There was no divide between never and ever for them. Theirs was the space in between known and unknown, between the finite and the endless, proof that love was the tie that bound, but it was a faulty trip wire, changing nothing when death created the distance.

In his silence, her heart broke.

Again…

…always.

* * *

Therese, blooded daughter of who the hell knew, shoved a hand into her cheap purse and pushed her wallet, a Kleenex pack, her ChapStick, and a hairbrush around. Change rattled on the very bottom and gave her brief hope, but her keys were still missing.

God, she was exhausted and she did not have time for this. That damn dream had kept her awake even as she’d slept, the dried tears on her face when she’d surfaced something she was really frickin’ sick of, thank you very much. How many years had her subconscious been coughing that stuff up?

Ever since she could remember. And even before the bad thing with her family—

Across the hall from her apartment, a muffled yell and the crash of a broken lamp—or maybe it was dishes again?—brought her head up. The door to her one-room flat was standard-sized in terms of height and width, but it didn’t seem thick enough. Although considering who else lived in this rooming house? She’d need one that was a foot deep and maybe made of something flame-retardant.

Back to her key search. They were definitely not in her purse, and courtesy of that dream, she’d slept through her alarm, so she was late for work. But she had to find them. And come on, there was only like, what, three hundred square feet to cover, tops. And that included the bathroom and the galley kitchen. Plus she was a nasty-neat who cleaned up after herself with a discipline that bordered on obsession. She could do this.

As she lifted up the cushions of the worn sofa, checked all the counters again, and shook out the blankets on her murphy bed, she refused to look at her watch. She did not need confirmation that she was late, late, late. She was supposed to have been at Sal’s Restaurant for her shift waiting tables about an hour ago, and she could not afford to lose that job.

Maybe she needed to take some Ambien or something. Her perennial heartache dream aside, this rooming house was loud twenty-four hours a day. If one of the tenants wasn’t yelling at somebody they lived with or next to or across the hall from, then they were burning food on their stove, throwing things that broke, or stomping around in concrete overshoes.

Closing her eyes, she let the blankets fall back to rest on the thin mattress—and then had to hospital-corner everything all over again. The rooming house was a dump, and worse, it was dangerous—although at least that had gotten better in the last week. That creepy dealer down the hall was avoiding her like she was contagious, and considering the diseases she could sense were already in his bloodstream? That was saying something.

“Keys…”

Another crash, this time above her, made her heart pound. She really should have followed up on that offer of a relocation. But she didn’t want to be anyone’s charity case, and even with her getting the waitress job, she hadn’t saved much yet. She was going to have to find better employment, or pull in some major tips.

As her cell phone started ringing, she cursed and debated letting her manager, Enzo, go to voice mail. It couldn’t be anybody else. The burner was only to field job applications. Her other phone, the one she had used when she had been with her family, wasn’t even turned on.

The reminder of how little she had, and how thin her margin of survival was, hustled her back over to her purse. Grabbing the burner, she cleared her throat.

“Hi,” she answered cheerfully. “I am so sorry—yes, yes, I know. Yes. All right. Of course. No, no, I’m coming in. I’m sure. Thank you.”

Ending the call, she swallowed hard and felt light-headed. The sense that things were getting away from her, and not just her keys, made her feel like she was in an out-of-control car, skidding on ice, heading for an accident she was not going to walk away from. None of this was working. Not these horrible living conditions. Not this new life she had started in Caldwell. And now, almost not the job she needed.

Unlike humans, vampires had no safety net. There was no social security for the species. No Medicare/Medicaid. No organized charities. If she couldn’t keep herself afloat on her own, she was going to end up on the streets because there was no going back to Michigan where she had been raised, no returning to the fold because there was no bloodline for her there. Those people were strangers who had passed themselves off as her mahmen, father, and brother, and only through an accident that could easily not have happened had Therese learned the truth.

Yeah, you’d think her abandonment as an infant and subsequent adoption might have come up at one of the thousands of First Meals they’d all shared. Maybe the Last Meals. Maybe the family meetings where choices were discussed and voted on. Or how about the festival nights? But… nope. Nada. The fact that she had not been born unto her family was a state secret to everybody but the one who it mattered the most to.

As another wave of woozy hit her, she went over to the dorm-sized refrigerator to have a sip of apple juice and—

Found her keys.

“Sonofabitch,” she muttered as she reached inside the ice box.

The slips of notched metal were cold in her palm, and tears came to her eyes as she closed her hand around them.

As a vampire, she could lock the deadbolt on her apartment’s flimsy door with her will alone. Not a problem. She didn’t need a key for that, and God knew that the other people in the building were too distracted with their own dramas and addictions to notice that her door locked on its own. But there was more on the unadorned loop than what she had been given when she’d signed the papers for these four walls and a ceiling.

Opening her hand, she stared at the other key. The copper one. The one that opened the front and back copper locks to the house she had grown up in.

Members of the species couldn’t manipulate copper locks with their minds. They were therefore the first line of security when you had a house full of people and things you wanted to protect. People and things that were yours. That you cared for and provided for and watched over.

She had tried to give the damn copper key up a number of times. She had taken it off the ring. Thrown it in the Hefty bag she used for kitchen trash. Pitched it into the Hannaford bag that hung on the back of the bathroom door. Even paused with the thing over an open municipal litter bin in the park, as well as the Dumpster behind the restaurant.

Every time she told herself to let it go, let it fall, be done with it… at the last minute, her hand refused to release. How in the hell could a symbol of everything that had betrayed her be her talisman? It made no damn sense.

Still, she had had no success arguing with her emotions around it up to this point.

Grabbing her bag, she bolted for the door, stepped out, and locked things. As she proceeded to the stairs, she kept her head down, her hands in her pockets, and her arm clamped down on her purse. The smells were awful. Old cigarettes, drugs she didn’t know the names of but nonetheless now recognized, and old meat that might have also been rotting human skin.

Her feet were fast as she entered the stairwell, and she moved quick on the stairs. If a human male ever aggressed on her, she could take him in a fight even though she was hardly trained for any kind of physical conflict. But that was only if he didn’t have a weapon. A knife? A gun? She would find herself in trouble fast.