Eternal

by Kristi Cook

  Tyler sat at the head of the table and reached for a plate. “Now rub-a-dub-dub, pass me some grub!”

  Aidan shot him a deadly glare. “Violet, would you mind telling your little friend that he’s sitting in my seat?”

  At once, everyone turned to stare at him. We seemed to be holding our collective breaths, waiting.

  And then Aidan smiled. “Come now, you didn’t think I was serious, did you?” he asked with a laugh. “My seat is right here beside you, of course.”

  Smiling broadly, I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  * * *

  “What time is it?” I asked Aidan while I perched on the edge of the bed, admiring the room. “My body is so confused.” All this back-and-forth to Europe was wreaking havoc on my sleeping schedule.

  “It’s about two in the morning, local time. Are you tired?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. So . . . this was really your room?”

  “It was.” He stood at the foot of the bed, looking around. “They’ve changed it around some, of course. That portrait wasn’t there, for one.” He indicated a painting above the fireplace. “The bed, though . . . it’s the same. I assume the duvet is a reproduction, but it’s an exact one.”

  The bed. This was the bed, I realized. The one from my vision—antique mahogany with four spindly posts. I’d seen it on the website, too—with the blue damask duvet trimmed in gold that I was sitting on now.

  I tried to remember the vision, to remember what had seemed so ominous about it, but my memories were mostly hazy. It had been a long time since I’d replayed it. All I remembered was that Aidan and I were in the bed and that my hair was short. Like it was now. I hadn’t even considered that when I’d gotten it cut. It wasn’t like I’d had a choice, not with a big chunk of it burned off, anyway.

  What, exactly, was going to happen if I got in this bed with Aidan? “Maybe we should sleep somewhere else,” I said tentatively.

  Aidan gave me a puzzled look. “I thought for sure you’d want to stay here. We could move you to the master suite, if you’d like. You can take my mother’s bed.”

  Out of respect, no one had claimed his mother’s rooms. His sisters’ suites had been fair game, though. They were among the prettiest, with elaborate dressing tables and huge windows that opened out to the gardens below. Sophie and Marissa had immediately laid claim to those, leaving Cece to battle it out over the remaining rooms with Tyler, Joshua, and Max. Of course, the choices seemed endless—Brompton Park boasted an entire wing of guest suites.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be a little weird for you, me sleeping in your mother’s bed?”

  “Not particularly,” he answered with a shrug. “Anyway, it’s up to you.”

  I gave the bed a sidelong stare, still unsure.

  “Are you worried that I’ve . . . in this bed?” A faint flush stained his cheeks. “Never, not in this room, if that’s what’s on your mind, Violet.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that. Of course, now I’m curious. If not here, then where?”

  He leaned against the bedpost, watching me curiously. “Are you asking me where I lost my virginity?”

  I closed my eyes, trying to banish the images. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  “Because back in those days, you—”

  “Stop! Don’t tell me. Just . . . forget that I said anything about it, okay? We’re fine here. I don’t want to have to move all my stuff.”

  “You know what I just remembered?” he said abruptly, pushing off the bed and walking over to the adjoining dressing room. “I wonder if it’s still here.”

  I rose, following him. “If what’s still where?”

  He pushed the dressing table away from the wall and knelt down behind it.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Can you hand me a pen or something? From the desk?”

  “Sure,” I said, walking back to the bedroom. But when I saw the pen—more like a quill, really—there on the desk, well . . . I wasn’t going to give him that one. Instead, I went over to my purse and dug around, finding an old ballpoint on the bottom that probably didn’t even work. “Here,” I said, hurrying back and handing it to him.

  I bent over him, watching in amazement as he pried loose a floorboard, then two more. When he’d exposed a hole in the floor about ten inches long by four inches wide, he reached inside and retrieved a rectangular wooden box.

  “It’s still here,” he said, rising. “I can’t bloody well believe it.”

  “Have you noticed that you slipped into full Viscount Brompton speech the moment we got here?” I asked. “I mean, I love your accent and all, but it’s kind of freaking me out.”

  He ignored me, carefully lifting the lid and peering inside.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s inside your little box?” I prodded.

  He looked up at me and smiled. “My secrets.”

  “Your secrets? Um, okay.”

  He took out a folded piece of paper, yellowed with age. “It’s poetry, mostly, and dreadful, at that—chock-full of adolescent rage. I must have been fourteen, fifteen or so.”

  “Oh my God! You wrote poetry? You’re going to let me read it, right?” I held out my hand. “C’mon, I’ll be really careful.”

  “I’ve never shown them to anyone before. Not in all these years—more than a century.”

  “Please?” I wheedled, dying of curiosity now. “Just one?”

  “You’ve been warned,” he said after a pause. “It’s painfully bad.”

  Gingerly, I took the fragile page from him. The first thing I noticed was that his handwriting was completely different—unrecognizable, really. Maybe it was his youth; maybe it was the old-fashioned pen he’d used, one that had to be dipped in ink. Whatever it was, it threw me for a loop. But not as much as the words I managed to decipher did.

  We move as one

  Together in union

  Your breath cools my soul

  Tenderness once forgotten

  Leads to my explosive rebirth

  Helpless, powerless

  I give my heart to you

  It lies crushed

  Beneath the weight of your hatred

  That was all I could make out, but it was enough for me to realize that it was about a girl.

  “Wow,” I said at last. “That’s really beautiful. Here, let me see another one.”

  One by one, he unfolded the slips of yellowed vellum. I couldn’t make out most of it, just a few lines here and there. Most were angry, I realized. Really angry.

  “Whoever she was, I’d say it didn’t go very well,” I muttered.

  He shook his head. “No, it didn’t. I was very young.”

  “I just can’t believe you wrote these,” I said, carefully folding the last slip and handing it back to him. “You seem like a totally different person than you are now.”

  “I was spoiled, careless. I got angry if I didn’t get exactly what I wanted.”

  “Meaning her,” I suggested, and he just nodded. I didn’t want to know who she was, hoped he wasn’t going to tell me. I’d been impressed by his poems, but I was jealous, too. “Have you ever . . . you know . . . written a poem about me?”

  “No. I haven’t written anything in a very long time. These poems . . . they were a way to work through my anger. Writing about my feelings was cathartic, a way to exorcise my demons. I have no need for poetry now.”

  “Huh,” I said, a little hurt. Which was silly, of course, but whatever. “Well, it’s too bad you don’t play guitar or piano. You’d make a good lyricist.”

  “Yeah, I could have pioneered the hard-core punk movement. You know, back in the 1890s. Given that Rachmaninoff a little competition.”

  “What else have you got in there?” I asked, peering inside.

  He pulled out the remaining treasures. A yellow velvet ribbon. A button. A small golden thimble. Something that looked vaguely like a wooden acorn.

  “Okay, a thimbl
e and an acorn?” I asked. “What, are you Peter Pan?”

  “It’s funny,” he said, shaking his head. “I know that each of these had some special meaning to me, but I can’t quite remember what, not anymore. It’s like . . . the memories are inaccessible. Just out of reach.”

  “I don’t even know what this is,” I said, holding up the acorn.

  He rolled it around in his palm. “Just a trinket of some sort.”

  “So, what are you going to do with it all? Keep it, or put it back?”

  “I think it should stay with the house, don’t you?” He reached down to stroke my hair. “I’ll put it back tomorrow. You look exhausted.”

  I nodded, leaning in to him. “I am pretty tired.”

  He set the wooden box on the dressing table and then led me back to the bedroom. I went over to my suitcase and pulled out my pajamas, my heart racing now. I had no idea why I was so nervous—we’d shared a bed in Paris without incident.

  But this bed . . . I eyed it once more, my heart racing now.

  When I glanced back at Aidan, he’d already stripped off his shirt. Which, of course, only made my heart beat faster.

  Crap. That stupid vision. Unlike my usual glimpses of the future, this particular one hadn’t shown anything terrible happening—nothing life-threatening, no maiming, no blood or broken bones. Still, I’d taken it as a warning, because they always were. But maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe there really was nothing more to it than what I’d seen.

  And what, exactly, had I seen? The two of us in bed together. Been there, done that. We were making out, but what else was new? And yes, sometimes when we did, his eyes turned red and his canines came out. But if he were going to actually bite me—pierce the skin and suck my blood—then wouldn’t my vision have shown that, too?

  I had to make a decision now, based on instinct alone. And my instinct was telling me that I was safe in this particular bed with Aidan.

  That was good enough for me.

  33 ~ Gone

  The house seems so quiet,” I said, staring up at the ceiling above the bed. We’d left the curtains open, and the full moon cast a silvery light across our bodies. We lay there together, my head on Aidan’s shoulder, one arm thrown across his bare chest. “Do you think they’ve all gone to bed?”

  “Probably so. It’s been a long day. I can’t believe you’re still awake.”

  “Well, so are you,” I argued.

  “Yes, but I don’t have to sleep. You do. What’s going on, Vi? You’re so tightly strung right now, I could play you like a violin.”

  I let out a sigh. “Just thinking, I guess.”

  “Are you going to let me in on it?”

  “Mostly about school in the fall. It’s going to be so weird without everyone else.” I was also thinking about those poems of his, but I wasn’t going to mention that.

  “It’s a new chapter in your life,” Aidan said philosophically. “One ends, another begins. You’ll have many more.”

  “I guess. Anyway, you seem pretty quiet yourself.”

  “I suppose I am rather contemplative tonight” was all he said before falling silent.

  And then my curiosity got the best of me. “You’re not thinking about . . . well, whoever those poems are about, are you?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Well, not precisely.”

  I sat up sharply, gazing down at him with a scowl. “Well, which is it? You either are, or you aren’t.”

  “I am, but not in the way that you think.”

  “Uh-huh. Go on.”

  “It’s just . . . the relationships I had during my mortal life, they were so painful. I remember feeling raw, exposed, consumed. Angry, as you saw with those poems. But with you . . . I don’t know, I feel almost peaceful. Most of the time, at least,” he added, and I knew he was remembering that stupid misunderstanding with Tyler. “But even when I’m angry at you, I never really doubt us.”

  “So, what’s your point?” I asked, my hackles rising. Because it kind of seemed like he was saying that he didn’t feel as passionately about me as he did them. They consumed him; they inspired poems—I didn’t.

  He sat up, facing me. “See? This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. I knew you’d interpret it that way.”

  “Well, how else am I supposed to interpret it?”

  “What I was trying to say was that those relationships, they were toxic. Unhealthy. But with you . . .” He sighed, shaking his head. “What if it’s got something to do with the vampirism? You know, changing my personality. What if I cure myself—become mortal again—and suddenly I’m that asshole again?”

  “That’s what you’re worried about? Seriously? You don’t even have the cure yet.”

  He shrugged. “Being here, in this house . . . it’s making me remember my mortal life, that’s all. I’m not sure I want to risk being that guy again.”

  “How ’bout we cross that bridge when we get to it, okay? I mean, look what happened the last time you tried the cure.” I shook my head, trying to forget. “We’ve got four years of college ahead of us, and—”

  “Let’s not talk about this anymore, okay? You should get some sleep.” He stood, reaching for his T-shirt. “I think I’m going to go for a walk or something. Maybe I’ll feed. It’s been too long; I’m probably pushing it.”

  “Wait. Don’t go. Not like this.” I scooted to the edge of the bed and reached for him. “C’mon, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know you didn’t. I just need to clear my head.”

  I hated the tone of his voice—cool, detached. I had no idea what was going through his mind, but I had to take care of this now, before it was too late.

  “Aidan? Please, just look at me.” Kneeling on the edge of the bed now, I grabbed the waistband of his jeans and pulled him back to me. His eyes were bright in the moonlight—and damp, I realized. My mind scrambled frantically to process that information, to figure out what was wrong, what I’d said to upset him so. I came up totally blank.

  “Don’t go,” I said. “You can feed later, okay? Once I fall asleep. Just . . . stay with me for now.” I tilted my face up toward his, guiding his lips toward mine with one hand.

  I kissed him—softly at first and then more urgently.

  He tore his lips from mine. “Don’t you see, Violet?” he asked, sounding frantic—desperate, even. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t decide—”

  “You don’t have to decide anything now,” I interrupted, trying to placate him. “We’re here for a week, a break from reality. Please don’t ruin it,” I added, my voice quavering now.

  He drew back as if I’d slapped him.

  And all I could think of was how much I loved him. I felt—what was the word he’d used?—consumed by it. In an instant, I let down the wall around my thoughts.

  Read my mind, I urged telepathically.

  For a split second, he looked confused. And then something shifted in his features—comprehension lit his eyes as all my feelings for him poured out of my mind like a sheer, overwhelming tidal wave.

  “God, Violet,” he said with a strangled cry, and then gathered me tightly in his arms.

  Somehow, we were back on the bed, our bodies tangled together. His lips were everywhere—my mouth, my chin, my throat. I struggled to pull his shirt over his head; he did the same with my tank top. Once they’d both been tossed carelessly to the floor, his lips found mine, nothing but bare skin between our pounding hearts now.

  It all happened so quickly—just a matter of seconds, really. There was no time to think, to plan, to do anything but gasp in recognition when he drew away and gazed down at me in an eerily familiar pose—incisors elongated, his eyes rimmed in red and filled with desire, with bloodlust.

  I must have cried out when his head dipped down toward my neck. I felt his teeth scrape against my skin as I tried desperately to roll out from beneath him.

  There was a sudden rush of air as he slammed himself against the door, a look of pure horror on his f
ace as I scrambled back against the headboard, cowering with the covers gathered over my half-naked body.

  “Tell me now—did I hurt you?” he asked, his voice strangely calm.

  I reached a hand up to my neck. It was fine—not even a scratch. “No,” I said. “It’s okay. Why don’t you . . . you know, go take your walk or something.”

  He just stood there silently, the muscles in his jaw working feverishly as he struggled for control.

  “I’m fine. Go on,” I urged. “We can talk in the morning. You’ll be okay after you feed.”

  “No. That was too close.” He shook his head. “I can’t do this anymore, Violet. I tried . . . I really did.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked, my voice trembling.

  His gaze met mine, and all the air left my lungs with a whoosh. Pain, guilt, revulsion, self-loathing—they all battled for dominance there in his features.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  And then, just like that, he was gone.

  * * *

  Two full days passed before Aidan’s return. My friends tried their best to entertain me, but I mostly kept to myself, not wanting to ruin their vacation. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back,” I told them with forced cheerfulness, but I wasn’t sure I believed it myself.

  I’d moved my things to the master suite, a shock of familiarity startling me the moment I’d stepped inside the room that had been his mother’s.

  I recognized the plush carpeting beneath my feet—robin’s-egg blue with a dark brown pattern of scripty curlicues and little birds. I recognized the view outside the window too—it was green, as far as the eye could see. Rolling hills, a willow tree.

  I knew this room. I’d seen it before, in a vision.

  I tried to convince myself that if I stayed right there, he’d have to come back. After all, I’d seen it. Us, together. There. Apparently, we had unfinished business.

  More than anything, I wished that Matthew had been there to help me through it all. But he wasn’t, and whenever I tried to call his cell, I got his voice mail—each and every time.

  Apparently they’d both abandoned me.