Friday, February 15, 2013

The Gift (Part Four)


Gabriel stood outside her window, seduced by her heart’s slow seductive rhythm and the gentle sound of her lungs at work; exercises he hadn’t enjoyed in nearly four hundred years. Not a hundred of those had passed before he had forgotten how it had felt to be human.

It was marvelous, the connection he shared with this woman. He felt everything she did. And not just her emotions. He’d felt her tears, tasted her soup. Experienced the hot water when she bathed. He was entranced.

His thoughts turned to the train. He hadn’t lied to Jocelyn; he had not intended to tatke the woman's life. He had not killed in more years than he felt the need to count. But when Jocelyn had entered the train and their minds had linked, he’d been overwhelmed with the force of her emotions.

Gabriel had shared Jocelyn’s desire, her passion and revulsion. He had felt her stomach clench, her womanhood tighten and her gore rise. He had smelt the musky scent of her arousal while her heart pounded and her conscience rioted. He’d been so caught in the emotions flowing into him, he’d fed with an enthusiasm he’d forgotten himself capable. The girl had died in his arms and he'd had a moments regret for the loss mixed with Jocelyn’s complete disgust. But the regret fled as he'd quickly fixated on Jocelyn.

He didn’t have to scan the car to find her; he knew her exact location, her scent, her mind, her name. His skills for telepathy were far more honed than hers. He’d had centuries to practice and even the most superficial scan of her mind showed him she’d spent a goodly portion of her life attempting to dampen her gift. A gift that came with his curse and one she’d been given freely by the Fates. He wondered how powerful she would become when turned.   

She would succumb. Gabriel would make her his. Regardless of how he may be enjoying the brief taste of humanity, it was a frail and fleeting condition. He would not allow her to grow old and die; leaving him to walk alone. Again.  

Jocelyn’s visage formed in his mind; sharp cheekbones and a strong brow book-ended luminous blue eyes shaped like crooked teardrops.  Her fine straight chestnut hair fell to her shoulders; the soft full lips offset the sharp angle of her chin. Jocelyn was beautiful, exotic even, and she seemed completely unaware of it. She wore her every emotion instead of cosmetics and the suit she’d had on was practical and of good quality but unattractive. He suspected she chose it in order to keep people away. He wondered if it was a conscious choice. He knew her body; he’d peeked into her mind while she showered. Shame was an exclusively human emotion. As is guilt. She was both athletic and feminine, which pleased him. He wouldn’t have cared if she was short, overweight and sloop shouldered for they were meant, but imagining them together both dark, beautiful and deadly, it was a seductive image. 

And one he didn’t hesitate to share with her. 

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