Sparks Fly: A Novel of the Light Dragons (41 page)

“Well . . . three hundred? That seems about right. I think it was in 1708 that he flipped out. So three hundred and four years.”

I may not have had a lot of pride left that wasn’t in tatters after the smear campaign by Barry of the Many Hands, but what I did have I gathered around me. “Oh,
that
kind of Dark One. I thought you meant the . . . um . . . non-three-hundred-year type.”

He looked at me as if potatoes had started a cabaret act on my head. “The what?”

“You know, the kind that aren’t around for three hundred years.”

I think the potatoes may have begun a trapeze act, because the look he gave me was one of utter incredulity. That killed my idea of his pulling my leg—people who were teasing you seldom bore that sort of expression when you sussed out what it was they were doing.

“You did say three hundred years, didn’t you?” I asked, suddenly worried that I misheard him. Maybe he had every right to look at me as if I was the odd one.

“Yes.” He continued to eye me. “My father is actually older than three hundred years. He’s . . . Let me see. I’m three hundred and nineteen, which means he must be around three hundred and forty. Or three hundred and forty-two. Somewhere in that range.”

What do you say to a man who claims he’s over three hundred years old? I don’t know what you would say, but I decided that the best thing to do was to agree with him and try to get rid of him.

“Just so. Those are my favorite kind of Black Ones.”

“Dark Ones.”

“Sorry.” I cleared my throat and tried to sidle away. “I think I’ll just—”

Ben evidently wasn’t having any of it. He followed after me, giving me a look of much consideration. “There are only two types of Dark Ones, Io—redeemed and unredeemed. My father is the latter, naturally.”

“Naturally.” I wondered if I dashed into the big main tent if he would come after me, or if I could lose him in the crowd that was starting to gather.

“Although he did love my mother. In his own fashion.
It was only afterward that he lost the ability to feel any such emotions.”

“Well, you know how it is with Dark Dudes—that happens.”

He stopped me by taking hold of my arm, swinging me around to face him, his eyes narrowed on my face. “You do know what a Dark One is, don’t you?”

“Of course,” I lied, giving him what I hoped was a serene smile. “They’re . . . um . . . They live a long time, and they . . . uh . . . hang out at fairs, and . . . er . . . do other stuff like . . . urm . . .”

“Being vampires,” a female voice said behind me.

Eyes wide with disbelief, I spun around to find Fran smiling over my shoulder at Ben.

“Sexy, sexy vampires,” she added with a little sigh of pleasure.

Panic hit me then, hard and hot in my gut. I looked around wildly for an escape, throwing to the wind my desire to photograph Imogen. There was no way on this green earth I was going to spend any more time with people who thought they were three-hundred-year-old vampires!

“Io, let me introduce you to my ghosts. They’re Vikings, and although they’re supposed to be in Valhalla, they claim they were sent back to help Ben and me with a little project—”

I didn’t wait for Fran to finish her sentence. I bolted, wanting nothing more than to escape the insanity that suddenly seemed to possess me.