Clinton Priest

Chapter Thirteen

"She's perfection incarnate," I tell her, my eyes fixed on hers. She's seated on the Persian rug next to the statue, her fingers gently caressing its sharp edges. "She's Haven."

"Haven," she muses. "Like the town?"

"Yes," I answer. "The town was built after her death by Michael Priest. I have the book detailing most of the events leading to the founding of the town."

"Michael Priest is your ancestor, isn't he?" She asks.

I nod then rise from my seat. I make my way to the bookshelf at the other end of the room and take out an old book from one of its drawers. I can feel her curious eyes on me and I relish in her attention. I take my seat once more and open its worn pages, reading out loud as she continues to listen.

"I couldn't write her name in the sky, so I carved her deep into the earth and into the very fabric of society in order that, she would... could never be forgotten," I start, my gaze settling on the marble likeness of my dead lover over the edge of the book. I know the story from memory because it's mine. Yet, for the sake of Scarlett Evangeline, I hold the book to my gaze.

"Before I met her," I continue, "I had no soul and after she was gone, I craved nothing else but to see her once more. But there is no such thing as reincarnation. No such thing as a second chance. We had a lifetime together and it should have been enough but I'm never satisfied. Even when the world is laid at my feet.

Haven wasn't a perfect woman by human morality standards. In fact, she'd been a whore. But when we met that night at the ball held by an old friend of mine, Gabriel Prince, I knew there will be no other woman like her again. At least for me. Her vulnerability drew me in and the fire in her eyes made me a willing captive."

"Is this a made up story?" She asks. Her lips are pursed and I am once again entranced by their fullness.

"Take it as you will," I tell her.

She sits with her long legs stretched in front of her. I am distracted by the smoothness of her legs. Her skin, the color of coffee mixed with just the right amount of milk, glows in the fading light. My hands twitch with need as my eyes greedily take in every feature on her. I want to touch her. Desperately.

Her phone rings at that moment and I know my time with her is over. She sighs after she glances at the screen.

"My mother," she says apologetically.

"I'll drop you off," I say as I rise from the chair.

She shakes her head frantically. "If my mother sees you near the house, she will throw a fit."

"I'll have Albert drop you off then."

"Thank you," she tells me after rising from the rug. "Can I come over again?" She asks. She's staring at the wall over my shoulders, her hands are trembling slightly and I hold back a smile. She's nervous. "I would love to know the story behind the statue."

I hand her the leather bound book and she takes it with a question in her eyes.

"Read it," I tell her, "and tomorrow when we meet at the St. James cathedral at 8:00pm, I will answer any question you might have. Is that okay with you?" I ask.

"Yes. I've nothing doing. I'll meet you there."

I walk her to the door, my hand on the small of her back, as I savor her closeness and intoxicating scent.

I help her into the car and she waves timidly as the car starts to move and I nod in acknowledgement.

"She's a sweet girl," Frederick says to me. He's joined me outside.

"She's silly," I tell him. "She has absolutely no sense of self preservation."

"Because she likes you," he asks in the form of a statement.

"Yes."

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