Embrace the Night

Page 115



home, to England? But, no, there were too many memories there, as well.

She sighed in exasperation. She might just as well stay where she was, she thought bitterly. She'd take his memory with her wherever she went.

Maybe she wouldmarry Maurice. He loved her, adored her, would never leave her. But she would never love him as he deserved.

Her steps were like lead as she went into her bedroom and crawled into bed. Sleep was the answer, she mused as she crawled under the covers. Sleep was forgetfulness.

He woke with the setting sun, his decision to leave Paris weighing heavily upon him. This morning, before sleep enveloped him, he had decided to go home to Italy, to go to ground and sleep for a hundred years. Perhaps, after such a long rest, he would be able to forget her.

With a low oath, he acknowledged it for the lie it was. He would never forget her. Not if he survived another 350 years.

Rising, he changed his clothes, his mind and his heart warring within him. Go. Stay.
Crossing the room, he unlocked the door, his nose wrinkling against the overpowering smell of… garlic?

He took the stairs two at a time, then came to an abrupt halt as his gaze settled on the large wooden cross visible through the kitchen window.

He walked from room to room, his anger growing with each step. In the bedroom, he placed his hand on the sill where Maurice had broken the window. And quickly jerked it away. Muttering an oath, he glanced at his hand. The skin was burned as though he'd touched a living flame.

Holy water! Crosses. Garlic.

Maurice.

Like a lion in a cage, he prowled from room to room. He was trapped within this place, caught like a fish in a net by that pretty-faced boy.

He loosed his rage in a long, anguished cry. And then, refusing to believe what he knew to be true, he put his hand on the door latch and wrenched it open. But in spite of his determination, he could not step through the door, nor bear to face the heavy wooden cross which burned his eyes with a greater intensity than the sun at noon-day.

With a cry of frustration, he slammed the door, his anger rising with his hunger.
Muttering curses in a dozen languages, he paced the floor until the rising sun drove him below.

Three weeks passed, and he was in agony. Hunger clawed at him, relentless, merciless in its intensity. And as the hunger grew, so did his weakness, until he could barely climb out of the shallow wooden box