“Lucian told me about Orlando,” I said to her. “And Henri admitted to it.”
She nodded, eyes going unfocused for a moment.
“Are you here to admonish me?” she asked. Her chest heaved and her ribs poked through the thin material of her dress.
“No.” I squeezed her hand lightly. “I know why you didn’t tell me. But Henri…” With all your talk over the years about honesty and trust, for you to lie about something so significant and for so long. “He’s a hypocrite.”
“Don’t judge him too harshly, Vincere. He grieved the loss of your human life profoundly. In his mind, the act of sacrificing you was unforgivable.”
Was that why you’d lied to me? Because you were worried I might not forgive you? Could you not at least give me the chance to make up my own mind?
“He gaslighted me for years, and I want to make sure he can never do it again. I want my memories back.”
She gazed at me for a long while. The mists around us shifted, growing colder.
“What good is there in revisiting the past, Vincere? You’re a god now. Resurrecting old bonds will only serve to weaken you.”
I didn’t want to be randomly assaulted by visions of us and try to piece together the past myself. Nor could I rely on you to explain things. You’d already proven yourself a failure at that.
“It’s my life, and I deserve to know it.”
She sighed and I waited patiently for her to give into my demands.
“Come a little closer,” she said at last.
I leaned my ear toward her chapped lips, and in a voice like a silken thread, she told me how I might achievedivinitus inspirata.
22
HENRI
Ihad no idea of the time when I awoke. A glass of water sat next to me along with the empty bottle of tequila I’d purchased the night before. I hadn’t gone on a drinking binge like that in years. But it did have the effect of blunting my misery, at least for a few hours.
I’d situated myself outside of our hotel room in case you tried to take off. I also had a phone I used for the sole purpose of tracking your movements but only as a last resort. It told me you were sequestered in our quarters, but when I’d tried the door earlier that morning, it was dead-bolted shut. That was a relief. I didn’t want to have to hunt you down.
I downed the water and managed to raise myself off the floor. I was hungry for blood and needed to relieve my bladder, but I didn’t wish to leave my post. I knocked on the door again.
“It’s open.” Your muffled response came from inside. I swiped my key card and swung it wide to find you half-reclined on a wooden chair I’d never seen before with your cat perched regally on your lap. You wore the bathing suit I’d saved from your previous life and the crown from your final performance as the Golden Idol, both of which gave me pause. You must have repossessed them before we left Miami. Perhaps most alarming, was what appeared to be a plastic shower curtain laid out underneath the chair, presumably to protect the carpet from spills.
“What’s this?” I asked with some trepidation. You looked half-mad, and judging from the smudges under your eyes, you hadn’t slept well the night before.
You didn’t answer, only motioned to the bathroom as if inviting me to take care of my bodily needs, which I hastily did, using the opportunity to wash my hands, brush my teeth, and splash some cold water on my face. Thankfully, I didn’t suffer the full effects of a hangover in my bloodborn body. I’d need my wits about me for whatever ritual you had planned. When I returned to the main room, you rose and offered me the chair with a princely turn of your wrist.
“I’d like you to strip,” you said.
“Why?”
“Redemptio per sanguinem.”
That sounded awfully ominous. My mind flitted back to one of your fantasies where I was covered in cuts that bled faster than they could heal. The dream itself wasn’t that disturbing—most of my fantasies from when I was your age were something similar. But your energy at the moment wasn’t imbued with arousal; it was cold and calculating. The fulcrum had shifted, and I found myself on shaky ground.
“Where did you get all this?” I asked in an attempt at conversation while slowly unbuttoning my shirt. I noticed a couple of leather belts laid out as well.
“Susan,” you said. Susan was the concierge who provided our bottles of blood and whatever other provisions we might desire.
“Have you eaten?” I asked to gauge the nature of this redemption.
“Soon,” you said, still tracking me with your glittering black eyes.
