Chapter Six

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"My philosophical friend, would you be horribly insulted if I informed you that you have completely lost your mind?" she says laughingly. "That is the only reason I can find that might explain your request."


He sits with her in a lavishly decorated study, separated by a sturdy oak desk. His expression fades quickly from a glimmer of hope to a hardening glare.


"I mean, I realize this is the Age of Enlightenment, but this is taking it a step too far!" she scoffs. "Give you the Blood, indeed!"


She catches his eye, smiles weakly, and adds, "I see this wasn't the answer you were expecting. But I believe you do not truly know for what you ask me."


Cautiously, she leans towards him and whispers, "Do you understand how wretchedly terrible this cursed existence is? To kill every night to continue living, and with each damn myself even further into Hell."


Their eyes lock and she thinks silently to him, You do not want this.


She stands and walks to a large bay window overlooking a dark, sprawling lawn. "Go back to your love of women so that you will not develop a love of death."


Then, after a moment's pause, she faces him once more. "But you have turned from that path, have you not, poet? You've grown cold, a minstrel of sorrow."


He rises and comes to her, taking her frozen hands. "It was that loneliness which brought you here tonight." She steps closer to him and continues on, "Don't you see? It would only increase your pain, add to the misery inside.


"There is nothing I can tell you that might ease your frustration at my refusal."


He pulls away and returns to his chair, but does not sit. She says softly, "Know only that as much as you might curse my very soul for demanding you leave now, it would be a thousand fold more if I were to permit you to stay and make the transformation."


She moves to comfort him as he bows his head and braces himself against the desk, yet does not make it very far. She stops and whispers, "Please . . . go."


He looks up for a second, turns to met her gaze, then swiftly disappears from view. She frowns and disbelievingly shakes her head. She begins to quit the room when a blue glint catches her eye.


There, lying on the solid oak desk, is a stunning silver necklace with a aquamarine pendant. She gently picks it up and notices a note underneath it. In beautiful Parisian script, it says:


I know who you are.