Dark Salvation

"You were projecting." He took a deep breath and motioned her forward, falling into step beside her. "If you're going to control your powers, you have to learn to control two things. The first are your mental shields, which keep other people's thoughts from getting in. You've naturally developed strong ones, but when you concentrate on people, you instinctively lower them. That's one of the things that makes you such a good reporter, but in this case, you can't afford to do that. The other thing you need to control is projection, or sending your thoughts out to other people. If your thoughts are as explicit as yours just were, they could get you in a lot of trouble."

"Not only can't I touch you, I'm not even supposed to think about you for the next thirty years?"

"That's how long it will take for you to gain full control of your powers. You should be able to master the basics in a few weeks."

She bridled at his overly patient tone, and snapped back, "So then you'll stop jumping around like water on a skillet, afraid to come anywhere near me?"

His expression didn't change, but she felt a chill wind brush across her mind. She instantly regretted taking out her anger on him. The situation might be driving her half mad with frustration, but he was suffering just as much.

"I'm trying to keep you safe," he reminded her.

"I know. I'm sorry. This is hard for you, too." She sighed, and wrapped his jacket's arms tighter around herself. They continued the walk in silence.

When they reached the apartment, Desmond headed straight for the kitchen and pulled a medicine bottle from the refrigerator. She watched with mingled fascination and horror as he boiled a pan of water to warm the liquid, then turned and faced her.

"Now that you know what I am, there's no reason to hide this. Is there?"

"No." She recognized his challenge, his subtle insistence that his needs could frighten

her into leaving him. She hadn't backed down from a challenge yet, and she wasn't about to start now. "Let's stop pussyfooting around the issue, and cut straight to the point. You're a cursed immortal. I'm not."

He dropped the bottle into the pan with a clatter, turning to look at her. She'd gotten his attention. Good.

"Now, as I see it, there are only three possibilities," she continued. "You can become a normal human being, we can leave everything the way it is now, or I can become like you. Let's take the easy option first. Is it possible for you to turn back into a normal human being?"

Desmond stared at her, opened his mouth to reply, and then just blinked. Chuckling, he shook his head. "You're remarkable, do you know that? I think you took all of five minutes for recovering your wits before you were back to being the scrappy little terrier, worrying the truth out of your story."

"Oh, thanks. Every woman longs to have the man she loves call her a dog."

"You know that's not what I meant, dear heart. Don't get your hackles up." He laughed, and reached out to draw her closer for a conciliatory kiss. His hand stopped just short of her jaw as he realized what he'd meant to do, and he stepped back, out of reach. All traces of humor were gone from his voice when he added, "To answer your question, no, I can't become a normal human being, not without killing all the neukocytes in my system. And the only way to do that is to kill me."

"That's not an option, then." She didn't want him to even consider the possibility that the best way to protect her would be by eliminating the danger, in this case him. "How about the other extreme? Could I become like you?"

"You wouldn't want— "

"That's not what I asked. I asked if it was possible."

He considered for a long moment, before admitting, "I don't know. Philippe has been trying to reconstruct his grandmother's curse for over a hundred years, but hasn't finished it yet."

Rebecca blinked, sidetracked by this new information. "Philippe's grandmother was the Voodoo priestess? She cursed her own grandson?"

"Why not? Her curse killed her daughter. She died in childbirth. My father committed suicide immediately after, I assume because he felt her death."

Rebecca hesitated, but she had to know. "You said you drank blood, before the researchers created their potion. Did you ever... kill anyone?"

"Yes."

She clutched the table behind her, and refused to back away from him. Then she watched his eyes mist with remembered pain, and she only wanted to soothe him. She held onto the table to keep from going to his side.

"The first death was an accident," he said quietly. "A blood sacrifice got out of hand. I vowed that it would not happen again, that I would take no more than what a person was willing to give. After that, I haunted battlefields, offering easy deaths to those dying in pain."

"Did you feel their pain?"

"Yes. Giving them peace helped me as much as it helped them." He smiled sadly. "Of course, I was the only one who survived the experience. Later, I worked the night shift in a hospital. I would bring the newly dead to the morgue, with an unauthorized stop on the way. It was easy to convince the coroner to overlook the evidence. For over a hundred years I've surrounded myself with death so that I could live."

"A hundred years?" With everything else he'd told her, she'd forgotten he'd also said he'd been born in 1853. The rare first editions of Jules Verne and H. G. Wells lining his study supported that claim, but viscerally, she couldn't believe Desmond was that old. She examined his features from a table length away, but found no hint of lines or wrinkles, not so much as a single gray hair marring the luxuriant waves of black surrounding his face. She flexed her fingers, remembering the feel of every inch of his exquisite body. There had been no signs of aging, no sagging or wrinkles, anywhere on him. Only firm, muscular flesh.

She clenched her hands by her side, fighting not to reach for him. Imagining the feel of him, skin slick with passion, his body hot with desire, she felt an answering flame kindle within her. But she could not touch him. She must not reach for him. Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands as she tightened her fists.