"I did," he agreed, trying to put the weight of his emotions into his words.
She closed her eyes and swallowed, then whispered, "And I ruined that."
"No!" He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her eyes open. "No, you must never think that. You have been all to me that I could ask for. More than I had any right to dream of. No fault lies with you."
"Then why are you speaking in the past tense?"
It was his turn to swallow and look away.
"Desmond, I know what happened last night upset you. It upset me, too. But I've been thinking it over, and I've figured out why it happened."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "You have no idea."
"No, I— "
"Do you remember the tour you took when you first came to the Institute?" He spun to face her.
His apparently arbitrary change of subject creased her forehead with confusion, and she took a moment to collect her thoughts before answering, "Yes."
"Do you remember our discussion at the end of the tour? When I asked you to stay, and you refused?"
"Yes. But I don't see what— "
"Think carefully. You originally refused. Why did you change your mind and agree?"
She frowned with the effort of remembering. "You had a very persuasive argument."
"I never said a word." He sighed, seeing that she still wasn't following him. "Later, when I escorted you to the guest suite, I convinced you to stay put even though you wanted to leave. Do you remember how?"
A shadow of doubt crossed her face. "No. But I was very suspicious, after you'd gone. I thought you'd hypnotized me."
"Close. Very close." He forced himself to go on, even though he could see the first stirrings of fear in her eyes. It would get far worse before he was done. "I can both read others' thoughts, and implant my own thoughts in their minds. That's how I was able to convince you."
"Don't be silly." Her tentative grin faded at his expression. "You're serious."
"Yes."
"Prove it. What am I thinking now?"
He'd known it would come to this. If he lowered his mental shields enough to touch her inner mind, but kept his own thoughts strictly controlled, she shouldn't be in any danger of picking up on his ever-present blood lust. Sighing, he reached out to touch her mind for the last time.
"You're thinking he can't possibly do this. There's no way he could know that I'm thinking about a lemon chiffon pie. With whipped cream. On one of Mama's blue and white Corelle serving dishes."
"Enough! You proved your point." Her eyes widened, and she took an involuntary step backward, away from him. She put one hand to her head, as if she could feel where the treacherous thoughts had leaked out. "Do you do that all the time? Listen in on people's thoughts?"
"No. I'd go mad from the constant chatter. One of the first things a telepath learns to do is to put up mental shields, keeping their thoughts in and everyone else's thoughts out. I've had a lot of practice, so I can control whether that shield is more like a brick wall, or like tissue paper." He stared into her eyes, hoping she'd make the connection with her own gift. "For an untrained telepath, the shield is more likely to stay as a brick wall, or to fluctuate unpredictably."
She watched him with the blank look that said she was amassing information, but had not yet formed an opinion. He tried again.
"Haven't you ever wondered where your sudden flashes of insight come from?"
"You mean you think I'm a telepath, too?"
"I know you are."
Her eyes slid out of focus, and he watched as she replayed scenes in her memory, testing this new theory against the facts. She was so beautiful, so intelligent, so open to everything life had to offer. How could he give her up?
She focused on him again. "Even if that's true, what does it have to do with last night?"
"Do you believe me?"
"You didn't answer my question."
"And I won't, until you answer mine. Do you believe that you have the telepathic gift?"
She strolled around the office, her fingers trailing over the backs of chairs and across book cases. Returning to her starting point, she tipped up her chin with determination and announced, "I won't dismiss the possibility. That's the best you're going to get."
"Good enough." He looked down at his desk, stirring the paper birds with his finger. He had no idea how to say this. "That's why you're not to blame for what happened last night. You let your mental shields down, and were overwhelmed by my thoughts and desires."
"Your desires? You wanted to kill me?"
"No. You weren't trying to kill me, whatever it looked like."
"Then what— "
"You wanted to feast on my blood. Just as I passionately desired yours."
Chapter 17
"YOU'RE TRYING to tell me you're some kind of a vampire?" Rebecca chuckled. "Yeah, right."
Desmond's eyes glimmered the wet color of a stormy sea, and his lips lifted in a soft smile of pity. He believed what he was telling her. Dear Lord, she'd married a madman.
"You're not a vampire." She edged away from him, around the chair and toward the door. "You're not dead. I've seen you eat and drink. You have a daughter for heaven's sake!"
"I'm not a vampire. I'm cursed. My father angered a Voodoo priestess, and I'm paying his price." He stepped toward her, stopping when she backed away. "I'm not insane."
He was reading her mind!
"And I'm not reading your mind," he added. "You have a very expressive face. Your thoughts are clear for anyone to see."
She reached the door, and the knob pressed against her hip. Desmond watched her as she reached back and turned the knob, but made no move to stop her. He just sighed and looked down at the floor.
"I didn't expect you to stay once you knew."
Her hand froze on the door knob. What was wrong with her? This was Desmond, the man she loved. So he thought he was cursed. Maybe it was his way of dealing with all the death that had surrounded him.
She crossed the office to where he stood, and laid her hand against his cheek. He jerked back his head, eyes wide and nostrils flared, then just stared at her. Quivers of emotion rippled through him, but he stood rooted to the spot. Silent. Staring.
"Hon." She forced herself to touch his cheek again. His control looked about ready to snap, and she had no idea what might set him off, or what he might do if he lost control. Remembering the scene between him and Philippe, she feared she might not have done the wisest thing. "It's all right. We can get help."
He winced as if she'd struck him, and pushed her hand away. Turning aside, he whispered, "You don't believe me."
"Of course I believe you. You think you're cursed."
"That's not what I meant."
"You've suffered a terrible number of tragedies, and I'm sure it feels like you're cursed sometimes. But it's not too late," she told him. "We can find some professional help for you."
"Damn it all!" He turned and slammed his fist onto the secretary's desk. "What will it take to convince you?"
"Desmond, calm down. You'll hurt yourself."
He spun around, a strange glint in his eyes. "Yes, maybe that will do it."
"What?" Her heart speeded up, and she swallowed with a too-dry mouth. "What are you thinking?"
"One aspect of my curse is that I'm immortal. If I demonstrate that, you'll have to believe me."
"Desmond, please. This has gone far enough." She had a vision of him blowing out his brains to prove his point.
"No it hasn't. Not until you believe me." He opened the center drawer of the secretary's desk, and took out a wicked looking letter opener. Gripping it in his right hand, he placed his left hand flat on the desk.
Rebecca ran towards him. "No! Desmond, stop! I believe you!"
"No you don't." He drove the letter opener through his hand, closing his eyes and hissing at the pain. Blood welled up around the wound, but not as much as there might have been. He hadn't punctured any of the larger veins.
"Desmond,
honey. We're in a hospital. They'll be able to treat that. Just, don't touch it. It'll be okay."
He blinked, and forced a weak smile. "Well. That hurt." He took a deep breath, and looked down at his hand. A glimmer of hope sparked within her, that the pain had snapped him out of his delusion.
He cradled the wounded hand in his good hand, bumping the tip of the letter opener, and she winced in sympathy at his sudden intake of breath. Following behind him as he walked to the sink, he surprised her by turning and holding out his hand.
"Do you agree that the letter opener goes all the way through?"
She looked away, her stomach turning at the sight of the bloodstained steel tip protruding from his perfect flesh.
"Yes, but it's not bleeding much. If we get you to the doctor, they'll be able to bandage it up for you. You might not even need stitches."
He laughed, a short bitter sound. "Dear heart, I won't even need the bandage. Watch."
Unable to stop herself, she watched in sick fascination as he slid the letter opener out of his hand, and rinsed them both under the water. Shaking the water off of his hand, he held it out for her inspection.
She took his hand, turning it over to look at the back. A thin pink line marked where new skin had formed, but it faded to pale alabaster even as she watched. In moments, no sign of his injury remained.
She grabbed his other hand, thinking she'd been mistaken about which hand he'd injured. Both hands were perfectly formed and whole.
"You were telling the truth," she whispered. Then a wave of fury swept through her. "You lied to me!"
"I didn't lie."
"You knowingly let me believe something that wasn't true, and didn't correct me. That's the same thing."
"But I had to."
"There's no excuse for lying." She turned to leave, only to have him catch her arm and pull her around to face him.
"I love you."
She stared at him. He'd finally said the words she'd longed to hear, the words she'd thought he'd never say. She whispered, "Why now?"
"I was trying to keep you safe. I thought I could protect you from the curse if I didn't say that I loved you. But I couldn't let you leave believing the lies Philippe told you. You are the other half of my heart. I love you more than I knew it was possible to love anyone."
He loved her. He'd loved her all along. All the time she was doubting his motives and suspicious of his actions, he had loved her. If she had trusted him, if he had believed he could tell her such an amazing story without being forced to prove it wasn't a fanciful cover-up for an even worse crime, would he have? If she had encouraged and supported him, would he have told her the truth in the beginning? Was it her actions that had driven him to lie?
He caught her just as her knees buckled.
DESMOND HELPED Rebecca to sit down in Bernice's chair, tilting it back when she looked in danger of fainting. Her gray eyes had gone glassy, and he feared her reaction when she eventually regained her senses. He took the opportunity to smooth a lock of her soft hair away from her face, knowing it might be the last time she allowed him to touch her.
Her eyes focused on him, then she surged out of the chair to pace the room, rubbing her hands together in time to her steps.
"Okay. So. You're cursed. You're some kind of voodoo vampire. The blacked out windows in the apartment are for you, then."
"Yes. But also for Gillian, as I told you. The sunlight aggravated her condition, just as it does mine."
"That's why we traveled to Las Vegas at night. And why you drove so fast to get back, before the sun came up."
"Yes." He turned in a slow circle in the center of the room, facing her as she paced. Her lack of reaction puzzled and alarmed him. Was she still denying the truth?
She continued pacing, head down in thought. Then she turned and faced him.
"When I was moving my clothes in to your closet, I thought that it had a very strange construction. It makes a seal, doesn't it? In case the windows ever fail?"
"Yes." Her perception surprised him, and for the first time he allowed himself to hope that her rational mind would be able to accept his condition without emotional prejudice. He grabbed the glimmer of hope, and struggled to find the right words to explain his situation without frightening her. "I've never used it for that purpose. But I feel safer knowing the option exists, should I ever need it."
"You said your sister was liberated for her time. What time exactly was that?"
"The mid 1800s. And before you ask, the war that claimed my brothers' lives was the War between the States."
"So you were born when?"
"1853."
She nodded, as if this line of questioning made sense to her. He could only wonder where it was leading, and hope he was answering her questions correctly. When she crossed her arms and tilted her head to stare at him, his heart plummeted to his feet. Somehow, he'd failed her test.
"But if that's the case, one thing doesn't ring true. The photograph of your family. It's in color."
He sighed with relief, not caring how she'd found the picture.
"It's not a photograph, it's a daguerreotype. They were individually printed on silver plates, and hand colored after the initial image was fixed."
"Oh." She seemed to deflate, and he longed to go to her and comfort her. But he didn't dare.
She started to wander around the room again, picking up items for a brief inspection before putting them down and moving on to the next thing that attracted her attention. Her silence weighed on his nerves, but he had to let her make the next move. He couldn't risk intimidating or frightening her. Striving to maintain a casual attitude, he leaned against the desk.
"So, how similar is your curse to a real vampire? Do you have to drink blood?" she asked.
"Yes." Unsure what had triggered her question, he almost stopped with that simple answer. But honesty compelled him to give the full picture. "The researchers created a transfusion liquid to prevent accident victims from going into shock. It has all the nutrients I need. If I'm quiet, and don't use my mental powers, I can get by with one dose every other day. If I use my telepathic powers, or sustain some sort of injury, I might need two or more doses in a single day. The fluid replaces the cells that are destroyed in my body, so my need for it depends on how strenuously I push myself."
She stopped her restless pacing and approached him, standing so close that he could smell the lemon and honey fragrance of her shampoo.
When she placed one of her hands lightly on his, he thought his heart would stop from the shock. She still loved him. His needs did not disgust her.
His smile died stillborn. Needs were one thing. She hadn't yet learned the rest of his curse.
He looked down at their joined hands, noting that he'd automatically twined his fingers through hers. He tightened his grip, as if that could keep her by his side after he revealed the complete truth.
With her free hand, she brushed the hair off his forehead and caressed his cheek, tipping his face to look at her.
"There's something else, isn't there?"
"Yes." He led her back to the chair, then took his turn pacing. There was no easy way to say this, but he was determined that she hear nothing but the truth from him. "My father seduced the daughter of a Voodoo priestess, and in revenge the old woman laid a curse upon him and all of his future descendants. They would live forever surrounded by death, sharing the last hideous moments of those they loved as they died in agony."
He ran a hand over his face, appalled to discover he was trembling. The memories...
"That's how I learned of my telepathic skills. I felt the bayonet pierce Etienne's lung and his bubbling struggle for breath. I felt the bullet shatter Jean-Michel's leg, and the amputation fever that burned his life away. I was with my mother when she learned of their deaths and stepped blindly into traffic, and felt the horses' hooves that trampled her. I felt every blow of the drunken gamblers that beat Roderick to death. I choked and sweated with my sister as she succumbed
to Cholera. I dared to hope that the curse had run its course, that I had gained enough control to defeat it, but I felt every moment of Olivia's pain and frustration as she wasted away."
Desmond closed his eyes, unwilling to see the expression on Rebecca's face as he told her, "I will not cause your death."
The gentle touch of her hand on his arm startled him. He turned to find her smiling sadly at him.
"The members of your family died tragically, but you didn't cause those deaths. You didn't hold the bayonet or drive the coach."
"But I killed Olivia."
"What do you mean, you killed her? I thought you said she had a hereditary form of cancer. Or did she request euthanasia?"
"She had cancer."
"Then how did you kill her?" Rebecca was staring at him, clearly not comprehending what he was trying to say. He sighed, wishing she would just take his word, and not make him relive the pain. But she wouldn't give up until she understood everything about his curse.
"Doctor Chen explained to you about Gillian's unique blood chemistry?"
"She has both the regular leukocytes and something he called neukocytes."
"Yes." Desmond shoved his hands into his pockets and paced back and forth in front of the desk. "In normal humans, the leukocytes are part of the immune system that identifies foreign bodies in the blood stream, and marks them for destruction. Another function of the same system is to identify cells that have been damaged beyond repair, and mark them for destruction, as well. When the number of damaged cells being destroyed outpaces the number of new cells being created, you see the affects of age."
"Since you obviously haven't aged, that can't be how it works for you," she interrupted him.
"You're right. The neukocytes do more than just identify foreign bodies in the blood stream. They convert them, so they are no longer foreign. If the conversion succeeds, the bloodstream carries them to where new cells are needed. If the conversion fails, the leukocytes mark them as unhealthy and they are destroyed." He raised his hand, forestalling her next interruption. "If a normal human being is infected with my cursed blood, the neukocytes begin their work in a new host. They begin trying to transform the blood cells they encounter. If the person's own immune system is functioning correctly, the neukocytes will be destroyed before they can cause much damage. But if they take hold..."
Dark Salvation Page 24