Tears of Blood (The Blood Chronicles) (32 page)

“Mortal man intended to kill her, while the undead saved her human life. My findings have never been wrong, and your friend has found an eternal love and is safe with him.”

His expression said everything. Chesca understood Meghan was gone from her life, and felt horribly alone. Again, tears rose to eyes and her heart ached, and she bit her lip to control the betraying quiver.

Silent, Sebastien held the newspaper out, his expression enigmatic. Hesitantly, Chesca took the folded paper and stared at the article he’d firmly circled with a bright red marker. She read slowly, digesting every word. A slow smile grew on her lips, and her cheeks flushed brightly before she looked up with sparkling eyes.

“Count Giancarlo Aresmendi with his lovely wife, Franchesca, will live in relative comfort. You, my gypsy, will never be far from their thoughts.” He snapped his fingers and the folded pages of the paper twisted out of her grip. The newsprint hovered teasingly before settling into his open palm, the incredible action nothing more than a soft touch of wind.

“Are you going to be doing little stunts like that more often, now that I know what you are?” She asked smartly.

Sebastien quirked a dark brow at her and a dimple appeared in his cheek as he attempted to control his grin. “Not as much as I would like to, Chesca. Those of my species would not approve.”

For once, she was quiet, staring at him with wide and inquisitive eyes.

“Yes, Chesca,” he breathed as he turned toward the stairs. “In the streets of Bentham, there are such unimaginable things as vampires, warlocks, werewolves, witches, demons, and the fae….”

Declan stood outside the shop window, staring at the painted face of the Art Nouveau image, admiring the long strands of moonlight blonde hair spelling out the name of the store. It was Meghan Stanley’s face, he realized, gloriously immortalized in the pitted glass, breathtakingly beautiful, and superbly appealing.

However, the painted image didn’t hold his attention.

His accursed soul belonged to the woman beyond the glass, and she held him as her willing captive. Declan’s notice rested on the flaming crown of red hair the captured ever iota of the fading sunlight, and he felt an uncomfortable stirring in his chest.

Effortlessly, ignoring him, she flipped over card after card from her brightly colored deck. A Queen seated on a gilded throne rose, followed by the Hanged Man, and a skeletal figure astride a horse. Worn and ancient, the cards revealed what he didn’t understand, but he didn’t care. He enjoyed the moment, watching the fearless beauty that shook him to the core of his condemned soul.

In the distance, her associate observed him, brooding disapproval evident in his darkly tanned features. For once, he didn’t care. He felt something he hadn’t felt in centuries, a sensation that confused him, and left him wandering listlessly among the living.

Declan felt empty, lethargic, and lifeless as he watched the brilliance of her silky hair shimmer in the sunlight. Sadness touched him, a deep and penetrating sorrow tearing at some hidden depth of a soul he’d forgotten.

Chesca looked up at him, her gaze clear and free of censure. She rose and, with a minute turn of her wrist, she pressed The Judgment card into the velvet shroud on her table. Even from outside the glass, he heard the tinkling of the countless bangles she wore. Small bells jangled from the bracelet on her wrists, and large hoop earrings competed against the riotous disarray of her wild locks.

She reminded him of a wild gypsy woman from his era, her kohl rimmed eyes glistening with sunlight as she unerringly stared into his face. She didn’t show fear, despite knowing of his damnation, nor did she attempt to reason or hide from him.

Surprisingly, Chesca brazenly confronted him with an ease that defied a warrior. She was a spirit so vital, an essence that he hungered for. Somewhere in her features, he wanted to find peace, and approval.

“Am I redeemable?” He demanded aloud, knowing she could hear him from beyond the glass.

Chesca looked back to the card on her table, the meaning unavoidable. She realized The Judgment card reflected the key elements and aspects she’d asked when she thought of the man outside
The Mage
, and she wouldn’t lie to him.

In his path, if he chose, were the elusive routes to absolution, redemption, and renewal.

Slowly, she pressed her palm to the window, her vivid eyes searching Declan’s face. She ignored the throaty roar erupting from behind her, as Sebastien warned her to leave the creature alone.

Hesitantly, Declan placed each finger in direct correspondence to hers. Immediate warmth seeped through the glass, jolting his body and flooding him with sensations he’d thought lost in time. He stared into Chesca’s inescapable gaze and felt himself sinking, drowning in a pool of humanity.

“Every man is redeemable, Declan.” She whispered from beyond the window, watching as he placed his forehead to the chilled plate.

He sank to his knees, unconcerned as passersby gawked at him and the woman. He lifted his face, shivering against the heat filling his body, the rush of emotions pounding at his brain, and the stinging warmth in his eyes.

“Save me, Chesca.” He pleaded, his hand sluggishly sliding down the glass. “Help me find redemption when temptation reaches for me.”

Behind the window, she sank downwards, the billowy folds of her black silk skirt flowing about her like a cloud. The perfumed oil on her fingers left a long streak on the glass as she followed the trail of his hand, and she afforded him what he’d least expected.

A strange expression glittered in her eyes and her lips murmured words he couldn’t comprehend. Warmth coursed over his face and he blinked, dizzy and confused. He lifted his eyes to stare at her, absorbing every shimmering and splendid ray of light seeping from her.

Lifting his fingertips, he touched his face. An extraordinary wetness greeted him, coating his fingertips with a substance he least expected. He blinked again, wondering if what he saw and felt was a figment of his imagination, and realized it wasn’t.

Declan’s head jerked back and he stared at his fingers. On the pale tips were drops of crimson, smeared, and vibrant color that seeped hungrily into the grooves and whorls.

Silent tears of blood fell slowly from his eyes.