“Can you?” she countered.
“Pardon me?” The elevator doors slipped open and he let her into his apartment.
“Can you live with a killer?”
“What are you saying?” he asked. Her hands were shaking. She clasped them together to steady herself and sank down on the long white sofa, steeling herself for what was to come.
“It was my fault someone died,” she said. “I’ve hated myself for it forever. I’m an unnatural person…I’ve taken a life. It’s the worst thing you can do and I’ve done it. So don’t think I would ever judge you for anything. I have no right to set myself up as better than you.” She wept into her hands brokenly until Elias settled beside her and pulled her against him.
“Is that why you want to be a vampire? So you can forget?”
“Yes. I can’t live with myself. I don’t deserve a normal life. And this way I’ll be the monster I’ve always known I am.”
“A qualified psychotherapist would be a better fit for you than immortality. If you can’t live with yourself now, and you’re perhaps twenty-five years old, a longer life is not the answer. Tell me what happened. I’ll be your confessor and absolve you.”
“No. I’m sorry I told you. I don’t ever want you to know what I did. You’d never want me then.” She looked up but her eyes were so blurred with tears that she couldn’t even see his face.
Elias gripped her arms and shook her.
“Don’t ever say that. I will always want you, you foolish girl.” He crushed her against him, parting her lips with his in a fevered kiss that made her pulse pound and her hands clutch at his shirt. “And turning you is not the only way I could make you forget.”
Elias swept her up into his arms as though she weighed nothing and she looped her arms around his neck, wishing momentarily that she had worn something floating and diaphanous instead of her hiking clothes. It was so breathtakingly romantic to be carried that way, borne softly down the hallway and place on his wide, white bed like it was an altar.
He worked the elastic out of her hair and combed it through with his fingers until it spilled all around her shoulders. He took a curl between his fingers and pressed it to his lips almost reverently before he claimed her mouth again. When he pulled off her jacket and top he saw the dusting of freckles on her skin and the sound that came from his throat was almost a growl. His hands brushed her shoulders and collarbone, caressed her exposed neck.
“So beautiful,” he said hoarsely as she rose up off the bed to strip his shirt from his body. Running her fingers along his chest, she reveled in the smooth coolness of his skin, so refreshing to her own fevered temperature. She felt as if steam could rise from her flesh under his touch as he petted and stroked her. The palms of her hands tingled, her toes curled up. Grabbing for him, she pulled him down over her for a searching kiss but he took her wrists and put her away from him.
“Paxton, there’s no rush. We have all the time we’ll ever need.”
“You might. But I’m still mortal and I’m impatient,” she breathed, reaching for him. “Elias, please. I’ve been waiting for you for what feels like forever.” He pulled away from her.
“You’ve known me for a day. You haven’t waited any time at all. I however have waited more than a century for you, but I’m a patient man.”
“Yes. You’re a paragon of virtue, Elias NOT the Fifth.” Even her giggle was slightly breathless as she sat up beside him. “Why do you hold back from me?” She draped her arms around his shoulders and leaned against him. For a man so lean and spare, he felt solid and permanent and she relaxed into him in spite of herself.
“You’re not ready. Choices with long-term ramifications such as this one must be made coolly, without emotion.”
“You are now the only man in history to use the word ‘ramifications’ in the middle of an attempted seduction. In case you were wondering, that is not a compliment. You’ll have to make it up to me.” She nuzzled his neck expectantly. He rose from the bed, his iron control infuriating when her pulse still beat insistently.
“Paxton, it is time for you to leave. Go home. Resume your life and consider this question of vampirism dispassionately, in the context of your situation. Perhaps speak to a counselor concerning your guilt over your mother’s death and reconcile yourself to that. Immortality is no place to hide—it takes away even the eventual escape of death. You must not choose it out of fear or desire. Call upon me in a month, three months, when you have had time to contemplate it.”
He strode out of the room and she trailed after him in disbelief at his sudden rejection. He waited at the door, her backpack in hand. She straightened her disarranged clothes, cheeks flaming with humiliation as she jerked her backpack out of his grasp. Setting her jaw, she looked him squarely in the eyes, defiantly.
“I will never, never call upon you. You have made yourself quite clear, Mr. Townsend.” Paxton stalked out of his apartment, refusing to turn back for a last glimpse of his face, harsh and grim but impossibly dear. She could go forward without him. After all, he was right. It had only been one day.
That did not go according to plan, she mused as she made her way downtown. A few days to stew and he’ll be back. I’m the oasis in his desert and he will crawl toward me in time. I have to wait and keep the end in mind. Her rational thoughts did nothing to calm the trembling of her hands or the unaccountable feeling that her heart was breaking.
Chapter 6
Gillian was packing her lunch for work when Paxton walked in the door.
“I thought you were spending the weekend with the bloodsucker,” she remarked, looking up from slathering mustard on her sandwich.
“The bloodsucker tired of me sooner than expected. I didn’t get it.”
“I love that you tried. I’m glad you’re safe. Working nights isn’t so bad. And the guys I date mostly think it’s cool and offer to let me bite them.” She smiled at Paxton, hiding her disappointment. When Pax had told her about the sunblock it had seemed like a miracle, but she should have known miracles had forsaken her.
“I’m not giving up,” Paxton said, dropping her backpack and sinking onto the futon.
“Need a hot bath and some tea?”
“More like a short skirt and a margarita, honey,” she said, shoving herself back to her feet and heading for her closet. This was not a time to feel sorry for herself and sit at home watching romantic comedies. This was a time to go to a club and dance. She opted for Gillian’s black skinny jeans and her own slinky white tank with the slit sleeves and clear sequins sprinkled across it. “Can I borrow your boots?” she asked.
“Well, I had planned on wearing them to work the ER tonight, but go ahead since you asked so nicely,” Gillian teased, gesturing to the scrubs and clogs that she wore for work.
Paxton pulled on the high-heeled boots and zipped them up, admiring her reflection and trying to decide why a lonely, centuries-old vampire would have turned down her best attempts. She liked the way the top had turned out…she’d glued on the sequins and remade the sleeves herself. At least I have some skills, she mused. Seduction just isn’t one of them. Regardless of what Elias had protested, she didn’t need time to think. She’d decided on it once Gillian was turned. As much as her friend had struggled with the transfiguration, she had created the germ of an idea in Paxton’s head when she mentioned that her past had receded so much already…it’s like it happened to someone else, she had said. If only I could make that one night seem like it happened to someone else, terribly long ago, I would give anything, even my life. Even my own death to be free of it.
By the time she reached the Southern Cross, her favorite nightclub, she was in need of an ego boost. She settled for a strawberry margarita and flirting with the bartender who was really too busy to notice. A brash redheaded girl tried to pick her up, but Paxton wasn’t interested. For the first time she wondered if she was losing her touch. No one was trying to chat her up or to buy her a drink. Shrugging, she downed the rest of her margarita an
d took to the dance floor alone. She liked the song and gave herself up to the music, feeling the beat pulse through her and loosen her muscles. She tried to banish the memory of Elias, the gentle desperation of his hands in her hair, of the way she fell into him when he picked her up and carried her to his bed. Still, a flush crept into her cheeks that owed nothing to the exertion of dancing. Soon she fell in with a group of other girls and they danced to a few songs before a man came up behind her, caught her wrist and pulled her toward him.
Paxton smiled up in to his handsome face. He was tall, though more solidly built than Elias, less elegant in his movements. She didn’t mean to compare them but she couldn’t stop herself. His name was Ron. He worked in finance and acted interested in her work with Mobile Mentors. Over chips and salsa, he made her laugh. Ron gave her his number, but when he asked for her digits, she demurred and mumbled something about changing cell carriers and not being sure what her number would be in a week or so. She slipped away and made her way home, wiping off her makeup and falling onto the futon already half asleep.
All of her dreams were about Elias. First, a foolish one in which he was the man to take her wrist and lead her around the dance floor although his old-fashioned sensibilities had no place in a modern club. She realized the incongruity even in her dream but spun into his arms with abandon. Next, he appeared in a mundane dream about her office job, the sight of him peering around her cubicle, leading her wordlessly out of the dull, fluorescent-lit drudgery and into the whiteness of his apartment. Elias bent her over his bed, his mouth closing over her throat. She shook herself awake from that one and got up for a drink of water. Shaking her head as if to clear it, she caught her own reflection in the mirror.
A bruise, faint but unmistakable, had appeared on her neck in the spot where he had bitten her in her dream. She touched the dark smudge tentatively and found it slightly sore. A smile played at her lips in spite of herself. If he could invade her dreams, if he had that power, then he thought of her as well. He could not have forgotten her. Slipping back beneath her blanket, she shut her eyes and conjured up his face. Come back to me, she heard him whisper as she drifted off to sleep.
She spent most of Sunday drafting a new solicitation e-mail to drum up support for the field trip, but she had trouble concentrating. If Elias was in her mind, if her pulse throbbed with the memory of his voice and his touch, it was because she invited it. Her plan had never been to be in his thrall, bewitched as she was. She had wanted immortality for its numbness, its coldness but what she felt was an inferno instead. When she polished the paragraph about cultural offerings for underprivileged children, Paxton shuddered as she felt his cool fingertips trail along her collarbone. She selected images to attach, pictures of children in their program making puppets, doing math homework with tutors, working puzzles. While she double-checked to make certain that each child’s guardian had signed a release for his or her pictures to be used for fundraising, Paxton jumped as though startled, convinced for half a second that Elias’ mouth grazed her ear. It was impossible to focus so she flipped to her e-mail and fired off an annoyed missive instructing Elias to leave her thoughts and dreams alone.
If I am there, it is because you want me there, he replied. It is not in my power to violate your dreams. I cannot come unbidden. I am, you have found, very biddable in your case. You might want to cover that mark on your throat before work tomorrow or there will be questions. I may have been too enthusiastic in welcoming you back. Let go of me. Think and consider. I will not permit your infatuation to guide your choices.
Furious, she messaged him back.
They are MY choices to make whether you permit them or not. I confess your invasion of my dreams was welcome, too welcome. If I reach out for you unwittingly, as I did before, reject me. You are quite good at turning me away. Paxton
She slammed the screen down on her computer and went for a walk to avoid the urge to take a nap. Almost vengefully she drank a latte and ate a muffin nearly as big as her purse. Not even sugar and caffeine drowned out the longing for him. She had never known yearning to have a sound, a hum of thwarted energy that vibrated behind her eyes. She was at his door before she knew it, before she had made a conscious decision to go to him.
Elias opened the door before she had even left the elevator. She went into his arms as a drowning woman reaches for a spur of wood. He turned, sweeping her inside and closing the door, backing her up against it and kissing her. His shirtfront bunched in her hands and she was shaking so hard he had to hold her upright. A sound escaped her throat and even she could not have named it for a sob or laughter before she moaned into his mouth.
“A month?” she whispered against his lips. “Three months?” Repeating his admonition to him as his hands peeled away her clothes.
If she had expected him to carry her to bed, to consummate their frantic desire on crisp white sheets, she overestimated his control and her own. Buttons tore from his shirt and skittered across the floor as she pushed it open to run her hands along his chest. He hauled her against him and spread her legs and she was upon him, the coffee table beneath him accepting their weight as she throbbed above him, gasping. As she cried out her completion, clenching around him, Elias sank his teeth into her throat. The sharp, pleasurable sting as his teeth penetrated her sensitive skin gave way to a heady, drugged ecstasy as she felt the rush of her blood pulsing into his mouth. As he slid his fangs out of her languorously, she moaned helplessly, feeling him grip her hips tightly and thrust inside her again. She ground against him, restless and needy for more. As Paxton bucked against him, she heard the table crack beneath him and he bore her upward, lifting her and settling her onto a chair, never relinquishing possession of her. She kissed him desperately, tasting her own blood in his mouth and clutching at him, her nails raking down his back. As she felt the pressure thrumming within her, she turned her head, intent upon biting his neck, completing the ritual and beginning her transfiguration. Elias sensed her change, the tension in her body, and he pulled away from her.
“I will not turn you yet. Do not think that my lust for you made any promise of the sort. This, this completion has been inevitable since the moment you got on that elevator with me. The smell of you has never left me, the taste of you has taunted me. You were sweeter, richer than I imagined.”
“I thought you preferred to feed off samples. Sterile and clinical and—”
“There is nothing, nothing like what we just did, like the hot blood of your desire. I will never forget it.”
“I’m sure it was not the first time you’ve done that,” she said shyly.
“Hardly even the hundredth but it was different somehow.” He stopped as though he had said too much, as if his storied control had deserted him. He helped her to her feet and caught her face in his hands, kissing her until her legs felt liquid with the heat. “Come to bed with me,” he said. She nodded and followed him to the white bedroom, savoring the sight of him, the line of his spine, the width of his shoulders as he preceded her down the hall.
“I think I should call in sick to work for tomorrow. Blood loss,” she teased, sweeping aside her hair and baring the untouched side of her neck to his caress.
Days and then weeks passed in a blur of sweat and desire and blood. Paxton’s work flourished, with anonymous cashier’s checks pouring in each day as well as unexpected donations from people who had previously refused but now found themselves responding generously to her appeal for funding. Paxton got the promotion she had applied for with such modest qualms and used the windfall to buy a silk scarf to tie around her neck—a joke because he never left the slightest mark or bruise on her skin. Elias had greeted her at the door each evening with a glass of orange juice and an iron supplement, anxious that she should not become weak or sick from their diversions. He called what was between them a diversion, trying to rob it of its power over him. He watched her constantly for paleness, any sign of illness, but she seemed to increase in vitality and charm. Her ready smile wa
s brighter, the bloom of her cheek more lively, her enthusiasm more contagious. Scrutinizing her, he was appalled to realize that her dazzle was the result of happiness. Yet when he pulled her close again and again, it was his sanity he felt eroding, not her health.
The man of science who had fed only every nine days and then on refrigerated blood samples now drank the heated blood of his lover every day, sometimes twice a day. Elias found his hands trembling and his mind unable to focus on the work that once consumed him. The body he had governed strictly for nearly two centuries now pulsed toward Paxton with a hunger he could neither describe nor curb. He missed the deadline to submit his paper to a peer-reviewed journal yet found himself reading articles online about social work and the educational benefits of mentorship. He was in the grip of an obsession that went beyond the taste of blood and took the shape of a woman.
Although Paxton had teased him about his stamina and her need for sleep, he found her insatiable. He had knelt before her and slipped his teeth into the tender flesh behind her knee as his hands stroked her thighs. He had bitten her wrist, drinking from her as his thumb rubbed a tight circle on her palm, soothing her as she combed her fingers through his hair and writhed against him. Always though, she beckoned him back to her throat, arching to him and purring with bliss as he fed on her, a dark consummation she sought with abandon.
Elias lay beside her on his back, arms flung wide, lips parted as his body spiraled down from the intoxicating surge of her taste on his tongue. His hand sought hers and their fingers intertwined. She turned to him with a slow, knowing smile and his fingers brushed her cheek. He found that his eyes burned, strange to have to think of his eyes at all. His vision blurred and she leaned toward him and pressed her lips to his, a sweetheart’s kiss. A tear slid from the corner of his eyes and she caught it with her thumb, tasted the salt of his tear. She gathered him in her arms as a flood of pure affection took her.
A Distant Echo: Book 1 (Grim's Labyrinth Series) Page 5