I can feel him with me, always. It's not as if I want to. I don't. I don't. He knows this. But he is relentless, utterly without mercy. This does not surprise me, for did he not warn me himself of his nature, of his intent?
"Best come to me willingly, my own, for if you allow that pride and stubbornness of yours to stiffen your resolve against me, then I will pursue you to the ends of the earth. There is nowhere you can go, no backwater you may foolishly consider a safe haven, to which I cannot follow you, and find you."
"I do not doubt it; you are a creature of infinite resource and terrible singularity of purpose where your will is thwarted. However, it will do you no good to follow me, and find me, except as the pursuit brings you pleasure. Hear this: I defy you, and despise you, and will continue to do so with every breath I take, long past the point where my consistent denial ceases to amuse, and has instead begun to bore you."
I thought he would surely strike me then; such insulting contempt as I threw into my tone, my expression! And he a man wholly unused to opposition of any kind, with a temper utterly unsuited to brooking the insolence which I take delight in displaying towards him. A fearsome grimace did indeed flash across his features, one hand clenched abruptly at his side, and for a timeless moment I felt myself to be the arbiter of the scene; if the rage I had induced caused him to wreak vengeance on my person, then unquestionably I should emerge the victor - broken, torn I might be physically, but his lapse in control would set me forever above him mentally.
Perhaps I half smiled at the reflection, I do not know. Possibly the infernal connection between us alerted him to my train of thought. Regardless, the strong face that had, but a second before, blazed at me in fierce wrath, altered subtly before my eyes, hardening - the true expression of deep feeling buried beneath a coolly polite, calculating veneer.
The sensation of control, even enjoyment, that I had experienced thus far in our encounter, fled. I had never been particularly successful in disguising my emotions (though since making his acquaintance it had become absolutely essential) and any and all tricks I did know in that direction had been learned through my observations of him. Certainly the one most adept at dissimulation had the advantage in the high stakes game we were engaged in; and my opponent was a master of the art. Decades, centuries of experience gave him skill and patience that I could not hope to match, being all too mortal and all too young.
That he wanted me I did not doubt; that he was destined to remain unsatisfied I was determined. An infatuation, however obsessive, harboured by one such as he is by its very nature transitory; he would hunt, ravish and discard without a second's thought or regret. It is perhaps a flaw in my character that I can know this and understand it, barely stirring up more than a vague, theoretical disapproval of such an amoral attitude. His is a predatory race, amoral indeed, and yet...why should I set myself up in judgment merely because my heart beats and I may expect to live my three score and ten? To judge would be as pointless as to envy - he is simply a breed apart and beyond my ken. I cannot find it within myself to ally my sentiments with those of the humans around me regarding the immortal beings of legend whom they fear and hate so vehemently, the very vocal strength of their feelings masking the prurient fascination they hold for those they affect to detest.
Vampires - there, the word will out! - are held to be soulless, but where is the evidence for that? The soul, I believe, lies not in the blood, though the life force certainly does. To be truly soulless is to be dead; lacking thought, emotion, ambition and purpose. This man, this creature, the only one of his kind I have met, is none of these things. Indeed, he is more truly alive than anyone I have ever come into contact with. Emotional and intellectual intensity fairly pour from him; one feels life as soon as one enters his orbit. It flashes in his eyes, and throbs in his voice, it speeds your heart and raises the hairs on the back of your neck…
I do not think I was even mildly surprised when I was finally convinced of my suspicions regarding his true nature. The signs had all been placed before me: his visage had haunted my dreams long before we met in the flesh; his voice; dark, deep and rough with growling hints of a thick accent, overlaid with smooth, courteous, too-perfect English (an apt metaphor for his true character and the front he presented to the world) familiar to me already in half-forgotten fantasies. The moment he first lifted my gloved hand to his lips and made love to my name with his mouth, a flood of images - memories, dreams, visions? I could not tell - bewildered me, and I heard his voice in my mind as if it had always been there - softly pleading, peremptorily commanding, harshly demanding, bewitchingly caressing.
I recall the look that crossed his face as I snatched my fingers violently from his in confusion. Even in the midst of my efforts to heave the unwelcome scenes from my brain whilst maintaining my socially acceptable calm, my eyes were drawn to his face as if by some magnetism. For a split second, his silver-blue eyes held all the pain in the world.