Mark texted me at noon the next day.
Mark: Feeling better? Want to grab lunch? Somewhere nice this time.
I stared at the message, confused. After last night – after I'd told him I was a vampire, after he'd admitted he might have to kill me – he wanted to go to lunch? Somewhere nice?
Maybe he thought I'd been hallucinating. Sleep deprivation, stress, too many horror movies. Maybe he'd convinced himself that his girlfriend hadn't actually confessed to being a bloodsucking monster on the steps of her dorm at three in the morning.
Or maybe this was some kind of test.
Me: Sure. Where did you have in mind?
Mark: Romano's. That Italian place you mentioned wanting to try.
Romano's. Upscale, romantic, the kind of place you took someone for anniversaries or when you were trying to impress them. Also the kind of place that would have real silver cutlery and formal table settings.
Interesting choice.
Me: Sounds perfect. See you at 1?
Mark: Can't wait.
I spent forty-five minutes getting ready, trying to look as normal and human as possible. Concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes. Lip gloss to add color to my pale lips. A sundress that showed I wasn't afraid of daylight, even though the thought of direct sunlight made my skin crawl.
The walk to Romano's was torture. Every heartbeat on the street called to me, every pulse point on every neck I passed. But I'd practiced controlling the hunger all morning – meditation techniques, breathing exercises, anything to keep the monster quiet.
I could do this. I could pretend to be normal for one lunch date.
Mark was waiting outside the restaurant when I arrived, wearing khakis and a button-down shirt. He looked handsome and wholesome and completely human. When he smiled at me, I almost forgot he was a trained killer.
"You look beautiful," he said, kissing my cheek.
His skin was warm against mine. I wondered if he noticed how cold I felt in comparison.
"Thanks. You clean up pretty good yourself."
We walked into Romano's together, his hand on the small of my back. Normal couple behavior. The hostess seated us at a corner table with a white tablecloth and a small vase of fresh flowers.
And a full place setting of silverware at each seat.
My skin began to prickle the moment I sat down. The silver fork to my left felt like it was radiating cold energy, making the air around it shimmer with menace. I kept my hands in my lap, as far from the utensils as possible.
"This is nice," I said, forcing a smile. "Very romantic."
"I thought we could use some normalcy," Mark replied. His brown eyes were watching me carefully. "After everything that's been happening."
Everything that's been happening. Like that was just some vague stress we'd been dealing with, not a supernatural crisis that had turned our entire relationship upside down.
"Absolutely. Normal is good."
The waiter appeared – a young guy with dark hair and an Italian accent that was probably fake. "Welcome to Romano's. Can I start you with some drinks?"
"Wine?" Mark suggested. "The house red?"
I nodded, even though the thought of alcohol made my stomach turn. Everything except blood made my stomach turn now.
"Excellent choice," the waiter said, setting two wine glasses on the table. "I'll be right back with that."
The wine glasses were crystal, thankfully. No silver. But the moment the waiter left, Mark reached across the table and picked up his knife, examining it casually.
"Heavy silverware," he observed. "Must be expensive."
The knife gleamed in the restaurant's soft lighting. Real silver, no doubt about it. The prickling sensation on my skin intensified, and I felt my fangs begin to extend slightly.
I bit down on my tongue, hard enough to taste copper, and forced them back.
"Very nice," I managed.
Mark set the knife down, but kept watching my face. "You okay? You look a little pale."
"Just hungry," I lied.
"Good thing we're at the right place for that."
The waiter returned with our wine. As he poured, I noticed him glance at me with concern. "Miss, are you feeling alright? You look a bit... unwell."
"She's been fighting a bug all week," Mark said smoothly. "Nothing serious."
"Ah, yes. This time of year, everyone gets sick." The waiter finished pouring and handed us menus. "Take your time deciding."
I opened the menu, grateful for something to focus on besides the silver fork six inches from my left hand. But the food descriptions made my stomach churn. Pasta with marinara sauce. Chicken parmesan. Beef carpaccio.
All of it useless to me now. All of it wrong.
"The carpaccio looks good," Mark said casually. "Raw beef. Very... primal."
Was he testing me? Seeing if the mention of raw meat would trigger some kind of vampiric response?
"I was thinking more like soup," I said. "Something light."
"Soup it is." Mark closed his menu and reached for his wine glass. "So, about last night..."
My heart skipped a beat. "What about it?"
"You seemed pretty upset. Stressed out." His voice was careful, like he was talking to someone who might break. "You said some pretty intense things."
Here it was. The moment where he'd either admit he believed me or suggest I see a therapist.
"Did I? It's all kind of a blur."
"You don't remember?"
I took a sip of wine, buying time. The alcohol burned my throat, but I managed not to gag. "Not really. I've been having weird dreams lately. Sometimes it's hard to tell what's real and what isn't."
"Weird dreams about what?"
"Blood," I said quietly. "Violence. People with fangs and claws." I looked up at him with what I hoped was embarrassed confusion. "I know it sounds crazy."
Mark leaned back in his chair, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Not that crazy. Stress can cause all kinds of strange dreams."
"That's what I figured. Maybe I should cut back on the late-night horror movies."
"Probably a good idea."
But I could see he wasn't entirely convinced. His eyes kept drifting to my hands, my neck, looking for... what? Signs that I wasn't human? Physical evidence of what I'd told him?
The waiter came back to take our orders. Mark chose the chicken parmesan. I ordered minestrone soup, hoping I could manage a few spoonfuls without throwing up.
"And would you like fresh parmesan?" the waiter asked, producing a silver grater from his apron.
The moment he pulled out the silver implement, my entire body went rigid. It was like someone had turned up the volume on fingernails on a chalkboard, except the sound was in my bones instead of my ears.
"No!" The word came out too sharp, too panicked.
Both men stared at me. The waiter looked confused, Mark looked calculating.
"I mean," I said quickly, forcing my voice to relax, "I'm trying to cut back on cheese. Dairy doesn't agree with me lately."
"Of course," the waiter said, though he still looked puzzled. He put the grater away, and the terrible sensation faded. "No problem at all."
After he left, Mark leaned forward. "You sure you're okay? You jumped like he'd pulled out a snake."
This was it. The moment where I either came up with a believable explanation or watched Mark's suspicions crystallize into certainty.
I took a shaky breath. "This is going to sound stupid, but... ever since I was little, I've had this weird phobia about silver. Something about the way it reflects light, the sound it makes when it scrapes against things." I managed a self-deprecating laugh. "John used to tease me about it. Said I was like a werewolf or something."
Mark's expression flickered. Something that might have been relief, or disappointment.
"Phobias can be really intense," he said carefully. "Completely irrational but very real to the person experiencing them."
"Exactly. I know it doesn't make sense, but when I see silver utensils or jewelry, my skin starts crawling. Fight or flight response kicks in." I shrugged, playing up the embarrassment. "It's one of those weird psychological quirks everyone has, right?"
"Right," Mark agreed. But his eyes were still watching me too closely.
Our food arrived, and I managed to eat about half my soup by taking tiny sips and focusing on not gagging. The tomato broth tasted like nothing, but at least it stayed down.
Mark ate his chicken parmesan with enthusiasm, occasionally glancing up at me between bites. Normal boyfriend behavior, except for the way he kept positioning his silverware – moving his knife closer to his right hand, angling his fork like he might need to use it as a weapon.
He was testing me. Watching for reactions, cataloging my responses.
And I was performing for him. Playing the role of slightly neurotic girlfriend with childhood phobias and stress dreams.
We were both lying, and we both knew it.
"So," I said, cutting through the careful conversation about classes and weekend plans, "how long have you been interested in... true crime stuff?"
Mark paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "What do you mean?"
"The other night, when you said you and your friends were into those urban legend stories. Vampires, werewolves, that kind of thing." I kept my voice light, curious. "It's just unusual for someone our age to be so into that stuff."
"Just a hobby," he said carefully. "Something I got into in high school."
"Must be some hobby. You seem to know a lot about it."
"I read a lot."
"What kind of books?"
"Folklore. Historical accounts. Some fiction." Mark set down his fork and met my eyes directly. "Why? Are you interested in that kind of thing now?"
"Maybe. All those weird dreams I've been having... it's got me curious about where the stories come from. What makes people believe in monsters."
"What do you think?" Mark asked. "Do you believe in monsters?"
The question hung between us like a challenge. This was the real test, the moment where he'd gauge how far I'd gone down the rabbit hole of believing in the supernatural.
"I think," I said slowly, "that people see what they need to see. If someone's looking for monsters, they'll find them everywhere. If someone's looking for logical explanations, they'll find those instead."
"And what are you looking for, Ella?"
I met his gaze steadily. "Normal life. College, career, maybe a future with someone I care about." I paused. "What are you looking for?"
"The truth," he said quietly. "Even when it's dangerous."
We finished lunch in relative silence after that, both of us presumably thinking about the conversation we'd just had. Mark paid the check with cash, and we walked outside into the afternoon sunlight.
"Thanks for lunch," I said. "It was nice to do something normal."
"We should do it again soon." Mark touched my hand, and I felt him testing my skin temperature. "Maybe next time somewhere with plastic utensils."
I laughed, playing along with the joke. "You know me too well."
"Do I?" he asked, and there was something serious in his voice.
"I hope so," I replied.
But as we parted ways and I walked back toward campus, I wondered which one of us had given the more convincing performance.
Mark had spent the entire lunch probing for evidence that I was something other than human. And I'd spent it trying to convince him that my very real vampiric reactions were just psychological quirks and childhood trauma.
We'd both succeeded, in our way.
The question was: how long could we keep lying to each other?
And what would happen when one of us finally cracked under the pressure of pretending everything was normal?
End of Chapter 6