Ack! I'm so out of the habit of updating, I nearly forgot to post this chapter! lol My bad!
Many thanks to Scarlet Empress, She-Devil Red, and inkmagpie for reviewing Monday's installment! We have another angst-fest in front of us, but hopefully I haven't lost any of you. I promise, Vlad and Frankie will meet up again and we'll be back to our regularly scheduled yearning and sexual tension soon.
And apologies for any errors I may have missed in this chapter. I had every intention of going back to do one last read through, but the week got away from me.
Copyright © 2021 TSM. All rights reserved.
Chapter 2
I Don't Want To Talk About It
For the last several months, Frankie had found herself practically living in her office at the VNN building. Sure, she understood the risks of a key alliance member spending so much time in the north district of Budapest, but it was the only place in the city where she could exist in her private misery undisturbed. Since that fateful evening in the subway when she had insisted Vlad Leinhart – or rather, Dracula – keep his distance, being in any of her old haunts had proven painful beyond belief.
It seemed like every corner of the city was saturated in his memory, a stark reminder of what could never be. Staying at Carmen's was clearly out of the question, and the walls of her flat seemed to be haunted by him as well, for every time she closed her eyes to rest during the day, his face was there, waiting for her. Her subconscious had only grown crueler with every week that passed, visions of being in his arms, his hands on her body, his lips on her skin – it had virtually become a nightly occurrence, one that made waking up alone borderline unbearable.
While her office had proven marked by his memory as well, it was the only place where the dreams seemed to keep away. That, and the environment made it much easier to bury her complicated emotions in a twisted form of solitary confinement.
Here, she didn't have to endure her brother's open disapproval of "Leinhart's" extended absence, or Carmen's questions, or Lyra's suspicious looks, or Vesper's silent scrutiny. Within these four walls, she could exist in peace – or at the very least in silence – and so it had been, this mundane existence of little else than whiskey and work.
It didn't take long to fall into the old routine of researching and writing exposés on the current administration and their affiliates. Frankie had proven more productive in the last eight months than she ever had been prior to Vlad Leinhart, but these projects were in actuality a ruse for what she had truly been up to: researching the man known as Vladislaus Drăculea.
His history, his connections, his association with this city and its people, what Budapest and the surrounding region had been intended for – whatever she could dig up. Her main objective here and now was to learn and hopefully, with time, come to better understand the king of the undead in order to determine who he truly was.
She had come to the conclusion rather quickly after his departure that she could no longer in good conscience hold to those pre-conceived notions of what others said he was. She needed to know and decide for herself. It was the least she could do for him – even if they were doomed to be apart, she could still give him the benefit of the doubt.
This naturally had Frankie returning to her old notes and recordings of her interviews with four of the five surviving Dracul Sânge members, drawing up one massive timeline and connecting the dots, one section at a time until it gradually started to come together. She also had developed a list of questions she was trying to answer.
Queries like – were the dragon and his alias, Vlad Leinhart, two completely different personas, or were they actually one in the same with little to no distinction? What was the true state of his nature, his character? Who was he at his core? What drove him? What did he care about?
Although there were certainly unsavory aspects of his person and history that could not be excused, the intimate perspective provided by the Dracul Sânge had granted her with a kind of insight she had previously lacked. And with time, through the first-hand accounts and words of his sirelings, Frankie was given the rare opportunity to better comprehend his motives, his story, what had influenced him – all of the things that had helped to shape the man he had been and the man he was now.
One thing she knew for certain was that the assumed loss of his children had profoundly softened his character.
It was as though his entire personality had been altered by the experience – not that she could blame him. She understood firsthand just how powerful trauma could be, what it could do to a person.
And yet, it was strange – she couldn't readily recall a single time in their acquaintance when he had truly lost his temper in the way so many had often contended, nor had she ever witnessed him to be particularly ruthless or unfeeling. If anything, the Vladislaus she knew was very much in control of himself – just guarded. Perhaps it was because he was in hiding, though she suspected it ran a little deeper than that. There had been moments between them, before they had parted ways, where she could – with hindsight of course – recognize the signs, hints of the true Dracula slipping past the façade, but never anything in full.
He had always been muted, almost; concealed from her sight.
No – the only encounter she could think of where he had been more "himself" than the alias of Vlad Leinhart was that evening in Carmen's cellar when he had kissed her. Though his skill and the depth of his passion proved true to the tales, it was the way his presence had made her feel that left Frankie often pausing in reflection.
She recalled how four centuries prior, after their paths had first crossed in Venice, her cousin Alayna and their mutual friend, Lucia Ghilardi, had discussed the man's ability to "suppress his presence", masking his true power and strength so he could better blend in with normal society. She had witnessed a mere fraction of that power the night he had disposed of Morene, but when he had kissed her… it was as though he had suddenly become the sea and without even realizing it, she had begun to drown in him.
Not that the experience was as frightening or unpleasant as going under would otherwise be – in fact, it had proven quite the contrary. It felt natural, effortless – as if her body and soul recognized his authority, his sovereignty, his dominance. And it had left her to instinctually submit without even realizing it.
But had he intended for such a thing to transpire or was it something he could not fully control? Was it even him? Maybe it was just him bringing out the real her – the one buried underneath centuries of trauma. Or perhaps it had been the prophecy in action… the universe reacting to their brief moment of shared intimacy.
The more Frankie pondered the matter, the more questions she had.
There was this intuitive part of her that seemed to already know and understand him, but it had grown difficult to trust her feelings on the matter, to articulate or make sense of them. And so, in some vain effort to help remedy her lingering sense of internal conflict, each night she would listen and re-listen to the digitized recordings of her interviews with the Dracul Sânge on her laptop. She'd relive those evenings in her mind, jotting down details she hadn't noticed before and realizations that came with having her future children's memories in her head – and slowly but surely, the dots were gradually beginning to connect.
No, her subconscious would often interject whenever she would accidentally think of the Dracul Sânge in terms of being her progeny. They are not your children, nor can they ever be. Not unless a miracle occurs and you're somehow cured. You and Dracula will never be blood-bound, and they will never be yours. He will never be yours, and you can never be his. When will you get that through your head, Francesca?
It was a dreadful reminder, but one which she did not have the heart nor evidence to contradict.
It was the truth, after all.
Irrefutable and by no means easy to accept or digest, even after all the time that had passed.
Francesca and Vladislaus would never, could never be one in the way that the prophecy demanded, in the way some secret part of her longed for more and more every day. Not with her blood condition and the very real threat it posed to not only his life, but possibly to the whole of their species as well.
That's why you pushed him away, she'd then remind herself – usually multiple times a day. It's why you haven't seen him in over eight months. And it was true. She hadn't laid eyes on him or heard his voice once. Not a word, nor an accidental passing in the street.
Not to say that her dear brother hadn't tried to bring Vlad back into the fold of the alliance, but Dracula's respect of Frankie's wishes proved far greater than his friendship with her brother and that fact had not only surprised her by the time the first month had passed, but it unexpectedly moved her as well. By the time his second month away had come and gone, Frankie had secretly been finding herself hoping against hope that he would perhaps return, that he would come back and fight for her.
But he never came, and with his absence, winter laid siege on the city.
By the time spring had arrived with its rain and more congenial weather, Frankie's hope had waned considerably, and with the nearing of summer and no Dracula still, it was nearly spent. She recognized, of course, that the notion of him coming back and sweeping her off her feet was mere fantasy.
Vlad may have boasted to having a keen understanding of how women worked, but he was still a man – a proud one at that – and in her need to save him from herself, she had wounded him.
Besides, she knew from experience that if she truly wanted him to return, if she wanted them to fix what she had so recklessly destroyed, all she had to do was reach out and make the first move – though she also understood that doing so would by no means guarantee the existence of feelings he had once carried for her. As far as she knew, he could have very well moved on to someone else – he had done it after Venice. Why would now be any different?
If only she could put aside that stubborn insistence that their separation was for the best.
Yet, she could not; for she knew the instant he returned into her life, if he gave her the smallest indication that he still desired her after everything she had said and done, it would be so easy to fall back into where they had been before.
She was strong willed to be sure, but not strong enough to resist that effortless connection she felt toward that man.
No, she thought to herself as she began to absently listen to her very brief interview with Louise Poincaré, eldest daughter of the dragon. No, it is better that he is gone. He has probably moved on; and if he has, it is for the best. Prophecy or no prophecy, he has never owed you anything and it would be cruel to demand his love and his fidelity when you cannot even promise to give him all of you. Why are you so defective, Frankie? Why must you be so broken?
Frankie's vicious inner critic had always known just where to cut and how deep in order to keep her where she was – safe, but entirely miserable. She quickly wiped the responding tears from her eyes before they could tumble down her cheeks.
"The only child in the room is Miss Chase," Louise's pre-recorded voice exclaimed from Frankie's laptop speakers, the harsh reproach pulling her from her thoughts. "No one so naïve would dare to aspire to being our father's queen. I mean look at her, Jack! You seriously expect me to believe that that is the undying bride of the great dragon, the savior of our race? I've seen more promise in some of father's whores than I do in this pitiful disgrace of a woman."
It was strange how words, which had once had so little an effect on Frankie's sense of confidence, now wounded her so. Although on her good days, Francesca Chase fully comprehended her own value, requiring no one's approval on that front, lately she had been finding herself more susceptible to these self-doubting moods. It only made Louise's words more poignant than they would have been otherwise.
Vlad certainly had his faults, there was no denying this. Yet, so did she. And the more Frankie dug into his past, the more she had come to respect him in spite of it all; and the more her previously prejudiced opinion of him improved, the more she questioned herself and her worthiness as his "destined mate."
She was no queen. As much as the others liked to tease her on that front, she had no experience in ruling a large body of people with diverse opinions and life experiences. Frankie had always preferred being behind the scenes; all about the intrigue rather than the limelight. That's why Rémy was the head of the alliance, after all.
But her ability to play the game aside, what did she have to offer a king outside of her broken, imperfect self? Nothing of much value as far as she was concerned.
Frankie had become so distracted by the mire of her own self-deprecating thoughts that she never heard Lyra enter the room until she had spoken.
"Who's this twat you're arguing with?" she asked, making her way over to the desk while sending a sneer in the direction of the laptop.
"Dracula's eldest daughter," Frankie explained a little sardonically, watching the illustrated waves of Louise's voice on the screen in front of her.
"Mariella's prophecy was made over three centuries ago. Perhaps your supposed grief could have been avoided if you had not shied away from your duty. Undoubtedly, the death of your loved ones was the consequence of your apparent sense of arrogance and cowardice!" Louise's recorded voice shot from the speakers.
"Only the truly arrogant and cowardly have a need to raise their voice. What are you? A little yapping dog convinced that it's bigger than it actually is?" came Frankie's reply and Lyra chuckled.
"Ooh hoo! Go Frankie," she said with a smirk.
"It gets better."
The two women then listened to the sound of Frankie overpowering a furious Louise, giving her a thorough verbal dressing down before allowing a single drop of her acidic blood to mar the woman's face. Before it could get too out of hand, however, Frankie had paused the playing of the audio file, not exactly eager to listen to Miss Poincaré's screams of agony.
"Why'd you stop it?" Lyra asked. "We were just getting to the good stuff! Did you really get your blood on her on purpose?"
The brunette closed her laptop before leaning back in her seat.
"Yes, and I still feel bad about it."
"You shouldn't," her friend insisted. "She was acting like a total spoiled brat. She had no reason to be such a bitch to you."
"She was being protective of her father. I'm sure in her mind, her behavior was totally justified," she defended upon standing.
"That's no excuse to be a cu…"
"Lyra."
"Alright, alright… I'll stop talking bad about your future kiddos. I just think they should show a bit more respect to their mother."
"I'm nobody's mother," Frankie replied and she reached for her phone, slipping it into the back pocket of her jeans before pulling on a light jacket. "You ready to go?"
"I don't know. Are you ready to tell me why you've been such a broody workaholic lately? You've become the embodiment of a bad, stereotypically obsessed cop or some shit…" Lyra countered without missing a beat as Frankie reached for the door. As expected, the depressed female never broke character, making her way out into the hall, her friend close behind.
"Just doing my part to help with the cause."
"Bullshit."
"I'm not in the mood to have this discussion right now, Lyra."
"You've been saying that for the last eight months, Frank. Come on! I'm your best friend, woman. Let me in, already! You never had a problem talking to me about your woes before, but these days it's nothing but radio silence from you."
"I just have a lot I'm still processing, that's all," she insisted, but Lyra wasn't buying it.
The redhead was shrewd and observant – at least when it came to Francesca Chase – and she had known the instant Rémy had explained that Vlad Leinhart would be MIA for the unforeseeable future that something had happened.
At first she had suspected that Frankie and Vlad had momentarily succumbed to their mutual lust, perhaps eased a bit of that tension that had been steadily growing. But if she knew her friend at all, she was certain Frankie had told Vlad the truth about who she was betrothed to. It was the only logical explanation for the man's current absence.
In Lyra's mind, Frankie had undoubtedly pushed him away – a classic move – but when her friend had vehemently insisted that she hadn't told Vlad anything, Lyra knew she was telling the truth.
So what else would account for this behavior?
She wasn't sure she could even begin to fathom it.
"Do you have the location of where we're supposed to meet this Jack fellow?" she asked instead of pursuing the questions she so dearly wanted answers to, deciding it was better to drop the subject and save it for later. Frankie proved grateful for that.
"The old cemetery on Kozma Street."
"A bit clichéd for a secret rendezvous between two vampires, don't you think?"
"It was the safest and most out-of-the-way location I could think of."
They arrived at the designated place about an hour after sundown. It had been years since Frankie had visited this part of the city and so much of it had become overrun by wildlife in the last few decades that she hardly recognized it. Before the war, Kozma had been well known for its effortless balance of the macabre and the elegant, nature and artifice, though the predominantly Jewish resting ground was more nature than anything else these days. The vast majority of the tombstones had been utterly devoured in foliage, the crypts dressed in extravagant cloaks of ivy and moss, branches from overgrown shrubbery and trees slowly breaking up the rock.
Lyra agreed to stay behind once they got to the cemetery so she could keep a look out, which left Frankie to walk through the dark and empty graveyard alone. Her predetermined meeting place with Jack was to be in one of the back lots closest to Tarkarét Road at the far end of the cemetery. As she made her way over, she couldn't help but quietly appreciate the strange sort of gravity this place held.
For countless mortals, the grave was a stark reminder that all things came to an end – life, especially. Yet for Frankie, being surrounded by death made her feel oddly invincible. She had overcome what these poor souls surrounding her had not. The world had come and gone around her, yet here she remained – untouched by the cruel hand of time, the beauty and youth of her fleshy prison undiminished, though her soul had certainly aged.
But she was still here.
She had survived so much in her four-hundred and twenty-nine years of life; and she would continue to endure because that's what she did.
Although her present situation seemed so finite and absolute, amongst the valley of the dead she found a kind of hope swelling in her breast. She would find a way to withstand the unforgiving and indifferent hand of fate – and she would rise above it, somehow.
The woman breathed in deep of the evening air, the recently fallen rain of the afternoon having given the atmosphere a kind a humid dampness that left her waxing a little nostalgic for places she hadn't seen in ages.
New Orleans.
Venice.
All places that had her thinking of Dracula… of Vlad.
She smiled a little pathetically at how easy it was for her brain to connect back to him. She wondered how he was doing, what he was up to. Was he missing her as much as she missed him? The disappointment in his expression when she had left him there alone in the metro station had haunted her, and even if he never forgave her for her unfeeling rejection of him, some secret part of her hoped that he was at the very least all right.
But there was little time left to ponder Dracula now.
She noticed Jack up ahead, hidden in the shadows of one of the large trees overrun with ivy. He was seated on the top of an old headstone, the light of the full moon above them streaming through the dense foliage, the moisture of the day's deluge giving the scene an enchanted feel as the natural light of the evening glistened off the water droplets.
He smiled upon seeing her.
"Francesca," he called out, standing and immediately making his way over.
He was at her side in a matter of strides, his arms soon wrapped around her. His fond embrace was unexpected, but she made no effort to fight it, the private sorrows that had been weighing her down these last months feeling just a little lighter in his presence.
"You have no idea how happy it makes me to actually see you in person for a change," he said, still holding her. "Not that I minded our correspondence. I forgot how much I enjoyed letter-writing." He then moved back a little so he could hold her face and look into her eyes. "I hope you've been well?"
"I've been managing," she answered truthfully and his searching expression became one of knowing and understanding – an alteration that puzzled her.
"Sometimes, that's all we can do," he said sympathetically. He took her hand, leading her over to an old stone bench he had cleared of shrubbery so they could sit. "Come. We don't have much time to visit and I want to make the most of it."
When they were situated comfortably, he turned to face her a little more fully on the seat.
"So tell me what you have been up to lately. I haven't seen you properly since the incident with Louise."
"Just busy with alliance work," she said, though that was only partially true. "Trying to stay out of trouble – or rather, trying to keep my brother out of it. The usual, I suppose. How are Niklaus and Ezekiel, and your sisters?"
"All well. Zeke is actually with Isabella now as we speak. We're hoping she'll concede to letting us use her territory so you can have your final interview with Tempest. The south district seems to be our safest bet for the present until we can find something a little more secure and out of the way for the future. I'd like for all of us to meet a little more regularly if we can."
"I'd like that."
"So you have no objections to meeting with Tempest in lycan territory?"
"None whatsoever! I only ask that we have someplace private where she and I can talk, but other than that, I have to agree – we'd all be much safer amongst the pack than anywhere else in Budapest right now. So long as Isabella has no objections."
"I'll let you know as soon as I hear back from Zeke. If she green-lights the location, when do you think we'd be able to meet?"
"Probably next week. There's a lot going on right now with the alliance and from what my brother told me a few nights ago, he's looking to orchestrate another demonstration before the end of the month. After that, I'll be out of town for the rest of the summer."
"Oh? Where will you be going?"
"I have family in France – my uncle and cousins. My brother and I will be staying with them for a number of weeks to visit with old friends and to help Armand with his mid-summer masque."
"Armand is your uncle, I presume?"
"Yes – my father's younger brother."
"I see. Sounds like fun! I can't remember the last time I attended a proper party."
"You and your siblings have my whole-hearted consent to crash it, if you'd like," she teased and Jack laughed.
"Perhaps another time. Our place is here. I'm sure you understand."
"I do," Frankie answered with a half-hearted smile and the lingering hint of sadness in her eyes that she hadn't known was there caught Jack's attention.
"Francesca, are you sure you're all right? Forgive me, but something seems to be burdening you this evening."
"What do you mean?"
"You look weighed down by something."
"I'm fine, I promise," she said, though it was mostly for her own sake than his. Despite her attempts to deflect, however, Jack saw through her façade.
She looked away from him, pretending to casually examine one of the old grave markers in front of them, but he continued in his open studying of her face, as if he was trying to make something out. When he took her hand suddenly, she found she could no longer look away.
"You've seen Father, haven't you?" he asked.
Though tempted to allow her eyes to widen in surprise, she remained impressively sedate, expression unchanged.
"What makes you say that?"
"A feeling…" he replied, still searching her eyes. "Well?"
"I have seen him," she confessed, "In truth, I've known him for some time."
"Really?" he asked, though it was clear his heart wasn't in his feigned surprise. Now it was Frankie's turn to be suspicious.
"Yes… he's assumed a false identity and is using what I can only assume is a concealment charm so he can blend in with the general populace. But I'm getting the distinct impression that despite your impressive acting skills, you've actually known this for a while."
Evidently she had hit the proverbial nail on the head. Jack's countenance became a bit sheepish.
"I confess nor deny anything," he said, but his expression was answer enough for her and her eyes narrowed a bit in his direction.
"How long have you known?" she persisted and it didn't take long for him to cave under her scrutiny.
"Months," he admitted. "Do you remember that one evening you were in the VNN building, in the elevator, and I had hacked the security system so we could speak?"
"Yes?"
"I saw him take the lift before you had arrived. At first, I thought it was just a coincidence, but when he went into your office and then you said that you were meeting your brother's friend – Leinhart, was it? – well, the rest was just some simple connecting of the dots. I approached Bernardini, of course, to have it confirmed, but even with Mariella's concealment charm, I knew that face anywhere. One of the perks of having his blood running through my veins."
"And you never thought to say anything?"
"I assumed that if he knew who you actually were, he'd wish to get to know you on his own terms without any meddling from the rest of us; and you were so decided against him at the time, I figured it was best to be silent."
Although it was very evident that Frankie disapproved of his secret keeping, with a bit of a huff she let it go, leaning back on her hand so she could better take in the view before them.
"You're not angry with me, are you?" he asked and she chuckled a little.
"No. A bit disappointed that everyone seems to feel the need to keep secrets from me, but I suppose that would make me even more of a hypocrite that usual. Your father has no idea who I really am, or that I know who he is."
She was too busy taking in the sight of the flora and fauna to catch the knowing smirk Jack was wearing as he too leaned back a little against the tree situated behind their bench.
"Oh the classic lack of communication," he exclaimed with an exaggerated sigh. "That's never going to bite any of us in the ass in the future, is it?"
"Of course not," she teased. "So do any of your siblings know?"
"Just Zeke, and it was because I told him. The rest we agreed to keep in the dark."
"Why?"
"Because the girls wouldn't be able to help themselves if they knew he was actually in the city and Niklaus can't keep his mouth shut to save his life."
They both laughed at that.
"And this way, you and Father can continue to become better acquainted without any interferences from us biased parties that would deeply prefer to lock the two of you in a room until you emerged husband and wife."
Frankie rolled her eyes and smiled, falling silent for a moment or two before continuing.
"I have another confession, Jack," she began, eyes downcast. "I haven't seen your father in over eight months."
He didn't seem very surprised by that bit of news either.
"What happened?"
"I told him to stay away."
Jack didn't reply at first – in part because he had never dared to think that Frankie would trust him enough to tell him her own side of things.
"Let me guess," he announced with a degree of lightheartedness, though his expression remained serious. "It has something to do with what your blood did to Louise's face."
Frankie didn't need to answer to confirm his "suspicions."
"You do realize that that decision should have been his, as well as yours, right?" he asked and the woman nodded once in reply.
"Yes, but I can guess what he would have chosen, and I just… I can't take that risk, Jack. Ever since I broke things off with him late last year, I've had ample amounts of time to ponder on the circumstances. Even though I'm still trying to sort out my feelings, the fact of the matter is even if I could love him and he me, if what's between us is true and real and not some fabrication or manipulation of some otherworldly force determined to have us together, if we could somehow make things work…"
She paused, realizing that she was rambling and it wasn't until after she took a deep breath to steady her nerves that she said, voice notably lower, "Because of what Augustine did to me, what he did to my blood especially… I just… I can't risk it. I've watched too many die at my hand because of this poison in my veins."
Frankie rested her hand in her lap, palm upwards and with a single nail, she sliced open the flesh, watching with absentminded interest as the dark crimson began to push to the surface, pooling.
"Blood is what keeps us alive, Jack," she said softly, running the tip of her finger through the blood in her hand. "It's not only what nourishes and replenishes our bodies – it binds. For you and Zeke, and Niklaus and Louise and Tempest – it connects you to Dracula. It's what makes you his. For me to become what destiny has declared me to be – his undying bride – I must partake of his blood and he of mine. We have to become one in every sense of the word. I may be able to taste of his blood as you and your siblings have, but…"
"He can never taste of yours," Jack finished in grave understanding. "Not without risking his own destruction."
"And with him, the very real chance of the destruction of our kind. If I surrender to the will of fate, Augustine wouldn't just win, but I'd be solely responsible for the mass destruction of an entire species. Marcus knows the only way he can be truly stopped is if your father and I are blood bound… and he made certain that that would never happen. Not in this life, anyway," and she watched as the blood retreated back into her hand before the flesh miraculously stitched itself back together, leaving no trace of scar or malformation behind.
"There must be some way to undo what Augustine has done," he insisted, but Frankie stood whilst shaking her head, her abrupt change of position allowing her to conceal the tears that were now welling in her lower lash line.
"If there is, I have not found it – and believe me, I've spent the last two-hundred years looking."
"So you're just going to give up?"
When she had better control over her emotions, she turned to him and managed a smile.
"In finding a cure? Yes. But in stopping Marcus Augustine? Never."
There was a moment of silence between the two as her words lingered in the air and with the hoot of an owl hidden somewhere in the trees, Frankie became conscious of the hour.
"You should probably get going," she encouraged. "It's not safe for you to be out here on your own."
"I could say the same thing about you," he stated upon standing.
"I brought my friend, Lyra, with me. She's waiting at the entrance of the cemetery."
"I'd like to meet this Lyra of yours someday, though I suppose tonight isn't perhaps the most suitable time. Does she know about us?"
"Yes, but only in vague details."
"Does she know about my father?"
"You mean that Leinhart and Dracula are one in the same? No – I haven't told anyone."
"I suppose that's for the best. Well, I'll let you know a more firm date and time once I hear back from Zeke. I look forward to seeing you again; and though our time together has been brief, I've enjoyed spending it in your company."
"As have I," she said as he kissed her hand before pulling her into a tight hug. When she thought it appropriate to release him, he only continued to hold her.
"Don't give up hope just yet," he whispered into her ear. "If I believed in otherworldly powers, I'd trust in Mariella's prophecies over any other celestial miracle. You and Father will be together. I don't know how, but I know it will happen. I can feel it in my bones." He then kissed her cheek and took a step back. "Goodnight, Francesca. Until we meet again."
Although a bit stunned, she managed a smile and bid him farewell before disappearing into the shadows of the graveyard.
The moment Frankie was out of sight, Jack removed his phone from his coat pocket and brought it up to his ear.
"Please tell me you heard all of that," he told the person on the other end of the line.
"I did. Seems we have our work cut out for us," came Bernardini's voice.
"I can't believe the two of them have given up so easily."
"Well, we'll have to help them with that, won't we?"
"When do you see Father again?"
"In an hour or so. I invited him over for tea."
"Good. He and Francesca have been separated for long enough."
"I agree."
"I'm going to go drop a hint in her brother's direction before heading back to the den to pick up Zeke. Keep me posted on any developments?"
"Of course."
Ahhh the angst. The pining. The yearning. It drives me mad but I also kind of love it. Next chapter goes up on Monday.
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