“The dual-natured are a kind of people.” Sadness tugged at my heart. He’d grown up in a world where his mixed nature wasn’t accepted, and this had become his ‘truth’. “I’ll stop looking into this if you aren’t interested.”
His expression sagged. “I don’t trust the Ankou. They might do a lot of good, some of them, but they aren’t any better than any other supernatural race. There’s a good chance they’ll turn us in to the Maltorim, and the Maltorim gave up their efforts for purification long ago. If they find out about my nature, I’m dead. My family’s dead. You’re dead. That’s all there is to it, Sophia.”
“The Ankou have been helping save other dual-natureds from being killed,” I persisted.
“Even if this were true—and we have no way to know for certain—you must understand my position. I’m trapped between worlds. You are mortal, and my parents are not. I refuse to let go of either of you. There has to be another way.”
“What other way?” I asked.
He exhaled quietly, setting his gaze on mine. “Please try to understand what it’s like for me. There is no in-between. There will never be any sense of death coming. It’s not something that will creep up on me as the years pass. When I die, it will be at the hands of someone else—someone who knows how to kill my kind. It’s not as though I asked for this life. I wouldn’t wish immortality on my worst enemy.”
He spoke with such conviction that chills pricked my arms.
“It doesn’t have to be like that,” I said.
“I’ve lived to see a lot of people die,” he said solemnly, “and I have to spend eternity carrying those losses. If I lose my parents, I would be alone in my grief forever. I would be giving them the same if they lost me. You must understand: immortality is not an escape from death. It’s an accumulation of loss. I risk too much by exposing myself on some whim my Cruor side can be removed.”
“I would never ask you to give up your parents,” I said, hoping to impart my sincerity. “And I hope you know that if immortality weren’t an issue, there’s nothing I would change about you.”
“I know, Sophia,” he said warily. “I wish I had answers for you. For us.”
“I just don’t know how to be with you completely when there’s no possibility of a future for us.”
“Being the world’s biggest pessimist isn’t everything,” he said. “Maybe if you show a little faith, things will work out.”
“How?”
“Faith, Sophia. Life isn’t always going to give you the answers to the questions you’re asking. Sometimes you have to make do with the answers you get.”
If only he knew that was exactly what I was doing. “Thanks, Yoda.”
“Like it you do, when I tell you these things.”
“You’re hilarious. Really. But what are you going to do? Fetch my walker when I’m eighty?” As I spoke the last sentence, a bit of my deeper hurt jabbed into my voice, and I swallowed, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “I’m just trying to be reasonable.”
“That’s your problem. Your head keeps getting in the way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re asking me to kill part of who I am, and yet you won’t even open up to me. What is plaguing you, Sophia? You toss and turn all night, you’re never fully there when I’m talking to you. Something is bothering you. I might be able to help if you would talk to me.”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
“Give and take, Sophia. It needs to go both ways.”
I stared at my hands, wishing more than anything I could just disappear entirely.
“Let me tell you something, Miss Reasonable. We definitely can’t be together if you’re dead, and you might as well be signing a death wish if you plan to seek out the Ankou under these circumstances. They aren’t called ‘the elemental grim reapers’ for no reason. If something happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.”
“All I wanted to know is if you would be willing to grow old with me, if things ever developed between us that way.”
“What do you think all this is about?” he asked, spreading his hands. “This is about wanting to be with you. But it’s also about what being with you means.”
***
THE NEXT DAY, Charles and I cuddled in the bedroom with our favorite movie—Red Violin. Charles rested back against his pillow, eyes closed. I couldn’t see past his youthful face—couldn’t see him as a man who’d lived through centuries.
“How much of your life can you remember?” I asked.
“Remember?” He opened his eyes, his expression soft and curious. “I don’t. Everything blurs together, to the point most major life events carry about as much weight as tying shoelaces. But there’s always a new adventure. Always something new.”
“Like me?”
He pulled me on top of him, so that I straddled his hips. “You are more than an adventure, Sophia.”