Page 33 of Flirting with Darkness

I hadn’t stopped to breathe. When I did, it was a jagged, ugly sound, broken with an almost-sob.

Vale had gripped my shoulder. His thumb rubbed my skin, right at the boundary of the neckline of my dress. Something about that touch steadied me. It was a comfort, a reassurance, and a question.

My face was hot with embarrassment. I shouldn’t have said any of that. It was uncalled for.

Vale’s other hand came to my cheek, and when he pulled back, his fingers were wet. He looked down at that for a moment—my tear on his knuckles—then back at me. I straightened and stepped away from him. I felt unsteady. Drained.

He was calm now, too. Just looking at me. Thoughtful.

“I’m sorry—” I started.

But he said, “I want you to show me my blood.”

* * *

I did as he asked. We had to go into three different rooms before we finally found one with a wall clear enough for my instruments. I blew out all the candles and set up my lens. A part of me didn’t even want to risk using it here—they got expensive after awhile, and if this one broke too, I’d really have to scramble for the money for another—but it seemed important to grant Vale’s request.

I wanted him to see in himself what I saw of him every day. The beauty of it. The miracle of it.

When his blood bloomed to life over the wall, I drew in that same little inhale. I did it every single time.

Vale’s expression was utterly still, save for a very, very slight widening of his eyes. He slowly leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees.

“So this is it.”

“This is it.”

“Why does it look like that? The dots?”

“That’s your blood at its basest level. Very, very small.”

He made a low, unconvinced sound in his throat.

“And what is special about it? Different?”

I rose and went to the wall, examining his blood up close like I had so many times before. “See how it moves? It’s different than human blood. The color, too. The shape. It deteriorates differently.” He didn’t speak, didn’t stop me, so I found myself slipping into my own enthusiasm—explaining to him all the ways his blood differed from that of humans, all the little ways the magic of his nature and his goddess imbued it. All the ways it defied death.

Afterwards, he was silent for a long time. “You believe this,” he said at last. “That it could help.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Vampire blood has never helped anything.”

I looked back to the projection on the wall. I needed to take it down, and fast. The machine would start smoking at any moment. But I touched the wall—touched the curve of each flower-petal shape.

“Your blood is…”

Gods, it was so many things.

I settled on, “It could save us.”

I was lost there, in that projection, until Vale said, “That’s not true.”

I turned back to him. He didn’t look at the blood. Only me.

“You,” he said. “You are saving them.”

He said it with such conviction, such certainly, that I did not know how to respond. He rose, hands clasped behind his back.

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