He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’d better get back to work. I want to finish the whole house before the sun tops the trees.”
“You really don’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I want to.” He smiled. “I’ll come back on a weekday to sand it and paint it so I won’t keep you from sleeping in again. Just leave the paint on your back porch.”
Without another word, Bastien turned and strode toward the ladder.
Chapter Sixteen
A year passed. One wondrous year illuminated by nights with Emma that Cliff could hardly believe. Though some might mock him for saying it, to him Emma was the light that kept a sea of darkness at bay. Without her, he would have long since drowned in it.
The voices seemed to grow louder and louder every day. Emma still silenced them. But as soon as he left her, the damn murmurs began anew, swiftly escalating in volume.
The aggression and violent impulses grew stronger, too, threatening to consume him. To rob him of who he was. But Cliff continued to fight it.
Most days he won.
Some days he didn’t.
He began to have psychotic breaks. Mild ones compared to those Vince had experienced.
He usually didn’t even know he’d had one—that he’d flown into a rage—until he awoke, afflicted with the telltale lethargy and mental bleariness that resulted from being sedated with the only drug capable of knocking out a vampire or immortal.
Fear and dread always consumed him in such instances. His stomach would roil, his skin would break out in a cold sweat, and his hands would tremble as he wondered what he’d done. Whom he’d hurt. Or worse, if he’d killed anyone.
He had not yet slain anyone while in the grips of a psychotic break. But he’d broken bones.
Shame filled him. He didn’t even remember doing it. But he had injured Stuart once when his friend had struggled to restrain him long enough for Linda to tranq him. And the reprieves that followed the breaks—the quiet after the storm—seemed to shorten with each one he experienced.
Even now, while Cliff sat on the sofa in his apartment, the voices clamored at him to maim, dismember, and kill. It sickened him.
“This is not who I am,” he whispered, as if saying it aloud would ensure some part of him would never forget it and would help him defeat the looming madness. “This is not who I am.”
He should be sleeping. He had only left Emma’s arms a few hours ago. Members of the day shift had just arrived. But the damn voices wouldn’t let him rest.
Rising, he crossed to the kitchen, opened one of the cabinets, and drew out a box of graham crackers. The top showed a bit of wear from being opened and closed so often but shouldn’t draw undue attention from the network employees who stocked his cupboards. Flipping it up, he dumped out two thick sleeves of long brown crackers and retrieved the cell phone he’d hidden beneath them.
As soon as he turned it on, Emma smiled up at him from the lock screen.
Cliff clutched the device like a lifeline as he returned to the sofa and sank down on the cushions. Bastien had never asked him to return the phone he’d given him to use while he roamed alone. The one the network had provided was constantly monitored. But Cliff didn’t think Bastien had told them about this one. So he figured as long as he kept the Wi-Fi and Bluetooth turned off and the cell set to Airplane Mode, Reordon shouldn’t be able to detect it or access anything on it unless he somehow learned of the device and got his hands on it.
Fortunately, there were no cameras in the vampires’ apartments to clue him in. Bastien had insisted on it and had gotten Seth’s okay.
Unlocking the screen, Cliff opened the photos app and scrolled through the pictures.
Most were of Emma. Smiling. Laughing. Teasing. Goofing around. But there were selfies of the two of them as well. And videos. Nothing exciting. Nothing pornographic. Just snippets of everyday, ordinary life that seemed utterly extraordinary to him. The two of them cooking together in her small kitchen. Cliff helping her assemble wooden shelves for her growing home library. Him mowing the lawn for her while she nurtured the pretty flowers in her hanging baskets under the porch’s light. Emma sitting on the floor between Cliff’s knees while he sat on the sofa and carefully combed the tangles from