Tied With a Bow

sharpened, focusing on her. As he began to move, his skin seemed to visibly warm, color emerging.
    Wait. What? she thought, her initial anxiety easing to relief but also confusion. What was happening?
    “It’s freezing out here,” she mumbled. “Are you . . . Can you stand?”
    He moved with precision and strength, coming to his feet without any evidence of stiffness or pain. He cleared his throat.
    “What happened to you?” She studied his odd clothes. Thin boots, a loose linen shirt, and pants that laced in the front as if he were considering a life of piracy on the high seas. Had he been in some Christmas pageant before stopping in the field?
    He put a hand to the back of his head and rubbed it. His fingers came away wet with melted snow. He looked around.
    “What’s your name?” she asked.
    He seemed perplexed. Could he be foreign?
    “Do you speak English?”
    “Yes, I understand you,” he said, squinting at the horizon.
    “Tell me your name.”
    He paused, then said, “I would if I knew it.”
    Her brows rose. “What do you mean?”
    “I don’t remember . . . anything.”
    Amnesia? Truly? The number of people with complete amnesia was infinitesimally small. She looked at the snow where he’d been lying. There was no blood. He didn’t look bruised or battered. It made no sense.
    It has to be a dream. But I never realize I’m dreaming in the midst of one. And during a dream, I never remember the other dreams I’ve had of him.
    She looked around, confused and unsettled.
    I feel awake.
    She pinched herself, wincing at the pain. That hurt. So I must be awake, right? But just how reliable is a pinch at distinguishing reality from dreams? Has anyone really studied pinch-pain accuracy with regard to consciousness?
    “I don’t understand this,” she murmured. He stepped close, and a rush of heat coursed through her. She sucked in a breath, clenching her fists to steady herself.
    “Are you unwell?” he asked.
    I’m warm. In the dreams, I never notice the temperature. Not the frigid air and snow. Not the heat from the hot tub. She’d realized that fact once upon waking. Walking through snow or wrapped in his muscled arms, she never felt the temperature.
    This . . . is real.
    “I’m not sure,” she mumbled in response to his question about whether she was all right. No matter how intimate they’d been in dreams, he was still a stranger, but standing so close to him triggered thoughts of the way he’d been in some of those dreams, the way he’d made her body tighten and bow under his touch.
    She hesitated, exhaling a sigh, then took a step back. And another.
    He didn’t pursue her. He remained still as a statue. Preternaturally still, it seemed to her.
    She glanced back to where he’d lain. There were no tracks besides her own leading to that spot. It was as if he’d been there for a long time, and the snow had drifted around him. Or as if he’d fallen into the snow from the sky. She glanced up reflexively, then shook her head. There was nothing around for him to have fallen from. If he’d dropped from a helicopter or small plane, he would’ve been injured. Instead he looked . . . perfect.
    And how had he recovered from being unconscious in the snow? He’d looked frozen—had been frozen—skin cold, body stiff. One possible explanation dawned.
    Oh, God! She stiffened. He can’t be one of them.
    Surviving the fall from an aircraft and an icy sleep could make him a ventala. The ventala, human-vampire half-breeds, were violent, unpredictable, and difficult to kill, but often incredibly attractive. It might also explain the way he invaded her dreams.
    “I’d like to remove these wet clothes and dry myself,” he said.
    Drawn in by the idea of him stripping, she shivered. If he was ventala, she needed to get away from him, but she couldn’t make herself so much as take another step back.
    “Which direction to the nearest dwellings?” he asked.
    Dwellings? What’s up with the way he talks?
    “The closest houses are that way,” she said.
    He glanced where she’d pointed, then back at her face. “It’s not safe here. Why are you traveling alone, girl?”
    That stopped her. “Girl?” she echoed skeptically. “I’m a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist.”
    His expression was puzzled and innocent, which made her frown. Surely he’d heard of the Pulitzer Prize.
    He stretched his back. “Come,” he said, walking on her tracks toward the trail.
    What the hell? He’s got