausted and loony tunes.
She dug out a prescription bottle and swallowed a half tablet without water. Sprawling across the neatly made bed, she waited for sleep to claim her. Her fingers ran restlessly over the patches that made up the top of the quilt.
And then cold came over her again, when it was too late to do anything about it.
She hadn’t made the bed! She hadn’t turned it down the night before. Someone’s been in here, she thought. That’s why I smelled cologne. Someone’s been in here!
Panic swallowed her. Trying to claw back up from sleep, Dacey managed to pick up the card with the exchange counselor’s phone number. But it fluttered to the floor when her woozy fingers refused to keep hold. She slumped onto the pillow and slept.
When she opened her eyes, Dacey felt like she was made of lead. She blinked, and confusion set in.
The world had an upside-down kind of dream logic, little stars and sparks drifting around her. The flowers on the headboard opened bright petals, and when Dacey sat up, she realized she wasn’t alone.
A boy stood at the windows, cradling a cup in his hands. He was finely built, lean and tight, his shoulders tapering to a perfect triangle at the narrow straits of his waist. His close-cropped hair was so pale that it reflected the palette of blues outside.
Dacey tried to throw herself out of bed, but the molasses weight of dreaming held her down. So instead, she demanded, “What are you doing in here?”
Hesitating, he formed his lips, then stopped. After gathering his thoughts, he said in accent-tinged English, “This is my cottage. I’m supposed to be here.”
Moonlight outlined his profile, glowing at the tuft of his brows and through the fine, silvery curve of his eyelashes. He had a strong nose, and a full mouth, and the slightest hint of transparency to him. Through the pale lavender part of his lips, Dacey could see the fence outside; the mountainous horizon traced a shadow on his cheek.
Relieved, Dacey fell back in bed.
“A dream. Oh, God. Thank God.” She laughed, a bubbly, delirious sound that spilled out of her and didn’t stop when he came to sit beside her. Instead, she clapped a hand on his knee, which seemed substantial enough. “You’re a salmon-egg omelet and half an Ambien.”
“What? You’re talking out of your head,” he said. He held out the bowl-shaped cup in his hands. “Tea?”
The clean scent of well-steeped tea flooded Dacey’s senses. Struggling against the strange weight of dreams, she finally managed to sit up. She swayed into him, her cheek skimming his shoulder, her hand accidentally slipping down his chest.
His leanness was all muscle, tight and sculpted beneath the rough fabric of his clothes. Warmth radiated from him; it slipped into her and slowly spread. Tipping her face up, she smiled and asked, “Are you a dirty dream? I don’t usually have those about white boys.”
He pressed the cup into her hands. “You’re the one; I’ve been waiting for you.”
Swirling a finger in the air, Dacey spoke between swallows of tea. “Kristian, right?”