So Jack was anything but surprised when—a little before the sun was due to rise at nine in the morning—the door opened silently and the wampyr stepped in with a restrained bow to the two seated at the tiny square kitchen table where Jack usually ate his cereal alone. —You must be Irina Stephanova,— Sebastien said. —I am Don Sebastien de Ulloa. I have heard so much about you. She touched her cheeks as if her complexion hid a flush, looking down. “The police say I make man dead,” she said. “You may help me?” “If I can.” Sebastien tugged the door until it latched and came forward lightly across boards that did not creak under his negligible weight. “But you must tell me everything.” He paused between their chairs. Jack scooted to one side to make room for Sebastien to sit. The wampyr slid the stool over from the corner by the counter and perched upon it. Jack thought he liked this kitchen because it was windowless and dim—all the reasons Jack found it depressing.
