Page 25 of The Guardian's Curse

A familiar, though long-distant, heat stirred in his belly. Despite the loose nightclothes she wore, with their inexplicable cartoon figures drawn on the fabric, he remembered her sumptuous curves from when he’d seen her from afar at Infinity. Strangely, he was even more intrigued by her now.

Despite its vivid perfection, his dream hadn’t done her justice. During the deep sleep of the day, he’d been drawn to her, climbing the stairs in the darkness to find her lying on the bed in a sheer nightgown. She’d invited him in, first kissing him, then baring her neck with an invitation. Her skin had warmed to his touch, her whole body thrilling to him. The rest of it was lost to a red haze of lust and sated hunger.

When her quiet knock left a goblet of blood at his door, her scent hung in the air. He could almost imagine that he broke his fast in her embrace.

He sat at the piano alone, tracing the keys idly in silence as he listened for the sounds of her returning to bed. Water ran, a strange sound in the house where he had lived alone for so long. Then a heavy sigh, affectionate whispers to the cat, then slow breathing as she drifted off to sleep.

There was a faint purr as the lucky little feline settled, and then it was quiet. With his sharp hearing, there was no true silence; there was always the noise of distant birds, the whirring hum of electronics, and a thousand tiny voices in a quiet symphony.

Alistair shook off the heavy hood. It was hot and uncomfortable, but with a beautiful woman in the house, he had no choice. He carefully closed the lid on the piano, and peeled off the black gloves as he silently crossed the lower level of the house.

He poured himself a glass of Scotch from a cabinet in his study, then went to the library to collect his reading for the evening. With the blue leatherbound tome tucked under his arm, he headed to Lucia’s alcove. As always, he dusted her, kissed her fingers, then sat down to read to her. But as he read, he was distracted with thoughts of Shoshanna.

After Armina cursed him, he had resigned himself to a life of solitude. And that had seemed simple enough when he lived alone, determined to not subject anyone else to his curse. When Paris and the others were not here, he could almost imagine that he was the lone inhabitant of the universe. He could go months without seeing anyone, and in fleeting moments of deep concentration, he forgot about his curse.

But Shoshanna was not an abstraction, a theoretical wisp of a person floating through his head where it was safe. She was a flickering flame, casting a warm glow and heat into the space that had been empty and cold. He could not ignore the sound of her breathing, nor the smell of her in the air. And though it had been only a day since she arrived, something had awakened in him.

It was only an ember, nearly unrecognizable after so many years. It was desire, tinged in the faintest flicker of hope. It was as dangerous as sunlight and a sharp blade.

Lucia was proof of that. Desire was a curse, and love was unthinkable.

The presence of the lovely woman in the house felt like a rock in his shoe. He paced the bottom floor, unsure of what to do. His usual piano practice would disturb Shoshanna. Perhaps a late night hunt would burn off some of his nervous energy. Midnight Springs was usually quiet, but there was no end to the supply of would-be dirtbags in the city.

And what would he do if someone attacked Shoshanna while he was out? He’d given Paris his word to protect her.

With a little growl of frustration, he retreated to the basement. His lavish bedroom took up a small portion of the large underground area. Another large room was a spacious training room, with dummies, targets, and a rack of weapons. While it had been many years since he fought with the Shroud, he had plenty of time to practice and keep himself in shape. He took out a set of short knives, occupying his mind with throwing them at targets across the room. One by one, he buried blades to the hilt in the wooden targets.

When he had satisfied himself with his aim, he went through a long string of shadow combat exercises, imagining himself destroying a number of targets. There was the faceless threat to Shoshanna. The witch, Armina. Sometimes, Paris. Sometimes, himself.

Finally, he had worked himself to exhaustion, and hurried upstairs for another snack of blood. He didn’t bother to warm it, though it tasted like bad wine and cigarette ash when it was cold. Heat stirred in his chest as he crept toward Shoshanna’s room. He froze at the end of the hallway, afraid to step any further. Her quiet breathing was a gentle whisper, interspersed with the little snores of a well-loved pet.

He spared the tiniest smile, then shook it off. He was lurking about like some lovesick beau. He retired to the basement and sealed the door. Several wall sconces lit the basement hallway. Though the house was thoroughly modern, with all the wonderful conveniences of the twenty-first century, he favored decor that was reminiscent of when he was still human. Electric candles flickered in the ornate gilded sconces, lighting the path to his bedroom.

After showering, he dared to look in the single small mirror hidden beneath a curtain in his bathroom. It took willpower, and no small amount of self-hatred, to stare into his own, molten-red eyes. With disgust stirring in his belly, he lightly touched his lower lip, watching the monstrous gray fingers touch his darkened lip.

Who could love this?

He lunged to cover the mirror again, his chest tightening. After donning a pair of loose pants, he settled into bed and pulled the curtains tight. With the dark to protect him, he could almost forget how things were. He could imagine that he was still the vain young artist who took his reflection for granted.

What a fool he was.

* * *

1827 - Vienna

A dizzying array of silks and glittering necklines swirled through the salon in a kaleidoscope of riches and exuberant energy. Heady aromas of brandy and tobacco smoke hung in the air, filling the room with an intoxicating haze. And there at the center of the whirlwind was Alistair Thorne, fingers dancing gracefully over the ivory keys to the delight of his patron, Franziska Bauer. A talent like no other, she claimed, showing him off at every opportunity like a prized jewel.

He had met the charismatic and mysterious Franziska at one of an endless string of parties in Vienna. His days were spent studying piano, dabbling in composition with dreams of his name being uttered in the same breath as Schubert and Beethoven. The wealthy socialites of the city were constantly on the search for young talent to show off in their private salons, in hopes that they might find the hidden gem of the city. And the next best thing to being a rising star was to be the patron who had made them.

During one such party, the guests dined on decadent chocolates and fine cheeses. All but one, a woman in a richly embroidered blue gown that looked like she had wrapped the night sky around herself. Though her clothes were in fashion, her porcelain pale skin and otherworldly beauty made her glow like the North Star among the crowd. Furthermore, she was unaccompanied. He had heard rumors of the wealthy widow, with wild tales of her ill-fated husbands, claims of a harem of lovers, and even tales that she was a witch who feasted upon virgins to keep her unnatural beauty from fading.

The much-discussed Fraulein Bauer sauntered toward him, resting one hand upon the piano while he played. Her dark-lined eyes fell upon him, and his fingers slipped, striking a D-flat in the middle of the B-flat major passage. Her crimson lips curved into a smirk. He forced his attention back to the keys, but he could still see her at the edge of his vision. Soon, he could smell the sweet perfume on her skin.

When he finally finished, there was a smattering of applause before the guests returned to their meal.

“What lovely playing,” she said quietly.

“Thank you, my lady,” he replied. He rose and adjusted the tails of his jacket before bowing deeply to her.

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