Domitian turned his gaze to the darkening sky overhead. In Caracas, the sun rose between five minutes to six and about ten or twelve minutes after six every morning, but it set eight minutes after six pretty much every night. He didn’t think the house they’d been put in could be far from Caracas if the doctor had lived in it while first teaching at the university. Shrugging, he said, “Probably a little before six o’clock.”
“Dinnertime,” Sarita muttered.
Domitian frowned. They’d only been walking for about an hour, but while they’d started out at a quick clip, Sarita had begun to fall behind a bit after the first half hour. It had surprised him. She was a fit woman. But then she was carrying that ridiculously heavy Santa sack. And trudging through the sand took more energy than walking on the hard-packed earth of the jungle would have.
Domitian had wanted to take the jungle route initially, but had quickly changed his mind. It wasn’t because of Sarita’s argument that they could get lost too easily in the jungle, where they wouldn’t be able to see the sun’s position to ensure they traveled in a straight line, or that it was likely to be full of poisonous snakes and other dangerous animals. It was more because she didn’t have any proper clothes or shoes.
Domitian had been a little stunned when he’d suggested she go dress before they leave and she’d announced that she was dressed. And then she’d pointed out that she had the bikini on underneath, that she’d pinned the towel to it, and that it certainly covered her more decently than any of the nighties in the walk-in closet would. He supposed it did. Although he suspected one of the long negligees, while sheer, would have at least protected more of her from insect bites. And that was the only reason he thought that perhaps she should have worn one of those instead. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he was recalling, and missing, the view he’d had of her breasts, stomach, and thighs, not to mention the sexy little thong she’d had on under the gauzy white nightgown he’d seen her in. At least that’s what he told himself, but even he wasn’t buying it.
As for shoes, even without the heels, the ones she’d chosen made walking awkward for her. The leather may have seemed softer and more likely to flatten out than the other shoes she’d had to choose from, but the soles were not flat. The shoes had retained their form, only now without the heel to offer its little bit of support. The moment she’d put them on and staggered across the kitchen, Domitian’s mind had been made up. She couldn’t possibly wear the shoes as they were. They would have to take the beach. At least at the start. He planned to soak the shoes in the sea for a while on their first stop to see if he couldn’t flatten them out after that for her. In the meantime, he hadn’t been willing to risk the jungle with her barefoot. So they’d set out along the beach, determined to keep an eye peeled for approaching boats in case Dressler sent men after them.
Now, though, her comment that it was dinnertime made Domitian glance to Sarita with concern and ask, “When did you last eat?”
Sarita was silent for a minute, and then reluctantly admitted, “Supper last night. If it was last night that Dressler drugged me.”
Cursing, Domitian turned to head for the trees that bordered the beach.
“What are you—Hey!” Sarita protested when he snatched her “Santa sack” in passing and slung it over his shoulder with his own makeshift bag.
It said a lot that Sarita didn’t protest further, but trudged along after him. That alone told him that she must be on her last leg.
As an immortal Domitian didn’t have to eat so long as he consumed blood. Sarita, however, had to eat for energy, and while he’d fed countless times that day and even taken in extra blood before they’d left, Sarita hadn’t eaten at all.
He hadn’t seen her drink anything today either, Domitian thought with a frown. Here she’d taken care of him, fetched him blood and popped it to his mouth when she woke up on the terrace and he still slept, and he hadn’t bothered to even ask if she’d eaten. And he was a chef!
Upset at himself for his lack of consideration, Domitian glared at Sarita when she dropped to sit on the sand with a weary sigh.
“It was foolish of you to go without food,” he growled, though he was more upset at himself than her.
“I often do foolish things,” Sarita informed him, not sounding concerned. “It’s part of my charm. My father used to say so,” she added, and flopped back to lie in the sand.
“He did, did he?” Domitian asked, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips and forcing his anger back. Setting down the bags and dropping to sit next to her, he began going through their contents in search of something healthy for her to eat.
“Yes,” Sarita assured him and suddenly sat up to lean past him and snatch a can from the pile of items in the nearest bag. Waving it in front of his face, she added, “Besides, you haven’t eaten either.”
“No, I have not,” Domitian agreed. The difference was he didn’t need food if there was blood available. There wasn’t blood available to him right now, however, and eating would reduce the amount of blood he would need. Not by that much, but every little bit helped when you were without. Besides, it would lighten the load in their sacks if they ate some of it, but Domitian frowned as he read the label on the can she was waving at him. “Canned fruit?”
“Nourishment and liquid too,” she said simply and dropped the can in his lap before reaching for another as well as the can opener. Sarita made quick work of opening her own can, and then handed him the opener and sat back to begin picking fruit out of the metal tin and popping it in her mouth.
Domitian watched her briefly, but then opened his own can and began to eat the fruit inside. It actually wasn’t bad, considering, he decided. It wasn’t that good either, though.
“So, you are a chef,” Sarita commented after they’d eaten in silence for a few moments.
Catching the wistful tone in her voice, Domitian glanced over to see her eyeing the label on her can with dissatisfaction. It seemed she wasn’t completely happy with her meal. He couldn’t blame her, Domitian decided as he chewed a piece of what he thought might be peach. The can label said mixed fruit, but while the pieces inside were of varying shapes and colors they all seemed to taste the same. He should have made her a meal before they’d left the house, he thought. Something hearty and filling and as delicious as he found her. He would like to cook for Sarita, Domitian thought. He wanted to satisfy all her appetites. Unfortunately, at the moment they didn’t have the time for him to satisfy even one.
Deciding to distract them both from what they couldn’t have, Domitian picked another piece of fruit out of his can, and commented idly, “Dr. Dressler is your grandmother’s employer?”
“Yeah. She’s worked for him for . . . God, I don’t even know how long it’s been,” Sarita admitted and then tilted her head skyward and tried to work it out aloud. “Forty-some years, at least,” she guessed finally. “My father was a little boy when she started to work for Dr. Dressler,” Sarita said. “She apparently worked for him and his wife for eight or nine months before leaving my father and grandfather to move to the island.”
“So she lived at home and came here to the house where we were placed at first, and then once they moved to the island she left your grandfather to live on the island permanently?” Domitian asked with interest. This was news to him. The reports from his private detective had only covered the fact that her grandmother still lived in Venezuela, worked for Dr. Dressler, and that Sarita wrote to the woman weekly. It hadn’t covered the history of the grandmother. That hadn’t been important to Domitian. At least, not until his uncle had arrived in Venezuela with several hunters in tow, claiming Dressler was behind the recent rash of immortals that had gone missing.
“Yes. Well, I don’t know if it was just for the job. Maybe my grandfather was abusive or something. I don’t know the whole story. It’s the one thing Grandmother is reticent about. But, Dad—” she shook her head sadly “—he never forgave her for abandoning them. She apparently tried calling to speak to him, but he wouldn’t take the calls, so she started sending weekly letters that he tore up and threw out.”