What’s it like to chat up your characters outside of the book? Sort of like going to a comic-con and seeing someone dressed up like Tucker or Rurik? Maybe…

I was mesmerized by his dark eyes and his Russian accent. My face feels hot. Did he just say vampires? I should leave, but my legs aren’t listening.

He pours me another shot, which I leave on the bar, fighting the desire to throw caution to the wind.

“To Mother Russia,” he says, downing his and slapping the bar. “Bring me another bottle,” he says to Clarisse.

I can sense the growing irritation of the cowboys at the other end of the bar. This is Wyoming and they tend to be a little insular. Plus, they don’t like foreigners. I’m pretty sure they won’t cotton to a Russian spouting off about what they probably still think is a communist country. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen a bar fight, but something tells me this man is tougher than most. He’s got a feral kind of confidence.

The temperature in the room seems to have changed.

I look back at the video poker machines and Clark is watching. He asks with his eyes if I’m okay. I think I am, so I nod and turn back to the Russian. His stare is fierce, wolfish even.

“What is your work?” he asks.

“I’m a writer.”

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