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[Aurelia Bretane]

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Three days. He’d lost three days of his life. No memory. No damage done, save for the fact that he had been, quite simply, gone. He’d gone to bed one night, and awakened to the dawn, like any other. Except that this morning was three days after he’d fallen asleep.

Aurelia sat across the campfire and listened to Striker’s story. Something didn’t fit. And it didn’t set well with her that a man could lose three days without any other indication that anything was wrong. The answer lay locked away behind those eyes that always watched her protectively. Striker was a gentleman who owed the Countess nothing, and yet he had vowed to help her – protect her – unquestionably. It was beyond her comprehension why anyone would give so selflessly to such a cause.

As he spoke, Striker paused, as if trying to remember a detail. Was it only her imagination that his eyes shifted – darkened – for the briefest of moments? But he continued, none the worse for wear. The answers lay hidden, locked away tightly within his mind. She could only pray that she held the right key.

******

They faced one another, his heartbeat so close that the tattoo it beat out intoxicated her, along with his scent. She had broken her fast in preparation for this moment. Taken a man who counted ill-gotten gold in the security of his tent, not a stone’s throw from the palisades of Ashencrosse. She hadn’t killed him – but he would remember nothing. Such was her “gift.” Such was her curse.

“Striker.”

He watched her eyes, as intoxicated by her presence as she was with his. The pulse at his throat called to her with persistence. The rush beneath his skin was a forbidden indulgence – one that she must deny herself. Here was one she would not harm. He depended upon her, as surely as she relied upon him. Two souls more different than lightning and water, but mixed up in the same storm.

“The answers ye seek are shut away. Open th’ doors and share them with me. Tell me yer secrets.” Striker watched her eyes intently as the pale blue gave way to silver, and her thoughts became his own.

Quietly, steadily, the doors of his mind were opened, and Striker began to relate the events that occurred upon the first day of his absence. “I just wanted to help. I found a book. And I began summoning….summoning…” Striker’s countenance screwed itself up in concentration and frustration.

“What did ye summon, Striker….” Aurelia pushed deeper into his mind with her thoughts, drawing out the answer she sought. She leaned her forehead against his and breathed slowly, allowing the physical contact to strengthen her resolve to break down the barriers that secreted his memories away.

Without warning, Striker’s eyes turned coal black, and his voice changed ever-so-slightly as he gave her the answer she sought.

“He was summoning me.”

[Aurelia Bretane]

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The beast within him had demands of its own. Demands that Aurelia could never abide.

“Make this body like yours. Give me a body more strong and durable than the frail human form it is now.” Striker spoke, but the words – the thoughts – were not his own. “If you do not, I’ll find someone who will. And they will be far less careful.”

She had to buy some time. Just enough to figure out what comes next.

Aurelia shook her head. “Ye don’t understand. There’ve been murders within Ashencrosse, an’ th’ people blame vampires. If I make ye kindred…They’ll kill ye. I can’t chance a newborn vampire in Ashencrosse. Ye’d draw attention. Ye’d get yerself killed. Mebbe me too."

The beast within him roared. “I am no newborn…”

“I can’t chance it. Not yet. Give me time...” Aurelia pleaded with the beast.

“Three days. Then someone dies.”

“Please be patient wi’ me, ye ‘ave to understand…”

“I’m sorry, Aurelia. I don’t remember what it was I was summoning.” Striker looked to her apologetically. “My memory leaves off there.”

Aurelia watched Striker silently for a moment before recognition flickered in her eyes, then she nodded. “It’s all right, Striker. Perhaps it’s best ye don’t remember…”