Chapter summary: This must be what magic feels like.

Acknowledgements: lotus11 is my lovely pre-reader-slash-cheerleader. BelleBiter is my beta and sounding board, and so much more – the woman knows Latin.

A/N: Fans of the 1997 TV series La Femme Nikita might recognize a pivotal scene in this chapter.

There are some things in life that I never expect to hear. For example:

Your dad has had a heart attack.

You've won the million dollar lottery.

There's a sexy vampire looking daggers at you.

Now I can add:

I am the muse of dance.

He – the muse of dance - stands and stares down at me with his green eyes that sometimes turn gold or violet, his face hovering close to mine. His gaze is running all over my face like he's trying to figure me out, like I'm the one who just said something crazy.

He looks quite normal. Drop dead gorgeous - the kind of guy with looks that can steal a girl's common sense - but normal.

But he's certifiably nuts. I knew it, I knew he was crazy.

"If you're the muse of dance, you've got the wrong girl," I grit. "I'm an artist, not a dancer."

I'm humoring the beautiful man. One last time.

"A muse is a muse," he says. He looks at me with wide, bewildered eyes, maybe because he just can't understand why I don't believe him. His crazy seems to be more deep-rooted than my disappointment about what he's said.

"Our talents don't dictate to whom we inspire," he continues in his melodic tone of voice. "Who do you think gave Thomas Edison the idea to use a loose thread from his bamboo fishing pole in a light bulb?"

I look at him askance. Is he kidding?

"There he was fooling and fretting with that pole to death, and the thread just wouldn't give and wouldn't give, and I joked with him that that thread seemed tougher than the wood splinter he was currently using in his light bulbs. And eureka! Thirteen hours became twelve hundred."

"Um," I say, and take a wee step back. He's talking about Thomas Edison like he actually shook hands with the guy.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "That's right. Tom liked to fish, just like your dad. Although Tom's thing was inventing. He wasn't happy unless he was thinking up a new or a better way of doing a thing."

"You did not go fishing with Thomas Edison," I growl.

"But I did," he says. "Just once, though. That doesn't count?"

His eyes are sparkling gold; he's excited for what he's telling me. He is not kidding.

"One of my favorite memories is of Godgifu. She was married to a man whose avarice caused her a certain anguish. She told me once that he loved her too much, too ill, and had a behavior of gifting her with what she called these horrid baubles that would feed a family of six for a year."

His voice takes on a curious ye-olde-worlde lilt as he continues.

"Leofric was a nobleman who believed in proper taxation of tenants, be they struggling or no, but Godgifu had a right soft spot for the poor. Fortunately, he did listen to her with half an ear on occasion, and they made a wager of sorts. He promised to pardon the taxes of those hit hardest if she'd only but ride through Coventry in the altogether."

He leans forward with a secretive smile. "I whispered tirelessly in her ear. Oh, but she was stubborn like you; but then, she felt an understandable, distinct kind of fear. So I persuaded Leofric to egg her on, seeing as how he believed she'd never attempt such a thing."

And here he downright cackles, bending at the waist to rest his hands on his knees as he laughs.

"They both rose to the occasion! And she-she—" Laughter overcomes him now, interrupting his words, and I can't help but be enraptured with the way he's telling this story. "She rode through Coventry bareback, giving anyone who cared to look a right eyeful."

So he knows the story of Godiva, I think, and cross my arms. Maybe he once had to do a book report on her; something that would account for all of the details he seems to know.

"Leofric, he gave in," he continues, wiping at his eyes. "She got what she wanted. And the people – they loved her. Did you know that she used to tuck her smallest baubles into the blankets of babies whose mommas she was visiting?"

"No," I growl. "And neither do you. You're making this up."

He has to be making some of this up. Maybe he should have been an actor instead of a singer and dancer. Lord knows, he looks the part.

"No," he says softly. "I'm not, Bella. I am sharing a few good memories with you. I have many, some more unbelievable than others. Would you like to hear the story about how Sigmund Freud came up the Oedipus complex? It's quite disturbing, actually, but—"

"Stop being so ridiculous," I say. "Are you an actor? Is this maybe an assignment? To find some girl and make her believe that you are something out of this world?"

Suddenly afraid of what I'm suggesting – because I'd almost rather die than to be on camera – I stiffen and dart my gaze around us, trying to find a likely person who might be aiming a camera lens our way.

"Well, I once knew an actor," he says and rubs his chin thoughtfully. "More than one, if you want the truth. My favorites would have to be Bud Abbott and Lou Costello."

If I want the truth?

I don't think he's capable of telling it.

He's still talk, talk, talking. No one I've ever known, not even Alice, talks as much as E.

"Who's on first?" he grins.

"Who's going to get clobbered?" I threaten.

"Which one of us?"

"You, that's who!"

He's laughing, which is a beautiful thing to see, and I know I've fallen for the joke. But it just pisses me off. Why is he doing this?

Feeling suddenly tired and sad and just done, I turn to leave.

He catches my arm, and his touch is softly firm and warm. His fingers against my skin still raises goose bumps, something that he notices with a gentle smile.

"I'm a muse," he says. "Your muse for now."

He… truly believes that he is a muse.

Like champagne bubble froth, my disbelief and regret spill out in a torrent of words. "You're a liar. And obviously good at telling stories. I knew you were too good to be true. A muse? What a crock of shit. You need help, E – or whatever your real name is. I don't know how many women you've won over this way, but I'm not going to be one of them. Go away. Leave me alone."

And then I'm stumbling up the stairs because there are tears in my eyes.

That he lets me walk away from him both relieves and wrecks me. Even though it hurts, even though each step I climb is another painful heartbeat away, I know I have to do it.

For my sanity.

For his, too, because he has to learn that he can't treat people this way.

Step.

Goodbye.

Step.

Goodbye.

Step.

My hands push against the worn, heavy wood door that leads into the short foyer. Beyond that is the living room, and one of Alice's leopard-print accent chairs.

And E.

Arms folded across his chest, he's standing beside the chair.

His hair is in a wilder disarray than I've ever seen it. And the look on his face — that face that has only ever appeared beautifully seductive to me — is stiff with uncertainty as our eyes meet.

What.

Is.

He.

Doing.

Here?

My body throws itself backwards against the door, and my head knocks against the wood hard enough that all my thoughts collapse.

When my eyes open, he's down on his knees in front of me. His eyebrows are furrowed and his jaw is clenched.

I make a sound from the back of my throat, and he shushes me with a hand gently placed against the side of my face.

But how can he be here?

He was just down there.

I jerk my face away from his warm touch.

"Bella," he says, and the sound washes over me like syrup.

"Don't," I say, and scramble to my feet.

He rises with me, catching my hand and trapping it warm against his chest. One of his arms comes around me, pulling me closer to him, even though I'm digging my heels into the floor.

My heart stops – and then starts hammering at how close he is. He's never been this close to me. Never seemed to want to get this close. Why does he now?

"You know, I don't work to win over anyone," he says, and his breath is a caress against my face. "I don't have to, at least not on purpose. It's never been an issue before."

His brows are furrowed again, and he looks as confused as I feel.

I have to look away. Heavy silence fills the room, loud with unformed questions in my mind. The familiar sight of my own and Alice's things around the house does nothing to quell the uneasy racing of my heart. That would only happen if he wasn't here, or if he wasn't holding on to me.

Gathering my resolve, I glance up into his eyes. They're still gold and solemn. And I just shake my head – because I am still out of words. I don't know what he's up to now, but he's kind of terrifying me.

"How," I begin, and have to swallow because my throat has gone bone dry. "How did you?"

I can't even complete the thought. Like I said: out of words.

"My parents are gods. Disappearing from one moment to appear in another is one of the first things we learn."

I laugh a little; it comes out as a hysterical-sounding whiney wheeze. Maybe I'm dreaming, because I think he just said his parents are gods, too.

"You can't be for real," I say weakly.

I don't realize I've closed my eyes until his touch against my cheeks snaps them open.

"I'm… for real," he says. "I've been here – everywhere – for millennia. I may take on different souls and forms and sexes, but I assure you, Bella, I am for real. And I am here. Right here, right now, for as long as you need me."

I look away from his beautifully intense gaze. He can tell me anything and get away with it, so I can't look at him, I can't see those eyes and fall under their spell again.

Because if he's real, if he's telling the truth, I'm going to go crazy.

"Tuesday, last June 28th," he says. "That was the day your dad had a heart-attack, the day he almost died."

The air I'm breathing is suddenly acrid and choppy. My mouth works to form questions, but nothing is coming out.

"That's when you began to doubt yourself, to overthink every decision you made."

"Stop," I say, and raise a hand to my forehead. I know I'm a worry-wart, especially when it concerns Dad.

Too familiar with how those thoughts like to keep me company, I mostly try to run away from them. That Dad almost died still wakes me up with a pounding heart sometimes at night. He's all the family I have left.

"You can't let fear rule your life, Bella."

"I don't," I snap.

He doesn't even know me.

How can he know that?

I try to push away from him, but he won't let me go. His gaze is intense, and his hands are trapping me and making me panic.

Seeming to sense it, he finally lets me go. I stagger over to the couch and fall onto the cushions. I'm weak all over and my head is buzzing empty. He follows me, his steps slow and measured. Which is a very good thing, because I feel as if I've been backed into a corner.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. He lowers himself to the far end of the couch, and his hands are raised apologetically. He's wearing a puppy dog expression, and my heart gives a lurch.

He's too damn pretty.

"I've frightened you, Bella, and that's not what I meant to do. You were in trouble and I only meant to steal a moment or two, but I feel like I'm totally mishandling this one."

Mishandling this one?

"What do you mean?"

Leaning over with his elbows on his knees, he holds his head in his hands. It's a surprisingly defeatist pose for him, and seeing it gives me a pang. I'm used to seeing him as self-confident, beautifully serene, and larger than life.

"I'm only supposed to try to inspire you," he says to the floor. "My performance was supposed to be the end of it, but I decided to come back—"

Come back from where?

"—and make sure that I succeeded. I made sure that you would see me that morning. And you did, but I could tell you still had doubts. I didn't see a creative light in your eyes, I didn't see the right energy surrounding you."

"But how do you deliberately inspire someone?" I ask.

He raises his head. Right in front of my eyes, his change from gold to violet.

What the?

As I watch with a gaping mouth, a pulsing violet light begins to shimmer around his body, and I gasp from the depths of my soul.

Holy crap, holy crap.

"For some, it's as easy as giving them a smile," he says, and gives me what I think might be his best one. His voice is different. More resonant; the sound penetrates me like a gong's echoing ripples.

"Some people require a performance, like what you saw a few weeks ago. For some, it's enough for me to appear in a dream. Or to whisper a thought to them."

"You're glowing," I say hoarsely.

"That's right," he tells me and stands, his lethal good looks morphing into something more. "I'm giving you the full effect because that's what you need, Bella. You're resistant. You forget the dreams I give you. You don't hear my whispers. You doubt what you see and feel. You doubt me."

As he stands in violet, angelic glory, feet planted on the lamb's wool rug in front of the couch, I don't see how I can doubt him anymore. He's radiating the inner beauty and power I witnessed during his performance. It's racing along every inch of his skin, and I feel something like electricity in the space between us.

I'm dead-gone enthralled.

"I can't allow you to second-guess me anymore. It's against the rules to expose myself like this, and I'll probably get into trouble, but I don't care. I think you're worth it. The question is, do you?"

I'm… at a loss."I-I-I—"

"I'll have to leave if you don't. And, Bella?" He gives me such a look of woebegone sadness that tears immediately spring to my eyes. "You'll be one of my worst regrets."

"This is impossible," I breathe. "Impossible."

"Obviously not," he says.

"You're really here for me?"

"I am."

"Did… God send you?"

He gives me a gentle look of reproach. "We're allowed to choose whomever we want. Your spark is one of my favorites, so when it dimmed, I knew I had to come."

"My what?"

"Everyone has a spark," he murmurs. "Although the color, shape and size varies with each person."

I don't know how it happened, but I'm on my feet and standing just inches away from him. The light around him burns even brighter when he takes my hands in his, and to my astonishment, the light moves up my wrists to my arms, until it surrounds me, too. I feel buoyant, invincible, and – suddenly, something else. I feel free.

"What does my spark look like?" I ask in a voice that doesn't sound like me. It's like it's more pure, or metallic.

This must be what magic feels like.

He stares at me with his glowing violet eyes, and it's like he sees more than as I appear to him. "It's silver iridescent when you are happily creating, but more silvery onyx when you're not."

I'm a silver?

"Oh," I gasp-say.

"Even when you're at your worst, it's still a sight to see, though," he says, and it's clear to me that he sees it now: my spark.

"You are iridescent violet at the moment," he breathes. "It must be our spark together."

"Why can I see yours, but not mine?"

"We can never see our own," he says.

"That's a shame," I murmur, as we press the palms of our hands together and raise them to chest-level. We're both staring at our hands, and I'm surprised to note that his breathing is as choppy as mine.

"I've never felt anything like this," he says, weaving his fingers through mine.

I swallow thickly. "That makes two of us."

I watch him as he studies our hands; he seems transfixed by the movement of his skin against mine. He curls his fingers down, grasping my hands in his, then releases me to run the tips of his fingers slowly down the inside of mine. Little tingles shoot up my arms and thrum through my body as he turns the backs of his hands into the palms of mine, letting my touch caress him. Then he's running his fingers along the outside of my hands, down the inside of my wrists, awakening every nerve ending along the way.

He's… it's like he's making love to me with his touch.

My heart thunders and my breathing stutters, forcing a moan from my throat.

His thick-lashed eyes raise to mine, and I see that they are heavy with want, probably much like mine.

And then his eyes open wide with surprise, and he's backing away from me like he's been singed by fire.

I hunch my shoulders and clasp my hands, wringing them as he hides his gaze from mine. Why did he stop?

"I can't do this with you, I'm sorry," he says. He glances quick at me, and I see his eyes are green now. Dark, regretful green.

I turn away from him and go back to the couch, grabbing a pillow to my chest to hug. "Why?"

"It's forbidden," he says, and begins to pace across the floor. "I've already had too much contact with you. We're not supposed to get involved with… people."

He takes a shaky breath to continue, but I want to know what he was going to call me when he hesitated.

"Humans," he says softly.

"You're not supposed to get involved with humans?" I ask in disbelief.

My body is still trembling from his touch, and he can barely look at me. I pull the pillow tighter against my chest, trying to smother the unwanted jolt of rejection.

"I'm a muse, Bella. I don't exist here on Earth."

My voice is faint. "Where do you exist, then?"

He sighs and turns to face me, then takes a few quick steps to my side. When he drops to his knees in front of me, my heart and thoughts stop.

"In the heavens."

He points at the ceiling.

Like that's any better. He might as well live on the moon.

And then he's leaning close and pressing his warm, all-too-human lips against my cheek.

Head and thoughts spinning, I can't help but try to move my mouth to his—

"I have to go," he says, pushing himself away.

Feeling rejected again, I spring to my feet. "You're leaving? Now?"

"I'll return," he says and smiles, but he's backing away from me and I'm panicking for an entirely different reason now.

"So you don't live in a tan house?"

"And I don't work at The Pacific Design Center," he adds with a raised eyebrow.

"You should have made me dislike you," I growl.

Why couldn't he have just been a pushy jerk?

Or a hunch-back?

Or an ugly, egotistical, boring stalker?

But noooo.

He has to be a charismatic, gorgeous muse, here just for me.

How on earth am I supposed to get past that?

Because now that I know he's not crazy, that he's a muse, I think I like him even more. Which is ridiculous of me.

He looks puzzled. "I don't know how I would make someone dislike me. I don't want anyone to hate me, or to be mad at me."

Suddenly, his head cocks, and he looks sheepish.

"Oops. I must go. Goodbye, Bella."

And poof, he disappears.

I stare at the open space where he was for long moments and just blink. He was there and now he's gone? Again?

Huh.

Like a dog circling her bed before she lies down, I move around the area where he was just standing. I don't know what I'm searching for; maybe his residual force field? Whatever it is, I'm no closer to understanding it.

The space still seems super-charged with his personality, his presence. And even though the sun is going down outside, it still seems so bright in this room.

Maybe he left behind a bit of magic.

And… have I lost my mind, or did I really just come this-close to kissing the muse of dance?

Because he's really the muse of dance. Or… something. Something more than what I am, anyway.

I don't know how to feel about that.

It doesn't make sense in my head.

I'm fascinated with the idea, sure. Who wouldn't be? But I'm scared. What does one do with a muse? How should I act now? Is it even okay to like him?

He admitted that he was attracted to me.

But he also said it was forbidden to interact with humans. Which means he shouldn't be attracted to me.

He's not human.

But he feels and looks like one.

Would he kiss like one?

Make love like one?

I growl and fist my hair.

I can't go there. I can't. I don't think even he's allowed to go there.

I'm not sure why, though. Seems to me that making love would encourage all kinds of creativity.

For long moments, I imagine our tangled arms and legs on my bed. The feel of his warmth against mine. His breath mingling with mine as he finally, finally kisses me.

And I'm pacing and circling again, this time like a caged tiger.

He's not human.

His eyes change color. He can disappear into thin air. He can make his voice reverberate. And, most alarming of all, just a look from him can make me go crazy from the inside out.

He can hurt me.

Would I have had a better chance at making it work with a crazy person than with a muse?

In the mirror above the fireplace, I catch sight of a wild looking girl. My hair is a mess, and my face is flushed, but I don't think I've ever looked so… alive.

Or so out-and-out scared.

Because suddenly my life has gotten way too interesting.