CHAPTER 13
Nina
I can’t believe I cried all over Sampson, but I couldn’t help it. He’s such a beautiful soul, so perfect, that I couldn’t keep the emotions in. Everything he said, everything he did, made me want to jump into his skin and live there forever.
And then my outburst led to more fucking, equally as explosive and soul-devouring as before. I forgot being hungry. I only saw him. Until his stomach growled as I lay exhausted upon him.
By the time we hit Restaurant, the French restaurant that’s cleverly or not-so-cleverly named for exactly what it is, the chairs are already on the tables, and the floor is being mopped.
“Monsieur Dean, we did not expect you. I’ve sent all the staff home except for my useless son.” The gray-haired man gestures to the boy pretending to swish the dirty mop strings along the wood. “And you with such a lovely guest.”
“We’re starved, Robert,” Sampson says, pronouncing the name “Ro-bear” in the French way, “but one thing led to another tonight and, well, we missed dining hours. Anything left in the kitchen you could throw together for two starving waifs?”
“Mais oui, bien s?r. Attendez-vous une minute.” And he disappears back through the swinging door.
“Are you sure we should be bothering him? We could probably find a hamburger place if we go into Sunderland and pick up something from a drive-though,” I say, ill at ease about making the owner “throw something together.”
“You’ll prefer what Robert creates, believe me.” Sampson draws a chair down from one of the tables and indicates I should sit.
I do, but he stands next to me like my own personal gigantic guard, his head brushing the ceiling, which, happily, is high enough so that he doesn’t have to scrunch down.
His arms are crossed above his chest. The poor mopping son looks at him with wide eyes before scurrying off in the direction of what must be the restrooms and the back door.
“You scared him.”
Sampson huffs. “Caught him the other day smoking pot in the woods. We’ve had a lot of forest fires lately. I wasn’t pleased, to say the least. He’s afraid I’m going to tell his father.”
“Are you?”
“I’m still thinking about it. I’m keeping a watchful eye on the kid. If he screws up again, I won’t have a choice, but I’m hoping he’ll take my warning to heart.”
“You’re going to be a great dad one day.”
And there I go, saying the quiet part out loud. First, I sob all over him because finding a man who thinks everyone wants to create beauty in the world is so huge, I couldn’t keep my emotions inside me where they belong. And now I’m practically asking him to father my children.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, to move from enemy to obsession in one giant leap. It’s not like me at all, and yet, here I am.
But he seems to take my comment in stride. “I had a great father. I learned from the best.”
“Your adopted father. Have you ever met either of your biological parents?”
His excoriating gaze drops to me, and for the first time since he rescued me from the tree, I see anger in his eyes. “No.” He looks away again.
Oh. That was short. I should shut up. He clearly doesn’t want to discuss the subject.
“Did you ever try to find out?”
His stare jettisons back from sweeping the room, and I’m not mistaken about the anger. His jaw could crack walnuts, it’s so tight. “No. They abandoned me. I’m sure they had their reasons, and I don’t blame them. I just don’t think about them.”
But there’s an edge to the way he says the last words, as if he wants them to be true, but maybe they’re not.
“I thought we were going to be honest with each other?” I keep my voice soft, so I won’t offend him.
He paces away two steps and returns, before stalking in the other direction. He’s like a German Shepherd, on the alert for danger and keeping close, even though he wants to run.
“The truth is that I don’t think about them very often because doing so seems disloyal to my parents, but last night, I had a really weird encounter in the hospital, which I guess has swerved my thoughts towards them, and because I’m thinking of them, I feel terrible inside. I don’t mean to snap at you.”
“That’s okay. Was this conversation with the guy that the nurse said was your relative?”
“You remember that?”
I nod.
“I think he might be related, though he wouldn’t give me a concrete answer. He said his name is Xy, with an X, I think, though I suppose it could be a Z. Xyonis Tull. Weird name.”
“Why do you think he could be related?”
“Because his shadow was tall. Broad. And he grouped me in with him, with ‘them,’ though… well, it was weird.”
He studies the far end of the room, and I don’t know if it’s because he wants to hide what he learned, or if he’s just perturbed by it all.
But I’m a writer. I’m curious by nature, and until he tells me point blank to keep my questions to myself, I’m going to keep asking them. “What did he say other than his name that leads you to believe he was grouping you with him?”
Sampson shrugs, but the motion is sharp, and he still isn’t looking at me.
“He said a lot of things I didn’t understand.
” A grating laugh leaves his throat. “Ridiculous and crazy things.” When he glances down at me, it feels like more of a win than it probably should.
“Strangely, he seemed to think that I was in Mossburg undercover.”
“Undercover? Like with the CIA?”
“Undercover and, get this, posing as a human. At least, that’s what I understood, but I was a little out of it with all the drugs and pain.”
I reach for his hand and squeeze as much as I can hold of it. “But you’re better now.”
He nods.
“Pretty quick healing time, actually.” Which it is. Now that I’m thinking about it, he should still be bedridden, not engaging in highly energetic sexual encounters.
“Yeah. I guess.”
My thoughts whirl around for a bit before I say, “Not being human. That does sound crazy.”
Sampson nods. “Yup.”
From what I’ve noticed, Sampson isn’t the typical male—except for right now. I can’t believe I have to drag information out of him on such a fascinating topic. “Did he say anything else?”
Another shrug. His disturbance ripples the air between us.
“Well, let’s see, what other craziness did he spout?
Something about questioning whether The Council had sent me, and why I didn’t know the codes.
Capital ‘T.’ Capital ‘C.’ At least, that’s what it sounded like.
Like, The White House. As if there’s only one, and everybody should recognize the name. ”
“I have something like that in my vampire books. The Council is what the vampires call their ruling body.”
“I’m pretty sure he wasn’t a vampire.” Sampson tosses me a quick smile.
“Probably not, since there’s no such thing.” I find my feet and lay my hand on his hip. “Why would he think you’re pretending to be an MFD firefighter? A—a human?” Even for me, vampire writer extraordinaire, the last part of the sentence seems ridiculous.
“I don’t know. Maybe my height? It seems to be what people first notice about me.” Again, there’s an edge to his voice, but he shrugs and smiles down at me again. “Anyway, nothing to worry about. He doesn’t know where I live.”
“But he probably knows where you work since everyone knows you plunged into a fire. And he must know your name, right? What else did he say? Was he threatening?”
“Not threatening, no, but he did say something about, umm, nephlim? Nephleem? Something like that, anyway. Oh, and Philistines, as in the group Sampson fought against in the Bible. He was enraged with my name. I mentioned Goliath, asked if all the Philistines were giants…”
“But?”
No sooner do I ask than an electric zap, having nothing to do with sex, pierces through my brain.
My ass finds the chair as I plop into it, my mouth gaping open as a theory explodes across my skull.
It’s just like when the plot of a novel detonates in the beginning pages.
It doesn’t unfurl in measured paces. It hurls itself around my mind, except this is real life. “Shit.”
“Nina, what is it? What’s wrong?” He leans over me, covering me like an extra large umbrella while he peers anxiously into my eyes. “Are you okay? You’re all flushed.”
I snap my jaw shut, shake my head, then nod. “Yes. No. Nephilim? That’s what this guy, Xyonis Tull, that’s what he said?”
Sampson shrugs, but he crouches down next to my chair so we can see eye-to-eye. “Maybe. Does it mean something to you?”
“Yeah. And it should to you, too, except we’re never taught the ancient stories in school, or at church.” All the tales… and suddenly, I can see how Sampson fits them perfectly. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.
Well, I didn’t see it because Nephilim are myth, not real.
There’s that. Plus, I’ve spent most of my days not thinking about Sampson, so there’s no reason I would have put two and two together.
Though I was researching giants, maybe a year ago.
The subject nagged at my brain. I put it down to being bored with the Dunleaven vampires, but maybe…
maybe I was thinking of Sampson subconsciously?
But I could just be jumping at nothing, at a plot that will dead-end at the intersection of reality, where all my pretty two plus two ideas don’t add up to four, but five.
Maybe I’m forcing a combination that doesn’t make sense.
Surely, accident exists somewhere in the world?
Surely not everything has to be connected?
There’s really only one way to be sure.
I reach out to fold back his beautiful auburn hair that’s hanging over his eyes.
“Let’s take the food to my place. You’re going to have to duck a lot because of the ceilings and doorframes, but I have a book on giants that I need you to see.
And before you start ragging on me for the pejorative term, I think you’d better do some reading. ”
“You think the Philistines were giants.” But he doesn’t say the words as a question. He says them with a sort of dread.