Page 84 of The Gloaming

Maybe it was odd, but my first response was more sympathetic than anything, as he described becoming a creature he didn’t understand, and dug deep within himself to find the strength to show restraint. I couldn’t ignore the parallels between his struggle and my own – yes, I was a hunter, not a vampire. But the desire to give into my darker side, to follow through on the visceral demands of my body and kill… it wasn’t all that different.

I ran my fingers over the dry, fragile pages, absorbed in his description as he fed for the first time on a living person and fellinto despair for his immortal soul. As he grew more and more certain that with the act of killing, God was showing him who he really was, and promising him he’d never find salvation.

If nothing else, it was easy to tell from these entries how much he detested the person he was becoming – though his handwriting and vocabulary had improved, his words became more detached with each day.

I pushed through the early years. These entries were closer to what I’d been expecting, his actions becoming more despicable – and often described in more detail than I really wanted. But I was determined to work my way through everything I could. It was almost as if he was trying to force himself to remember each victim by confessing the crimes to paper.

The sheer scope of his existence grew more overwhelming with every page. The decades that had shaped my entire identity were barely a blink to him, and I had to wonder what my life could possibly be to someone who had witnessed centuries – a brief spark in the darkness of his endless night. Even if we survived all that was happening, would I eventually become just another memory in his impossibly long existence? I was a hunter, but I was still mortal. The thought sent an unexpected pang through my chest.

Immersed as I was, I didn’t notice the sun setting and the kitchen growing dark around me.

“Reading anythin’ interesting?” A familiar accent came from behind me. I jumped at the sound, spilling cold coffee across the table.

Nicholas stood in the doorway, the lamplight from the living room casting shadows across his face. In black jeans and a dark blue shirt that clung to his broad shoulders, he was practically a shadow himself, but I caught the glint of amusement in his green-gold eyes. I didn’t want him to think I had been prying, even though I definitely had been.

“I didn’t realise what time it was,” I said, ignoring his question as I switched on the light and crossed to the sink to get a cloth for the spillage, quickly untangling myself from the sleeves of his leather jacket.

“Aye, tis easy to get lost in a good story,” he agreed. I peeked over at him as I pushed the diary aside to clean the scrubbed wooden table. He was watching me, a smile playing on his lips like a secret.

“A story implies fiction,” I said. “Are you saying what you wrote was a lie?” It amazed me I could still tease him.

“No,” he laughed, but he seemed unable to hold it on his face. “I wish it were.

I shrugged. “We all have a past. This is yours. I need to know about it, if…” I trailed off.

Nicholas ran a hand through his dark waves, his eyes never leaving mine. “Aye, and ye deserve the truth of it,” he replied quietly. “Whatever comes next, I ken that much. There’s no path to… well, I dinnae expect your forgiveness, Erin. But the truth is yours, to make of what you will.”

His shoulders tensed slightly as he continued. “Thinkin’ you were gone, I’ve realised tis better for ye to hear the darkest parts, shameful as they may be. I’d rather ye see them and the man I’vefought to become, even if in the end, you choose to walk away. At least that way, I’ll ken – that my centuries searching for ye wisnae in vain. That you existed after all, and twas my own folly that led to a lonely fate.”

“I think it’s too late to walk away,” I murmured, surprised at my own honesty.

For a split second, a smile lit up his face, transforming his features with a warmth that made my breath catch. “I winnae blame ye if that was your decision, love. But…” His eyes darkened. “I’d fight for ye.”

He looked away, staring at something beyond the kitchen window and the small, dark garden outside. “I’ve learned to trust my senses above all else. But these last days, after they found the body… the car, the clothes… she may have looked a wee bit like ye, but it wasnae you.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Somethin’ inside me knew. And I searched that damned road a hundred times over, til Adam dragged me away.

“I could feel you, in here,” he said, pushing the heel of his hand into his chest. “I cannae explain it, but my heart knew ye’d come back to me.”

The words hung between us, weighted with his hope. His…No.I couldn’t even think it. It was too much, too intense. How was I supposed to process a faith in me that had existed since before I was born?

I glanced down at the diary still on the table, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt. Pushing it aside, I crossed the small space, flicking the kettle on at the switch as I scrabbled for a safer topic.

“Do you drink coffee? You know, beverages?”

He nodded, grinning again without reacting to my awkward change of subject. “Aye, I do.”

“Oh. Well then, would you like a coffee or a cup of tea, Mr… Murray?” I paused, unsure. “Or Mr Baird Murray? Is that right?”

I couldn’t take my eyes away from him as he chuckled, the emerald of his eyes twinkling across the kitchen at me.

“I dinnae think we need to worry about formalities at this point. Besides, I’ve gone by many names. I winnae wish to confuse ye.”

“I’ll stick with Nicholas.” I laughed with him, leaning against the counter while I waited for the kettle to boil. He closed the space between us with his usual fluid grace, resting his hands lightly on my waist. His cool fingers found the skin just above my jeans, and every nerve ending came alive at his touch. The contrast between his chill skin and my warmth made me want to press closer.

“And a cuppa would be lovely, my midnight wanderer,” he whispered, his lips brushing my ear. “Though I can think o’ sweeter things to taste.” He traced a long finger along my throat, and I shivered – despite all I’d read today, I didn’t think it had anything to do with fear.

“Am I interrupting something?” The words cut through the kitchen, Tom’s voice as sharp as broken glass.

I jerked away from Nicholas, my fingers fumbling with the ceramic mugs. The spoon clinked loudly against the porcelain in the sudden silence.

---