Page 21 of Vampires of Eden: Oliver
When the top is unlocked and lifted, I wrestle a large quilt from inside and tuck it under my arm.
“Is she always spying on you? This is a normal aspect of your life?”
Chuckling, I stand straight. “Not always. She just… pays close attention to my needs? I’ll be running out of pages in my journal and a new one will show up on my desk. Or my favorite sweater will start to have one too many lint balls. The next time I pull it out of the closet, I’ll find that it’s been mended. Sometimes, if I’m very stressed, my schedule will magically open up and I’ll have an afternoon to myself.”
“Sounds very nice. I wish I had someone like that to help me.” He steps forward in the direction of the clearing and I’m suddenly worried that I sound boastful. Like a spoiled little purebred who wants for nothing.
“I’m not bragging,” I blurt. “I’m just explaining what she does.”
“I didn’t think you were, your grace. You don’t need to clarify.”
Following him, I sigh, really wishing that he would say my actual name. What would it sound like mingled between his full lips and riding on the invisible flow of his velvety, charming voice?
I bet it would sound nice.
God, I’m out of my mind. Where do I find the nerve—the audacity—to even think this way about this man? With what guts?
The scene before us is brilliant. A beautiful, expansive field layered with colors and textures as if it were hand-painted, like a Monet or Pissarro. Sunset-pink and deep purplish clouds hang listless and soft against a pale blue horizon. The lavender fields reach as far west as my eyes can see. Aside from the occasional rustling of the breeze within the trees and brush, it’s quiet. Crickets chirp in a restrained start to their nighttime chorus.
There’s a strip of grass in between where the woods end and the fields begin, like the dividing line between two worlds. I unfold the blanket to lay it flat. Aries puts his sketchpad and pencils aside and helps me straighten it. Soon, we’re both seated and looking outward, him with one leg folded and the other drawn up. His pad rests at an angle on his thigh. I sit in lotus position, but lean and relax back against my palms.
A contented silence falls over us while we watch the sun paint the sky in different watercolor hues. Leisurely, it descends beneath the horizon. The air is gentle and cool. That same fizzy feeling is warm and pleasing within me—like a low-burning, self-made fire in my belly and spine. It’s wonderful, but I’m a little nervous because I want to keep it under control.
Aries moves his colored pencil across the sketchpad in swift strokes, alternating between glancing up at the landscape and then focusing on his drawing. I want to look at him and what he’s doing so badly. Partly because I’m curious and fascinated—a creative individual, a true artist, is designing right beside me and I’ve never witnessed anything like this before.
And of course, the part of me that is unquestionably enamored with him wants to look, too. I want to take in the details of him and inscribe them to my memory. The elegant wave of his richly brown hair, the golden undertones of his skin and the width of his shoulders. The heavy thickness of his dark lashes and his perfectly trimmed beard lining his jaw.
Someday, when someone asks me if I’ve ever truly felt the pull of my nature, I want to recall this vampire to my mind—to remember him and imagine what could have been given a different situation. A different life.
“You were right.”
Inhaling sharply, I turn to look directly at him. “About?”
“This place is beautiful. Truly inspiring.”
Drawing my knees up, I wrap my arms around them to make myself comfortable. “I’m glad that you like it. Do you usually take inspiration from landscapes? Or the outdoors?”
“For me, inspiration blooms from many sources.” He closes the cover of his sketchpad and places it aside. “At times it can be the outdoors—sometimes it’s a song or a poignant lyric. It could be a person, a moment or an emotion. I’ve also been inspired by other artists. I never know when something will move me, but it always comes.”
I nod, processing. “Is there a particular source that moves you the most? Or the best?”
“People,” he says, meeting my gaze and smiling warmly. “Especially those with a dynamic and colorful spirit. A vibrant, bold essence. They become my muse. I enjoy those situations the most—the complexities and layers that I’m able to explore.”
Breaking his gaze, I glance out toward the darkening landscape and take another breath to calm my heartbeat.
How incredible would it feel to be someone’s muse? To stir another person so deeply that they’re driven to create something beautiful simply because of you. I have no realistic chance of ever becoming anyone’s muse. Even if I did, what the hell would they create?
A clown suit. Not even a colorful one fit for dazzling a circus audience. Something sad and monochromatic, like for a mime. A small mime costume.
“What about you?” Aries asks, interrupting my self-deprecating thoughts. “What are you inspired by, your grace?”
“Me?” I blink. “Oh, I-I don’t know, really. I’m not allowed to be inspired.”
Aries laughs. “Inspiration is not something to be controlled. Plus, the way you speak about the treatment of ranked vampires… and those photographs that you took in Evanshire, they seem deeply inspired to me? As if the eyes behind the camera felt and captured the injustice and barrenness in that circumstance. The heartbreak.”
Every time he mentions that he’s seen my photos, tiny butterflies take up residence in my chest and abdomen. I lift one hand to rub my fingers against my scalp. “Yeah, I… well, that situation resulted in a stern reprimand from Lord Blakeley. I think I’m only allowed to be inspired by and about my fiancé. He’s very pushy about that.”
“I see. Well, are you?”
