You tore your head back and forth, disbelieving. “You’ve said yourself you have excellent self-control,” you argued, parroting my own claim back at me. “This doesn’t make any sense. Something must have happened. What was it?”
Your pupils focused on me with intent, like arrowheads seeking their target. I didn’t want to lie to you. Perhaps I should have.
“I was summoned by my superior, an angel of the highest order. They have seers—entities who can predict the future. They foretold it. They said you’d give me your instrument of death.”
And I would recognize it. I didn’t tell you this, but I’d had a similar device on the battlefield. I’d fashioned a crude finger-blade myself, then commissioned a blacksmith to make one specifically for my use. I used it on the wounded men who wouldn’t survive the night. The blade was razor sharp and with one swipe across their throats, they’d bled out quickly with a small but deep puncture that was ideal for feeding. It was a merciful kill, and one they didn’t see coming. To think I might one day use that same instrument on you…
You tugged at your hair and tore across the floor like a grease fire. Back and forth, you stalked while I could only sit and try to make you understand.
“Henri, did you ever consider this might all be bullshit?”
Blasphemy. There was no way to reason with someone as irreverent as you. You had no god besides me, and you couldn’t understand the signs that were as obvious to me as if they’d been branded on my hand—my increasing demands for dominion over your body, my sexual appetite which bled over into my thirst, your effortless obedience. Perhaps I’d been seducing you all along for this fate without even realizing it myself.
“I can assure you, Orlando, it’s not.” Even hearing that word in reference to one of Azrael’s prophesies felt deeply wrong.
“Then maybe they’re lying to you.”
“The Potestas don’t lie. They have no reason to.”
You turned to me and dropped down to your knees. You clasped my hands, begging for mercy. “I don’t care what they said. I don’t give a shit about some gloomy mumbo-jumbo prophecy. I’ll take the risk if it means we can be together.”
“I won’t,” I said firmly.
“That’sbullshit,” you said and drove your finger into my chest. “You can’t make this decision for both of us.”
“Yes, I can.” You may throw a temper tantrum now, you may hate me for it for the rest of your life, but ultimately, I would leave you. I’d already decided it back in Santiago’s warehouse. I was only waiting on a sign, and now that sign had come to pass.
“No, you can’t. It’s not fair. You have to let me have a say. I’m in this relationship, too.”
“I have a responsibility to you, Orlando. I know better and you—”
“Don’t you dare call me stupid,” you said severely. Your eyes blazed with anger.
“I would never call you that. You know that’s not it. I have experience with this sort of thing, and you don’t. You’ve barely lived one lifetime, and I have lived many. If you trust me at all, please trust me on this.”
“I don’t accept it,” you said bitterly, “and I won’t allow it.”
“You have no choice in the matter,” I said more sternly. There was no use giving you false hope. It would only serve to crush you worse later. Your face crumpled into tears and your breathing became rapid. I tried to cast a calming seduction, which only infuriated you more.
“Don’t you fucking magick me, Henri. I’m not your fucking doll.” You stormed out to the balcony and slammed the door behind you, turning to face the ocean and effectively shutting me out.
I went to the kitchen and pulled something out of the freezer to heat in the oven. Maybe I could persuade you to eat. We had three more days together before I intended to leave you forever. I’d considered putting off telling you until the end of our holiday, but after the intensity of our lovemaking that afternoon, I couldn’t touch you in good conscience any longer while harboring this secret. If you wanted me to leave immediately, I would.
All I could do for the time being was watch you through the glass door, as I used to spy on you from my spirit form. So close, but entirely unreachable. It was better if you hated me. I wanted your pain to be quick, if intense, and for you to get over me as swiftly as possible.
I wanted you to be able to move on with your life.
It was at least an hour before you came back inside. Your tears had been shed in private, and now you looked ashen and withdrawn.
“I’m going for a run,” you announced. “You’d better fucking be here when I get back.”
You changed in the bedroom and nearly passed by me without a word, then paused to kiss me savagely on the lips. “You’ll be here, won’t you?” The trust you had in me was already showing its cracks.
“Until Sunday. I promised.”
You made me cross my heart with my fingertip, something that assured you I would honor my commitment, then nodded and left the condo. I gave you a five-minute head start before going down to the beach to await your return. When you finally came back, dripping with sweat and completely exhausted, the sun had set, and dusk was settling on the horizon. You stripped off your clothing and asked me to join you in the water. I undressed and followed you into the warm, welcoming ocean.
“You’re breaking my heart, Henri,” you whispered into my ear. My arms cradled your backside as your legs wrapped around my hips and you thrust your erection against my abdomen. Even while our minds were at war, our bodies understood each other intrinsically.
