Page 77 of A Bond with the Dark

The angles of his face sharpen, as though I am watching someone live photo-shop their picture. The subtle wrinkles by his eyes iron out, his hair smoothes where it was rustled, and every facet of his being becomes perfect, not one flaw visible.

The energy in the room shifts, and I can feel that he’s fearing my reaction to this more than he’s afraid I’ll fear him.

“See?” he says as his fangs melt away and his eyes return to normal. His voice is controlled, steady; his green eyes still fixed on mine. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I finally utter, and though everything within me tells me I should be terrified, I’m not. It all melts off the minute he shows me his true self.

“Sayah,” he says almost in tears. He looks to me for my approval which disarms me.

“I need a minute,” I say, trying to process the new information. His eyes are smoldering and there’s a subtle fracture in them, spilling nothing but fear of losing me because of what he just told me.

I walk away from him, and he doesn’t follow me. Over at the window, I gaze out and up to the sky, as though the stars hold the answers. I think about the last few weeks with him, all those crazy and unexplainable things.

Can he read my thoughts?

He remains still on the couch, head in his hands, silent and contemplative.

I turn back to the stars.

Thoughts slice into my mind all at once. The fact that we’ve never met up during the day and how sometimes he moves so fast I can barely see him. The night of our first date is still shrouded in mystery. He has, a few times, talked as though he’s a lot older than he says he is. There’s a haunting mystery about him, a tortured look in his eyes at times that I can feel the sorrow undulating around him. Times when I swear he seems to reach into my mind and pluck thoughts right out of it. And most recently, Vegas. The gash that seemingly vanished. Those men. That blood. The agonized look in his eyes after we got back to the hotel room. And my senses are always telling me there’s something he’s burning to tell me, a secret so deep that he fears it will change the way I feel about him.

Dominic Sangravelli is a vampire.

A very old one at that.

I have no idea how old he is, but I’m guessing somewhere in the 18th century.

That’s just a guess, but one that I’d likely bet on.

His soul tells me so.

And I do believe he still has a soul.

It’s drenched all over him that he doesn’t enjoy being a vampire; he doesn’t like killing and only does it when he must, taking the lives of those who would do other people wrong. His sufferings unmitigated by promise of any alleviation soaks him like rainwater.

That sort of makes sense to me. I’ve always been a bully to the bullies, and will defend the people that others mock and ridicule. I can only imagine that if I had been a vampire, I would be the same way.

Wait!

Dom can’t be a vampire!

This is the real world and things like that don’t exist.

My mind wanders back to the three men in Vegas who died.

Is this really happening? Mama, what do I do?

There is light in the dark, I hear on a whisper. I don’t know if it’s my mother’s voice or my own, but all I know is that I’m not afraid of him.

I turn around and walk back up to him.

“Did you kill those men in Vegas?”

“Yes,” he replies solemnly, his face contorting into guilt and shame. “But I only kill people who deserve it. I don’t kill innocent people.” The admission is soaked in rage and filled with sorrow.

“I know you won’t hurt me,” I say finally. “But I need to know your story. All of it. I need to know that you’re safe to be around. You just met my son, my world. I have to know if you’re safe.”

He nods and stands. “What do you want to ask me?” he asks, and there seems to be a lightness about him now. His handsome features have softened somehow, as though a huge and heavy weight had rewired the expressions on his face and is finally returning to normal.

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