Embrace the Night

Page 234



"Dammit, I hate it when you talk like that. You're no more a monster than I am." "Then why are you afraid?"

She wanted to deny it, but she couldn't. Deep inside where she didn't look too often, she was afraid, not of him, but of what he was.

"What's happened?" she asked. "What's changed? Is it what I said earlier? If it is, I'm sorry. It's just that I hate to think of you doing what you have to do to survive."

"I understand, cara," he said, his voice low and soft. "I understand better than you think." "I love you." She whispered the words as though they could somehow make everything right again.

"I pray you don't regret it," he murmured, and left the room, the long black coat swirling around his ankles.

She stared after him for a long time, the key clutched in her hand. She had never gone into the cellar; now, as if drawn against her will, she walked through the kitchen, down the short flight of stairs, to the cellar.

The door was locked. Her hand shook as she slid the key into the lock; then she opened the door.

She fumbled along the inside wall until she found a light switch. When she flicked it on, a pale yellow light illuminated the room—a room that was empty save for a sturdy pine box that stood in the corner behind the door.

She glanced at the narrow boarded-up window cut into the wall opposite the casketlike box and shuddered.

It took all her willpower to cross the short distance to the box and look inside. An old-fashioned black cloak made of finely woven wool was spread over a thick black comforter.

Her hand seemed to have a will of its own as it reached into the box and rested on the cloak. She closed her eyes, and a quick image of Gabriel sprang to her mind—an image of Gabriel walking toward her, the long black cloak swirling around him like a dark mist.

A small sob burst from her lips as she whirled around and ran out of the room.
A cure, she thought. There has to be a cure.

She repeated the words as she ran up the stairs to her bedroom. Repeated them over and over, like a mantra, as she filled the bathtub.

A cure. It was their only hope for any kind of a normal life.

He walked the streets for hours, his shoulders hunched under the long black coat, his thoughts bleak. Somewhere, there had to be an answer, a way that he could share all of Sarah's life. And yet, as much as he longed to be mortal for her sake, he harbored a deep and abiding fear of death, of finally coming face to face with that power that was greater than his own. A fear of judgment. Of eternal damnation. How many centuries would he have to spend in perdition to atone for his sins against humanity?