Blood Crave 2 by Jennifer Knight Page B

the bottom of the wall, where the building was blackened and smoldering as though the fire had died a long, long time ago. The window panes depicted scenes of a little girl playing on a grassy hill with dark hair and almond eyes like Lucas’s, an older man and woman standing with arms around each other in a small wooden cabin, a handsome boy holding a bow and arrow, who looked suspiciously like a younger version of Vincent. “When I first started painting,” Lucas said softly, “I drew these scenes at the bottom here. Those two are my parents and my sister—what I remember of them anyway.”
    He choked on the word sister and my heart stopped. Lucas never spoke about his sister. And this was the first I’d ever heard him speak about his parents. Or his life in Scotland. I watched him anxiously as his eyes darkened, his vibe becoming so saturated with grief it was like a wall of smog. Suffocating. Even in my semi-inebriated state, it overwhelmed me, and for a moment, I could actually see what Lucas must have: Vincent latched onto his sister’s neck as she screamed his name. I felt the helplessness he felt three hundred years ago as she was killed in front of his eyes. In his mind, the pain was as fresh now as it was then.
    A blast of hatred hit me and then a stark contrast of remorse. Lucas touched the pane with the young boy wielding the bow and arrow. Vincent. The way Lucas probably remembered him. Human. Flushed with warmth and life.
    In the past. I could almost hear his voice as his vibe intensified. Let it go. . . .
    He moved up a level, and the scenes grew more sinister—giant beasts with glowing eyes and a moon looming behind them, bloody battles and, at the very end of the row, a hand coming down on Lucas’s shoulder that looked as though it offered a comforting squeeze. “And then there’s some of my infection,” he said, explaining the panes, “finding my pack, running from Vincent.” He scraped his palm over the one where a werewolf fought a slender, pale figure, their bodies so distorted it was almost impossible to look at it without grimacing. “For so long that was my life,” he murmured. “I was dead inside. Repressing everything, never letting anyone in; like I kept a glass pane between me and the world. One I could never break.”
    He stood and moved his hand up the wall, and I began seeing my face inside the windows. “Then I met you. Suddenly, life became worth enduring the pain of my curse. Because it meant living with you. That’s when I started painting the flames. When I was done, I thought—damn, there’s something wrong with me. Why’d I just set my girlfriend on fire?” He cast a sidelong grin at me. “And then I figured it out.” He stepped closer, taking up my hand. “For so long, I was cold. Lifeless as any vampire. But now I’m alive with loving you.” He looked back at the wall, his gaze sweeping the entire beautiful thing. “You set my life on fire.”
    His voice cracked at the end, and I felt my heart fill with emotion. The strength of his vibe all but capsized me so that I had to clutch his arm to keep steady.
    “This is really amazing,” I said softly, meaning both the painting and what he’d said about it. The way my heart was overflowing with love.
    Lucas shrugged, back to his old gruff self. I wished he’d remained open just a little longer.
    “I was gonna paint over it,” he said. “So you or your mom wouldn’t see it and think I was a psycho. But then, in the car you had all that dried paint all over your face and it reminded me of this. And I just wanted you to see it first.”
    “I’m glad,” I said, though I was secretly scrubbing paint flecks off my face behind his back.
    “You’re not afraid I’m a pyromaniac?” He smiled back at me, stopping me from scrubbing my face.
    “Believe me, that’s the least of my worries.” I walked up and touched one of the panes where Lucas and I were embracing. “But you’re right. We can’t leave it up