Clinton Priest

Chapter Twenty Four

I step out of his hold and move to lean against the wall. "What was that about?" I ask him softly.

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he walks to the couch and sits.

"Augustine," he tells me, "he was talking about Augustine Love."

"What about him?"

"He wanted him dead so I killed him," he meets my gaze with his stunning hazel eyes, "and then I brought him back to life."

He is gauging my reaction. I think he wants me to fall into hysteria. Maybe scream in fright and tear out my hair from my head. But I'm calm. Strangely, I'm calm.

"You have no power over life and death," I tell him.

"You're right," he concedes, "I don't."

"Then what did you do?"

"I brought back a cheap copy of what used to be Augustine Love. I gave him immortality at a price."

"What price?"

"Do you really want to know?" He asks.

"Do I?" I throw back at him. He smiles grimly and turns his attention from me to the canvas.

"The man who attacked me," I begin hesitantly, "was he Augustine?"

"Yes."

"He called you his."

"I am his," he tells me smoothly, "I'm everything to him. I'm his creator. I'm his teacher. I'm his death."

I wrap my arms around myself. There's a slight chill in the air. "He doesn't seem to think so. He said it like a man referring to his lover."

"The turning of a human to a vampire is akin to the orgasmic bliss of love making. The fore play, the penetration, those kisses in between, the building climax and the surrender to pleasure. It creates the feeling of love. With time, it will fade away."

"How do you know for sure?" I ask.

"It did with Gabriel," he says.

"This town is crazier than I ever imagined. Is everyone here supernatural?"

He laughs then and pats the seat next to him. "Sit," he tells me. I shake my head. I don't want to sit. I'm suddenly wishing for the life back at the convent in Germany.

"I won't ask twice," he says. He's still laughing.

I make my way to his side and gingerly sit next to him.

"Don't act so tense," he tells me.

"Forgive me if I'm suddenly frightened of you," I tell him a bit sarcastically.

"Your parents weren't as worried as I thought they would be considering everything I told them," he tells me.

"They've never showed much care towards me. I sometimes wonder if I'm even related by blood to them but then I think no. Grandpa adopted aunt Carol and uncle Luke yet he never treated them any different." I stare at the covered canvas. "Maybe one day I'd forgive them. Maybe not. What do you think?"

"I'm not one to preach on forgiveness. I do not forgive," he says, "and as such, I do not expect to be forgiven."

I turn to him, the conversation about my family, momentarily shelved.

"If I were to offend you, you will never forgive me?" I ask.

"Never."

"Well," I lick my bottom lip, "it's a good thing I haven't."

He doesn't say anything. He only stares at me as though he knew things that I did not. He probably does too. I clutched at my suddenly heaving chest with trembling hands. Why did that frighten me so much?