Vampire's Kiss 3
Harm's POV
My heart is racing like a horse sprinting the final stretch of the Kentucky Derby. In all of my life I've never felt this burning in my blood that courses through my veins and tightens my chest. It's what I imagine a heart attack must feel like, the gloomy desperation of death that makes me realize I've been poisoned.
I take the steps up to my loft three by three and nearly crash through my door in a frenzied delirium. My vision is swimming and the tie at my neck feels like a noose that I rip away with one hard pull. Next goes my jacket that falls in streams of heavy black fabric onto the wooden floors. This is what Safi had always warned me about, the lesson I refused to learn because our relationship was never anything more than a sire and petulant child.
There'd been a reason why I'd always kept Mac at arms length though my feelings for her were so powerful it was impossible to ignore. "Poison." I say out loud as I walk past the kitchen island and reach for a fifty year old bottle of scotch I keep hidden in the back of a cupboard. "Her blood is poison."
And the taste of her is still on my lips, a sweet cinnamon flavor that I can't help but crave more of. Even taking a swig straight from the bottle of scotch does nothing to rid my senses of her. In fact, the more I drink, the more the drumming under my skin increases and soon I feel it moving up my face and to my eyes that snap closed the second I see the first vision of her.
The image takes my breath away, like a movie in which I play a starring role. "It's not real." I tell myself. But if it's not real, why does it feel like it is?
The visions depict a woman with amber eyes and olive skin that sets my soul on fire with each touch. A woman with a mischievous smile and melodic laughter that kisses me with such fervor I'd deny her nothing.
It's Mac but it's not - in my vision she is Sarah. And I knew deep down inside, that I loved her once before although we'd only met three years prior.
"The Dark Lady." Safi called this woman. A real life siren designed with my destruction in mind.
She also predicted her description but as the years passed and my maker died in a fire, I'd all but forgotten her warning.
I take another nip of the scotch, hoping the numbing sensation that accompanies a spirit of this kind would come quickly but it doesn't. Instead I feel Mac's blood moving through my veins and another image of us springs to life.
She stands at the entrance of a small gothic church, the kind with dark stone walls which rise up from the snow covered ground. Mac holds a bouquet of white roses, the kind a bride would carry on her wedding day.
"Not Mac." I whisper. "Sarah…Her name is Sarah." And I was the man she was marrying.