CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE || ELI
“Burying people isn’t usually something I need to worry about,” Nicolas told me two hours later.
There was a smear of dirt on his face. He struck the earth again with the shovel he held between his hands, scooped another round of soil, and added it to the rapidly growing mound beside the makeshift grave we were digging.
I frowned at him. “Then how do you dispose of the bodies?”
“I don’t.” He paused. “I have a friend on the police force. When I’m…” He hesitated, as if choosing his words carefully. “When I’m done with my victims, I put a drop of blood on their wounds to heal the bite marks. Then I call him. He comes in and gets to play hero.”
“And it just looks like… these guys dropped dead?”
“Well, naturally, I had to hypnotize the medical examiner as well, to ignore the blood loss. But yes.”
“Why are we burying Morgan Peterson, then?”
“Because it’s too obvious he was murdered,” Nicolas said, glancing over at the body beside the hole. It was covered with a blue tarp—a mercy I was grateful for. “And that inhuman force was used to do it.”
“Right,” I said dully. “Too many people would see the body and know something supernatural happened. You wouldn’t be able to predict who saw it and who didn’t. It would be harder to cover your tracks.”
“Exactly,” he replied with a tight nod. His expression was troubled. “But I’m more than capable of doing this on my own. You don’t need to be party to it any more than you already are.”
“I know,” I said, heaving my own mound of dirt with the shovel I was gripping.
Sweat beaded across my brow. Even though we were deep in the national forest—an hour outside Los Angeles and surrounded by the shade of dozens of trees—it was still well over ninety degrees.
“Trust me, it’s not exactly how I planned on spending my day. ”
“Right. You thought you were going to break into a serial killer’s home so you could surprise your vampire boyfriend in the act of feeding on him.”
Ignoring his pointed sarcasm, I shrugged. “I guess this is probably about what I should have expected for my afternoon, then.”
“Why did you come to Morgan Peterson’s house, Eli? Let’s start there.”
I paused and glanced over to find that he had stopped digging and was now watching me steadily. His expression was unreadable. He had been very quiet the entire drive up, but apparently he wanted to talk now.
“I needed to see you in action,” I said honestly. “I thought if I could do that, maybe it would scare me enough that I could walk away from you.”
“But you’re still here,” he pointed out. I didn’t miss the way his grip tightened on the shovel.
“Yeah,” I snorted, shaking my head. “Because I did see you in action, Nicolas.”
“That wasn’t me,” he protested—although I felt, rather than heard, the doubt threaded through his words. “Not really.”
“You aren’t sure of that, are you?” I demanded, narrowing my gaze at him. “Nicolas, what aren’t you telling me?”
He grimaced. “I keep forgetting how perceptive you are. It’s rather remarkable.”
“I’m also smart enough not to let you change the subject by flattering me.” I paused. “So, why the doubt?”
“I’ve killed for eight centuries,” Nicolas said quietly, giving in after a long pause. His too-blue eyes searched mine. “And I never doubted myself. Not even once.”
Unease threaded through me at his words.
Eight centuries…
Had Nicolas ever told me that before? I didn’t think so. So how could I have known that?
Unless the past life memories were real. Unless what I had experienced in the tunnel was real. But that had to be impossible. Didn’t it?
But I already knew, deep down, that it was all real. This was really happening.
After all, how had I known how to follow him so discreetly?
It was as if I had done it before. How had I spoken perfect French when I first came to, after Nicolas saved my life?
And why did the memories of Nicolas back then seem every bit as real as any of my other memories? It was impossible, but it was true.
I had lived other lives before this one.
My voice quaked when I asked, “You were sure it was right to kill people?”
“No,” he said, a wall slamming down over his expression.
Which meant he had noticed the quaver in my voice and thought it was fear. And it was—but not of him. He didn’t understand yet that my entire worldview was rewriting itself to include things that ought to have been impossible.
He looked away, scowling at the side of the hole we had dug together. “I never questioned it at all, Eli. That’s my point. Right or wrong never factored in. Killing was what the predator in me—my deepest urges—commanded me to do. I wanted to, and that was enough.”
“And you chose serial killers as your victims because…”
“What better predator is there than a human killer? Someone who preys on other humans? That is what I wanted. I wanted to be better than them.”
“Are all vampires killers?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice neutral. “Is that—is that normal for you guys?”
“No. Some vampires never kill at all.”
“What about your brother?”
Nicolas froze. Then he turned to look back at me, his eyes widening in alarm.
“I never told you I had a brother.”
I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, my gaze locked on his. “Your brother’s name was Thierry, wasn’t it?”
Disbelief roared across his face, and he gripped the shovel handle hard enough that I heard wood splinter. He stared at me. “How do you know that?”
My stomach knotted at the shock on his face. Somehow, seeing it made everything seem far more real. This was proof, wasn’t it? More proof that I had lived other lives before this one—as if I needed any additional confirmation.
“I’ve been… remembering things. Other lives I’ve lived.”
His eyes widened. “You’re an old soul,” he breathed. “Of course. That makes sense.”
“There’s no need to get weird and new-agey.”
“No, this is definitely not a new concept,” Nicolas said, letting out a soft laugh.
“In my world, it’s commonly understood that there are some humans who are born repeatedly into this world with full recollection of every life they’ve ever lived.
There’s no interruption in continuity. They’re called ‘old souls.’” He paused.
“I shouldn’t say it’s my world, actually, because I suppose it belongs to you, too.
If you’re an old soul, you’re considered a supernatural creature by all the other races. ”
“Oh,” I said weakly, trying to take it all in. The pieces slotted together—even if I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted them to. Then I paused, frowning. “There are other types of supernatural creatures?”
“Oh yes. Witches, werewolves, shapeshifters, demons, ghosts—”
“You’re joking.”
“—And, of course, you already know all about vampires. There are others, too.”
“You’re telling me magic is real?” I asked weakly. “Next you’ll be saying psychic powers and crystals are a thing.”
“It’s a stranger world than you can comprehend, Eli.” But then he laughed, almost sounding startled by his own words. “Actually, you probably could. You might even be older than I am.”
“I wasn’t born with any past life memories,” I told him. “So, from what you’ve told me, this doesn’t make sense.”
“This is your first life with continuity, then.” He shrugged.
“Most old souls spend lifetimes on the brink of remembering, but they don’t really become ‘old souls’ until they go through the awakening process.
Some event—usually a near-death experience—triggers them to start remembering their other lives. ”
“I was a private investigator in 1970s Georgia,” I said, not sure how to broach the fact that I was also the son of a bootmaker in medieval France, who had loved Nicolas desperately when he was still human.
It was a lot to wrap my head around, and there was only so much I could take in one conversation.
Trying to keep my tone light, I added, “I drove a Buick. And I’m pretty sure I smoked cigarettes. Camels.”
“That explains how you were able to tail me so well, then.” Nicolas grinned, his eyes sparkling. “You’ll also have access to all your former skills. Everything you’ve ever learned in a past life, you’ll also be able to do in this one. Given time, it will all return to you.”
“You seem to know a lot about this.”
“I’ve met other old souls over the years. They’re—you’re—a fascinating bunch. They’ve told me many things.”
“You didn’t kill them, did you?”
He snorted. “I guess that’s a fair question. But no, they didn’t fit my profile. Therefore, taking their lives had no use to me. It’s dangerous and sloppy to kill when there’s no purpose behind it.”
“You’ve only ever killed murderers?” I pressed. “You don’t kill innocent people? Only those who have taken innocent lives?”
A shadow crossed his face. And I had to have been imagining it, but pain rippled through me—and I knew it came from him.
It was a flash of real grief and regret.
He went quiet for a long moment before saying, “I’ve killed innocents in the past. In the very beginning. Before I had any control over myself.”
“I don’t know how to match this up with what you’ve told me in the past,” I said helplessly, shaking my head. “You’ve said you don’t care about right and wrong. But you obviously do.”
“Eli—”
“You had a choice between your ritual and my safety. And you chose me.”
“Who says I have a ritual?”
“Don’t you? Most serial killers do.”
He inclined his head but didn’t speak.
“Then why, Nicolas? Why would you choose me—someone you’ve known for less than two months—over a ritual you’ve probably practiced for eight hundred years? If that’s not choosing right over wrong, then why?”
He hesitated, swallowed hard, then locked eyes with me. “Because I’m in love with you.”
Oh. Oh.
“You can—you can love?”