Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 38

On the way home Woody curls up on my lap, a soft bundle of warmth, while William drives the long way, quiet with thought. I keep the window rolled up for his sake, and gaze out at the ghostly night. The stars burn like flames in the sky, throwing their light upon the river, drenching her slow, cold curves in their glow. The town, snow-dusted and moonlit, shimmers beneath the streetlamps.

Saturated in color amid blankets of white, the night is beautiful. Through the stars and the moon, the sky sparks midnight blue and iridescent, not black as mortal eyes would see it. It is a deep, dark ocean of galaxies flung above us. The trees gleam evergreen and rich taupe. In town, brick buildings of Art Deco red rise from the snow as pale steam streams from their chimneys like mist.

Deep colors. Quiet colors.

A new, glorious vision of the night grips me, ripping away the veil of darkness.

The Kingdom of Heaven is here upon Earth, yet men do not see.

Has the night been heaven all along and I blind to the beauty? By ignoring midnight's call and denying the mystery, what miracles have I missed? What wisdom?

I feel more alive than I have in decades. My fingers itch with want of a paintbrush or pen. Scenes drift by the window and I drink them in, even while my awareness stays keenly on William. He's only inches away, bombarding me with his scent and warmth. I can sense his heartbeat. The lambent pulse of him. That throb of energy that every living being radiates out to the world. I wonder how he can take this world of Night Walkers so calmly. All his known beliefs and suppositions have been thoroughly upended. Time and death modified and extended. Stretched. Yet none of it seems to have shaken him.

His endless quest for knowledge ignites me. He is a seeker. A hunter of truth, not blood, and this, I realize, is the most powerful hunter of all.

I'm humming with energy. The usual shame that comes from eating is absent, and I wonder why. Is it because now I intuit a purpose for myself? William wants me to be strong. He believes that I am, and I feel myself surrendering to his view, wanting it to be true so as not to let him down. It's not lost on me that he has studied my work and words for years. I hope that in knowing this current incarnation of Anne Bell his image of "the bravest one of all" has not been entirely shattered.

What if I am a grave disappointment?

As we pull into my drive, Ivanhoe hops onto the porch to examine the strange car sliding up beneath our Great Oak. His emerald eyes peer through the darkness. The headlights sweep him and he squints, but his fur lights like flame, reminding me of a candle in a window awaiting my safe return. Until now, he's been my only friend and tenderness washes over me, catching my breath in my throat. To think I almost left him! Never again! I love this cat. And my home too. In a different way, but still, I feel great affection for this old Victorian that has sheltered and soothed me. My books and artist's studio. The violet of the paint appears deep plum at night, which is the only way I have ever seen it. Now I wonder how it looks in the day. I miss the light. To see William's face in the sun, the lit blue of his eyes, his hair streaked in a thousand different shades of cognac.

The greatest theft of all is the sun.

I know that I shouldn't . . . mustn't reveal my vulnerability, but I can't stop myself from saying it. "I hope you're not too disappointed."

"In what?" he asks, surprised.

I hesitate. "In me. In this . . . Anne Brontë. Bell. The one that hides and runs and drinks the blood of velveteen rabbits."

Slowly, he reaches out and slides a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is pure heat dragged across my skin. He looks at me as if staring directly into my soul. I wonder why he hasn't run in horror. I long to lean into his hand, but don't move. He traces his finger over the line of my cheek, caressing the bone. "I've been dreaming of you for a very long time, and now that I've found you, you are even more than I ever imagined."

I bite my lip and look down. I have been touched so much tonight it makes me dizzy. As if I have drunk too much wine and the world is spinning. The feel of William's fingers against my skin quickens my breath. He doesn't withdraw, only watches. I'm sure he can see my chest heaving in the dark. With a shuddering breath, I struggle to compose myself.

He slides his hand down to the pulse in my throat, where my heart surges against his fingers. He pauses before drifting to my clavicle, running his fingers lightly along the curve of bone toward my shoulder. He appears mesmerized by the act of touching me, as if I am a dream that at any moment may vanish. As if in touching me, he proves that I am real. He traces a line of fire over my skin, sparking a trail of electricity across my flesh. Despite my cool hardness, I feel delicate beneath his hand.

Fragile.

Precious.

I'm trembling now, entangled with fear and desire. My breath shakes, torn free from my control. I don't know whether to run or surrender. I am awake. Alive. Aware of his every move and breath. I want to feel his pulse against my lips. I want to climb into his lap and wrap my legs around him, press my chest against his so that our hearts beat as one while my face is buried against his throat. I want his hand on the back of my neck, pressing me into him, closer and closer, fingers wrapping in my hair, pulling my head back to kiss me. His hands on me everywhere. His tongue in my mouth. His breath.

I want all of him. Now.

But I can't look up. I'm as awkward as ever. All I can do is stare down at my hands, unable to speak or move as if I'm still that shy mortal girl imprisoned in the turmoil of her desire.

William places both hands firmly on the steering wheel and stares out the front, into the darkness. He takes a great, deep breath. "It has been quite a night for you, Anne. You have found your sister, met another of your kind, fed properly, and practiced the art of fencing. I'm afraid of overwhelming you. I don't want you to flee." He swallows. "Now that I've found you, I am not prepared to let you go."

His words dazzle me. They cannot be real. None of this is possible. It's only a dream, a slipping into fantasy, always a risk when you live so long in your imagination.

He turns, and his eyes fall on me like a violation. His body is taut with restraint, yet he edges toward me while simultaneously gripping the wheel, holding himself back. "You said your time here was coming to an end, but I entreat you to stay a while longer. Promise me you won't vanish, Anne. Promise me!" It's a demand, not a request.

I find my courage and look back at him. His eyes are the color of gloaming, blue gliding into black, a color I have dreamed of but never felt against my skin. And suddenly I know that all the stories we ever told are true. Angria and Glass Town. Gondal. Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights and Wildfell Hall. All the souls we ever imagined are real, somewhere, waiting to be found.

"I promise. I will not vanish without a warning."

He grabs me by the forearm. "You will not vanish at all. Promise me!"

Without a word, I extricate myself and place Woody on the seat between us. I want to promise with a passion he can never know, but my word is sacred and I will not give it unless I know I can keep it. My word is the one part of myself I refuse to relinquish.

As I reach for the car door, he stops me. "Let me, please." He gets out, comes around to my side, opening it. When I step out, he looms above me like an officer in his high-collared coat. "Don't forget this," he says, handing me the saber. He gives me a wicked smile. "I assure you, tomorrow night I shall not be so gentle."

On impulse, I reach up and graze my lips against his, light as a ghost, then turn and run for home.

I feel his eyes on me the entire way, and when I close the door behind me, leaning back against it, trying to catch my breath, I feel his eyes on me still, piercing through the oak, hot as a fired rifle pressed against my flesh.

All separation of spirit gone.