“I’m entirely serious.”

“We seem to keep running into each other,” I said, ignoring him. “I’m sure it will happen again.”

He gave me a sober look. “I meant it when I said you should stay here tonight. It won’t be safe until dawn. And I want you to stay. There’s no need to rush off.”

I sat forward, covering myself with the blanket, and I stared at him in disbelief. A smile toyed in one corner of my mouth. “Do you like me?”

“I do like you,” he said. “I like looking at you. I like the soft manner in which you speak. I like your accent and I like your boldness. I like the way you feel when I kiss you and touch you.” He smiled at the same moment I felt heat in my cheeks. “Do you like me?”

I considered that question and then considered my response. “I certainly should not.”

“That wasn’t a no. Are you too proud to say yes? I’m not.”

I swallowed and forced myself to be fully honest with him. “I’m not too proud to admit anything, but I’m afraid of what it would mean if I did like you.”

“Because of what we are,” he said, at last serious. “And how we are different.”

“Yes,” I replied. “This is very, very much against any and all rules of conduct and engagement in battle.”

“No, I don’t suppose it’s considered prudent to make love to your enemies.”

I bit my lip and smiled down at him. My hair spilled over my shoulders, brushing his skin, and I touched his face. “I will stay until dawn, because you wish it,” I told him. “And because I want to.”

He pulled me down to him and kissed me. Then I lost myself in him for the second time that night, knowing it would not be the last.

5

I SAW BASTIAN ON AND OFF FOR MORE THAN A FORTnight in secret, and those weeks were a whirlwind. He was my paramour, and our clandestine meetings gave me a heart-pounding thrill that I’d only ever known during battle. I was wholly taken over by him. I needed to be with him always and when I wasn’t, I felt incomplete. It wasn’t enough anymore for me to fight my enemies every night. I needed the thrill of sneaking away to see Bastian. No one could know. I couldn’t even tell Nathaniel about my happiness. I didn’t want to think of his inevitable disappointment in me.

After these weeks of running all over London and never staying in any place more than once, Bastian invited me to his country manor one night. Though it was no Lockmoore Castle, it was a beautiful house far from the noise and filth of the city, built on a hill and surrounded by ancient trees and rolling fields. Past the house were the stables, built of the same tawny brick as the house, and full of horses that had long gone to sleep.

Bastian greeted me at the door with a smile and a kiss, and soon we were tangled in each other’s arms. He gave me a tour of the manor, which was luxurious, but strangely bare as if he didn’t intend to live there long. I saw few keepsakes and possessions besides the furniture, sculpture, and tapestries that were covered in a thin layer of dust. I imagined these things had been here when Bastian moved in.

There was little I found impressive until he showed me to his library, which struck me speechless. All four walls, floor to ceiling, were lined with shelves upon shelves stacked with books. “Are all of these books yours?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “You may read anything you’d like. Consider them yours as well.”

I walked along the shelves, running my fingers across spines and breathing in the earthy scent of paper and leather, some of it very old. “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight … I love the Arthurian tales. You like Dante, I see. The Divine Comedy … and … La Vita Nuova? That one surprises me.”

“Why is that?”

“Have you read any of it?” I asked, disbelieving.

“The entire book many times over.”

“Which poem is your favorite?”

“A ciascun’alma presa e gentil core.”

I stared at him for several long moments, waiting for him to laugh and tell me he was joking, but his expression remained almost defensive. “Why is such a sad sonnet your favorite?”

He looked elsewhere then, gazing blankly at the books shelved behind me. “Because it’s true.”

As I watched Bastian, I thought of the author of those poems, Dante, weeping over Beatrice, the muse and love he lost before he ever even held her. I wondered why this poem would be the one to strike Bastian so. “I never figured you for a romantic. That’s all.”

He took my hand, pulling me toward him, and he slipped his other hand around my cheek tenderly. “I thought you knew me.”

“I’m knowing you better and better each night,” I replied. “Though I should come to expect a new surprise from you every time we meet again.”

I heard a soft knock and a fleeting look of worry passed over his face. The front door opened and footsteps followed. Demonic power crept through the country house, slithering across floors and coiling up the walls and stairs toward us. The hairs on my arms stood up. This was a display of power, an announcement of presence, and I began to grow nervous.

He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Don’t worry, my love.”

I blinked at him. “My love?”

He froze for an instant, as if he’d just realized what he’d said, but he quickly melted into a warm smile. “I’ve added it to my list of names for you.”