Page 107 of Life and Death

“Oh, Beau.” She touched my cheekbone lightly with her fingertips. A shock ran through me at this casual contact. “Beau, I couldn’t survive hurting you. You don’t know how it’s tortured me”—she looked down, ashamed again—“the thought of you, still, white, cold . . . to never see your face turn red again, to never see that flash of intuition in your eyes when you see through my pretenses . . . I couldn’t bear it.” She lifted her glorious, agonized eyes to mine. “You are the most important thing to me now. The most important thing to me ever.”

My head was spinning at this rapid change in direction. Just minutes ago I’d thought we were talking about my imminent death. Now, suddenly, we were making declarations.

I gripped her hand tighter, staring into her golden eyes.

“You already know how I feel. I’m here because I would rather die with you than live without you.” I realized how melodramatic that sounded. “Sorry, I’m an idiot.”

“You are an idiot,” she agreed with a laugh, and I laughed with her. This whole situation was idiocy—and impossibility and magic.

“And so the lion fell in love with the lamb,” she murmured. The word was like another electric jolt to my system.

I tried to cover my reaction. “What a stupid lamb.”

She sighed. “What a sick, masochistic lion.”

She stared into the forest for a long time, and I wondered what she was thinking.

“Why . . . ?” I began, but then paused, not sure how to continue.

She looked at me and smiled; sunlight shimmered off her face, her teeth. “Yes?”

“Tell me why you ran away from me before.”

Her smile faded. “You know why.”

“No, I mean,exactlywhat did I do wrong? I need to learn how to make this easier for you, what I should and shouldn’t do. This, for example”—I stroked my thumb across her wrist—“seems to be all right.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Beau. It was my fault.”

“But I want to help.”

“Well . . .” She thought for a moment. “It was just how close you were. Most humans instinctively shy away from us, are repelled by our alienness. . . . I wasn’t expecting you to come so close. And the smell of yourthroat—” She broke off, looking to see if she’d upset me.

“Okay.” I tucked my chin. “No throat exposure.”

She grinned. “No, really, it was more the surprise than anything else.”

She raised her free hand and placed it gently on the side of my neck. I held very still, recognizing that the chill of her touch was supposed to be a natural warning, and wondering why I couldn’t feel that. I felt something else entirely.

“You see?” she said. “Perfectly fine.”

My blood was racing, and I wished I could slow it down. It must make everything so much more difficult for her—the thudding pulse in my veins.

“I love that,” she murmured. She carefully freed her other hand. My hands fell limp into my lap. Softly she brushed her hand across the warm patch in my cheek, then held my face between her small, cold hands.

“Be very still,” she whispered.

I was paralyzed as she suddenly leaned into me, resting her cheek against my chest—listening to my heart. I could feel the ice of her skin through my thin shirt. With deliberate slowness her hands moved to my shoulders and her arms wrapped around my neck, holding me tight against her. I listened to the sound of her careful, even breathing, which seemed to be keeping time with my heartbeats. One breath in for every three beats, one breath out for another three.

“Ah,” she said.

I don’t know how long we sat without moving. It could have been hours. Eventually, the throb of my pulse quieted. I knew at any moment it could be too much, and my life could end—so quickly that I might not even notice. And I still wasn’t afraid. I couldn’t think of anything, except that she was touching me.

And then, too soon, she unwrapped her arms from around my neck and leaned away. Her eyes were peaceful again.

“It won’t be so hard again,” she said with satisfaction.

“Was that very hard for you?”