by Kristi Cook
Still, I was surprised when I woke up on that third lonely morning and found Aidan there, sitting in a chair by the window, his blond hair turned gold by the sun.
“You’re back,” I said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. “God, what time is it?”
“It’s nearly noon,” he said, his expression guarded, entirely unreadable.
My stomach growled noisily. “I guess I missed breakfast. Did you happen to notice if they’ve gotten lunch yet?”
He shook his head. “I’ve sent them all away for lunch, to a restaurant in the village. They won’t be back for a couple of hours.”
That was weird. “Okay,” I said with a frown. “Are you planning on telling me where you’ve been? I was worried out of my mind.”
“I had some business to attend to. Affairs to settle,” he said cryptically.
He was being purposely obtuse, I realized. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on here,” I demanded, annoyed now.
Looking almost grim, he reached over to the round, piecrust table beside the chair and retrieved a leather case.
“What’s that?” I asked, eyeing it curiously as he opened it, revealing what looked like an enormous hypodermic needle and a single glass vial.
“It’s my cure,” he said simply.
“Your cure?” I asked, my voice rising. “What? How?”
“Dr. Byrne gave it to me before we left New York.”
“That’s what he wanted to talk to you about?”
Aidan nodded. “He feels certain he’s perfected it. No way to know for sure, of course, but it worked with my blood and tissue samples, right down to the cellular level. With the samples we took from the vampire in Atlanta too. At least, that’s what he tells me.”
I glanced down at the humungous needle and then back up at him again. “So . . . now what?”
“Why don’t you get up and get dressed. I’ll go to the kitchen and find you something to eat, and I’ll bring it right up with some coffee, okay?”
I didn’t like this, not one bit. He was acting strange, oddly formal and aloof. “Fine,” I said. “Just give me fifteen minutes; I want to jump in the shower first.”
I’d never showered so quickly in my life. It was chilly, so I threw on a pair of jeans with a tank top and a hoodie and quickly ran a brush through my hair.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, he was back with a tray that held two slices of thick toast, a jar of jam, and a mug of steaming coffee. “This was all I could rustle up,” he said. “I think I got the coffee right, though—lots of sugar and cream.”
“Perfect. Okay, you talk while I eat.” I reached for a piece of toast and took a bite, settling myself into the chair opposite him.
“This is going to sound much worse than it is,” he warned.
I washed down the toast with my coffee, waiting for him to continue.
“It’s simple, really. I fill the syringe with the correct amount of serum. He’s marked it here.” He lifted it from the case, showing me the little dash made in black Sharpie. “And then I’m going to need you to inject it for me.”
“Like in your arm or something?” I asked. “Why can’t you inject it yourself?”
“This part sounds complicated, but it really isn’t, not if you think about it,” he said, then took a deep breath before continuing. “You have to inject the serum directly into my heart.”
“What?” I shrieked, setting down my mug so hard that coffee sloshed all over the tray. “Are you crazy? I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can. Look, it’s a heavy-gauge needle, nice and thick and just the right length. You hold the syringe here”—he grabbed it firmly in the middle, demonstrating—“just like you would your stake. Make sure you use plenty of force. Don’t worry, the needle won’t break.
“But you’ve got to inject it into the right spot, okay? You know how to hit a vampire’s heart; you’ve done it plenty of times before. Once it’s in, press the plunger all the way down with your thumb. And that’s it, Violet.”
“That’s what Matthew said I should do?” I asked, too stunned to say much else.
“Those were his specific instructions.”
“I don’t understand. This sounds crazy. I mean, what if I miss? What’ll that do to you? And what if I don’t miss? We have no guarantee that it’ll work, that it won’t just kill you on the spot. Besides, why now? We’re supposed to be having fun. We were having fun,” I insisted, feeling panicked now. “This can wait.”
“You saw what happened the other night.” He shook his head, looking grimly determined. “I’m not risking that again. Don’t you see? I want you, Vi. I’m not going to stop wanting you. And to have you, I have to bite you. I can’t help but bite you. And God only knows what’ll happen when I do.”
“Well,” I floundered, “what about Mrs. Girard? You’re supposed to be . . . I don’t know, doing stuff with the Tribunal or something.”
“I won’t continue to be her pawn.”
“You’re not her pawn,” I argued, desperate to convince him not to do this—not now. “You’re the Dauphin; you’re their king. She answers to you, not the other way around.”
He rose from his chair, moving around the table to kneel before me, taking both of my hands in his. “But that’s not what I want. Don’t you see? I don’t want to be their king. I want to be a boy—a mortal boy. Someone stole my life from me a century ago, and I want it back. Not next month, not next year or the year you finish university. I want it now.
“And if it doesn’t work—or worse, if it kills me, well . . . what better place than here, where I was born? All your friends are here, Vi. If I don’t make it, they’ll take care of you, comfort you. And that business I had to see to—my assets, my belongings, I’ve left them to you. The apartment in Paris, everything. You’ll be fine. We’ve got to do this. Today. Right now.”
I reached a trembling hand up to my temple. My head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache. “I can’t,” I said, tears gathering in my eyes.
“You can,” he insisted. “I have faith that you can, that you love me enough to set me free.”
Downstairs in the grand hall, the clock chimed the hour with a single booming note. Aidan stood, reaching for the syringe and vial.
I watched wordlessly as he uncapped the glass vial, inserting the needle in and pulling up the plunger to fill the syringe with the serum. “We don’t have much time—I expect them back within the hour.” He pulled me to my feet, holding the syringe out to me. My hand trembling, I took it.
I started to cry then, deep, gulping sobs that racked my entire body. “I can’t do it,” I choked out.
“You have to do it, Vi,” Aidan pleaded.
“No.” I shook my head, the tears blurring my vision as I backed toward the bed.
“Please, I beg of you. It has to go into my heart. You can do it; I’ve taught you how. Don’t let me down, not now.”
“No,” I blubbered, wanting it to stop. “Please, no. Don’t make me, Aidan. I can’t.”
“Yes, love. You can. Right here.” He tapped his chest. “There’s no time to waste—you must do it now. Now,” he repeated, his tone urgent.
“Why me?” I asked miserably.
“Because I love you with all my heart. It has to be you—don’t you see?”
Taking a deep, ragged breath, I raised my gaze to his.
This is for us, he said in my head. It’s the only way. The only chance we’ve got.
I knew then that he was right. That he loved me enough to risk it, that I loved him enough to try.
“Okay,” I said at last.
“Thank you,” Aidan answered.
“Now?”
He nodded. “Now, love.”
I could do this—I had to. I took a deep, calming breath, finding my center. Once, twice, three times. When my mind was clear and focused, I raised my arm, my fingers clutched tightly around the syringe’s smooth barrel. I took one step back and then lunged forward, my arm swinging in an arc that led
directly to Aidan’s heart.
A scream escaped my lips as the needle pierced his flesh. Aidan’s eyes widened, his mouth forming an O of surprise. Quickly, I pressed the plunger all the way down with my thumb before releasing my grip on the syringe.
And then I watched in horror as Aidan crumpled to the floor, the needle still protruding from his chest. His blue-gray eyes were open wide, staring unseeing at the ceiling—all hint of life gone from them, just like that.
“No!” I shrieked, my voice echoing around the room, bouncing off the walls. Frantic now, I dropped to my hands and knees beside his body and laid an ear against his chest, desperately hoping to hear or feel something, anything.
Oh my God. Oh my God. There was nothing. Not a sound, not a heartbeat, not a single movement. A jagged sob tore from my throat, and I clapped a hand over my mouth, silencing it, swallowing back the bile that had risen in my throat.
The cure hadn’t worked. It hadn’t worked! He’d said that it would, but it didn’t. It hadn’t. I’d killed him—destroyed him, just like the rest of them, with a single strike to the heart!
What have I done?
I knelt over him, my hands shaking as I touched his face, my fingers skimming lightly from his cheek to his jaw, his lips. His skin was so soft, as pale and perfect as always. If it weren’t for his eyes, he could be sleeping. But he wasn’t—I knew that he wasn’t.
I’d killed him.
Entirely numb now, I somehow managed to pull the needle from his chest and toss it aside. I raised a trembling hand to my mouth and kissed my fingers, then pressed them to his lips. “Please forgive me,” I whispered, unwilling to say those other, far more permanent words. And then I reached up and closed his eyes.
This was what he’d wanted—to be set free. He’d wanted the monster inside him gone, no matter the cost. He’d been willing to take that risk, but what about me? Was I supposed to be happy for him? Happy that he’d won?
How could I be happy when it felt as if my own heart had stopped beating along with his? How could I go on, knowing that he was permanently erased from my future now?
With nothing left to do, I laid my head against his chest and cried, my tears soaking his shirt as I clutched his lifeless body to mine.
I have no idea how much time passed before I felt it—a subtle movement beneath my cheek. A pulse, a twitch. Something.
I imagined it. I had to have imagined it. But . . . there it was again. I held my breath, straining to listen more closely now.
And then I heard it—a faint but distinct thump.
I let out my breath with a gasp and then held it again. Listening, waiting. Hoping, praying. Please, God. Please, please . . .
Thump.
Followed by silence. Maybe I had imagined it—or just heard my own heartbeat echoing in my ears.
But then there it was again, loud and strong against my ear: Thump.
Please! Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please.
Thump . . . thump . . . thump.
Thump-thump . . . thump-thump . . . thump-thump . . . thump-thump.
It was rhythmic now, continuing on uninterrupted. Holy hell and God in heaven!
“Aidan!” I scrambled to my knees, my gaze snapping up to his face . . .
. . . just as his blue-gray eyes opened.
“Violet?” he asked dazedly, struggling to sit.
I threw my arms around his neck, laughing and crying all at once as relief washed over me in coursing waves.
“You okay?” he asked me.
“Are you kidding? Am I okay? Oh my God, Aidan! You were dead; I swear you were. And then—”
I stopped short, my breath hitching in my chest. “Matthew!” I cried out. There was a searing pain in my head, almost like a part of my brain were being ripped away. And then . . . emptiness. That space that Matthew normally filled—that connection we shared—it was gone. Gone.
I doubled over in pain—pure physical agony. What was happening?
The door banged open and Cece ran in, the rest of them following behind. “What’s going on? Are you guys okay?”
I was vaguely aware of conversation, of voices speaking all at once. My friends’ worried faces surrounded me. But I couldn’t make out what they were saying—the pain was too sharp, too intense.
“Matthew!” I finally managed to shout above the din. “Someone . . . find my cell,” I gasped. “I have to call him. Now. Now!”
Several seconds passed, and then someone pressed my phone into my hand. The pain was blinding me now, making white spots dance before my eyes. “Someone dial. Please!”
“Here,” came Cece’s calming voice. “I’m dialing. Just hang on, Violet. Okay, it’s ringing now.”
I raised it to my ear. Two rings. Three. And then someone picked up. Oh my God, someone picked up.
“Violet?” But it wasn’t Matthew’s voice on the other end. It was someone else’s. A woman’s. I recognized it—Charlie.
“Where’s Matthew?” I asked her, my voice shaking. “Is he okay? Charlie, tell me he’s okay. Please!”
I heard her take a deep, rattling breath on the other end of the line. And then I knew the truth—knew it right down to the marrow in my bones.
“He’s gone,” she said, her voice laced with panic. “He just collapsed, and . . . Oh my God! He’s gone. Gone! I called 911, but . . . it’s too late.” She was sobbing now. “It happened just like he said it would.” I could hear a siren now, growing louder, drowning out her sobs.
“No,” I whispered. “No.” The phone fell from my hand, tumbling to the carpet beside me. My mind struggled to comprehend it all, to reconcile everything that had happened in a matter of minutes.
Things seemed to move in slow motion then, like a hazy dream—a nightmare. Someone picked up my phone and pressed it to their ear. Someone else reached for me, an arm behind my back, cradling me. I saw mouths moving but couldn’t hear the words. There was nothing but a loud ringing in my ears, drowning out everything but the sound of my own heartbeat, which grew louder and faster. Too fast, making me breathless.
And then I blacked out.
Epilogue ~ A British Ex-Vampire in Paris
Four months later, Paris
Be careful with that thing!” I called out from my seat on the terrace. I had a heavy textbook open in my lap, a notebook balanced on one knee as I scribbled notes, studying for an upcoming exam.
“Hey, are you doubting my dagger-throwing skills, Vi? Because I could hit that target with my eyes closed.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Yeah, that explains the nicks in the plaster beside the target board. And anyway, it’s a baselard,” I added. “Learn the lingo.”
“Semantics,” Aidan said with a shrug, stepping out onto the terrace to join me as he returned the weapon in question to the sheath strapped beneath his left shoulder. “I’m starving. How ’bout you?”
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You, starving. That’s still so weird to hear.”
His mouth curved into a grin. “It’s such a bloody inconvenience, all this needing to eat.”
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to be mortal again,” I said with a shrug.
He leaned against the stone railing, the noon sun glinting off the Eiffel Tower behind him. I still couldn’t believe his physical transformation. His once-pale skin was bronzed now, thanks to lazy afternoons spent lounging shirtless in the Tuileries. His hair had grown longer, the golden waves nearly to his shoulders now—shoulders that were much broader, more muscled than before. He looked vibrant, healthy. Alive.
And mind-bogglingly hot. It was all I could do not to jump his bones every time he walked into a room—or out onto the terrace, as was the current case.
“Did you ever hear from Jenna?” he asked, mercifully oblivious to my current train of thought.
I shook my head, glad for the distraction. “Nope, and I don’t expect to. She’s got too much pride. She teased me once about being your pet, abou
t how you kept me on a short leash. Well, who’s the pet now?” I had to laugh, thinking of Jenna’s current situation.
She was in Paris, too. Working as a model—high fashion, runway, and print. But there was a catch. She was living in a Tribunal safe house, under vampire protection. It was the only way she could remain safe from her vengeful pack, now that she’d graduated from Winterhaven. I didn’t know the details, but apparently she and Mrs. Girard had struck some sort of deal. She was working for them—the good vampires. Which was pretty funny, actually. Jenna and I, on the same team now.
And speaking of Mrs. Girard . . . she hadn’t gotten her Dauphin after all. But she did get an even more powerful weapon, instead—the cure. That helped a lot, in terms of her forgiving us. Instead of imprisonment and torture, the Tribunal now simply sentenced dangerous, uncooperative vampires to be cured. And once cured, a vampire couldn’t be turned back. In those first few months, several had tried—and several had died. For realsies, this time around.
“What about Trevors?” I asked. “How’s he doing these days?”
“He’s good, back in London now. Enjoying every day he has left, he says.” Because Trevors had chosen to take the cure. Aidan had been pleased for him—happy that Trevors had been able to decide his own future. It turns out Aidan had been paying him generously all these years, and Trevors would be able to live out his final days in style and comfort. He deserved that.
I picked up my cell, checking the time, smiling wistfully when I saw the photo that served as my wallpaper—the group picture from the prom. It had been only five months ago, but it felt like a lifetime. I set it aside with a sigh, glancing back down at my notes.
“I should probably be studying, too,” Aidan said. “You’re making me feel like a slacker.” He folded his arms across his chest, causing his newly cut biceps to bulge. My attention was drawn to his new tattoo—the medieval-looking dagger with the scripted M atop it. M for Megvéd.
M for Matthew.
Tears sprang to my eyes. I took a deep breath, forcing them to remain at bay. I’d already shed an ocean of tears over Matthew.
“Do you think he made the right decision?” I asked, probably for the millionth time. “Matthew, I mean.”