“This is your first life with continuity, then.” He shrugged. “Most old souls spend lifetimes on the brink of remembering, but they don’t really become ‘old souls’ until they go through the awakening process. Some event—usually a near-death experience—triggers them to start remembering their other lives.”
“I was a private investigator in 1970s Georgia,” I said, not sure how to broach the fact that I was also the son of a bootmaker in medieval France, who had loved Nicolas desperately when he was still human. It was a lot to wrap my head around, and there was only so much I could take in one conversation. Trying to keep my tone light, I added, “I drove a Buick. And I’m pretty sure I smoked cigarettes. Camels.”
“That explains how you were able to tail me so well, then.” Nicolas grinned, his eyes sparkling. “You’ll also have access to all your former skills. Everything you’ve ever learned in a past life, you’ll also be able to do in this one. Given time, it will all return to you.”
“You seem to know a lot about this.”
“I’ve met other old souls over the years. They’re—you’re—a fascinating bunch. They’ve told me many things.”
“You didn’t kill them, did you?”
He snorted. “I guess that’s a fair question. But no, they didn’t fit my profile. Therefore, taking their lives had no use to me. It’s dangerous and sloppy to kill when there’s no purpose behind it.”
“You’ve onlyeverkilled murderers?” I pressed. “You don’t kill innocent people? Only those who have taken innocent lives?”
A shadow crossed his face. And I had to have been imagining it, but pain rippled through me—and I knew it came from him. It was a flash of real grief and regret. He went quiet for a long moment before saying, “I’ve killed innocents in the past. In the very beginning. Before I had any control over myself.”
“I don’t know how to match this up with what you’ve told me in the past,” I said helplessly, shaking my head. “You’ve said you don’t care about right and wrong. But you obviously do.”
“Eli—”
“You had a choice between your ritual and my safety. And you chose me.”
“Who says I have a ritual?”
“Don’t you? Most serial killers do.”
He inclined his head but didn’t speak.
“Then why, Nicolas? Why would you choose me—someone you’ve known for less than two months—over a ritual you’ve probably practiced for eight hundred years? If that’s not choosing right over wrong, then why?”
He hesitated, swallowed hard, then locked eyes with me. “Because I’m in love with you.”
Oh.Oh.
“You can—you can love?”
“Not until the day I met you,” Nicolas replied quietly. “I spent eight centuries feeling… hollow. Empty. I cared for nothing and no one—save for the next kill and the hunt, of course. And I believed myself to be complete. Perfect.” He grimaced. “And now I am, unfortunately, all too aware of my own shortcomings.”
The floor felt like it had fallen out beneath me. Now everything made sense. The fact that he had purchased the house next door to me, thinking I might be in danger. The way he picked me up from work every night. The way he had suddenly taken to letting me know I belonged to him in a thousand quiet, domestic moments, all because I had told him that’s what I wanted—what I needed. All of it suddenly made sense. But those memories were at war with a simple truth that didn’t square one bit: serial killers are almost universally psychopaths. They don’t have the capacity to love.
“Say something,” Nicolas said when I fell silent. His expression was as imploring and vulnerable as any human man’s would have been. “Please.”
The depth of emotion in his gaze was what decided me. I set aside my fear and doubt. What was simple and true was what had been simple and true from the very first day I met him. It was a belonging, a rightness that had been there all along, buried underneath everything else I felt.
I tossed the shovel to the ground and moved forward, crossing the space between us. With both hands, I seized Nicolas by the lapels and backed him into the wall of dirt.
He let out a soft, startled cry of alarm. But then his gaze met mine and his expression softened. “Oh,” was all he said.
“Yeah,” I replied, locking my gaze with his. “Oh. I guess it goes without saying, but I love you, too.”
And then I pressed my lips to his and kissed him. I put every bit of my own emotion into it—all of the fear, the desire, the heartbreak, and the love I felt for him as well.
In that moment, Ichosehim.
And I knew there was no going back.
His lips parted for me, and I searched his mouth with my tongue, hungry for him. Desperate to have his hands on me and to feel him in return.
