all these doors?” she blurted. “You live alone, don’t you?”
“It gives me the illusion of a home,” he said with odd self-mockery. There was a pause while she stared at the back of his head. He opened the door. “Besides, it was an amusing project and passed the time.”
How long had he spent here? A century? More. She could barely grasp the mind-numbing boredom of that. How could he bear it? Because being among others was more unbearable still.
“Why do this to yourself? Just because you hated to lose? Or because you hated what you did to Saloman?”
Betrayed him and staked him and condemned him to three hundred years of agony, and a boredom, surely, even greater than Maximilian’s.
He walked into the “room,” and she thought he wouldn’t answer her. Then he said, “Yes,” and stood aside for her to enter.
There were no murals here, just rough, white-painted walls. An antique oil lamp resided on a flat-topped carved stone “table,” providing an unexpectedly warm, soothing glow. There was a simply constructed chest and bedstead made of wood but covered with intricate carvings. Something else he’d done to pass the time. Books, pencils, sheets of paper littered the floor. Maximilian swiped at them with his feet, creating a path for her.
“Yes,” she repeated. “What does that mean? You hated to lose, and you hated what you did to Saloman?”
He swung away from her, but not before she’d glimpsed the depths of blackness in his light eyes. The sight shocked her, paralyzed her.
This time she was sure he wouldn’t answer, and she couldn’t blame him. For whatever reason, Maximilian was in pain.
Then, surprising her all over again, he spoke. “The losing—losing to a bestial, lesser being like Zoltán—emphasized the futility, the wrongness, of what I did to Saloman. I thought my ends justified my means. But I was too young and stupid with ambition to comprehend the ends.”
He didn’t need to say that to her. She wished he hadn’t. It sounded too…human. And she could almost imagine he’d never said it before.
“I have no blankets,” he said, as if deliberately dragging her back to the mundane. He walked to the wooden chest and opened it. “You can use these to keep warm.”
He made no effort to touch her, merely dropped the pile of clothes onto the mattress, which was covered by a worn, white linen sheet. It was all ridiculously inviting. Madness to sleep so close to a vampire. Even knowing that, through Elizabeth, she was to some extent under Saloman’s protection shouldn’t have relaxed her like this. It went against every instinct, every lesson of her life and profession. And yet she longed to close her eyes, to rest, even if just for an hour.
She touched the heavy woolen overcoat and gave in. She glanced round. “Will you wake me in…?” She broke off. He’d already gone.
Even the door was closed over, although not shut tight. Mihaela shut her mouth and sat down on the bed. Since it was none too warm in these caves, she kept on her own sheepskin jacket and pulled Maximilian’s overcoat up to her chin before she lay down. The coat felt old and comfortable, and it smelled of Maximilian. Which was odd, since she hadn’t even registered that he had a smell. Salt and sea mist and sweet, strong earth, and something else she couldn’t place. It wasn’t unpleasant. It wasn’t unpleasant at all.
She closed her eyes, wondering if she could really sleep with a vampire on the other side of a semi-open door. It seemed she could.
****
Maximilian gazed down at the sleeping hunter. Her incredible beauty spoke to the artist in him. It spoke to every part of him, including his loins. Not surprising. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman. Isolation combined with his need to suffer had successfully dealt with the natural desires of the flesh. But there had always been something about this woman. The way she’d moved in a fight—he remembered her from St. Andrews
“It gives me the illusion of a home,” he said with odd self-mockery. There was a pause while she stared at the back of his head. He opened the door. “Besides, it was an amusing project and passed the time.”
How long had he spent here? A century? More. She could barely grasp the mind-numbing boredom of that. How could he bear it? Because being among others was more unbearable still.
“Why do this to yourself? Just because you hated to lose? Or because you hated what you did to Saloman?”
Betrayed him and staked him and condemned him to three hundred years of agony, and a boredom, surely, even greater than Maximilian’s.
He walked into the “room,” and she thought he wouldn’t answer her. Then he said, “Yes,” and stood aside for her to enter.
There were no murals here, just rough, white-painted walls. An antique oil lamp resided on a flat-topped carved stone “table,” providing an unexpectedly warm, soothing glow. There was a simply constructed chest and bedstead made of wood but covered with intricate carvings. Something else he’d done to pass the time. Books, pencils, sheets of paper littered the floor. Maximilian swiped at them with his feet, creating a path for her.
“Yes,” she repeated. “What does that mean? You hated to lose, and you hated what you did to Saloman?”
He swung away from her, but not before she’d glimpsed the depths of blackness in his light eyes. The sight shocked her, paralyzed her.
This time she was sure he wouldn’t answer, and she couldn’t blame him. For whatever reason, Maximilian was in pain.
Then, surprising her all over again, he spoke. “The losing—losing to a bestial, lesser being like Zoltán—emphasized the futility, the wrongness, of what I did to Saloman. I thought my ends justified my means. But I was too young and stupid with ambition to comprehend the ends.”
He didn’t need to say that to her. She wished he hadn’t. It sounded too…human. And she could almost imagine he’d never said it before.
“I have no blankets,” he said, as if deliberately dragging her back to the mundane. He walked to the wooden chest and opened it. “You can use these to keep warm.”
He made no effort to touch her, merely dropped the pile of clothes onto the mattress, which was covered by a worn, white linen sheet. It was all ridiculously inviting. Madness to sleep so close to a vampire. Even knowing that, through Elizabeth, she was to some extent under Saloman’s protection shouldn’t have relaxed her like this. It went against every instinct, every lesson of her life and profession. And yet she longed to close her eyes, to rest, even if just for an hour.
She touched the heavy woolen overcoat and gave in. She glanced round. “Will you wake me in…?” She broke off. He’d already gone.
Even the door was closed over, although not shut tight. Mihaela shut her mouth and sat down on the bed. Since it was none too warm in these caves, she kept on her own sheepskin jacket and pulled Maximilian’s overcoat up to her chin before she lay down. The coat felt old and comfortable, and it smelled of Maximilian. Which was odd, since she hadn’t even registered that he had a smell. Salt and sea mist and sweet, strong earth, and something else she couldn’t place. It wasn’t unpleasant. It wasn’t unpleasant at all.
She closed her eyes, wondering if she could really sleep with a vampire on the other side of a semi-open door. It seemed she could.
****
Maximilian gazed down at the sleeping hunter. Her incredible beauty spoke to the artist in him. It spoke to every part of him, including his loins. Not surprising. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman. Isolation combined with his need to suffer had successfully dealt with the natural desires of the flesh. But there had always been something about this woman. The way she’d moved in a fight—he remembered her from St. Andrews
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