As he moved up the aisle, she didn’t move, she didn’t flinch. Yet he had no doubt she knew he was there. Crispin slid into the pew behind and slightly to the right of her. Still she gave no indication that he was there.
He slipped from the pew onto his knees, making use of the kneeler just as she did as she offered her prayers to the god displayed on a beautifully hand-carved crucifix above the altar. He knelt there, taking in the simple grandeur of the small church. He allowed his eyes to wander to the stained glass windows fitted in the arched openings of the small stone church, the multiple wooden images of the saints on their pedestals — obviously hand carved as well, the small alcove where eternal candles were lit and offered with special prayers for loved ones, protections and blessings. There was a time this kind of thing had a place in his life. But not now. Now he knew it to be more of a frustration than a solace.
He returned his attention to the slayer still resting on the kneeler in the pew in front of his. She remained completely still, silent, giving no indication of his presence, but he had no doubt she knew the moment he’d entered the church. Pursing his lips, not understanding why he felt the need to interact with this woman, he spoke. He knew he had no choice. If he didn’t speak first, she wouldn’t, so he started simply, unassumingly.
“I buried the girl’s family. Near the back of their property, beneath an old stone pine tree.”
The only indication she gave that she’d heard was to slightly nod her head a few times.
He sat quietly for a few moments longer, then tried again. “I’ve left letters with money to commission markers for their graves. The appropriate people will find them when the village wakes.”
Again, Solange nodded. But this time she answered in a quiet voice. “Thank you, Crispy.”
Crispin smiled to himself and shook his head. He knew she was well aware that his name was not Crispy. Rather than argue, he just let her nickname for him stand for the moment.
“Did the girl survive?” he asked.
Solange shrugged. “I’m not sure. I took her to a convent. They’ll heal her, and keep her safe. If she can be healed,” Solange answered. Then she slightly turned her head in his direction, but not direct enough to look at him. “Did you find a small dog?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t see one,” he answered.
When she said no more, but slid back into the pew from her knees, he realized she meant to be there a while rather than run from him, so he did the same. He sat back comfortably onto the pew.
He rolled his arm, moving his shoulder gingerly about. “My arm hurts,” he said with an accusatory tone.
Solange chuffed a quiet laugh. “It’s just a flesh wound,” she countered.
“It still hurts,” he complained quietly.
“I’m sorry,” she answered.
“For stabbing me?” Crispin asked.
“No. But for it hurting,” she answered.
His brows pulled down over his eyes. “If you’re stabbed, how would it not hurt?” he asked.
Solange shrugged, then lifted a hand, waggling her fingers in his direction over her shoulder, without turning around to look at him.
Crispin’s arm tingled where the slight wound was. He raised his other hand to press to it. But it didn’t smart as he touched it. He prodded it a bit with his fingertips, then surprised, lifted the collar of his shirt to inspect it more closely. His mouth fell open and he raised his eyes to the back of her head. “You healed it!” he exclaimed.
“I caused it. The least I could do is repair it,” she answered.
“Thank you,” Crispin said sincerely.
“You’re welcome,” Solange answered.
He looked down at his beloved running shoes. Now dirty and stained. “Anything you can do about defaced favored running shoes?” he asked.
“What?” Solange said, turning to look at Crispin, thoroughly caught off guard by his question.
“I loved these shoes. Now they are ruined,” he said sadly, holding one foot up slightly off the floor.
Solange peeked over the top of the pew and down at his shoes. “Toss them in the washing machine. It might work.”
“Where would I find one of those?” he asked.
Solange looked up from his shoe to glance around the church. “Certainly not in this village,” she answered, turning back around to face the altar again.
“You know, you have me at a disadvantage,” he said gently.
“I have you at several disadvantages,” she replied cockily.
Crispin shook his head as he smiled to himself, then deciding to avoid her taunt, continued with his intended conversation. “What I was implying is that you know my name. I do not know yours.”
Solange nodded. “That is true,” she agreed.
After a few minutes of silence, he gave in and asked. “Are you going to share it?” he asked incredulously.
“Share what? I have nothing to share,” she answered, her smile sly as she continued to face forward.
“Your name, slayer. What is your name?” he asked point blank.
Chapter 11
Though Solange was enjoying the tit-for-tat banter with the vampire, she didn’t plan to give him her name. It was the first thing you learned as a slayer — never identify yourself. Never give anyone a way to trace you. She turned and looked Crispin in the eye. She took the time to really observe him. To memorize his features — the kindness of his eyes, his lush yet strong lips, his high cheekbones, his straight Romanesque nose that featured a slight bump indicating it had once been broken, and his dark blonde hair and brows. Her eyes strayed to his strong, corded neck, his wide shoulders and the rounded pectoral muscles of his chest she could just make out beneath his shirt. His hands rested in his lap and she allowed her eyes to wander to them, admiring his strong, masculine fingers and hands as they rested on thick, strong thighs. Her eyes raised to his.
“You’ve not been a vampire long, have you, Crispy?” she asked.
“Long enough,” he answered.
Solange watched his face as he answered. She liked talking to him, and she was glad he knew what she was — it removed a lot of the pretense she lived her life under. Solange turned her body in the pew, pulling her knees up to comfortably face him and speak to him. “How long?” she asked.
Crispin watched her feeling him out. Watched her size him up, taking all of him into consideration. He was all too aware that she’d not given him her name when he’d asked for it, and decided perhaps she would if he answered her questions.
“Centuries. I’ve been a vampire for centuries. I’ve lost all I loved, and watched the world change around me. I am connected to nothing now. I am no more than a hunter now, like yourself.” His eyes glanced down at her wrist with the tattoo clearly visible, where it lay across the back of the pew she sat in. “Without the fancy markings and titles, though,” he added with a sincere smile.
Solange smiled, self-consciously tugging her sleeve down over her tattoo. “How have you not lost your humanity?” she asked.
Crispin laughed a bit. “I wonder that myself. Or at least I did — until now.” He looked her directly in the eyes, relieved when she didn’t flinch from his red-pupiled gaze.
Solange looked back at him unabashedly, trying to decipher his words. “I’m not what you think I am,” she finally confided.
“Oh, I know. What do you label yourself? Mage? Witch? Or just very talented slayer?” he asked.
Normally, Solange might have taken offense to those words, and coming from anyone else she would have, but from Crispin, it was merely a question. She brushed off his words and countered with her own question. “Why do you want Alastair dead? How do you know him?”
Crispin shrugged. “He is one of the oldest of my kind. It is no secret the slaughter he is leaving in his wake. He’s got to be stopped — at all costs, no matter the sacrifice,” Crispin said, leaning forward, so near to her their noses were almost touching. He watched her closely, breathed the same air she brea
thed, felt the warmth from her flesh so close to his, and scented her blood where it was almost dried, sitting at the corner of her lips, leftover from her fight with Alastair. “Your heart pounds, yet you do not fear me, beautiful slayer,” he said softly.
Solange just barely shook her head, trying to hide her blush from his compliment. “No, I do not fear you.”
Crispin, unable to deny the pull he felt toward her, moved his face closer to hers, his lips just an inch from Solange’s lips. He was intrigued. She was so strong, so capable, and a fearless warrior, yet she blushed and shied away when he pointed out her beauty. “I hear your heart,” he said softly.
“And I yours,” she answered, just slightly adjusting her head so that her nose nudged his.
Crispin painstakingly slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, closed the small distance between them, pressing his lips to hers. At first she didn’t respond, but neither did she pull away. He opened his mouth just a little bit and allowed the tip of his tongue to smooth along her bottom lip and dip to the corner, swiping away the drop of blood that lay hidden there.
Solange’s breath caught, and before she knew what she was doing, she’d puckered her lips and pressed them back against Crispin’s. When she felt his tongue tasting her bottom lip, asking entrance to her mouth, she opened for him. He wasted no time, he sat forward on the edge of the pew, slowly raising his hands to cup her face as he kissed her slowly. Taking all he could, and smoothing his tongue over the small wound on the inside of her cheek that her teeth had made when Alastair struck her.
Solange was unaware of him taking tiny drops of her blood, she was simply sharing their kiss. She raised her hands to his wrists, holding him as he held her face, kissing her gently, seductively. This was her first kiss, she wanted to make sure to remember all of it. There was no rush, no desire to hurry through this kiss and miss a single moment of it.
Crispin kissed her endlessly. The bit of blood he’d taken from her wound was not sustenance to him, it was savior. Though she didn’t know it yet, she was without a doubt his savior. He lost himself in her, tasting all of her, placing innocent little pecks across her lips, then teasingly playing with her tongue, and running his own tongue over her lips and teeth as he explored her mouth. Surprised at what he felt, he pulled back just enough to look at her, and with that movement, the moment was broken.
Solange dropped her hands from his wrists, and when he didn’t release the hold he had on her face, she gently pulled from his grasp.
“I thought…” he started.
Solange knew what he thought. She smiled at him, intentionally letting her incisors show so he’d see for himself, they were as normal as they could be. “I’m sorry, I forgot myself for a moment,” she said by way of explanation for their kiss.
“I’m not. I’m not sorry at all, and I didn’t forget anything,” Crispin answered, getting to his feet as she herself stood.
“I should have known better. I do know better. I apologize for my lapse of reason, my lack of self-control,” Solange said, attempting to step past him.
“I will not allow you to apologize for something we both enjoyed, and I desperately need again,” he said softly, taking her face in his hands again. He looked down into her eyes and smiled at her. “I don’t even know what you are, or what your name is. I can’t call you slayer forever…”
Solange dragged her eyes from his gaze and shook her head sadly as she gently tried to remove his hands from her head and face where he held her steady as he looked down at her. “I’m nothing you need. I’m only meant for one path. Fighting and elimination of those that require it. And it’s your kind I’m meant to eliminate.”
“No, not my kind. Those of my kind that are rabid and beyond redemption, yes, they need elimation. They should be eliminated. But not all are evil. Some of us just want to be left in peace.”
Solange shook her head insistently, trying to make him understand. “No…”
“Yes! Just because we are different from humans, doesn’t make us all bad. Just being different doesn’t make us evil,” he insisted.
Solange snapped her gaze up to meet his. He’d just repeated her personal mantra almost verbatim.
“Won’t you tell me your name so that I don’t have to call you slayer,” he begged once more.
“I’m not supposed to,” she answered truthfully, being lulled by the feel of his hands cupping her face, his body close to hers.
“I know that,” he answered. “Will you at least tell me how I can find you again, little slayer, or is it mage?” He asked, kissing the tip of her nose and angling his head to press his lips against hers again, unable to help himself now that he’d begun to feel something other than loneliness.
Solange began to shake her head, and she pulled back out of his reach. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “I’m not a mage,” she said softly.
“Then you must be a witch. Doesn't matter to me what you are. I want to know you,” he insisted.
“I’m not good for anyone, Crispy. I’m cursed. I’m more cursed than you’ll ever know,” she said, slowly walking backward away from him as she held his gaze.
He took a step forward, knowing she was preparing to leave him. “Don’t go…” he hesitated, not knowing what to even call her by. “It’s been so long since I felt alive. Please… I don’t even know your name!” he shouted, his voice echoing around him as she disappeared from view leaving him alone in the church.
Solange didn’t want to leave Crispin in the church, or at all for that matter, but she had no choice. She had to follow the protocol she knew was best. And him becoming attached to her, meant nothing but heartache for them both later on. Knowing how he hunted Alastair just as she did, he’d never be able to look past how she came to be — she couldn’t look past it herself. But she took pity on him as she heard him in the church calling out to her, asking for her name over and over again.
“Solange,” she whispered into the air as her magics swirled taking her away from him.
Crispin stood in the middle of the church, watching the spot she’d just stood in, feeling more alone than he had since he’d awakened to find himself this new creature he was now. Then he heard her voice, her whisper, filling the space all around him, echoing off the stone walls — “Solange”.
Despite his loneliness, he smiled. She’d trusted him with her name. This wasn’t over. This was far from over. “I’ll protect you, Solange,” he called to the quietness. And he meant it. He knew she was hunting Alastair, so to find her, he only had to find Alastair. He licked his lips, the taste of her kiss still there, and the hint of her blood he’d taken into himself. It was enough that if he was close, he’d be able to locate her. But he had to be close first. He walked out of the church, running his tongue over his own front teeth. He felt the points of his fangs, and smiled to himself. His little slayer, Solange, she had more to explain to him the next time he saw her — he’d felt her fangs when he ran his tongue over them. They were small, but they were there. Granted, when she smiled at him, he couldn’t see them, but he felt them. And just what kind of witch was she that she came with fangs?
~~~
Solange materialized in the back of the home she’d fought Alastair in earlier that evening. She was concerned about the dog that had belonged to the family. He was a cute little light-brown Cairn Terrier mix. He was a happy little guy that had trotted out to greet her as she hiked around the area. He hadn’t been there to meet her earlier, and she’d not seen him, nor heard him. And Crispin hadn’t seen him either.
She let herself into the house and searched each room, calling for him. “Here little man,” she called quietly. “Come out, little guy, I won’t hurt you,” she promised. But he was nowhere to be found. She made her way back outside to the yard, calling for him and making little clicking noises with her tongue. She loved animals, always had, but her grandmama had said they were too distracting and her attentions were better focused elsewhere, so she’d never had one of her
own. Even now, she knew she really didn’t have the time to devote to a pet, but she knew she couldn’t just leave him out here to fend for himself with all of his people gone. She went back into the outbuilding they’d been in earlier and clicked her tongue a few times. Then she heard it.
A slight whimper, muffled, but definitely there. Solange clicked her tongue again, and called out. “Here boy, come here, I won’t hurt you,” she promised. She walked slowly back and forth, her eyes darting here and there as she scanned the building for any sign of him. She heard another slight whimper and followed it to a closed door. She opened the door and called for him again. She was answered with scratching sounds and whimpers. Solange followed them to a wooden chest beside a work table set up near some large wooden barrels. She pulled on the latch and it fell open, allowing her to lift the lid.
As soon as the lid of the chest opened, a little, scruffy, brown head popped out, with huge sad eyes looking at her. “There you are!” Solange said.
The dog whined at her, and kept his tail tucked.
“Do you remember me? You came to visit me twice when I walked nearby. Remember?” she asked.
He whined again, but made no move to get out of the wooden chest.
“How did you get in there?” she asked. “Did your little girl hide you away?” Solange asked him, reaching out to pet him.
The dog let Solange pet him and in fact, leaned into her touch.
When she pulled her hand back, he whined, jumping up to put his front paws on the edge of the chest he’d been in. “I bet that’s what happened. She wanted you safe and thought she’d come back for you later. It’s okay, though. I’m here to let you out.”
Blessed Curse Page 10
