Authors: Kristi Cook
“Are you two done whispering sweet nothings over there?” Tyler called out, loud enough for half the exhibition hall to hear. “C’mon, let’s go.”
He was lucky I didn’t have my stake with me. If I had, I might have been tempted to use it on him. At the very least, I could have whacked him upside the head with it.
An hour and a half later, we sat around a rectangular table in the noisy museum café, finishing up lunch.
“Okay, pretty much everything else we need to find should be here in this gallery.” Joshua pointed to a lavender section of the map labeled
19TH- AND EARLY 20TH-CENTURY EUROPEAN PAINTINGS AND SCULPTURE
. “Second floor.”
Aidan nodded. “I know where it is—all my favorites are there.” The paintings from
his
time, I realized. Of course they would be his favorites.
“Let’s go, then.” Tyler stood, picking up the cellophane wrapper from his sandwich and tossing it into a trash can.
I threw away what was left of my salad and fell into step beside Aidan.
We’d already found what we needed to see in the American Wing, so we hurried back through and up a flight of stairs, then past a bunch of European paintings we’d already explored as well.
“A Van Gogh, a Degas, a couple of Monets,” Joshua was saying, ticking off the remaining paintings on our list. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
I checked my watch—we still had an hour and a half, so we were good. My feet, however, were not. I glanced down at the cute silver flats I’d worn and wished that I’d opted for my running shoes instead.
“We’re almost there,” Aidan said, hurrying his step. “It’s just past this temporary exhibition area.”
Which seemed endless, I realized.
Behind us, Joshua had stopped and was staring up at a framed photograph on the wall. “Look at this,” he called out. “It’s an early photograph—1895, it says.” He took several steps to the right, where a framed painting depicted the exact same scene. “Pretty cool, huh?”
I took the map and checked the listing for temporary exhibitions on the second floor. “Photography and late impressionism,” I read out loud.
Fascinated, I moved from one pair to the next. I’d never seen photographs this old. It was like peeking back in time, back to Aidan’s time.
He stood silently beside me as I gazed up at a photograph of two women in voluminous skirts with bustles, their blouses buttoned up to their throats. Sisters, I mused, noting their resemblance, and then moved on to look at the accompanying painting.
“Ho-ly shit!” came Tyler’s voice from somewhere around the corner. “Violet, you’ve got to come see this!”
“What?” I asked, hurrying toward his voice. “It can’t possibly be
that
exciting.”
“Oh yeah, it is.”
I turned the corner and found him staring up at one of the larger photographs on the wall. It was a nude, I realized. Even from halfway across the gallery space I could see the bare breasts.
“Oh, give me a break,” I said, rolling my eyes. “What are you, twelve years old? You didn’t get this excited in the sculpture garden—”
I stopped short, sucking in my breath. The picture … oh my God!
“She looks just like you!” Tyler said, putting words to my thoughts.
Not again.
I stepped closer, examining the photograph as my heart thudded against my ribs. It looked like a dance studio, with a wooden barre on one wall opposite a long row of mirrors.
In the middle of the open, airy space stood a woman—and okay, she wasn’t totally nude, thank God. She was wearing some sort of tulle tutu-looking thing that came to her knees. Her back was to the camera, but her face and entire body were visible in the mirrors, bare boobs and all.
“And here, look at this.” He was pointing to the bottom right corner of the frame, where a tall guy with golden blond hair stood leaning against the wall, his face in profile. Though he was mostly hidden in shadows, everything about him was eerily familiar.
My gaze flew to the cardboard description tacked to the wall between the photograph and the accompanying painting, and I flinched.
OPERA DANCER IN LONDON
, 1892, it said, and beneath that the artist’s name—Guillaume Fournier.
I quickly did the mental math. Aidan was born in 1875. That would have made him, what? Seventeen in 1892. It was all falling into place. An opera dancer in London, one who looked just like me, her blond-haired lover looking on while she was photographed. He was seventeen when he met Isabel, still seventeen when he was turned. This must have been just before—
“What the hell?” Joshua said, stepping up beside me.
“Yeah, Vi, put some clothes on,” Tyler teased.
I saw Joshua’s gaze move lower, toward the boy in the corner. His eyes narrowed perceptibly. “Is that …?” Because he
knew
, I realized. Tyler was totally in the dark, but Joshua would know that it was entirely possible.
I swallowed hard, looking at the painting now. It was pretty much exactly the same as the photograph, except the boy in the corner was gone. Allowed to watch protectively while she was photographed, but not vital to the actual work of art.
My stomach lurched uncomfortably, the salad I’d just eaten threating to make a reappearance. I had to do something, I realized—
say
something before Tyler realized that this was freaking me out way more than it should.
I swallowed hard. “Yeah, okay. She looks like me; I get it. Can we move on?”
Tyler turned to face me, his eyes wide. “She looks
just
like you.”
“Nah,” Joshua said, shaking his head. “I mean, there’s a resemblance, I guess, but that’s all. See, her mouth is different and … well … no offense, Violet, but this chick’s tits are bigger.”
I wanted to kiss him. Clearly he knew something was up, and he was covering for me.
“Hey, no offense taken,” I said with a shrug.
“Where’d you guys go?” Aidan called out.
“In here!” Tyler yelled back. “You gotta come see this.”
No.
But it was too late. Aidan was there, right behind me. I turned in time to see his stunned expression before he shuttered it, replacing it with a look of nonchalance.
“That’s it?” he asked, his voice deceptively smooth. “You’re all worked up over a bit of nudity? I think you need to get out more, Bennett.”
Tyler raked a hand through his hair. “Dude, you are
not
going to pretend you don’t see it, too. C’mon, she looks just like her.”
Aidan just shrugged.
Joshua started flipping through the list again, looking bored. “It’s not even full frontal,” he muttered. “We’ve still got another six paintings to find—we should get moving.”
Tyler stood there, openmouthed. I knew he’d seen it—that shock of recognition on Aidan’s face before he’d wiped it clean. For a moment there, Aidan had looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
Because he
had
seen a ghost.
It’s you, isn’t it?
I asked him in my head.
There in the corner of the photograph. Watching her.
His eyes met mine, and he nodded.
I’d completely forgotten about it. I had no idea it would ever be shown in public, much less somewhere like this.
I knew it was entirely unreasonable that I should be jealous, but sometimes your head and your heart don’t exactly agree. Oh, man … I felt sick. I took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, willing my racing heart to slow.
“Josh is right,” I said coolly. “We’re wasting time.” Without a backward glance, I turned and walked away.
“You’re not mad at me, are you?” Aidan said, sliding into the scabbed seat beside me. We were the last ones to board the bus, taking the very last row of seats, away from everyone else. “C’mon, Vi, you can’t be mad.”
I let out my breath in a rush. “I’m not mad.”
“Are you sure? Because you’re acting like you are. Ever since we saw that picture—”
“How do you think I feel?” I snapped, shaking my head in frustration. “For once, put yourself in my shoes. Imagine that picture was me instead, and the guy looking on was my ex-boyfriend. You know, watching me cavort around
naked
. How would you feel?”
“You never mentioned an ex-boyfriend.”
“You never asked,” I shot back.
“And besides, she wasn’t naked. Not from the waist down, at least.”
Was he really that obtuse? “You’re being a dick.”
“Am I?” He reached up to brush my cheek with the back of one hand. “I’m just trying to understand—”
“Understand what? Why I don’t like to imagine you with
her
?”
“My God, Vi, it was over a hundred years ago. I was a different person then.”
“You looked the same, except for the clothes,” I said stubbornly. “I
saw
you.”
He tipped his head back against the seat, looking tired. Defeated. “What can I do, Violet? How can I possibly make it up to you? I can’t erase my past. My mortal past,” he corrected. “None of it was even worth remembering.”
“Do you remember that day?” I asked. “The day that photograph was taken?”
“I do now.”
“Tell me about it,” I pressed, overcome with a reckless desire to feed my morbid curiosity.
“No,” he said resolutely. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He shook his head. “Sorry, but no.”
And then, I swear I didn’t do anything—not consciously, at least—but images began to flood my mind. I shut my eyes and pressed my fingers against my temples as the images shifted into focus.
Isabel was standing in the studio, the one from the photograph, holding a scrap of fabric across her naked breasts. She was walking toward me. No, toward Aidan, I realized. I was seeing the scene through his eyes.
A high-pitched buzz softened into recognizable sounds—the muffled notes of a piano; the sound of something striking the floor in perfect rhythm; voices. All muffled. From another room, another studio, perhaps.
“You liked watching as Guillaume photographed me,” Isabel
said, smiling flirtatiously. “It excited you, didn’t it?”
Somehow I expected her to sound like me, but she didn’t. Her accent was pronounced, her voice more breathy than mine.
“Perhaps it did,” a male voice answered. Aidan, though he sounded different—far more British, more refined. Older, somehow.
Isabel took several steps toward him, moving gracefully across the wooden floor. “Show me, then,” she said, releasing the scrap of fabric she’d been clutching to her chest.
“Enough!” I cried out. “Stop it.”
“I didn’t do anything, Violet,” Aidan said, his features stony. “You did. You breached my mind.”
I shook my head. “How? I wasn’t trying, I swear.”
“I guess you’re getting stronger. The closer you get to your birthday, the stronger your
Sâbbat
tendencies will become.”
“You don’t know that,” I argued, even though it made perfect sense. Still, I didn’t want to think about—didn’t want to consider the possibilities. “Anyway, my birthday is still five months away.”
“And each day that passes brings you one day closer.”
“Well, aren’t you Mr. Philosophical today,” I said sourly, then dropped my head into my hands. “I’m sorry, Aidan,” I said, my throat tight. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He reached for my hand and brought it to his lips. Prickles of electricity ran up my arm, making me shiver. “Today was a strain. That picture …” He trailed off, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “You have no idea how sorry I am. Sorry that it exists. Sorry that you saw it. Sorry that I lived such a shallow, callous mortal life.”
“Don’t,” I said, shaking my head. He had every right to his past, relationships and all. Just because I hadn’t ever been seriously involved with anyone before him didn’t mean I should expect the same from him—especially considering just how long his past was. “You have no reason to apologize, Aidan. Seriously.”
He shook his head. “I have so many regrets, Vi. But you”—he brought my hand to his heart—“you’re the one thing in my life that I
don’t
regret. This heart beats only for you.”
“You’re going to make me cry,” I said, my voice thick.
Aidan laughed. “Don’t cry, love. Tyler knows something’s up—even now, he keeps turning around to watch us.”
“That’s Tyler’s problem.” I leaned toward Aidan, pressing my lips against his jaw, just where it curved down toward his throat.
Together, we slid down in the seat, away from prying eyes. I heard him sigh, felt the muscles in his jaw relax. “Was that for Tyler’s benefit or mine?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“Take your pick,” I answered coyly. But speaking silently inside my head, I told a different story.
For you,
I said.
Always for you.
He grasped the back of my neck and drew my face toward his, kissing one damp eyelid, then the other.
Until the day I die,
came his voice inside my head.
I took it as a good sign that he’d said “until I die” rather than “until I’m destroyed.”
“You two, there in the back,” bellowed Dr. Andrulis from the front of the bus. “I want to be able to see your faces.”
My cheeks flaming with embarrassment, I scooted back in the seat, sitting up straight now. Aidan did the same. As the bus lurched forward, I laid my head on his shoulder, trying to ignore the snickers from several seats away.
Tyler, no doubt.
O
kay, what do you think?” I spread my arms wide and turned in a slow circle. I’d spent all summer dragging Whitney from one vintage shop to the next, putting together the perfect costume for the Halloween Fair dance. More than anything, I hoped Aidan appreciated the effort.
Cece let out her breath in a rush. “Oh. My. Freaking. God! You look amazing!”
I laughed nervously, glancing in the mirror above my dresser. Okay, I looked good, but not
that
good. Cece, on the other hand …
“You know you look gorgeous, right?” I asked her.