Chapter Eight:

Theresa didn't bother to lift her head from the worktable when she heard the door open and shut. If it was a client, Michelle could deal with it. If it was Timothy… well, Michelle could deal with that too. Theresa was too tired to deal with anything herself at that moment.

Another sleepless night had Theresa sluggish and irritable. Which was, along with the sexual frustration the latest dream had awoken, the least of the things playing on her mind. There was also the matter of a crucifix moving, seemingly of its own accord, from Theresa's jewellery box to her pillow. Not the mention a window slamming when she knew very well it had been locked when she'd gone to bed. And… And…

The other thing was too incomprehensible to dwell on. She'd surely lose her mind if she tried.

Thinking about the raw, angry wounds on her neck made them throb. Trying not to think about them was impossible. The harder she tried, the harder it became it keep the word from her mind.

Vampire.

Ridiculous. Vampires weren't real. They were fiction, make-believe. Yet…

Yet something had caused the wounds. Something real. It was only the dreams that had made Theresa think about vampires. Two dreams about vampires in two nights… and waking up with what could only be bite marks on her neck…

She was losing her mind. Yes, that was it. Theresa was off her rocker and had attacked herself in her sleep. It didn't make much sense – but it made a whole lot more sense than being attacked by imaginary monsters.

"Are you listening to me?"

Theresa lifted her head, blinking at the onslaught of bright light that met her eyes. Timothy and Michelle stood next to her workstation. Michelle looked concerned, while Timothy just looked annoyed.

"No," Theresa answered honestly. She was too tired to play games with the man, even if he was her boss. "What do you want?"

"How about employees who do their jobs?" Timothy said snidely.

Michelle gave him a dirty look. "Are you okay, babe?" she asked Theresa.

No. Not even close.

But Theresa couldn't say that – especially in front of Timothy, who would use it as an excuse to criticise her work for weeks to come. Instead, she glared at him and repeated her earlier question.

"What do you want, Timothy?"

He threw his hands up in a gesture of defeat. "You tell her," he said to Michelle. "I have to pack."

Theresa turned her attention to Michelle as their boss stomped from the room. "Where's he going?"

"We're," Michelle corrected. "We're going."

That got her attention. The last time the three of the had travelled together had been to a county house in the south of England to repair a series of paintings that had taken smoke damage during a fire. The damage had been significant and extensive enough to require the talents of both women. Timothy – who had plenty of credentials but absolutely no practical ability whatsoever – had, they assumed, gone along to ensure they didn't enjoy themselves too much while they were there.

It had to be a big (and lucrative) job for all three of them to close the gallery and go travelling. Theresa was intrigued, despite herself.

"Where are we going?" she asked. "Please tell me we're flying. I really hope I didn't miss my only chance to push Timothy out of an airplane."

Michelle laughed her easy laugh. "Well, actually…"

Theresa shoved the hair out of her face. Several strands clung to the scarf she wore to hide the marks on her neck.

"Come on," she said, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. "Tell me what's going on."

Grinning, Michelle picked up a paintbrush and toyed with its sable tip. "Remember that creepy guy from the party?" she said. "You know… he was with that guy you-"

"Alec," Theresa supplied before her friend could launch into a list of Vlad's attributes.

"That's right," Michelle said with a nod. "Apparently, he called the gallery today to make arrangements for us to travel to some monastery he owns."

She handed Theresa the brush. "Pack your kit, kid," she said, grinning. "We've got a restoration gig in Europe."

A million thoughts struggled to break through the mire of Theresa's mind; very sensible thoughts like, 'Is my passport in date?' 'Where did I put my suitcase?' 'What's the exchange rate for Euros?' All very sensible, very practical thoughts – and not at all important compared to, 'I might get to see Vlad again!'

Excitement made the strange dreams that had preoccupied Theresa fade into the background. For the first time in two days, Theresa wore a smile as she went to pack her equipment.