“Would you allow me to reciprocate?” he asked, his eyes glittering with an emotion I couldn’t read.
“Could you do that without ... you know ... going into bitey mode?”
His gaze dropped to my breasts, then hips. Without answering, he got off the bed and, with short, efficient movements, donned his clothing and one shoe. I winced when he fought to force the zipper on his jeans. “It’s better if I leave,” he said finally, pausing at the door to cast a glance back at me.
I swear I could feel his gaze on my naked self as if he were touching me with velvet.
“Are you going to be all right?” I asked.
He was silent for a few seconds. “I have survived much before. I will do so again.”
“I hate to say—the motorcycle—I don’t want you to hurt yourself again—” I stopped, my heart weeping for the despair that I could feel wrapping itself around him.
“I’ll walk back,” was all he said. The door made a soft swooshing noise as it closed behind him.
I lay in bed for about half an hour while I picked through my thoughts and emotions, and the growing sense that I had made a choice I would regret to the end of my days.
“Don’t be silly,” I told myself as I got out of bed. I couldn’t stand to lie there, the faintest hints of Ivo’s scent lingering on the linens. It did something to me, that scent. I understood what he meant about it permeating his being. It felt to me as if it was sinking into my body, merging with me, making me something new and exciting. “You’re just reacting to the neediness of his situation. You’re not thinking sensibly. If you do what you want to do, you’re going to be tied to him forever. That’s how vampires work.”
The face that stared back at me from the mirror looked like a stranger’s, her expression stricken, her eyes haunted. I touched my face, wondering how much I’d changed since 1916.
My body was much the same, although I bore a few scars from the times I’d been injured. But my psyche, my sense of self ... had that changed?
“Yes,” I told the stranger in the mirror. “Minerva in 1916 would have gladly stayed with Ivo. But my life is much different now. I have ...” I stopped. I’ve never been able to lie to myself. It’s something to do with my cartomancy self being forced to say what I see in the cards.
“I have a life,” I finished, moving over to the radiator. My underwear was still slightly damp, but I pulled it on nonetheless. The bra was still not dry, so I left it.
“I have friends.” I gathered up my clothes and shoes, putting them on without thinking. “My life has meaning.”
I straightened up the sheets and duvet. “I may not have a job or even a change of clothes, but I am not a wandering empty soul drifting through life looking for a man to complete me. I am sufficient unto myself.”
The pillow I held in my hand smelled like Ivo. I buried my face in it for a second, then stopped fighting it.
“I’m his Beloved,” I told the woman in the mirror as I slipped the room key into my pocket. “But more importantly, he needs me. So you can stop looking at me like I’m desperate for a bit of nooky, and be impressed by the fact that I’m committing myself to making sure he doesn’t ever look sad like he did when he left. Or be alone without anyone to take care of him. Or let him ride that damned motorcycle until he gets some lessons under his belt.”
Tears filled my eyes as I spoke, but I brushed them away angrily, unsure of why I felt so emotional. Then I went to the hotel lobby and convinced a couple outside to give me a ride back to the GothFaire.
FIVE
“Has the door to my mausoleum been repaired?” Ivo asked when he entered Christian’s castle. Finch sat at a desk with a device that he had informed Ivo earlier was called a laptop.
“There you are. I wondered where you’d gone off to. I thought we were going to visit the Faire together?” Finch asked.
“You were busy. I went without you. I met ...” He stopped, not wanting to go into the details of just how hellish his already nightmarish life had become. “Christian’s motorcycle is in the town, at the hotel.”
“It is?” Finch asked, sitting back, giving him a quizzical look, one that was oddly piercing. It made Ivo pleased that he had returned to the room given to him and utilized the fresh clothing that Finch and Christian had put at his disposal. The journey to see Minerva had left him looking less like a Dark One and more like something found squashed in a trash bin in a particularly unsavory alley. “You took it out for a ride?”
“Yes.” He made no further comment about the fact that he had not mastered the machinery. If he had a future, he might do so, but what use would such knowledge be to him now? “The mausoleum door?”
“It’s not yet repaired. Christian said he’d have workmen attend to it on Monday. Are you desperately hungry? You might be able to handle a bit more pig’s blood—”
“No to both,” Ivo said, squaring his shoulders as he turned and left the library. He’d just have to exist until the door could be replaced. Once in his room, he paced the floor, making and discarding plans. He would not blame Minerva for her refusal to be what he needed her to be—he might be viewed in this modern time as dated in his sensibilities, but the idea of forcing her into a situation not only made his flesh crawl; it made him want to rage. No one, not even he, could be allowed to put her in a position where she had no choice in her life.
However, she was his Beloved. He owed it to her to make sure that her life would be one of as much happiness and contentment as he could provide. Therefore, he would see the two strongmen in the morning, and ascertain details about this spell that they believed Minerva had. He would then speak to her calmly, and without any of the pesky emotions, needs, and desires that roiled around inside of him, and do whatever it took to resolve the situation.
Once she was free of the strongmen’s attention, he would consult a lawyer and banker, and make sure that she was given the fruit of his estate. He wasn’t an overly rich man, but he had been prudent in his investments over the last two centuries, and assuming the money he had left behind in 1916 had not suffered a catastrophe, she should have enough money to live a life of comfort without having to seek employment with men such as the one who thrust her into this situation.
He nodded to himself as he removed his borrowed clothing, lying on the bed, trying very hard not to dwell on the memory of the sensations when Minerva touched him.
