Page 94 of Vampires of Eden
“How do you feel about all of this?” I ask. “This revelation.”
He bites his bottom lip as he stares blankly at the keys. “Delusional. Selfish and stupid.”
“You’re none of those things. The situation is complex, so you can’t simply blame and beat yourself up. You romanticized Oliver based on what you were told, right? By your parents and everyone around you.”
He nods, flickering his eyes over to me. “Yes. Definitely.”
“You projected your own expectations onto him based on that information, and that was wrong. But Oliver didn’t follow the script at all. Not yours, your parents’ or society’s. He couldn’t. The disappointment is hard to face, but there’s an important lesson in it.”
Alexander sits straighter and sets both palms in his lap. “Yeah. I… I should have paid attention to whathewanted, and who he was as a vampire. His mind, his needs and personality. I should have loved those things. Not…”
“The fictitious role that he could play in your life.” I finish the sentence, because I too have had this revelation. He isn’t alone in this at all and I want him to understand as much.
He scoffs, shaking his head. “God. I’m the worst.”
“You’re not. It’s just something you had to learn.”
“Iamthe worst, though.” A wrinkle creases his brow as he looks at me, hesitating. “I—I’m really sorry that I licked you.”
My entire lower half stiffens. I adjust in my seat to calm the jolt of arousal. “You remember that?”
“Mm.” His frown sinks deeper as he glances off. “That experience… It was like lying flat on my back against the ocean floor. Everything was muffled and pressurized, but you stood out perfectly. I’m so sorry. It was vulgar, to say the least.”
Flustered, I roll my shoulders. “You weren’t in your right mind. It’s no big deal.”
“It’s not okay. I’m sor?—”
“No more apologizing.” I narrow my eyes, making a serious face and he grins and runs his fingers through his hair. Even fatigued, embarrassed and with his cheeks flushed, he feels so alive and bright. His aura is suppressed like a tiny ember of light and he smells wonderful. Invigorating.
He’s sweet and alluring and I want him.
Very much.
Stifling every fluttery and electric sensation brimming inside of me, I take a breath. “Will you play something for me?”
He blinks, surprised. “I can. Of course. I’m not nearly as good as you, though.”
“It’s not a competition,” I say tenderly. “Anything is fine.”
“Okay… Alright.” He scratches his head, considering and focused on the instrument. After a moment of deliberation, he lifts his hands and places them atop the keys.
Softly, gorgeously, the introduction to Debussy’sClaire de Luneswells and colors the space of the hall. A genuine smile caresses my lips. Something in my chest relaxes from the familiar melody and the exquisite quality of his touch. The progressive gradations and dynamics. His intuitive understanding of this emotional and delicate piece of music.
I close my eyes and the notes are like an elegant paintbrush dotting a vivid scene in my mind. The moon in the sky, full and bright but obscured by a forest of verdant trees as I walk through a warm summer’s night. Everything around me is still. Tranquil. The wind blows and a leaf—maybe two—dance and float down from the dark canopy above. I watch as they twist and flip in the breeze. Dramatic, tumultuous and unearthly.
I reach the end of a trail and the landscape opens up to a black lake—rippling and dreamily reflecting the silver-white sphere of the moon. The night wind caresses my face and the two leaves flutter here, too. Continuing in their heavenly dance.
They land softly upon the water together, like two swans mated for life. They drift toward the silver sphere. Into the blinding incandescent light of the moon.
Into paradise.
Alexander plays the final notes and as I open my eyes, he carefully and lovingly lifts his hands from the keys. The artist has completed his masterpiece. I am awestruck.
“With the calm moonlight, sad and lovely,” I quote. “Which makes the birds dream in the trees, and the plumes of the fountains weep in ecstasy.”
Alexander smiles. “That’s from the original poem, isn’t it? Verlaine?”
“It is. May I ask why you chose that piece?”
