Second Vision of Destiny - Lydia Read online

  “For a recluse,” she said, teasing, “you’re far too nice.”

  He laughed, and she followed suit. She realized all this talk about Halloween was just a way for her to push back what she had come to do. He had to know, too, but he was playing along anyway. She wanted to ask him why—he’d never been afraid to ask the tough questions—but thought better of it. If he was granting her a few more minutes of reprieve, she would take them and make them last as long as possible.

  He continued to lead her on the narrow path, and now that they were quiet Lydia paid closer attention to their surroundings. The yard was shaped like a maze, she realized. The path of gravel, clear and easy to follow in front of them, turned and twisted, sometimes opening to the left or to the right onto a path that was entirely identical. On each side, bushes and trees seemed to glow under the moon, their silver leaves or pale flowers standing out starkly in the darkness.

  At a turn in the path, they came across a small pond, and Lydia slowed her steps. White water lilies floated on the shimmering surface of the water, but she was sure that she had caught a glimpse of quicksilver swimming beneath it.

  She had thought, when making her choice, that one of the things she would give up was walking through flowering gardens. She had been wrong. Her nervousness quieted down a little.

  They walked underneath an iron-wrought arch, and flowers in full bloom brushed the top of Owen’s head, dusting him with white petals. In the moonlight, the flowers almost seemed to have an inner glow. Their scent was heady, and for a few seconds Lydia closed her eyes and breathed in deeply.

  “If you think it smells good now,” Owen murmured, “just wait.”

  Wait until you’re a vampire, he meant, and Lydia braced herself, expecting her nervousness to return. It did, but it wasn’t as pronounced anymore, its razor-sharp edge now dulled like an old blade.

  They walked for a little while longer, and although Owen didn’t say anything else, she could feel his pride for what was, all things considered, another work of art. It must have taken a lot of work to find all these different plants that not only bloomed this late in the season but whose colors complimented the night.

  “This garden is beautiful,” she said when, after the tour was over, they stopped at the foot of a white, stone staircase that led up to a wooden deck.

  Owen reached over to pluck a petal from her shoulder and caressed her cheek with it. Its scent was as delicate as its caress. “I’m glad you like it. I have been waiting for a long time to share this place with someone.”

  She followed him up the staircase, and from the deck they looked back on the garden. Light seemed to reflect off pale flowers everywhere, and a gust of wind brought the combined scents of Lydia. This moment was a gift, she thought as she leaned against Owen’s shoulder. A moment of peace and beauty before her life ended—before it started anew. She shivered at the thought, although she couldn’t have said if it was in fear or anticipation. Owen wrapped his arm around her shoulders and rubbed her arm gently.

  “Would you like to go in?” And when Lydia was about to say she wouldn’t mind observing the garden a little longer, he added, “I wanted to show you a new series of paintings.”

  Despite her lingering nervousness, she perked up at the unexpected announcement. The last few times she had come to his studio, he had claimed not to have anything ready for her to see. Several pieces had been draped with lengths of fabric, and while her fingers had twitched at the thought of exposing the canvases, she respected Owen too much to peek.

  “I’d love to see them,” she said, barely containing her excitement. She was always curious to see what he would paint next, and so were the gallery’s customers.

  Renee had received requests to show his art from all over the country, and just two days earlier a gallery in New York had asked to exhibit his paintings and have him talk as part of an ‘artists meet the public’ series of shows. Renee had called him with the great news, and Lydia had watched that call from afar. She had known how Owen would reply, but she hadn’t expected Renee’s utterly shocked expression when he hung up on her.

  Renee had charged Lydia to talk to him about it and convince him. She knew that they were seeing each other, of course, although she didn’t know how far their relationship had progressed. On this, though, Lydia had no intention of using her influence on Owen. He had been miserable enough when he had had to make an appearance for the opening of his show at the gallery. Traveling to New York and needing not only to be present but also to actively discuss his work… No, she couldn’t imagine it happening. Renee wouldn’t be happy, but then that was the least of Lydia’s problems.

  She didn’t know if she’d still have a job when she showed up at the gallery with fangs. By law, she couldn’t be fired just for being a vampire, and in any case she knew that Renee had nothing against vampires per se; two vampires in addition to Owen were amongst the roster of artists whose art she exhibited and sold. Still, a large part of Lydia’s job involved running errands during the day. If she couldn’t do what she was supposed to, she didn’t see how Renee would be able to keep her on board.

  They were halfway across the deck when Owen stopped her and tilted her face up toward his with a finger beneath her chin.

  “Lydia…” His fingers ghosted over her face, tracing her nose and lips. “I don’t want you to be nervous.”

  She forced out a quiet chuckle. “That’s going to be hard.”

  His thumb stroked her cheekbone, and she moved into the touch. “No, it really is not. If you’re here, then you’ve decided to go through with it, yes?”

  This was it, she realized. Her throat constricted. This was the moment when she could say she had made a mistake and walk away. He would know she was chickening out of it, but it would be better than not being sure.

  Except… she was sure.

  “Yes.”

  Owen nodded as though he hadn’t expected anything different—as though long seconds hadn’t passed between his question and her quiet answer. “Then that’s all there is to it. The important thing is that you want it. The rest will sort itself out in time.”

  “That’s easy for you to say.” She was unable to keep an edge of accusation from her words.

  Owen inclined his head. “Yes, it is, because I’ve gone through the same thing. I was as scared as you are now. I wondered if I was making a mistake just as much.”

  She wanted to protest—she didn’t think she was making a mistake, she was sure of herself and of the decision she had made—but Owen continued softly and she was loath to interrupt him. He was sharing more about his siring than he ever had when she had asked a few hesitant questions.

  “And I didn’t even have the assurance that my Sire would love me. She just cared about my paintings; there was nothing more to our relationship.”

  A hint of old pain crinkled the corners of his eyes and drew his eyebrows closer. She couldn’t stop herself from reaching up and smoothing the unhappy lines with her fingertips until his forehead was smooth again, his eyes, clear.

  “You and I…” He pressed his hand on top of hers, holding it to his face. “We have more, don’t we?”

  She nodded fervently. Although she did admire his artwork—it was an integral part of him—it wasn’t all she saw when she looked at him. There was a lot more to discover behind the topmost layer of paint. His gentleness, for one thing, never ceased to amaze her. For such a large man, his movements always seemed to be very deliberate, and even cautious. It was as though he were trying not to hurt anyone by accident.

  Slowly enough that she had time to lick her lips and feel her heart thundering in her chest, Owen leaned down to kiss her. His mouth played against hers, soft and tender, slowly coaxing her lips to part until he could slip his tongue inside her mouth to meet hers. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she raised herself up on the tip of her toes and pulled him closer to her. A little moan rumbled at the back of her throat as he caressed her tongue and then her palate. She soon lost h
erself in the kiss, and when he pulled back she was trembling and gasping for air.

  Even after the kiss ended, she remained against him, drawing strength from his body as she held him close. His fingers played in her curly hair, twirling a strand and tugging gently until she was finally ready to let go. She took a step back—a small step—and raised her face up to him.

  “Would you like to see the paintings now?” he asked in a soft voice.

  No impatience tinted his words. She could say no, and they’d stay outside a little longer, walk through the garden, talk, maybe kiss again. She could push back the moment a little longer yet. And just because she could, she didn’t need to anymore.

  Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded slightly and slipped her hand into his. He led her inside through the French windows, and she quickly recognized the living room. She had been in there before, though at the time the drapes had hid the windows and what lay beyond them from view.

  The brightly lit room was different, though. The sofa, armchairs, and coffee table had been lined up against the walls, clearing a large area in the center of the room. There, eight easels had been set in a wide circle. Canvases of various sizes were set on each one, all of them covered by a length of fabric. Lydia stepped into the circle and looked around her, already impatient to discover what beauty Owen had created. Her heart was beating faster again at the thought that she would be the first to see these new creations. She always liked to pretend that, until someone else saw them, they were her little secret. Hers and Owen’s.

  She looked for Owen, wondering why he wasn’t unveiling his work to her yet. She found him by the coffee table, where two champagne flutes waited next to an uncorked bottle.

  “Just how sure were you that I’d come tonight?”

  Owen filled a glass with what looked like sparkling gold. “I was hopeful,” he said simply. “And if you hadn’t come…” He shrugged. “Well, a bottle has never scared me.” He raised his glass in a toast but didn’t drink from it. “Would you like some champagne?”

  “In a moment, maybe.” She gestured to the closest painting. “Can I?”

  Four long strides took Owen to a different painting. “This one first,” he said. “Ready?”

  Without waiting for her answer, he pulled the square of fabric off without flourish and dropped it so that it pooled at the foot of the easel. Lydia’s first impression was that it was a museum scene, focused on a statue in the center of the canvas. She soon realized she was wrong, however. As graceful as the woman was, she also radiated life and energy, and seemed ready to leap off the canvas at any moment.

  With a shock, she recognized the face. It was her own. Caught in how beautiful the figure looked, how it stood out in front of a background of colorful paintings, she hadn’t realized that the dress was familiar, hadn’t noticed the discreet jewelry at her neck and ears. Now, though, it was all she could see. Was this how Owen saw her, she wondered, her heart beating so furiously that she pressed a hand to her chest to calm it down.

  “That was the first time I saw you. Do you remember?”

  She couldn’t take her eyes off the painting, but she nodded. “At the spring varnishing. Three years ago.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him raise the glass to his lips before he answered. “Yes.”

  The lines and colors of the painting were exquisite, as his work always was. He instilled such life into his paintings that Lydia always found them truer to life than his subjects. It was disconcerting to find herself thinking so when she was looking at an image of herself. She forced herself to look away and turned her eyes to Owen instead.

  “Why were you there?” she asked. “At the varnishing, I mean. You hate those things.”

  “I do, yes.” He moved his wrist in an absentminded manner, and the champagne swirled in his glass, more bubbles rising to the surface. “One of the artists showing was a friend. I had promised her I’d make an appearance.”

  Lydia waited for a pang of jealousy to resonate through her. She knew he didn’t have many friends, and she had strong suspicions that his female friends were also his lovers. Nothing but curiosity emerged, and not even about that woman.

  “Just an appearance?” she said, amused despite herself. “I recall you being there until closing time.”

  He raised his glass to her, as though conceding her point. “Just an appearance was the goal. And then I saw you.” He smiled a self-deprecating grin. “It’s going to sound cheesy, but I swear it’s the truth. As many people as there were at the gallery that night, I could see no one but you.”

  He paused and held her gaze for an instant, as though waiting for her to confirm it was cheesy. She said nothing. It was cheesy, of course, but it was also a declaration of love if she had ever heard one. She didn’t doubt his words for a second.

  “It was like a spotlight had turned on you,” he continued, his eyes returning to the painting and taking on a faraway look. “I stared at you as long as I dared, and then I decided to approach you, but you were with…someone. So I stayed away.”

  She remembered seeing him, too. She hadn’t known who he was at the time, and yet as soon as her eyes had met his across the room, she had felt something like recognition. It had been like seeing an old friend after a long time, and needing a moment to figure out who it was, except she never had figured it out. She had only learned his name a few days later when she had formally met him.

  She also remembered how she had to force herself to look away so she wouldn’t be caught staring at him—so Jack wouldn’t catch her staring at another man. He could be jealous, sometimes, and she had done her best to avoid giving him any reason to be, especially when he showed up at one of the gallery’s parties for her. He hated those things just as much as Owen did; it was one of very few common points they shared. With or without a reason, though, they had argued before the end of that night. She couldn’t remember about what—their relationship had been going through ups and downs for a while already at that point, and they were both equally guilty for it. She did remember, though, with vivid clarity, that as she argued with Jack, her thoughts had drifted toward the man who had seemed so familiar. Maybe, in a way, her relationship with Jack had been over at the moment she had laid eyes on Owen.

  “Next painting,” he murmured and stepped to the easel on the right of the first one. The canvas was taller, though less wide than the first. His fingers closed on the fabric that covered the painting and, with a quick tug, he uncovered it.

  This time, Lydia recognized herself right away, maybe because she had expected to see herself again. She was standing beneath the arch of a heavily carved door—Owen’s house’s door. Light poured in from outside and framed her so that she almost seemed to glow. She held her briefcase in her right hand, and a smile lit up her face. She knew at once what moment this depicted: her first visit to Owen.

  His hand settled at the small of her back, and he cleared his throat. “I didn’t speak to you the night of the show, but I found out your name from Renee.” She glanced at him; he chuckled ruefully. “I have to confess I promised her a couple of paintings if she sent you to get them.”

  She couldn’t help letting out a quiet little snort. That explained why Renee had insisted that she go and meet this new artist. Usually, her boss was adamant about meeting prospective clients herself, at least until their relationship with the gallery was well-established. Lydia’s two coworkers, both of whom had worked for Renee longer than she had, had resented this perceived favor, though they had had time to get over it since.

  “And then you came,” he continued. “When I opened the door, you were just…” He seemed to struggle for words. “Like… a silhouette. Or a shadow. It was so bright behind you, I almost couldn’t recognize you. But you stepped in, and the light was all around you, like at the gallery. Your smile was just like I recalled, like sunlight, warm and bright.”

  Blinking very fast, she turned away from the painting to look at him again. His expression was int
ense. “It’s been a long time since I saw sunlight,” he murmured, his head tilted to one side as he watched her. “A long time since I felt the touch of the sun on my skin without being burned, but I remember.” His voice dropped even lower as he leaned down toward her mouth, and his last words were a caress of silk against her lips. “You made me remember.”

  The kiss remained brief and chaste, but her lips tingled when he drew back, and she could taste the champagne he was sipping.

  Again, her own memories completed his, made brighter by the painting in front of her. She remembered how startled she had been to see the man who had caught her attention in front of her. He had taken her hand once she had pulled herself out of her torpor and introduced herself. That had been the first time she had realized what large, strong hands he had. He had shaken her hand lightly, but he hadn’t let go afterwards and had held on just a little too long. She had been a little disconcerted, but then he had taken her to his studio and she had forgotten everything. There had been paintings everywhere, arranged for her and her alone, and she hadn’t known which to look at first.

  “Next?” she asked, impatient to know what other moment he had captured with his paints and brushes.

  Without a word, he unveiled a wide but short painting. All it showed was brown eyes, raised eyebrows, the barest hint of a nose and a curled strand of hair in the upper right corner. She would have known they were her eyes even if she hadn’t noticed the tiny black mole at the corner of the right one. She noticed something in the pupils, dilated in surprise or fear. Taking a couple of steps closer, she peered at the painting and guessed a silhouette reflecting in her irises more than she could see it.

  She looked at Owen questioningly. Standing by the easel, he had watched her take in the painting while he took small sips from his glass.

  “That’s when I told you what I was,” he explained. His lips took a self-deprecating turn. “I thought you’d run off. You were so scared, it was like I had just told you I’d have your blood for dinner.”