Heart of Dracula - Kathryn Ann Kingsley Page 0,102
a question, really. Does he play these games with hunters in hopes they might discover a way to end him? She looked over to the vampire and found him idly smiling. Merely a small, knowing twist of those lips. He could hear her thoughts, after all. And she could hear his soul.
There was nothing more substantial than wax paper that separated them in truth.
The idea of how close they would be before the dawn made her stomach lurch in fear and excitement. There was terror, yes, a deep instinctual need not to leap from the cliff into the ocean. But there was also an anticipation that pushed her forward.
During intermission, she sought his hand, lacing her fingers between his. Crimson eyes watched her with curiosity and surprise as she lifted his hand to her face and kissed his fingers. One at a time, exploring him. He did not move and let her do as she pleased.
Touching him was addictive, she realized with no small amount of dismay. She bent her cheek to rest it against the back of his hand, wondering if she could warm him by touch. If she could give him shelter from the storm.
“Yes. You can.” His voice was low and thick with emotion. Her silent yet well-heard question had carried more meaning to him than she intended. “Does the cold truly not bother you?”
“No. Although I do not have much to compare it to.” She smiled faintly. “Does it trouble you? To be so frigid?”
“Rarely. Only in the moments when the warmth leaves me.”
She placed a kiss against him again and lowered his hand to her lap, keeping it grasped within both of hers. He squeezed, reassuring and thankful. “Your compassion will be your undoing.”
“I am an empath. All I am is compassion.” She chuckled. “Sometimes I wonder if I am real at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am filled with memories that are not my own. If I shut my eyes and ponder, I can feel heavy, mud-slicked boots on my feet. I can feel the crunch of bone and hear the screams of the dying that I have maimed. I feel their ichor on my hands. I taste their blood. I feel the weight of the sword in my hand. I remember the battlefield that I was shown when I touched that brooch of yours. That memory is now mine, added to all the rest. That is why everyone believes me to be far older than I am at first glance.”
She let her fingers run over the wood armrest of the chair in their box seat. It was an elegant piece. She caught the grooves in her fingertips, glad she wore her gloves. She was certain the chairs had seen several instances of exactly what Vlad had teasingly threatened her with earlier. How many couples had stolen passionate embraces in the darkness of the theater when they thought no one could see?
“All we are, in the end, is a product of our context.” She continued to circle her fingers along the wood grooves thoughtfully. “A series of events that surround us and define us. You are what you are because of the life you have lived. Some of it was your doing, much of it was not. But it is what created you all the same.”
“You mean to say that we do not have a soul.”
“Oh, no, that is not what I am saying at all. But when we begin, we are a seedling. A tree, or a flower, or a great immortal redwood like yourself. Our soul defines our potential. But our context—bad winters, dry summers, a perfect spring—define the branches we might sprout. The bark we might grow to protect us. Whether we bear fruit, or if we become grizzled and empty.”
“My empath is a poet.”
She chuckled. “I am no such thing.”
“You are. You speak in metaphor.”
“I think in imagery. In photographs of another time. I describe only how I process the world.”
“Sounds exhausting. No wonder you always look overwrought.”
“Stop teasing me.” She still couldn’t help but smile.
“Never. Please, continue, Sophocles.”
“I would like to think I am far more attractive than he was.”
“You are. And far less irritating after a glass of wine.”
She looked up at him curiously. He spoke as though he had met the man. Then she realized…he very well could have. He was ancient. Older than she could fathom. He merely smiled at her tenderly and watched her through half-lidded, crimson eyes that caught the lamplight and flashed occasionally, reminding