Loyalty between his sire and the woman he loved tore him in two, but he could finally admit the truth.

Tom no longer wanted to live an eternity without Josie at his side.

“MR. MURPHY?”

Tom tried not to cringe at the name. Much of his household didn’t know his real name. His own wife didn’t even know it. And the way he was feeling toward his sire at the moment, the last thing he needed was a reminder his life was not his own.

He turned and met Josie’s companion in the hall. “Yes, Mrs. Porter?”

“She’s not been feeling well today. Are you home for the evening, sir?”

“I am.”

“She might enjoy the company. She can’t seem to focus on her writing. I think she may be running a slight fever.”

“I’ll find a book to read to her then. Is she in bed?”

Mrs. Porter shook her head. “She didn’t want the bed. I’ve settled her on the chaise in her room. Make sure she stays propped up. It’s easing her breathing.”

“Any news on Mr. Shaw?”

Mrs. Porter smiled sadly. “Mr. Carver did send word this morning that he thought it would be a matter of days, if that. Mrs. Murphy was planning on spending the night there, but I held her off until tomorrow. I thought she could use another night of rest.”

“I’ll try to get her to sleep.”

“Thank you, sir. She’s had a poultice tonight, so her breathing is easier.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Porter.”

Mrs. Porter started down the hallway, then paused. Turning to him, she said, “No, sir, thank you. She’s had more joy and life in the past six months than the whole of the past six years, I think. I know your family is… different, sir. I wouldn’t say anything more. But thank you. Thank you for caring for her as you do.”

She swept down the hall before he could respond. And Tom turned to his wife’s bedroom with a heavier heart and a renewed sense of purpose.

Six months of living was not enough. Not for Josie. Not for him.

He stopped by the library to grab a copy of Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days, which they’d been reading on nights she couldn’t seem to focus on her writing. Not even the new adventure story she’d started seemed to be able to hold her attention for long. And if she was feverish, her mind would wander.

“Josie?” he said, peeking into the room to see if she’d fallen asleep.

Her eyes blinked open. “Hello, darling. How are Patrick and Declan tonight? Everything all right with work? You’re home early. Anne was by earlier. Did you know she has a sister in Belfast? Isn’t that interesting?”

Tom wondered if Anne’s thoughts were running parallel to his. “I did. She and Murphy don’t get along well.”

“So I heard. What a drama.” Josie smiled wanly. “Perhaps I should write it into a story.”

Tom saw the unhealthy flush on her cheeks. “I brought a book to read. I thought we’d get back to old Phileas, if you like.”

She held up her old copy of In a Glass Darkly. “I’ve been getting lost in this old favorite again. Read for me?”

“Vampires again?”

Did she know on some level? She’d never questioned his odd schedule, though Tom continued to use a nudge of amnis sometimes when she started to question why they spent every night together and yet he was always gone in the daylight. He hated it. Hated the deception. But if she discovered it on her own…

“I keep coming back to it,” she murmured. “Something… I don’t know. Familiar stories are like old friends, aren’t they? They’re comforting.” She held out the book. “Please? We’ll come back to Phileas another night.”

And so Tom sat at the foot of the chaise lounge and put Josie’s slender legs on his lap, stroking her ankles as he read from the tale of the mysterious vampire girl and the proper young lady she seduced.

“Dearest, your little heart is wounded; think me not cruel because I obey the irresistible law of my strength and weakness; if your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours. In the rapture of my enormous humiliation I live in your warm life, and you shall die—die, sweetly die—into mine. I cannot help it; as I draw near to you, you, in your turn, will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of that cruelty, which yet is love; so, for a while, seek to know no more of me and mine, but trust me with all your loving spirit.”

He watched her as she dozed and he read the familiar words. Abruptly, she sat up.

“Josie?”

“I’d love for it to be real,” she rasped. “Wouldn’t it be grand, Tom? Do you think it could be real?”

“What’s real, love?”

“The vampires, of course. Carmilla and Laura.”

He choked on his desire to reveal himself to her, and she continued, the fever now burning in her eyes.

“There is so much more to this life than we know, isn’t there? It could be real. It could be. Fairies and shape-shifters. Airships and demon lovers. Why couldn’t they be real, Tom? Why would we dream of them if they weren’t real?”

She’d started to cry, and he put the book away, pulling her to his lap so that he could hold her. He put his cheek against her burning forehead.

‘“You will think me cruel, very selfish, but love is always selfish…’ Oh, Tom! She was right. I’m sorry. It’s horrible, isn’t it? This love. To love someone and know they cannot be yours. We only borrow each other for a time, don’t we? I’m too cruel to you, darling. Please don’t hate me. I couldn’t bear it if you hated me.”