Two weeks passed drearily. My days had become a deluge of monotony as I worked on the manuscript diligently. It was a constant effort not to wonder which of the descriptions of gods and angels I was translating were corrupted legends of living, breathing Avati. Was Nike, the winged Goddess of Victory, or Mut, the Egyptian Mother Goddess, quietly living in Beijing or Buenos Aires? Perhaps Hermes was slinging back cocktails at a resort in Colombia. I was nearly finished translating the manuscript, and I was beginning to worry. I wouldn't have anything left to occupy my time.

   I woke up feeling immobile, willing the morning to last longer. Eventually, I threw back the covers and sat up. I still had a job I had to do. I had to make up my mind not to allow myself to think about Ezra and Leif.

   I had been working every day at the café Ezra had shown me. There was a table open next to the fireplace. I settled into it and pulled out my laptop. The barista smiled warmly at me. Another fantastic element to this café was they never minded a customer occupying a table to work. Instead, the reverse as they seemed to enjoy the camaraderie and familiar presence of their regulars. I ordered a latte and a bagel then set to work. The chapter discussed the ancient world's worship of death. The Roman god Mors was the personification of death and was often seen as pale and skeletal. The Norse goddess Hel ruled over Niflheim, a realm of mists and ice, where those who did not die a hero but of old age or sickness were sent.

   The angel Azrael was ubiquitously worshipped as the angel of death, destruction, the embodiment of evil, justice, punishment, and conversely brought comfort to the grieving, sick, and dying. The chapter continued discussing Azrael's counterpart with the Hindu god Yama, the lord of death, and its modern embodiment as the scythe-wielding Grim Reaper. My mind wandered... if Mors was the cloaked skeletal figure that it described it also appeared to be a prototype to our Grim Reaper.   

   Musing Mor the Reaper, I stretched my arms as I abandoned my table to order another cup. The rich coffee aroma swirled around me, taunting and inviting. I had to close my eyes. When the barista placed the coffee on the counter, I picked up the cup and drank its contents straight down without thinking. The girl's eyes widened as I drained it, and it took me a few moments to realize what I had done. I smiled sheepishly, and she laughed as she made me another. I returned to the manuscript to continue reading about the various gods and guardians of Hades, Sheol, Valhalla, and the many other underworlds.

   Three hours and as many cups of coffee later, I sat back, stretching my back into an arch. I groaned loudly, and several people stopped what they were doing to look at me. I looked down at my arms, wishing I would feel tiny fingers of electricity crawl along my skin.

   Stop. I closed my mind and breathed. I wouldn't do any good to think about it.

   I was coming closer to finishing the manuscript. Without work to focus my concentration, I wasn't sure what I would do with my time... and thoughts. I only had a few pages left, and I knew I'd probably finish it in a couple hours.

   I took my time with the pages, enjoying the warmth radiating from the fire. It would start getting warmer, and soon they wouldn't need to light it. But winter was still lingering, and it had rained the night before, leaving a deep chill in its wake.  

   The smell of the cracking wood was equally inviting. It blended with the scent of fresh coffee beans, tantalizing my adrenaline-laced senses. I fantasized about the smell and sound of wood popping and cracking in a bonfire on the beach. Feeling the cool sand beneath my fingers. My eyes drifted out the window, my thoughts sliding through memories. I had once spent several nights on a beach near the Black Sea coast with some friends. We shared a bonfire with a group of American actors who were in the country filming some B horror film... Sins of the Dead... or Undead... or some such nonsense.

   My memory drifted to the smell of smoke mingled with salt air and the sound of waves crashing close by... quickly my thoughts shifted to Ezra pacing, agitated in a small room, his hand resting on a short sword with a fire crackling in the corner and the sharp smell of seawater in the air.

   Stop.

   It was hard enough to keep myself from thinking about my own memories. I didn't need to start dwelling on his. 

I centered my focus back on the manuscript. Once my translation was completed, I ran a spell check then formatted and saved the draft to my desktop. Roger would be thrilled. I finished this book in record time.

   I packed up quickly. A young man was eyeing my table. I nodded to him that I was leaving and he was welcome to it. He walked over, rested his bag on the chair and smiled at me. "Thank you. This looks like the best table in the house." He had a handsome angular face and dark blond hair cropped short around his head. He took off his coat and turned another charming smile my direction. He was thin with a sturdy, sinewy build.

   "On second thought it's too bad you're leaving. Why don't you stay and have another coffee with me," he said, eyeing my empty cup.

   "Oh, thank you. But I can't." I pulled the strap of my bag over my shoulder.

   He tilted his head to the left as I grabbed my coat. "Do I know you?" His eyes raked over my breasts and down my stomach. A small shiver bloomed across my shoulder blades as I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

   "Uh, no, I don't think so..." I quickly turned away. I could feel my adrenaline start to surge, and I wanted to get out of there. I headed for the door and looked back as I pushed it open. He was still watching me.

   Ezra watched Kaja push open the café door and turn down the street. She looked tense. He always made sure he kept enough distance to prevent binding. He'd watch her until she got home. He always felt better once she was back in her tiny apartment.

   As he stepped down onto the sidewalk to follow her, he saw a man step through the door of the café and stare in her direction. Ezra waited and eyed him. After a few seconds, the man pulled on his coat and followed her. Ezra moved out of the doorway and matched his steps to the stranger.

   I felt restless and uncomfortable. I didn't want to go home. I stood on the corner with my keys in my hand, trying to decide what to do. If I drove home, I'd just want to leave again. I looked down the street and readjusted the strap on my bag to rest diagonally across my chest.

   It wasn't quite at seven o'clock. Up the next block, there was a marquee for an old theatre advertising The Lost Boys. Yes, a few hours watching an old horror film sounded like a great plan.

   It was almost ten o'clock by the time the film ended, and I got back to my apartment. It had grown cold after the sun disappeared and I clutched my coat across my chest as I hurried to the building's main door and unlocked it. It was warmer inside the stairwell, but not much. I bounded up the steps pulling my bag in front of me. I stopped short at the landing on my floor as the smell of burning metal hit me full in the face. Electric arms crackled across my skin. I took the final two steps onto my floor. Ezra was sitting on the bottom level of the next flight of stairs. Wavy locks of hair dangled from his forehead. 

   I stood there, speechless. Ezra raised his head to look at me.

   "I'm sorry." His shoulders fell forward as he rested his arms on his knees, but he didn't look away.

   I was flooded with conflicting emotions warring with each other. First, excitement rolled over me at seeing him, then anger at his sudden reemergence, finally anxiety as I wondered if he was going to vanish again. How long had he been waiting for me? I sighed as I pulled my bag off my shoulder.

   "Do you want to come in?" He stood up and followed me.

   "I'm sorry," he said again, turning to me as I closed the door.

   "You said that already." He nodded and looked away.

   I set my bag on a chair. "When did you get back?" He wrinkled his forehead confused. "Your research?"

   He shook his head, "I never left."

   "You've been here the whole time?" I don't know why, but that struck a blow. There was no reason why he had to leave town just because he didn't want to see me any more.

   "Look, Kaja, everything I told you was true. The best thing for you is for the rest of us to leave you in peace, for the first few hundred years at least. Let you live a normal life." He ran his hand across the back of his neck in frustration.

   "I can't grow old, and I can't die. What kind of normal life can I have?"

   "A quiet one." He half grumbled. "Every time I try to be good and do the right thing, I make more of a mess. The smart thing would be to walk away." He laughed at that, as if he had said something funny.

   "You did."

   He closed his eyes. "I suppose I can't be something I'm not."

   "Smart?"

   "No, good," he answered without a hint of sarcasm. His eyes met mine. He watched me with a hard and deliberate expression. "I'm not a good person Kaja. No one is... but I'm particularly..." He turned away from me without finishing.    

   "Then, just leave. Go back to your house in Frankfurt, or Dubai, or wherever."

   "I can't. I want to, but I can't."

   He stood with his eyes fixed on the floor. He swayed slightly to the side as if he was deciding to stay or turn toward the door.

   I don't know what happened. All at once, I straightened, hard and solid, and moved toward him. I ignored the warnings he had been throwing at me and let my body mold against his.

   He jerked upright in protest as I closed the distance, his legs shaking faintly. Then he grabbed my waist and pinned my mouth with his, locking my body roughly against him. His lips were firm, urgent. He rocked me forcefully against the door, clutching at my sides. My hands pressed against his shoulders at first in surprise, then relaxed. My fingers curled around his hair, and he groaned. His mouth slowed slightly as it moved against mine.

   He ran his hands down to the tops of my hips and then moved under my shirt, fingers warm as they slid against my skin up to my ribcage, his large hands nearly encircling my torso, and then skimmed along my spine. My skin tingled and pulsed as his fingers brushed purposefully down my back, memorizing the contours of my body. His mouth became urgent again, demanding, as he pressed firmly against me. Fingers skimmed my waistband, sliding down to my thigh and gripping my leg, bringing it up to his waist. Then he grabbed my other leg and hoisted me up, wrapping me around his waist.

   He snaked his arm around my back, pulling me firmly against him.

So, who do you think the stranger was?

TEASER: "Not last night. But a few minutes ago..."