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He’d long ago dispensed with any formal notion of God. Spending centuries on the earthly plane seemed to sand away those human conceits. But, he was open to the mystery.
Some force beyond his ken had created him, flowed through witches, and inspired daemons. The likelihood that it was a young human male who’d lived a brief if impactful life two millennia ago was small. That didn’t mean Matthew could completely let go of the old ways.
"Ave maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."
He whispered the prayer so quietly, no human ear could have deciphered it. But the movement of breathe over his lips, the rhythmic hum of Latin - long dead like him - soothed him in a way few practices could.
His fingers slipped from smooth silver bead onto chain, “Gloria patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.”
Matthew’s practice had evolved over the years. As his devotion to the child god had faded, his mind had searched for something to stand in for the purported mysteries he was to contemplate between his prayers. As his long life had unfolded, the countless days bleeding into months into decades into centuries, he’d gradually become his own mystery. The deadlock of his existence - his eternal battle between the call of righteousness and the descent into chaos.
The desire to be good and the fear he would never be.
And there it was. His first mystery of the day.
~~~~~The Scent~~~~~
It still lingered in his nostrils, tickling his memory with its heady, stirring aroma. It had been centuries since he’s smelled someone so appetizing.
He had started the day with another of his rituals. When you had nothing but time, it became important to mark it, to find ways to ground yourself in the moment at hand. He liked to walk the river when at college. And there was never a better time then at dawn.
Part of the appeal came from the lack of students. The older he got, the more he tried to avoid the young and careless. But it wasn’t just that. Dawn held a magic all its own, a promise of things to come, pure potential. At dawn, he was free to be any creature he chose, he was gifted a blank slate.
That was, until today.
The fresh air had greeted him as it always did on mornings like this. The smog and dust of the day before having settled back into the earth, the smell of green things and water having risen in its place. Of course there were many variations on such smells. Already decaying leaves battled with new buds on creeping ivy, the sharp smell of evergreens pierced the sweet scent of fall-blooming crocuses. The dew that blanketed everything had a softness that the rushing river, full of petrol, people, and animals did not. But, Matthew could appreciate it all as he took more breaths than he usually did, enjoying particularly the lack of people interwoven into he olfactory experience.
At fifteen hundred years old, he had learned to manage his craving. He imagined a wine connoisseur might feel the same. The more he’d tasted, and now only smelled, the less he could enjoy those wines on the bottom shelf, then eventually the middle shelf, until even the finest wines did little for him as his tastes became more and more particular. That bottle, from that vineyard, picked at that time of year, cared for by hands that were the most precise.
So, most people merely reminded him of the possibility of what could be, rather than really, truly tempted him. And his various pursuits, of knowledge, of family, of ultimate peace were enough to keep him from following that particular possibility.
The sound of breath caught his attention as he crossed the river. Far away yet, but insistent.
Out…in…out…in…
Some other being - be it human or creature - was greeting the morning as he was. Most likely in a scull or on a bicycle. He tuned his ears further and found his answer. The rhythmic swoosh of oars slicing into water, the ever so slight creak of the carbon-fibre shell.
In…out…in…out…
It was a woman, he was sure. The slight soprano to her sigh recalling other occasions he’d heard such exhalations. It had been a long time since that sound had been in his ear.
He felt the slightest pique of curiosity, and it arrested his footsteps on the bridge. Judging from the cacophony of sounds, she wouldn’t be far off now. What harm would it do to—
The wave hit him with the strength of a tsunami. A cloud of scent, blooming like a mushroom cloud around him. None of his normal descriptors would do, it was just…top shelf.
Matthew had full control over his being. He’d mastered that centuries ago. He’d honed himself into a weapon, into a wordsmith into whatever he needed to be to move through this chaotic plane in whatever way he saw fit. But, in this moment he might as well have been newly sired.
The hunger ripped through him at lightning speed, his mouth watered, his muscles tensed. As the breathing got closer, he imperceptibly leaned forward. To any onlooker, he was simply taking in the dawn light, about to continue on his casual stroll. But, inside, every nerve was on fire, every neuron ablaze, every ounce of his attention zoomed in on the approaching being.
The scull sliced through the water, parting it like the Red Sea it would soon become.
Yes, a woman.
Her hair gleamed dully in the misty light, a tawny gold with hints of brown and black at the roots. Her arms strained as she rowed, small muscles tightening then releasing with each stroke. She wore blue, a silly jacket that would neither keep her warm nor protect her against the elements.
Nothing could protect her now.
His mind raced forward, nearly leaping into the future, forecasting the next few seconds of this woman’s woefully short existence.
He’d jump from the bridge, landing beside her. No use capsizing the boat. Before she could process what was happening, he would pull her under, wrap her in his arms and sink downwards with her. Like a lovely pair of dancers, he imagined they’d spin slowly around themselves.
And all the while he’d be taking her life force inside him. Drinking her down, barely able to savor her.
No one would think to look for her for hours, perhaps a day or two if she wasn’t a student.
And by that time the current would have carried her away. His sin, expiated by the tide.
It was a dark vision. But one not unfamiliar. It was the kind of fear that plagued him. That kept him coming back to church and rosary, to prayer and penance.
He was a monster. Deep down, under the veneer of society he carefully kept in place, nothing but.
Out...in...out...in...
She shimmered, once and twice. A pulse of light seeming to trace along her skin.
It was enough to hold him in place, just for a second. Enough to pique his curiosity.
And by that point she’d pushed forward, now far enough from the bridge he would have to swim. And with her retreat, her scent faded as well, swallowed up by dirty river and pearly dawn.
He came back to himself with a snap. As if out of some short form of hypnosis.
Who was she? Why was she? What would he do to make sure their paths never crossed?
~~~~~The Witch~~~~~
These questions did not remain unanswered. For better or worse.
The next mystery came fast and furious. A ripple of magic, a hum of destiny, a pulse so strong he couldn’t resist it. It came during another walk, this time to simply cross from one building to another. And before he could fully process it, he was diverting. Drawn across campus, toward the library, toward the siren song that almost reminded him of the blood song this morning.
Then, all of the sudden, it was gone. The air popped as the pressure changed, as the normal hum of city life commenced. He no longer felt the incessant pull but walked on still, the scientist within too curious to retreat.
He opened his senses, listening for any bit of useful information. It was magical. He knew it. He could practically taste its power. So, it had to be a creature. Most likely a witch.
When he heard the word he tuned in further, pacing his steps up and toward the sound. Two witches talking. One questioning the other. One sounding dazed, distracted.
He rounded the corner and froze in place.
A gleam of gold, a flash of blue.
Eyes this time. Bright, clear and troubled.
He had a moment before her scent hit him. All a vampire needed. A second could stretch into a small eternity as he took in the minute pieces of information every living being fed him.
She was tense, scared. Her hands shook and her shoulders were hunched in a defensive sort of stance. She seemed unsure of which way she should go, both literally and metaphorically.
Her voice was warm, slow, even in her panic. She sounded almost breathless, though her friend seemed unaware of the energy rippling off of her.
She was lovely. Her wild hair was barely tamed by the braid snaking down her back. The gold of it stretching onto her skin, making the blue in her eyes seem to leap toward him.
No, that was her body. She’d made her choice, and of course chose wrong.
He pivoted, just as the cloud of her descended. Golden, piercing, rich and warm - his racing mind finally started coming up with words for her as her smell swamped him again.
But one other note this time. Brimstone. Sharp, piquant, making his eyes water and his nose itch.
There was no question she was a witch, and he was fairly certain she had just cast a spell.
The scent of magic helped keep his feet in place, his focus on his phone, his body canted away from her. He’d never liked witches. Neither as bedmates nor snacks.
Oh, their power was alluring. The only force on earth more perplexing than his existence. But, their unpredictability, their selfishness, their myopic view of the world and their place within it angered him. There was a reason witches ended up on stakes.
He contemplated this as the scent dispersed and he let her wander off. The thought of her engulfed in flames. It was a cruel image and didn’t seem to fit. She seemed more lost than conniving, more fearful than powerful.
Diana.
The name he’d heard in the tumult attached itself to her image. Those wide eyes, her small frame, the slight tremble in her voice.
It sounded familiar. He scanned his memory banks for the name, sure he’d never seen the face. The knowledge came swift and clear as it always did.
Dr. Diana Bishop, visiting scholar, on a dry, typed bulletin he’d scanned when he’d arrived back at college. Yale. Alchemy. Author of some book or other.
It was enough to get him moving, striding toward the library. First, he’d look up that book, the one they’d mentioned. Ashmole 782. Then he’d look up her.
~~~~~The woman~~~~~
Of course, he’d found nothing. Ashmole 782 was missing, the young man stated, his lack of concern or apology galling. So, he’d turned on his heel and gone back to his lab. The Oxford database was easily accessible on his computer - all the published papers and books of the faculty, provided for practically no one to ever read.
He pulled up first a paper, skimming through her words, half interested by the subject matter, but more interested in the style with which she wrote. There seemed to be a wry sense of humor hidden among her historical accounts, and a sensitivity to time and place that was a tad unnerving as he found himself suddenly revisiting eras he’d felt were long gone.
When he finished the paper, he quickly toggled to her book, racing through this one as well. It wasn’t quite as textured - he imagined she’d been a bit more conservative in her bid to be published - but he still found the subject matter interesting and her view on it astute.
It was only as he neared the end that he stopped to question himself. The lab was windowless, but he could smell the approach of evening. He’d spent the whole afternoon reading academic papers about subject matters he didn’t much care about nor study. And he knew nothing helpful about her at all.
He flipped the computer off, grunting as he rifled through the bit of information he’d gleaned. A sense of humor. A grasp of the past. A sharp mind. A mostly hidden need to please.
Nothing about her power, about what she might want with the Book of Life.
Because it had to be that, he was sure. It was the one book he’d never been able to read, the last possibility in a search that had seemed to go on for half his life.
He would get no more information from words on a screen, or words overheard. He would have to find her.
His appetite unfurled at the thought. The inner imprint of her scent still so clear to him.
It would have to be in a public place, a place where there would be consequences. And that certainly would not be tonight. His temples pulsed as conjurings of her rooms appeared to him. Some set of nondescript doors, the shadows of midnight making walls seem long and footsteps short. Her golden hair, spread across her pillow, drenching it with that scent...
When the call came from Marcus, he almost thanked the Lord he didn’t believe in. The distraction, the righteous anger, the extreme irritation burned away the wanting.
The library it was.
He didn’t dislike libraries. He respected their use in society. But there was something depressing about the careful hoarding of knowledge, the slow decay of the people and places that had once been so real to him. It was like a cemetery, quiet, subdued and macabre.
It was quiet today, too quiet for his liking. The amount of witnesses he’d been counting on was paltry at best. The mousy librarian, the insouciant desk clerk, one slouching reader at the far end. So easily disposed of. Especially the desk clerk.
He could smell her the moment he crossed the threshold. She must have been here for at least a couple of hours because her scent seemed to fill every corner of the room. It was only slightly blunted by the smell of dust and mold.
His eyes were drawn to her quickly, a sunbeam caught in the gloom. She was reaching toward a book, reminding him of a determined child trying to breach a cookie jar.
“Dammit,” she cursed. And the book flew from the shelf and over the side of balcony.
He was almost startled as he caught it, the scent of brimstone wafting up to him.
Then for the first time, she looked at him. Or rather, caught him with her stare. Suspended like that sunbeam. There was something about that look, something within those eyes. It was as if she could see into him. As if all of his carefully crafted veneer was nothing but smoke and she a gust of wind.
Then she seemed to come to herself, shaking her head a little, before descending.
He felt the slightest bit of nerves, a little thrum of unease. He felt hunted. And he, a hunter.
“Yours, I presume?”
Always better to take the first shot.
She was nervous, he could tell by the race of her heart hammering away in his ears. Her heart. Which pumped that glorious blood. His mouth filled with saliva, his senses sharpening to spears. He hadn’t been close enough to hear her heart beat before. If it was possible, the sound itself was more alluring, more appealing than the most beautiful symphony.
She was no huntress, but a siren. Luring him into the rocks.
But, he showed nothing. HIs face a careful mask as he tried to battle down this urges.
On the outside she shielded her nerves, face carefully blank, voice piqued if anything.
She knew he was a vampire. Good. She’d be on guard.
And he let her know in no uncertain terms that he knew she was a witch.
The more the spoke, the less intense the urges felt. It wasn’t that they diminished. That was impossible, he imagined when she smelled and sounded like that. But, he was getting so much new information, just speaking with her, looking at her directly, that the ocean within him seemed to expand accommodating more and more possibilities.
She was brave. Showing no fear and ceding no ground. She was polite, perhaps even open minded - conversing with him in an almost casual manner when the initial shock faded. She was. He paused at the word. Cute. The way she bristled like an angry kitten at his very slight challenge that she wasn’t in control of herself.
This distracted him. The way her eyes flashed and her cheeks filled with blood. And not just because of the blood. It was. Fun. Teasing her. He had the fleeting thought that perhaps he should do it again.
Then it was over before he could even finish the thought. She’d dismissed him. He lingered for half a second, caught between a few different feelings. Annoyance at her casual dismissal, frustration in his search, and disappointment? Then another urge. An urge to continue. To engage her again.
At that thought, he left, allowing his preternatural speed even as the desk clerk looked up in confusion.
Let him think he was crazy.
~~~~~The Desire~~~~~
It was this combination of urges that perplexed him. The old urges he understood. The finest blood brought for the most acute hunger. The fear of prey - encapsulated in that thump, thump, thump of her heart - brought forth his inner predator. Even the violence, the dark imaginings, were something familiar from his darkest nights of the soul.
But, the other urges. The light little twist of amusement at her pique. The draw of those eyes. The desire to ask her questions, even when it was clear she would give no answers.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew those urges. Just had never associated them with a witch.
Witches had always been other to him. As different in his mind as a cat, to a dog. Or perhaps, in this case, a lion to a wolf.
Desire had never been a feeling he associated with them, simply because they weren’t matched. They had a natural aversion to each other, a jealousy and a twisted sense of pride.
A witch would never deign to touch a vampire. And a vampire would sooner die then consort with a witch.
Of course, there were exceptions. Gerbert the first in his mind. But, his obsession with witches was as twisted and disturbing as one might imagine such a connection to be.
So, why could he not stop seeing those eyes?
Staring at him. Blue as the sea, as the sky, as clear as the light through stained glass. He would start with her eyes, recalling that feeling. That strange, startling feeling of being seen.
She couldn’t possibly see him, and what a foolish notion after so many lifetimes of living in the shadows.
But then he’d recall her face, its slight heart shape, limned in gold. He’d never seen skin that color. Many human women tried with the lotions and lasers, but none could catch that luminescent quality. The way she seemed to glow. Perhaps it was the magic.
And even that, the smell of brimstone, the crackle of static, the unerring sense of his own impossible vulnerability. Things that usually set him on edge. And they made him feel...
Curious. Stimulated. Hungry.
It was as if the hunger had spread from his throat to his other organs. His brain craved to know more, to pick her apart, to understand her. His gut tingled and tightened at the thought of that hair, of that easy grace, of her long tapered fingers. And some other part of him, some long dead part...stirred. For a moment, he lifted his hand to his chest to search for a beat.
There was, of course, none.
But the feeling stayed throughout the night.
The desire to see her again. To face whatever mystery would unfold in her presence.
He’d planned to find her in the library again, the most obvious place she would be. But as he made his way across campus, he’d caught a whiff. It was unmistakable now, having smelled her three times, his infallible vampire brain, honed so sharp after fifteen centuries of hunting could recognize her scent anywhere.
It made being good so bloody hard.
He couldn’t resist following it, savoring small sniffs as he went, aware he was playing with fire.
He was unsure if the fire was her ire or her life.
When he entered the arcade, he knew she was close. Again her scent filled the place, and nearly drowned out the unappetizing melange of breakfast smells coming out of Brown’s.
He caught a glimpse of her through the window and the world seemed to slow. If he didn’t know better, he would say someone had cast a spell.
She was bent in concentration, one hand on the trackpad of her laptop, one holding a piece of toast. Her eyebrows squinched together and she took a small, insistent bite. Almost nipping.
The feelings were back, if they’d ever left. But he was so aware of them now. It was undeniable, the need to walk into that room. The pull to speak with her, to turn her attention towards him.
Because he needed that book. He was here for the book.
That thought carried him into the diner and away from his hesitation. Of course he was drawn to her, she held the key to the mystery that had consumed him for the most recent chapter of his life.
He ignored the small thrill when he glimpsed her search subject. It was replaced by annoyance anyway when she dropped all pretense of politeness and confronted him hotly. So, it was ire.
They went back and forth. It felt more natural being at odds, him attempting to disarm her with cool logic and dire warnings. But then why was he trying to disarm her? The answer to that seemed to change as he leaned closer.
God, she smelled good. Her heartbeat sped up again, more of a canter than a trot.
It only made the smell intensify, and it made him forget what he was here for. Now that he was so close he could feel it coming off her, the magic. All warm bloods had an aura, of energy of warmth of pure vitality, but hers was so much more complex. It almost energized him just to be in it. Like he could sip some of her without even breaking the skin.
The rage of his desire was so intense he had to consciously restrain himself when she pulled away. Every instinct told him to make chase, to follow, to make her run.
It was only a full three minutes after she’d left that he’d calmed down enough to recall her face.
The way it had softened for just a moment when he’d told her he was trying to warn her.
It was like the sun, shining through the clouds she’d blown away. And it stayed with him for another long day.
~~~~~The Craving~~~~~
He tried to distract himself that night. His willpower was not proving strong enough to keep himself put. He went to a pub. He considered calling Marcus, even Miriam, but his mind was too preoccupied to deal with chatter. If only he could call up Hamish.
But, he was in London, and though he might come, the act of calling would signify something.
And it was this something, Matthew was desperately trying to avoid.
A pub invited all sorts of distractions. Other scents. Other women. At the very least, noise.
He chose randomly. A pub he sometimes stopped at with a colleague, but not one he frequented. It was crowded tonight. It seemed the students were trickling back - the air was thick the sense of new energy and almost cloying with optimism.
A few coeds caught his eye, and a fellow professor who he’d considered a tryst with before.
Sex as a vampire was much the same as the human variety but with marked differences. He was not as controlled by his desire as humans were. He could pick and choose what temptations he’d indulge in. The only time a vampire totally lost control was when mating.
He froze where he stood. A long forgotten feeling of dread shimmying up his spine.
No. That wasn’t possible. Not for him. He’d had Blanca and that was all there was for him.
And she was a—
“Witches...”
He heard her speak and every hair on his neck stood on end.
She was here. The smell was unmistakable. Even amidst a hundred other scents. How had it taken him this long to pick it up?
He stopped thinking and followed his instinct, immediately slipping into a dark corner and canting his body exactly the right way to remain anonymous but be able to see all.
She was with the desk clerk, his aggravating smirk softened into an adoring smile.
And suddenly there was no mistaking or ignoring the feeling in his chest.
It was ravenous and hungry for blood. The clerk’s blood, not hers. And only to splash it against the floor, to watch it drain from his body, as he told him exactly why he was doing it.
Mine.
The thought rang through his head, as clearly as if he’d spoke it aloud.
It took everything he had not to intervene. He turned his focus to the faces of the children around him. Everyone of them a witness, an innocent. But still his muscles tensed.
Mine.
He looked at her face now. The one that seemed emblazoned behind his eyelids. Her smile was gracious but it held no deep interest, no intensity, no fire. Not like with him.
This helped him a little. He eased himself away from the wall and looked toward the door.
He should go.
But then she laughed. The sound pierced through the crowd and seemed to echo within him.
He wasn’t leaving. But then he wouldn’t do something while he was here to kill that laugh. He wanted to, needed to, hear it again.
“No really, you have a fan club,” the boy was saying, “They’ve all been trying to get out that book you just had. The Ashmole manuscipt.”
Diana’s face fell at this.
“Have you given it to anyone?” She questioned.
“No,” he replied, “some asshole don came looking for it right after you and it was missing.”
Matthew bristled at this, but was too focused on her reply to react much more.
“You know, Chris,” she said, “It was really old. Maybe the trust took it for preservation.”
Matthew frowned at this. She had said nothing about a trust this morning.
“Maybe,” the boy replied, “but usually they tell us...”
Matthew tuned him out.
The desire in him rankled with distrust. This witch was smart. Smarter than she let on. If she knew more about the book, he was not going to get that information from her mouth.
He immediately stopped himself thinking about her mouth.
He would have to smoke her out. He recalled that feeling he’d had when he first locked eyes with her. The clarity. The light. But he was a creature of darkness, and as he made his plan, he found comfort in the retreating back into the shadows.
The first thing he did was walk all over the desk clerk. Just to make his morning awful.
Then he did exactly the thing he’d decided not to do. He confronted her in the library again. He truly did enjoy the teasing this time. Relishing in the flush and the fire as she fled.
Perfect.
Now he had exactly what he’d wanted since the moment he’d smelled her. She was on the run.
He felt a clarity of focus he hadn’t in days. He was back in his own skin, the predator on the scent. The hunter tracking his prey. He could take his time, make his move when he wanted to. First he followed her about her day, keen to any action that seemed out of the ordinary.
It wasn’t easy. With the clarity of focus, every little nuance of her existence was brought to technicolor. And he learned new things that only added to the feelings. The way she’d get caught in a book, her adorable confusion at the thoughtlessness of humans, her sensitivity to his presence even at a careful distance. That knowledge stayed in his gut.
Eventually he’d abandoned her, after he’d tracked her to the river. The smell of her sweat was too tantalizing and the opportunity was too ripe. He’d finally get to see her rooms. He increased his speed in a way that would make Miriam spit. He could smell her scent the minute he entered the courtyard. He followed it, not bothering to ask for directions, to a shabby little set in the back.
He couldn’t resist the urge to run his hand along the door as he opened it. Should any vampire come near, they would instantly sense him. The roaring thing in his chest crowed at this.
The book. He was here for the book.
The distrust curled within him again and had a cooling effect on his fervor.
Witches couldn’t be trusted. Witches shouldn’t be trusted.
He ignored the urge to explore her personal effects as she searched. The half finished cup of tea, the slight indent on the righthand pillow, the picture frame lying flat on the bedside table.
Who was she? What did she like? What did she hide?
The questions pulsed through him as he methodically searched. Of course, coming up with nothing. The light was dimming as the sun dipped below the buildings. Where was she?
Surely, she would be home soon. He could wait for her footsteps and then vault onto the roof. Perhaps she’d say something to someone on the phone, start doing some spells, anything.
But, she didn’t come. Even as it grew dark. Even as the cold, damp of night settled in.
And Matthew was furious.
What in the nine hells was she thinking, staying on the river that late? As he raced across town, heedless of the possibility of human passersby, he wondered if he was wrong. Perhaps, she’d gone to a friend’s. Maybe she was out with the desk clerk again.
But, he somehow knew he would find her. There. Back on the river. This time paddling toward him. No where to run, no one to see.
Mine.
He stalked her. There was no other word for it. Seething with a set of roiling emotions. Rage, his ever present shadow, chief among them.
“Do you really think it’s safe down here in the dark, Dr. Bishop?” He said her title in a clipped tone, implying in a way she would certainly pick up on that she should be so much smarter.
“Are you stalking me?” Her words, plucked from his head, only spurred on his temper. Who was this creature? How could she see into him? Why was she creating this tumult inside?
He did what he always did when he felt cornered. Intimidated, bore down upon. Matthew could be a frightening creature, and with a slight bit of effort could have most beings trembling. Diana did not seem to be one of them.
Even as they fought - oh the relief to speak plainly - he catalogued every new detail he learned about her. And all of a sudden, without any warning, she became real. She became a full, living, breathing being with a mind and a - a - a heart that he couldn’t unsee.
And as she left, striding confidently away from him, he knew he had to end this. The book wasn’t worth it. The book didn’t even seem to matter anymore. This was survival. Whether it was hers or his own, he wasn’t sure. But, he knew he had to get away from her.
He walked through the fire - passing through her scent, past her person, leaving her in the dust. He was almost free. Almost to the moment he could think clearly when—
So innocent. An article of clothing. Dropped in his path, like a handkerchief from days of old.
It was drenched in sweat. He could smell it from here. He had seen it clinging to her as a second skin when she’d put her boat into the river. It had touched her skin.
Instinct took over, and he felt himself crouch down to retrieve it. Warning. So the prey knows they are about to be chosen.
In a rush he lifted the garment to his nose and pulled in a deep breath. There they were: the scents he couldn’t bring himself to name before. Somehow a combination of every scent he’d ever cherished, any that had ever touched him.
He craved her.
The knowledge set into his bones, melting into him like the original curse that had made him.
It wasn’t her blood he wanted. It was her heartvein.
All of the parts of him clicked into place, the hunger, the curiosity, the fascination, the desire, the rage. He would feed from her heartvein, turn her into a vampire, then make her his mate.
It was the last thought that stopped him. Not because it was wrong. Not because he didn’t want it with every fiber of his being. But because of the clear, ancient knowledge that she had to choose him.
And she would never if he turned her. He shook at the remembrance of his own rage at being sired.
Her eyes were locked on him, knowledge having firmly taken hold of them as if she’d heard his every thought. Oddly, she moved toward him rather than away. The lion indeed.
But her heart beat fast as a kitten’s, begging him to bite, making his own heart strain with the effort to match her rhythm.
Only the thought of her rage kept him in place. The unbearable thought of her hatred.
He only wanted one thing from Diana Bishop. His Diana.
And that was her love.