Second Vision of Destiny - Lydia Read online

  “I thought I would run, too,” she admitted, feeling a little silly in hindsight. “I had never talked to a vampire before, let alone been alone with one.”

  She didn’t elaborate, but the warnings against vampires had echoed loud and clear in her mind at the time. Jack did not hate vampires—that wasn’t why he had become a Special Enforcer—but he didn’t trust them either, not even the ones who, by keeping away from all killings, kept themselves safe from all S.E.s. More than once, over the years she had known him, she had heard him speak of those so-called ‘safe’ vampires—he always sneered at the word—who had done what instinct demanded and killed a human.

  “So why didn’t you run?” he asked gently. “I know you were terrified. Your scent held such fear…” He touched his lips to the champagne and grimaced. “Not all smells are pleasant, but fear is one of the worst.”

  It was far too late to apologize, even if her fear had been completely beyond her control. She took his free hand and squeezed it gently, reminding him that the fear was long gone.

  “Renee would have killed me if I had run.”

  The joke fell flat, and she realized why at once. Death, tonight, was no laughing matter. She reached for his glass and, when he let go of it, took a sip of champagne to chase away her returning nervousness.

  “Your paintings were just too good,” she added as she returned his glass. “I had never seen anything like them before. And as scared as I was, I wanted to see more. I wanted to be the one to bring them to the gallery and share them with other people.”

  “You sound like Renee.” His tone was teasing, but to Lydia the words were a compliment. “She saw one of my paintings in a friend’s house, and she pestered me for years about letting her see what else I had done.”

  “Why decide to sell your work, suddenly?” she asked something that she had wondered about for a long time.

  “Honestly? So I’d see you again.” He seemed completely unrepentant. “That’s why I demanded that Renee continue to send you. I told her I didn’t like dealing with new people, and it is true to an extent, but really I just thought I could get to know you that way.”

  And he had done just that, she thought to herself. Every time she had visited to pick up a new painting and spend time with him writing a short blurb for the catalogue, they had ended up talking about all sorts of things. Art, of course, and the artists each of them admired, but also music, movies, books—and, she had later realized, they had talked a lot about her. As months had passed and they became friends, more than once they had lost track of time, but one time in particular they had talked all afternoon, and when Lydia had looked at her watch, it had been almost seven at night.

  He had offered to cook dinner, surprising her enough that for a moment she had been tempted to accept. She hadn’t, though. By then, she and Jack had already been separated, but she had felt it was too soon. Owen had made her promise she’d stay another time, and hadn’t needed to press her much to get her to agree. A couple months later, it had been strange not only to discover he was a pretty good cook, but also to see him sit down and eat with her. She hadn’t known until then that vampires could eat regular food. She had never even thought about it before. That had been when she had started asking questions about what it was like to be a vampire.

  Raising an eyebrow at her, Owen pointed at the next painting. She nodded, and he uncovered it. She gasped as she took in the central figure, suddenly chilled to the bone. It was Jack. His body, draped in the long jacket he wore for his job, was poised as though on the edge of an attack. She knew what the barely visible piece of wood stuck through a loop of his belt was: a stake. Anger radiated from him, but even so he was beautiful, and she recalled that it was his looks that had attracted her in the very beginning. At the same time, though, his eyes seemed dull and dead as he glared straight at her.

  Gulping, she looked at Owen, but she didn’t know what to say.

  “He showed up here one day.” He came to stand by her. Tilting his head to one side, he peered at the painting as though he had never seen it before. “Right after you had left. I think he followed you.”

  That was very likely, she thought, the old bitterness resurfacing. Jack had always been the jealous kind, even though he truly had no reason to be. Toward the end of their relationship, she had started to suspect he was following her to work and checking on her during the day. It was just one reason why she had broken up with him.

  “What…” Her lips felt dry. She licked them before she finished. “What did he say?”

  Owen shrugged and emptied his glass before answering. “Mostly, he laid claim to you, said you were his fiancée, and warned me to stay away from you.”

  Lydia gulped again. “Did he… did he threaten to hurt you?” She didn’t really want to hear that he had. Despite everything, she still had affection for Jack and fond memories of the years they had spent as a couple. She needed to know, though.

  Peering at her for a moment, Owen finally shook his head. “Not in so many words, but he made sure I knew he was a S.E., and I know he knew what I am.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Lydia murmured, laying a hand on his chest. “I never thought he’d threaten—”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he cut in with a soothing smile. “He’s an honorable man and an honorable Special Enforcer. He was very much in love with you. He wanted to protect you. I can understand that.”

  The quiet light in his gaze added that he didn’t only understand—he also loved her and wanted to protect her.

  “And it’s not like he worried me that much,” he added after a moment. “Seducing a woman is not a punishable offense for vampires, not even if she’s a S.E.’s fiancée.”

  She smiled at the joke, but a chill stopped her from truly appreciating it. She returned her eyes to the painting and forced herself to meet Jack’s flat eyes.

  “I wasn’t,” she said absently. “His fiancée, I mean.”

  He had never asked. If she was honest with herself, that had been another reason why she had ended things, no longer certain he was serious about their relationship.

  “I think I’ll have champagne now,” she said, looking up at Owen.

  He was frowning but nodded once and walked over to the coffee table. Lydia followed him, telling herself that no, she wasn’t fleeing Jack’s gaze, not at all.

  “Why would he call you that, then?” Owen asked as he filled both glasses and handed her one.

  She took a small sip, and only realized then how parched her throat felt. “I don’t know. Maybe he was trying to… lay claim to me, like you said.”

  “Maybe,” Owen agreed, “but I liked you too much to give up on your friendship.” Taking her free hand, he led her back to the circle, and together they faced the next painting. “And then a few weeks after that you started being more withdrawn.”

  The dark edge in his voice warned her even before he pulled the cloth off the next painting. She flinched anyway.

  On the large, square canvas, she was sitting on the floor, her arms around her knees and her head raised up. Tears trickled down her cheeks, glittering under the harsh lights of Owen’s studio. Everything around her was muted, as though she were sitting, lost and alone, in a mist-covered clearing in the middle of the woods.

  She didn’t need to ask; she knew what moment this represented. A flood of emotions rushed through her, and she swallowed hard.

  “I wish,” she started, but her voice was a dry whisper. She wet her throat with a swallow of champagne and started again. “I wish I hadn’t sold that painting. It was my favorite.”

  “I’m glad you sold it,” he replied. When she looked at him, his expression was inscrutable. Under her slight frown, he explained, “It made you cry. I like when my paintings touch people, but I don’t ever want to cause your tears.”

  His voice vibrated with the sheer protectiveness he placed in his words. She had to swallow the lump in her throat to explain, “No, it’s not like that.” She glanced at the painting a
gain, but it wasn’t her image she saw anymore. Instead, it was the portrait of a couple, both their faces lined with age and experience, but the same love radiating from their locked eyes, the same affection coming from their gentle embrace.

  “There was so much emotion in that painting, so much love.” She heaved a quiet sigh. “It reminded me of me and Jack when we first fell in love. I had thought we’d grow old together.” Her words dropped to a whisper. “The day you found me crying… we’d had another argument. I had decided to move out. I hadn’t told him yet, and I was scared I was making a mistake, scared I wouldn’t ever find the love I could see in your painting again.”

  A little awkwardly because of the glasses they both held, he drew her into his arms and hugged her. She took comfort in the embrace, resting her cheek against his shoulder and closing her eyes.

  “Are you still scared?” he asked after a little while.

  She turned her face up to his and smiled. “I wouldn’t be here if I was.”

  The worry that lined his face disappeared, and he returned her smile. “Let me show you the next one.”

  She reluctantly pulled away from his arms and took a small sip from her glass while he uncovered the next painting. This one showed her face, tilted up as she drank from a glass very much like the one she now held. Her eyes were closed, her throat long and graceful as it arched back. The frame stopped just beneath her shoulders, and because they were bare, she appeared to be naked. Tiny bubbles were flowing in the glass, and in front of them she could just guess the reflection of a silhouette. Owen, she guessed.

  She glanced at him, her gaze questioning. This could have represented a couple of occasions, and she wasn’t sure which in particular, if any, it was depicting. As soon as he explained, though, the answer was obvious, and she could only berate herself for not guessing at once.

  “My show,” he said simply.

  Her eyes returned to the painting. She could see it now. “Your show. Yes.” Memories started drifting to the front of her mind. That had been a few months after she had broken up with Jack.

  “The show you wanted me so much to do,” Owen said.

  She finished his thought. “The show you did in exchange for a date with me.”

  An impish grin graced his lips. “I wanted to ask you out, but I didn’t want you to have a chance to say no. Did you ever tell Renee how you convinced me in the end?”

  She laughed, her discomfort from moments earlier truly forgotten. “Never. I figured that way she’d keep thinking she needed me if she wanted to keep you with the gallery.”

  He snorted. “It’s truer than you think.”

  He turned his gaze to the painting again, and she watched him. There was something on his face she couldn’t quite place, an emotion she couldn’t name.

  “All these moments so far are special,” she said, “meaningful. What does this one mean to you?”

  He smiled. “That was the first time I wondered what it’d be like to turn you.”

  Swallowing hard, she detailed his features, and wondered whether she could ask the question that had nagged her since he had first asked to turn her into a vampire. She hadn’t dared ask, unsure whether his answer might influence her decision. Now that she had made up her mind, however, and as he seemed to be in a sharing mood, she thought she could try to ask.

  “Have you… have you ever turned anyone before?”

  She had caught hints, a couple of times, that he had lived with someone for a long time, but she didn’t know if the woman had been human or vampire.

  “No,” he said quietly, his eyes finding hers again. “I can’t say I’ve bitten many people over the years, and none I would have wanted next to me for more than a few hours.”

  His free hand found hers, and he brought it to his lips. The soft kiss to the inside of her wrist made her shiver.

  “You…” The words were low, but full of strength. “I want you next to me for a few centuries at least.”

  A flash of heat ran through Lydia, and she held her breath, waiting for the nervousness to take hold of her again. It didn’t. It wouldn’t, she realized, not anymore.

  Owen didn’t let go of her hand, and together they unveiled the next painting. While all the others had used color in that subtle, life-like way that was Owen’s signature, this painting was a study all done in grays, the palest not quite white, the darkest not exactly black. It depicted a man’s hand resting of the curve of a breast, all but hiding it. The play of light and shadows in this work only reinforced the tenderness of the gesture. Need fluttered inside Lydia, and she squeezed Owen’s fingers.

  “I assume that’s us?”

  “Don’t doubt it for a second,” he said with a grin. “I watched you for hours, the first time we slept together. Afterwards, I mean. I was drawing you in my mind, every curve, every inch of skin.”

  Each words felt like a caress, and Lydia could feel warmth spreading over her neck and face. She tried to cool down with a sip of champagne, only to discover she had emptied the glass.

  “Would you like more?” he offered, taking the glass from her.

  “No, thank you. I think I’ve had enough.”

  He walked away to put the glasses on the coffee table, and Lydia took advantage of his turned back to press her hands to her cheeks. She felt like she was burning.

  “Would you…” She cleared her throat. “Would you do it? Paint me, I mean, paint me nude?”

  Coming back to her, he pointed at the gray painting. “I tried. That’s the closest I could get to it. Every time I tried to expose more of you…” He shrugged, a self-derisive smirk twisting his lips. “I’ve never been all that good at sharing.”

  She couldn’t help chuckling at those words. “Good. I don’t particularly feel like being shared.”

  She studied the painting a little while longer. It was very different from the rest of his work, but she found that she quite liked this style, the gradation of the grays and the smoothness they gave to the entire image. It might be her favorite yet. It was only the first one in which Owen himself was more than a washed out reflection.

  They had come almost full circle, and there was only one painting left.

  “Can I?” she said, her hand already rising to the cloth as she looked at Owen.

  He nodded.

  She wasn’t surprised any more to see herself again. It was a portrait, showing her bare shoulders and her face. There was no lipstick on her lips this time, no eye shadow over her eyelids, no blush putting a touch of color on her cheekbones. It was only her, with a small smile and a serene expression, and yet she seemed to glow with an inner light.

  Something inside Lydia tightened almost to the point of pain, and she had to look away. The painting was beautiful, but it wasn’t truly her. A few fine lines were missing at the corners of her mouth and eyes, as well as flaws on her skin. She wasn’t old—she didn’t consider herself old—but her face was in no way as flawless as the painting suggested. And now, she wouldn’t grow old any longer, but neither would she ever look again like the woman on the canvas. Owen, on the other hand, would forever look as though he were—

  “How old were you when you were turned?” she blurted out.

  It was yet another question she had never dared voice before. She had heard some vampires could be touchy about the subject of their human lives. She hadn’t wanted to upset Owen, at first because Renee would have had her head for it, and later because she liked him too much to want to be rude and risk losing his friendship.

  “Does it matter?” he asked, his eyes searching her face.

  She shrugged. “It’s not a big deal, but I’d like to know.”

  “I was thirty-seven.”

  He lied so well, she could almost have believed him. She knew better than that, though. He looked thirty at the most, and maybe as young as twenty-five. The fact that he had given a number that mirrored her age was simply too convenient.

  Patting Owen’s arm, she laughed weakly to hide her discomfort. �
��You’re better than a plastic surgeon.”

  There was no humor in his eyes when he cupped her face in his hands and gently tilted it up. “No. This is what I see when I look at you. This is what I’ll see for as long as you’ll stay with me.”

  He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear but never broke eye contact. A wave of raw emotion was rising inside Lydia with each of his words, threatening to submerge her. She swallowed hard and blinked, chasing away the beginning of tears.

  “You’ll never have a use for mirrors again,” he continued, “but I wanted you to remember. This is you. The you you’ll always be. The woman I love.”

  She wished she could have replied in kind, but her throat was too tight to let out a single word, so she did the next best thing. She kissed him. Hands on his shoulders, raised on the tip of her toes, she pressed her lips to his and slowly pushed her tongue into his mouth to meet his own. She tried to put everything in that caress: all of her love and all the emotions she had felt since they had first met.

  There had been fear, yes, and there still was the remnant of it, like a faint metallic taste at the back of her tongue. But, just like she had been able to push her fear away then, she could push it away now and see beyond it. Her kiss said so.

  There had been attraction, then desire. The feel of his mouth and his hands were now as familiar to her as that of his cock, and her desire was a hundredfold what it had been then. She deepened the kiss and molded her body to his so he would know.

  There had been curiosity—for who he was, for his art, for anything that he had any interest in—and while she thought she knew him well, she couldn’t wait to discover more, discover every last thing about him. It would take years, decades, maybe more. With her kiss, she tried to tell him she would be there as long as it took her, and long after that still.

  From almost frantic, the kiss became slower. Their mouths parted; they looked at each other for an instant, then kissed again, lips moving together, tongues stroking. A moment later, they parted again. Owen pressed his forehead to hers, and as she looked into his eyes, the words that she hadn’t managed to summon moments ago were there, easily rolling off her tongue.