Diana squeezed out the last pink drop from the gray slop in the bottom of a plastic bag. She tossed the bag and mass into a stainless-steel bucket and returned it to the fridge. Behind her, Daniel prepared a large salad.
“How can you stand it?” she asked.
Daniel shook his head. “It passes the time, and I like their food. You make an unnecessary mess of our food. What’s with that?”
Diana threw her head back, hissed like a cat and said, “It’s a curse, this thing called Time. Anyway, either I eat or I sleep. Hunting passes the time, but I tired of merely passing time long, long ago.”
He saw her hunger back already, heard the dangerous edge in her voice.
“Your eating style—” he began.
“Brings a little excitement into my very boring life,” she said. “How could I stand it otherwise, locked up in this tomb or some other. Even my workouts and painting are boring for me now.”
“We still haven’t unloaded your gym equipment from the garage,” he said. “Maybe that’ll help.”
In a dramatic flourish of frustration, Diana threw her hands in the air. “I’m tired of working out for something to do when I don’t need it.” She slapped her tight belly with both hands for emphasis.
“It’s not a tomb,” Daniel insisted. He strained to speak in his calm voice. “It’s a very comfortable house. I’d like to stay in it for a while. You can’t keep killing people—”
“Don’t lecture me!” she snapped. “I like the personal touch. Besides, I don’t kill them. You kill them.”
Daniel slammed his knife onto the cutting board and turned to face her. Her expression shifted between defiance and despair, and back. He reached out and gripped her shoulders. Her expression just got colder.
“What I kill is not human when you’re done with it,” he said, trying for calm. “If they lived through their first glimpse of daylight, if someone didn’t stake them, they’d be out there hunting our back yard. We’d be staked in our beds or trapped outside some sunny afternoon ourselves. Or worse.”
He realized he was gripping her too tight, but she offered no complaint. Just a steady gaze and defiant thinning of her lips. He couldn’t endure her piercing stare and let go of her shoulders. He turned back to his dinner preparations, cleared his throat and added, “Behave yourself tonight. I like this one.”
In her own measured voice she said, “Don’t give me orders. After all, I’m the oldest.”
“I’ve told you before, twelve minutes in two hundred years doesn’t carry a lot of weight with me.”
“It better,” she warned, “or I’ll drain your little tart like a garden hose.”
Daniel pretended to ignore her as he chopped a handful of mushrooms. Her kills were too close together, too careless, and lately her tone had become dangerous. He’d begun to worry about his own safety. His sleep was increasingly restless. He’d felt more comfortable during his brief time with Jean in the cabin of her boat than in his own bed.
Diana flicked a piece of lettuce, picked it up and took a bite. Immediately she spat it into the sink.
“Ugh. How can you gag that stuff down? Worse than the swamp rats we had to settle for when we were kids.”
“It’s an acquired taste,” he said, “like civilization. Besides, they like it. Maybe you need a friend. Or a pet.”
“I have Robert,” she said. She ran her finger under the spout of the appliance and licked a drop off her finger. “He gets me.”
“He’s a plant!”
“Exactly. He knows how I feel.”