Immortals After Dark 12 - Lothaire

to mere inches from her to get a look at what she was up to.
    She’d been digging for a phone jack. Without a phone? Why?
    She would search in vain. There were none in the apartment. All had been removed and plastered over.
    By the third bedroom, she must have concluded the same, because she sat back on her heels and blew her hair out of eyes. “Sumbitch.”
    Now she’ll put her head in her hands and cry while I look on impassively.
    Instead, she slapped one thigh, then rose, marching to the kitchen. Retrieving a butter knife and a chopping blade, she returned to the television console, maneuvering the weighty piece away from the wall.
    Then she went back on her knees, her new tools at the ready.
    He lifted his brows as bits of hardware began to fly out from behind the console. Small screws, a cable jack plate, sections of wire . . .
    The cable box disappeared from its shelf, yanked back by the peculiar mortal.
    Again, he traced closer to see her. He found her lying on her front, fiddling with the box.
    “Come on, come on.” She bit her bottom lip. “Message button.”
    She endeavored to send a signal through the cable! No, Lothaire wasn’t very often surprised; she continued to take him aback.
    Elizabeth had proved . . . trickier than he’d assumed. And the flare of surprise wasn’t un enjoyable.
    Just when he was about to stop her, she muttered, “No, no. Damn you, Motorola!” She sat up, leaning against the wall, knees to her chest.
    Her eyes started to water. Now she’ll cry while I gloat about predicting this very thing.
    Yet as suddenly as her sadness had appeared, it vanished. She slammed the bottom of her fist against the floor, then began setting everything to rights, at least superficially, hiding the bits she’d removed.
    Another determined look lit her face, and she returned to her room. What would she do next?
    For some reason, I can hardly wait to know.
    She began eyeing the lock on their adjoining door.
    No. No way . . .

    Though dawn neared, Ellie still didn’t hear Lothaire inside his room. And she wanted in.
    She tested the lever-style door handle. The lock was a standard pin and tumbler, wouldn’t be too hard to pick.
    But what if he returned? She recalled how he’d tossed her across the room that afternoon as his eyes glowed red like flames.
    He might have a phone in there. Decided.
    She rushed to the bathroom for supplies. In a grooming kit, she found tweezers. She pulled them wide like a wishbone, then bent one end against the counter into a ninety-degree angle. Perfect for a tension wrench. An opened hairpin would act as a rake.
    Back at the door handle, she inserted her jimmied tension wrench into the lock plug. With her other hand, she eased the hairpin in beside it to rake the pin stacks.
    Adjust tension. Rake. Adjust tension. . . .
    Click . “Candy. Baby.”
    She cracked open the door, stowing her tools in her jeans pockets.
    Lothaire’s room was a twin to hers in size and configuration, but the colors in this one were more masculine, with rich earth-toned wallpaper and carpets. Special lights accented paintings on the walls. The pictures looked classy, like they were one of a kind.
    Heavy drapes covered his balcony’s French doors. His bed was unmade, his sheets twisted. Was that a metronome sitting on his nightstand?
    Across the room, an antique-looking desk was covered with complicated 3-D puzzles. Several were complete, but a few appeared ongoing.
    She lifted one that consisted of metal rings and wires. It wasn’t abrainteaser—it was a brain paralyzer. Another one was mechanized. Shining silver blocks and triangles made up a third.
    Beside them, a book lay open to a chapter titled: “Mechanical Puzzles, the Goldberg Principle.” Geometric theory applied to puzzle making? Had Lothaire created some of these puzzles?
    Moving on, she gazed to the left of the desk. Strewn over the floor were wadded-up letters in a language—and alphabet—she couldn’t read.
    Ever fearful of his return, she swiftly investigated his bathroom. Surprisingly, it looked like a normal male’s: shaving cream, razor, soap, a toothbrush. Gotta keep those fangs white.
    The cabinet contained no medicines. She supposed vampires didn’t have ailments.
    His closet was filled with expensive clothing—scores of long, lean slacks, tailored button-downs, and jackets, all in variations of black. Polished boots filled the shoe racks.
    The vampire loves him some clothes. She leaned in to smell one of