Eternal (32 page)

“No. I haven’t written anything in a very long time. These poems . . . they were a way to work through my anger. Writing about my feelings was cathartic, a way to exorcise my demons. I have no need for poetry now.”

“Huh,” I said, a little hurt. Which was silly, of course, but whatever. “Well, it’s too bad you don’t play guitar or piano. You’d make a good lyricist.”

“Yeah, I could have pioneered the hard-core punk movement. You know, back in the 1890s. Given that Rachmaninoff a little competition.”

“What else have you got in there?” I asked, peering inside.

He pulled out the remaining treasures. A yellow velvet ribbon. A button. A small golden thimble. Something that looked vaguely like a wooden acorn.

“Okay, a thimble
and
an acorn?” I asked. “What, are you Peter Pan?”

“It’s funny,” he said, shaking his head. “I know that each of these had some special meaning to me, but I can’t quite remember what, not anymore. It’s like . . . the memories are inaccessible. Just out of reach.”

“I don’t even know what this is,” I said, holding up the acorn.

He rolled it around in his palm. “Just a trinket of some sort.”

“So, what are you going to do with it all? Keep it, or put it back?”

“I think it should stay with the house, don’t you?” He reached down to stroke my hair. “I’ll put it back tomorrow. You look exhausted.”

I nodded, leaning in to him. “I
am
pretty tired.”

He set the wooden box on the dressing table and then led me back to the bedroom. I went over to my suitcase and pulled out my pajamas, my heart racing now. I had no idea why I was so nervous—we’d shared a bed in Paris without incident.

But
this
bed . . . I eyed it once more, my heart racing now.

When I glanced back at Aidan, he’d already stripped off his shirt. Which, of course, only made my heart beat faster.

Crap.
That stupid vision. Unlike my usual glimpses of the future, this particular one hadn’t shown anything terrible happening—nothing life-threatening, no maiming, no blood or broken bones. Still, I’d taken it as a warning, because they always were.
But maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe there really
was
nothing more to it than what I’d seen.

And what, exactly,
had
I seen? The two of us in bed together. Been there, done that. We were making out, but what else was new? And yes, sometimes when we did, his eyes turned red and his canines came out. But if he were going to actually bite me—pierce the skin and suck my blood—then wouldn’t my vision have shown that, too?

I had to make a decision now, based on instinct alone. And my instinct was telling me that I was safe in this particular bed with Aidan.

That was good enough for me.

T
he house seems so quiet,” I said, staring up at the ceiling above the bed. We’d left the curtains open, and the full moon cast a silvery light across our bodies. We lay there together, my head on Aidan’s shoulder, one arm thrown across his bare chest. “Do you think they’ve all gone to bed?”

“Probably so. It’s been a long day. I can’t believe you’re still awake.”

“Well, so are you,” I argued.

“Yes, but I don’t have to sleep. You do. What’s going on, Vi? You’re so tightly strung right now, I could play you like a violin.”

I let out a sigh. “Just thinking, I guess.”

“Are you going to let me in on it?”

“Mostly about school in the fall. It’s going to be so weird without everyone else.” I was also thinking about those poems of his, but I wasn’t going to mention that.

“It’s a new chapter in your life,” Aidan said philosophically. “One ends, another begins. You’ll have many more.”

“I guess. Anyway, you seem pretty quiet yourself.”

“I suppose I
am
rather contemplative tonight” was all he said before falling silent.

And then my curiosity got the best of me. “You’re not thinking about . . . well, whoever those poems are about, are you?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Well, not precisely.”

I sat up sharply, gazing down at him with a scowl. “Well, which is it? You either are, or you aren’t.”

“I am, but not in the way that you think.”

“Uh-huh. Go on.”

“It’s just . . . the relationships I had during my mortal life, they were so painful. I remember feeling raw, exposed, consumed. Angry, as you saw with those poems. But with you . . . I don’t know, I feel almost peaceful. Most of the time, at least,” he added, and I knew he was remembering that stupid misunderstanding with Tyler. “But even when I’m angry at you, I never really doubt us.”

“So, what’s your point?” I asked, my hackles rising. Because it kind of seemed like he was saying that he didn’t feel as passionately about me as he did them. They consumed him; they inspired poems—I didn’t.

He sat up, facing me. “See? This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. I knew you’d interpret it that way.”

“Well, how else am I supposed to interpret it?”

“What I was trying to say was that those relationships, they were toxic. Unhealthy. But with you . . .” He sighed, shaking his head. “What if it’s got something to do with the vampirism? You know, changing my personality. What if I cure myself—become mortal again—and suddenly I’m that asshole again?”

“That’s what you’re worried about? Seriously? You don’t even
have
the cure yet.”

He shrugged. “Being here, in this house . . . it’s making me remember my mortal life, that’s all. I’m not sure I want to risk being that guy again.”

“How ’bout we cross that bridge when we get to it, okay? I mean, look what happened the last time you tried the cure.” I shook my head, trying to forget. “We’ve got four years of college ahead of us, and—”

“Let’s not talk about this anymore, okay? You should get some sleep.” He stood, reaching for his T-shirt. “I think I’m going to go
for a walk or something. Maybe I’ll feed. It’s been too long; I’m probably pushing it.”

“Wait. Don’t go. Not like this.” I scooted to the edge of the bed and reached for him. “C’mon, I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t. I just need to clear my head.”

I hated the tone of his voice—cool, detached. I had no idea what was going through his mind, but I had to take care of this now, before it was too late.

“Aidan? Please, just look at me.” Kneeling on the edge of the bed now, I grabbed the waistband of his jeans and pulled him back to me. His eyes were bright in the moonlight—and damp, I realized. My mind scrambled frantically to process that information, to figure out what was wrong, what I’d said to upset him so. I came up totally blank.

“Don’t go,” I said. “You can feed later, okay? Once I fall asleep. Just . . . stay with me for now.” I tilted my face up toward his, guiding his lips toward mine with one hand.

I kissed him—softly at first and then more urgently.

He tore his lips from mine. “Don’t you see, Violet?” he asked, sounding frantic—desperate, even. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t decide—”

“You don’t have to decide anything now,” I interrupted, trying to placate him. “We’re here for a week, a break from reality.
Please don’t ruin it,” I added, my voice quavering now.

He drew back as if I’d slapped him.

And all I could think of was how much I loved him. I felt—what was the word he’d used?—
consumed
by it. In an instant, I let down the wall around my thoughts.

Read my mind,
I urged telepathically.

For a split second, he looked confused. And then something shifted in his features—comprehension lit his eyes as all my feelings for him poured out of my mind like a sheer, overwhelming tidal wave.

“God, Violet,” he said with a strangled cry, and then gathered me tightly in his arms.

Somehow, we were back on the bed, our bodies tangled together. His lips were everywhere—my mouth, my chin, my throat. I struggled to pull his shirt over his head; he did the same with my tank top. Once they’d both been tossed carelessly to the floor, his lips found mine, nothing but bare skin between our pounding hearts now.

It all happened so quickly—just a matter of seconds, really. There was no time to think, to plan, to do anything but gasp in recognition when he drew away and gazed down at me in an eerily familiar pose—incisors elongated, his eyes rimmed in red and filled with desire, with bloodlust.

I must have cried out when his head dipped down toward my
neck. I felt his teeth scrape against my skin as I tried desperately to roll out from beneath him.

There was a sudden rush of air as he slammed himself against the door, a look of pure horror on his face as I scrambled back against the headboard, cowering with the covers gathered over my half-naked body.

“Tell me now—did I hurt you?” he asked, his voice strangely calm.

I reached a hand up to my neck. It was fine—not even a scratch. “No,” I said. “It’s okay. Why don’t you . . . you know, go take your walk or something.”

He just stood there silently, the muscles in his jaw working feverishly as he struggled for control.

“I’m fine. Go on,” I urged. “We can talk in the morning. You’ll be okay after you feed.”

“No. That was too close.” He shook his head. “I can’t do this anymore, Violet. I tried . . . I really did.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, my voice trembling.

His gaze met mine, and all the air left my lungs with a
whoosh
. Pain, guilt, revulsion, self-loathing—they all battled for dominance there in his features.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

And then, just like that, he was gone.

*  *  *

Two full days passed before Aidan’s return. My friends tried their best to entertain me, but I mostly kept to myself, not wanting to ruin their vacation. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back,” I told them with forced cheerfulness, but I wasn’t sure I believed it myself.

I’d moved my things to the master suite, a shock of familiarity startling me the moment I’d stepped inside the room that had been his mother’s.

I recognized the plush carpeting beneath my feet—robin’s-egg blue with a dark brown pattern of scripty curlicues and little birds. I recognized the view outside the window too—it was green, as far as the eye could see. Rolling hills, a willow tree.

I knew this room. I’d seen it before, in a vision.

I tried to convince myself that if I stayed right there, he’d have to come back. After all, I’d seen it. Us, together. There. Apparently, we had unfinished business.

More than anything, I wished that Matthew had been there to help me through it all. But he wasn’t, and whenever I tried to call his cell, I got his voice mail—each and every time.

Apparently they’d
both
abandoned me.

Still, I was surprised when I woke up on that third lonely morning and found Aidan there, sitting in a chair by the window, his blond hair turned gold by the sun.

“You’re back,” I said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. “God, what time is it?”

“It’s nearly noon,” he said, his expression guarded, entirely unreadable.

My stomach growled noisily. “I guess I missed breakfast. Did you happen to notice if they’ve gotten lunch yet?”

He shook his head. “I’ve sent them all away for lunch, to a restaurant in the village. They won’t be back for a couple of hours.”

That was weird. “Okay,” I said with a frown. “Are you planning on telling me where you’ve been? I was worried out of my mind.”

“I had some business to attend to. Affairs to settle,” he said cryptically.

He was being purposely obtuse, I realized. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on here,” I demanded, annoyed now.

Looking almost grim, he reached over to the round, piecrust table beside the chair and retrieved a leather case.

“What’s that?” I asked, eyeing it curiously as he opened it, revealing what looked like an enormous hypodermic needle and a single glass vial.

“It’s my cure,” he said simply.

“Your cure?” I asked, my voice rising. “What? How?”

“Dr. Byrne gave it to me before we left New York.”

“
That’s
what he wanted to talk to you about?”

Aidan nodded. “He feels certain he’s perfected it. No way to know for sure, of course, but it worked with my blood and tissue samples, right down to the cellular level. With the samples we took from the vampire in Atlanta too. At least, that’s what he tells me.”

I glanced down at the humungous needle and then back up at him again. “So . . . now what?”

“Why don’t you get up and get dressed. I’ll go to the kitchen and find you something to eat, and I’ll bring it right up with some coffee, okay?”

I didn’t like this, not one bit. He was acting strange, oddly formal and aloof. “Fine,” I said. “Just give me fifteen minutes; I want to jump in the shower first.”

I’d never showered so quickly in my life. It was chilly, so I threw on a pair of jeans with a tank top and a hoodie and quickly ran a brush through my hair.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, he was back with a tray that held two slices of thick toast, a jar of jam, and a mug of steaming coffee. “This was all I could rustle up,” he said. “I think I got the coffee right, though—lots of sugar and cream.”

“Perfect. Okay, you talk while I eat.” I reached for a piece of toast and took a bite, settling myself into the chair opposite him.

“This is going to sound much worse than it is,” he warned.

I washed down the toast with my coffee, waiting for him to continue.

“It’s simple, really. I fill the syringe with the correct amount of serum. He’s marked it here.” He lifted it from the case, showing me the little dash made in black Sharpie. “And then I’m going to need you to inject it for me.”

“Like in your arm or something?” I asked. “Why can’t you inject it yourself?”

“This part sounds complicated, but it really isn’t, not if you think about it,” he said, then took a deep breath before continuing. “You have to inject the serum directly into my heart.”

“What?” I shrieked, setting down my mug so hard that coffee sloshed all over the tray. “Are you crazy? I can’t do that.”