Between a Vamp and a Hard Place by Jessica Sims Read Free Book Online

me a quizzical look, but at least he wasn’t sniffing me anymore. “The trunk carries food?”
    â€œIt’s not a trunk. It’s a refrigerator. Or a fridge. We use it to keep food cold.”
    I watched his face as he processed this information. His eyes flicked with recognition, as if receiving information. “Ah, a refrigerator. I have this word in my memory.” Rand approached the fridge and studied it. “How . . . how does one open it?”
    The fridge was an old-fashioned one, like the one Indiana Jones rode in during that last horrible movie. I pointed at the lever on the side. “Give that a yank.”
    He did, and the door flew open, swinging backward. Rand nearly stumbled in surprise, and I smothered a laugh. “Not that hard of a yank.”
    â€œMy apologies,” he said, then put his hand inside, tentatively feeling the air. The look on his face was wondrous. “How is it cold? And why does it hum?”
    â€œElectricity,” I told him. “There’s a current of electricity that goes through the back that tells the coils to stay cold.” I was probably botching the whole “how refrigerators work” thing, but I was also pretty sure he didn’t need to know the nitty-gritty, just the basics. “The hum is the electricity going to the fridge.”
    He gave a slow nod. “When I awoke, I heard the hum of many refrigerators. You say these are common?” He gestured at the windows. “The entire city sings with such sounds. It is a cacophony. I miss the crickets and the sighs of horses in their sleep.”
    I nodded, ignoring the twinge of pity I felt. This had to be weird for the big guy. “No one uses horses anymore. Normally we use cars, but this place runs off of boats.”
    With that, he curled his lip. “I am not a fan of boats.”
    â€œMe, either.” I pointed at an orange pitcher in the fridge. “Pass the orange juice?”
    â€œAgain, I know these words, but I am not familiar.” He handed me the pitcher. “Explain?”
    â€œI guess oranges aren’t all that medieval? Hand me two glasses in that cupboard, please,” I said, pointing at a cabinet behind his head. “Orange juice comes from a fruit.” I didn’t want to get into the whole “this actually came from a can of frozen concentrate” thing.
    I watched with a raised brow as he pulled out two glass tumblers and stared at them as if they’d been the most valuable things on earth. Reluctantly, he handed me one. I poured a glass of orange juice, then held it out to him.
    He took it from me and sniffed it, then a startled look touched his eyes. “I remember this.”
    â€œYou do?” I poured myself a glass, curious. “Like from the Dragon or whatever that means?”
    â€œNo. From the Crusades.” Rand sniffed it again, a look of stark longing on his face. “When we took Jerusalem. The infidels had food and drink that they offered us. I remember tasting this. At least, my nose remembers the scent.”
    â€œWell, try it and let me know what you think of it.” I held my own glass in my hands, curious.
    He lifted the glass to his mouth, reverent, and took a small sip. After a moment, he grimaced and spat it on the floor.
    â€œJust so you know, we don’t do that sort of thing on the floors here. It’s kind of frowned upon.”
    Rand wiped his mouth, giving me a curious look. “No? Is that why you have no rushes?”
    I didn’t know what rushes were, but I nodded anyhow. “If you have to spit, you spit in the sink.”
    â€œAnother word I recognize but do not understand.”
    I pointed at it. Some other time I’d have to give him the full house tour. Not right now, though. Actually, scratch that, I thought to myself. He can do it on his own. I grabbed a towel off the counter and handed it to him. “You can clean up your mess.”
    To my