Eternal Night

(II) Chapter 36: From the One Who Knows Best

Antón Bernardini released a heavy sigh after Vladislaus had left, the silent emptiness of his townhouse unusually stifling. He made his way back to the warm and inviting glow of the study, but the usual comfort of his books and trappings offered little reprieve from the weariness that had settled in his bones. His eyes scanned the space that had been his sanctuary these last few years, not really taking in much detail until his gaze fell upon the desk overrun with books – his beloved's journals. The undead heart in his chest cracked at the thought of his deceased wife. Even with all her secrets and scheming, her powers and well-intentioned meddling, he had loved her with every fiber of his being.

But these last few weeks had tested that devotion in a way immortality had not; where a part of him, that weak and human part, had grown frustrated with the witch – and irritation left to fester unresolved because she wasn't here to talk it through with him as she once had been.

There were so many things Mariella hadn't told him, so many plans and secrets she had kept hidden – from the details of this prophecy, down to Elina's covert operations as spy... and soon to be martyr.

Yet, that wasn't all.

There was also the matter of Francesca Chase – of the poison in her veins and that dark passenger that threatened to overpower her – and he couldn't help but wonder why his deceased wife had chosen to keep Frankie's identity a secret for as long as she did. How different things might have been, had she revealed it sooner, had she given Dracula and his intended the time they deserved to get to know one another without the threat of war and destruction looming over their heads.

The thought had his brow furrowing.

Vladislaus had declared his intentions – that he was willing to risk the threat her blood held on not only him but the entirety of their race on a fool's hope.

Antón had to admit he admired his old friend's courage – admired, but feared it also, because what if they were wrong? What if nothing could circumnavigate what Marcus Augustine had done to Francesca?

The Italian exhaled softly, feeling more his age in that moment than he ever had in his centuries of living.

No – if Dracula fell and the whole of their kind with him, Antón admitted to himself that he could go in peace knowing that he had done all he could. He only hoped Mariella would be waiting for him on the other side.

He smiled a little at the thought, a rueful curve of lip as he caressed one of the pages of his wife's journals before moving over to the old vinyl record player situated between two bookcases. It was a tune he knew well, one that made his heart ache in a way that was almost pleasant as he closed his eyes and succumbed to memory –

Mariella's hand in his, her dark skin warm and soft as she would step into position, letting him hold her as they would dance around the room.

I've got you under my skin, ol' blue eyes sang and Antón's chest splintered just a little more, the music seeping through and causing his heart to swell. I've got you deep in the heart of me.

If these were to be his final days, he would spend them in memories of her and of the time they had shared, of the time that maybe – just maybe – they would get to have again when true death took him and he crossed over into the plain of gray mist, his beloved waiting for him.

Bernardini became so lost to the music, the dance he was sharing with himself and the memory of his wife, that the knock at his front door actually startled him. The disruption yanked him right out of the spell Sinatra's music had put him under, cruelly thrusting him back into the present.

He would have ignored the door, honestly wanted to, but something unseen seemed to be tugging at his sleeve, encouraging him to leave the study to head into the foyer.