Page 35

“Yeah, that pretty much sounds like what a Viking would call a vampire.”

“You say this word vampire as if it chills your blood and haunts your soul.”

“It’s not that big a deal, really.”

I shrug one shoulder.

But I see I’m not convincing him.

“You must tell me if it is,” he says.

He even steps forward, all full of passion.

I have to take a step back. “Why must I tell you?”

“Because if being such a creature is the reason I repel you, then I shall cut it from me. I shall find the root of it within my body and use this mighty weapon to carve it out and then cast it into the ocean.”

But I have the sword, I think.

Then brace for him to try to take it from me.

I needn’t have worried, though. He has something else he can use.

“Dude, that’s a fork,” I say as he brandishes it.

And he has the decency to look chastened.

“By your tone I sense a fork is not impressive enough for this task.”

“Of course it’s not. You use it to chase spears of broccoli round a plate.”

“Then I shall attempt this procedure with my giant machete,” he says, and I think, No fucking way. But sure enough, out comes that very thing from behind the couch. He must have somehow had them down the legs of his jeans—which is unsettling on two fronts. That his legs are that massively long, and that I didn’t even fucking check. I didn’t check; I didn’t tie him up well enough.

And yet he did nothing but make me toast.

I can even see how he did it now as I look into the kitchen.

He built a fire in the sink, using what looks like two wooden spoons and a bunch of kitchen towels. It’s still smoldering, in a way that probably should have set off the fire alarms. If my fire alarms weren’t also sentient enough to know when something is a danger, and when something isn’t.

But that’s beside the point.

“Jesus Christ, a machete as well? You know what, never mind. You can’t cut it out of you, and even if you could I wouldn’t want you to. It’s not being a vampire that was ever the problem. I do not care that you are. You just hated me, okay. You hated me. I don’t know why you did, or how I ever wronged you, but—” I try to explain. But somehow every word comes out more heated and weirdly wobbly than the last, until finally I’m forced to cut myself off.

If I don’t, I think I might cry.

Though I’ve no idea why.

I’ve lived with his inexplicable loathing for hundreds of years. It’s not as if it’s anything new to me. But then I look up into his face and realize what is: how he is now. The way he’s talking, the questions he’s asking, his gentle expressions. And most of all, his regret. This man, the one in front of me right now—he is remorseful. He hates the idea that whoever he was did this.

And oh, what it is to hear a sorry from those lips, after so long of seeing them twisted into a sneer. To be able to trust in it, because he’s simply not the same person. I know he isn’t, because he keeps proving it, again and again. “You shall not say such a thing. It is not possible that you ever could,” he says, and I think, He means about me doing something wrong. He means that none of this was my fault. Then oh, fuck, the tears are there, again.

“For fuck’s sake, you don’t know me. You don’t even know me,” I cry desperately. I even manage to throw up my hands and turn away. But all that does is make the ensuing silence deeper, darker.

And the way he pierces it more profound.

“I know that your soul calls to mine. I know that when I look into your eyes, I see a thousand lifetimes lived with longing for all you have been denied. And that I will provide, whether you offer me kindness or otherwise. Strike me down and I shall stay steady in my course, you shall see. You are the sunlight of my life, and I exist only to see you shine,” he says, so forcefully I can’t doubt it. I just have to take it in, until those unshed tears spill.

They streak down my face in a way I don’t let him see.