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Chapter 9

I awoke on our bed, alone, naked under a light chenille throw. One small lamp cast a circle of soft light around the bed, leaving the corners of the large room dark and mysterious. My inner clock told me it was no later than three in the morning. Rising onto my elbows, I looked around. Listened. I heard only the soft trinkle of the waterfall and, somewhere outside, the call of a whippoorwill. It seemed that the alien presence inside me had abated. My fangs had diminished somewhat.

Aloysius entered the room, silently as always, carrying two cups on a silver tray. He was still nude, and dirty and bloody from the fight. But it was the sight of the thick pressure bandage on his throat that took my breath away. The world dropped out from under me and I turned away from him, drawing into a tight ball of miserable guilt and sorrow. I would have died rather than hurt him, and look what I had done.

The mattress canted slightly behind me and a gentle hand stroked my hair. “Do not berate yourself, darling. I’m fine.”

I tried to stop the tears and couldn’t, then turned to face him anyway. “I’m so sorry, Aly.” My voice broke and the force of my sobs shook me.

He gathered me into his arms and lifted me onto his lap, holding me close, petting my back, rocking me gently. “Shhhh. I know what you are feeling. How many times have I said the same to you? And yet you say you want it, even that you enjoy it. That you want to give me what I must have. You are my love...my friend...my wife. Do you not think that I want to give to you?”

I pulled back a little and touched the bandage. “You have never wounded me like this.”

“I have had longer to learn to control it. But you will not have to learn, angel.”

I searched his calm silver eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Later. Let’s get you feeling better.” He started to hand me a cup of tea, saw my hands shaking, and held it for me while I sipped, letting his own stand. It was so like him. I told him I’d had enough, insisted, so he’d drink his own before it grew cold.

He kept one arm around my shoulders and used his other hand to drink his tea, much faster than usual. I knew better than anyone how he loved savoring pleasant tastes, moods, and feelings, but now he gulped the hot tea as though taking medicine, then set the cup back on the nightstand and lifted me, striding toward the master bath. He bypassed the shower stall and carried me to the huge sunken tub, setting me down on the edge as gently as if I were made of the most delicate crystal. I saw that he had already run a bath. The shiny black interior of the tub made the water appear much deeper than it was, and the contrast of the black tub and other shiny black fixtures against the multicolored glass tiles set into the walls and floor of the room was beautiful.

Aloysius stepped into the tub and held out his arms for me, and I slipped off the side, clasping my arms around his neck. He sat down, holding me once more on his lap. The water was very warm, almost hot, and it stung my puncture wounds like bees for the moments it took to get used to it. I thought how it must be hurting Aly, with his many scratches and bites and cuts, and turned my face to his, kissing his lips to distract him from the pain, noticing as I did so that his fangs were much diminished, also. He cupped the back of my head in one long-fingered hand, his mouth moving against mine with almost reverent softness, his other hand stroking my neck and shoulder lightly, almost moving to my breast, then returning to my shoulder. I wondered if he was afraid of awakening the demon in one or both of us, wondered what would happen if it did awaken.

He pulled back a little and smiled down at me. “Do you remember the first time we sat in this tub together?”

“Yes. We had been arguing.”

“We never argue, love. Sometimes we merely hold lively discussions.”

“We argue.”

“Semantics.” He laughed softly. “What were we...discussing?”

“Men never remember. We were arguing about your going to Utah to investigate that case, remember? The guillotine case.”

“Ah, yes! Severed heads, the work so precisely done that it could’ve only been accomplished with one quick blow from a very sharp blade.”

“You tried to tell them what it was.”

“Yes, I did. They couldn’t believe it.” He sighed, rubbing my back slowly, softly.

“Nobody comprehends how brilliant you are, my darling. Not until they meet you and see those eyes.”

“And why would seeing my eyes make a difference?”

“Because...your eyes are like silver mirrors, reflecting all the wonders of the universe.”

He smiled again. “Not true. But it’s gratifying to know you think so.”

“I do.”

“Let’s not discuss it.” His voice held that light, on-the-verge-of-laughter tone. I love that tone, love seeing him happy. Sometimes he seems so sad, is so sad, though he usually denies it.

I remembered the time he had not denied it, the time he had told me about his family; then the visit we’d made to the Riverside Drive mansion. I had beheld so many wondrous things, had been dizzy with the shock of knowing that this incredible man, whose exotic beauty, wisdom, genius, compassion, and bravery were almost beyond belief, was also the owner of the most fascinating museum I’d ever seen or heard about.

We had known one another for about two months at the time of that visit, and after we’d toured the curiosities, he’d led me to the library, sat down beside me on the sofa, and told me that, though he’d thought he would never find love again and had not been looking for it, he had found it—with me. I remembered the surge of joy that had shot through me like a skyrocket, remembered kissing him again and again, on the lips, cheeks, chin, and his own joy, his laughter. Remembered making love for the first time on the sofa, and how thrilled I had been at the beauty of his lithe, muscular body; how shocked at the horror of his scars. How his eyes had burned into mine while his body plunged into mine. The rending passion beneath that calm, cool exterior. The breathless scream when he came, crushing me in arms that felt like steel bands around me until he regained control and handled me once more the way he always did, as though he handled fine china. The way my love for him had flamed through me with almost suffocating power, leaving me trembling with overwhelming emotion and awe.

The first time he’d come to my studio, gathering information in an investigation, we had faced one another in front of the row of large windows and I had looked up at him, almost shivering with déjà vu. He hadn’t seemed to feel it, to feel anything, until he turned to leave. He had taken one long step toward the door, then stopped and turned, gazing at me, his eyes like arrows that pierced mine so deeply that I had to look away, out the windows, where the open, airy freedom of the sky relieved the intense, penetrated, almost trapped feeling that his riveted attention had inflicted. When I’d glanced back, he’d been standing in front of me, close enough to touch. I had not heard him move.

In my surprise I had stepped back, almost tripping over a chair, and he’d reached out and caught me with the speed of a striking cobra. His touch, his proximity, his towering presence that somehow implied a strength not first glimpsed in his slim, graceful form, had so overwhelmed me that I’d closed my eyes and just stood there, afraid I would swoon like a twit in a black-and-white movie. He’d remained silent, just holding me gently, as though he sensed the possibility of an impending faint. When I’d finally opened my eyes, his own had softened, and I looked into them and feel comforted, and he’d whispered two words: “It’s you.”

From that day forward we had been inseparable.

Remembering, I laid my cheek against his chest and listened to his heartbeat, to his slow, steady breathing, and felt safe again. Whatever was happening to me, to us, he would make it all right. He always did. I had no way of knowing that his plan for doing so would wound me as nothing ever had. As joyous as our union had been, it was about to change into the most tortuous trial of my life. I rested in his arms, mystified but content. I’m glad I enjoyed that sweet contentment, because it was about to end.

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