A Dark Heart by Margaret Foxe Page B

that much to her, with her perfect
life, her perfect, eternal, unsullied future.
    Did he?
    Once Ana’s green eyes had been so vibrant, despite her illness. And
they’d shone with hope and love and a thousand other lovely, alien things when
she’d first come back to him as Lady Christiana. That was how he’d known she
was Ana deep in his heart, even when he’d still thought things such as
immortality were still impossibilities.
    He refused to admit that the light in her eyes had begun its slow fade precisely
after the night he’d come to her as a vampire. He would never accept that he
had so much power over her, that anyone could care so much for him .
    Ana had , a quiet voice inside of him insisted.
    He squeezed his eyes shut and huddled closer to the wall, seeking warmth
and escape from his bleak thoughts. Just for a moment, he thought, he’d let
himself remember her, the older, fragile girl with her big green eyes and even
bigger smile, who’d been so lovely to his eight-year-old self it had been
painful. He’d lain in that absurdly big, absurdly soft feather bed at Llewellyn
House, unable to move because of his shattered leg, unable to escape her soft,
roseate scent, her dulcet voice, her gentle hands.
    He’d been a prisoner to her kindness, and at first it had been excruciating
and so damn confusing. No one had been kind to him before, not without wanting
something from him in return. He’d lived on tenterhooks that first week, wondering
when she would take whatever it was she wanted and shatter the illusion.
    It had been a total shock when he’d finally let himself believe that she
had no ulterior motives. Then he’d been terrified she’d discover what he’d been
and turn from him in disgust, for that was what all respectable people did to
whores like him. But he’d quickly come to realize that even if he told her about
the things he’d done for O’Connor and countless, faceless men in the dark,
she’d not even understand what he was talking about. He’d not known such
innocence could exist. He’d not even known what innocence was until Ana.
She’d been nearly a decade older, but he’d felt ancient in comparison.
    And eventually, over the course of that strange year they’d spent
together, he’d been lulled by her impossible loveliness. He’d forgotten his
innate mistrust, his fear, his shame, and basked in her friendship. She’d taught
him to read, to smile, to even hope a little. He’d almost felt normal. Almost .
    Until she’d been ripped from him, taking all the light with her.
    He’d never returned to the streets. His life had been good with the
Drexlers, better than a gutter whore like him could have ever imagined, much
less deserved. But he’d never recovered from losing his first friend.
    And when he’d learned years later that she’d never died at all, had lied to him…
    Well, it just confirmed everything he’d always known deep down anyway:
he’d never been very important to her.
    Ana had cared, but not enough .
    When he finally opened his eyes, he was surprised to find the sun had
risen high in the sky, beating down on the side of his face with unrelenting
heat. In fact, his entire body was on fire. The cool spring night had given way
to a warm spring day. And he was curled on one side with his knees drawn to his
chest, wrapped in his greatcoat, his back to the brick wall, like he was that six-year-old
lad again, sleeping in doorways in January.
    He sat up slowly, disoriented, and rubbed the grit from the side of his
face that had spent the night plastered to the rooftop. He’d not noticed the
passage of time at all. It had felt like a few minutes at most since he’d shut
his eyes. He squinted against the sun and groaned. It was late morning. He’d
lost at least six hours, maybe more.
    And he was thirsty. Damned thirsty.
    He patted his pockets and cursed again. He’d left his morphine in his
office at the Yard. Another symptom of his failing wits.
    Suddenly, the clockwork