Incubus Dreams

What do you do when you are suddenly able to see that far into someone’s darkest fears? What do you say to that much truth about someone else? I said the only thing I could think of, the only thing that would give him any comfort. “You’ll never become like Belle Morte. You’ll never become as evil as that.”

“How can you be certain of that?” he asked.

“Because I’ll kill you before I let that happen,” and my voice was soft when I said it, because it wasn’t a lie.

“Kill me to save me from myself,” he said, and he tried to make light of it, and failed.

“No, kill you to save everybody else you’d destroy.” My voice wasn’t soft anymore.

“Even if it destroys you at the same time?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it drags our tortured Richard down with us?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Even if it cost Damian his life?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Even if Nathaniel died with us?”

I stopped breathing for a second, and time seemed to do one of those stretches where you have all the time in the world, and none of it. My breath came out shaky, and I had to lick my lips, before I said, “Yes, on one condition.”

“And that would be?” he asked.

“That I could guarantee that I wouldn’t survive it either.”

He looked at me, and it was a long, long look. A look that weighed me down to my soul, and I realized that in a way, that’s exactly what he’d done years ago.

“You told me once that I’m your conscience, but that’s not all I am, is it?”

“What do you mean, ma petite? ”

“I’m your fail-safe. I’m your judge, your jury, and your executioner if things go wrong.”

“Not things, ma petite, me. If I go wrong.” There was a peacefulness in his eyes, as if some weight had gone from his shoulders. I knew exactly where that weight had gone.

“You bastard. I’d have been happy to kill you once, but not now.

Not now.”

“If it is too much to ask, then consider it unasked, unsaid.”

“No, you bastard, don’t you understand? If you do go mad and start slaughtering the i

“But, ma petite, you were always the one they would send. You have always been the Executioner.”

I got to my feet. My knees weren’t weak anymore. “But I’ve never been in love with someone I had to kill before.”

“But you have told me that your love for me would not stop you from doing your duty.”

My eyes burned. “No, it won’t. If you go bad, I’ll do my duty.” I closed my eyes, and shook my head. “You Machiavellian bastard, I would have killed your ass without being in love with you.”

“I did not want you to love me because you would be my fail-safe, as you put it. I wanted you to love me, because I was in love with you.” His voice was close, and when I opened my eyes he was standing in front of me. “It is only lately that I have worried that you were so besotted with me that you might forgive me crimes in this lifetime, now.”

I shook my head. “No, no.”

“I had to know, ma petite. ”

“Don’t call me that, not right now.”

He took a deep breath and let it out. “Anita, I am sorry. I would not cause you pain, not deliberately.”

“Then couldn’t this conversation have waited until the afterglow faded?”

“No,” he said, “I had to know if you loved me more than your sense of justice.”

I swallowed hard. I would not cry, I would not fucking cry. “I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.”

He took my hands, and I almost jerked away, but I made myself stand there and let him touch me. I was so angry, so pissed, so…

“Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,” he said, “That from the nu

I looked up at him, and said the next line, “To war and arms I fly.”

“True, a new mistress now I chase,” he said.

“The first foe in the field,” I said, and let him draw me closer.

“And with a stronger faith embrace,” he said.

“A sword, a horse, a shield.” And the last word was whispered against his chest, still looking up into those eyes, searching his face.

“Yet this inconstancy is such, As thou too shalt adore,” he whispered against my hair.

I finished the poem with my face pressed against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart, that truly beat with my blood. “I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honor more.”

“To Lucasta, on going to the Wars,” Jean-Claude said. His arms were around me, holding me close.

I eased my arms around him, slowly. “Richard Lovelace,” I said, “always liked his stuff in college.” I kept moving my arms until they were around his waist, and we just stood there holding each other. “I don’t think I would have remembered the whole poem if you hadn’t helped.”

“Together we are more than we are apart, Anita, that is what love is.”

I held him, and the tears started down my face, hard and hot, and choking. “Not Anita.”

I didn’t have to see his face, to know the smile was there, I could hear in his voice, “ma petite, ma petite, ma petite.”

There comes a point where you just love someone. Not because they’re good, or bad, or anything really. You just love them. It doesn’t mean you’ll be together forever. It doesn’t mean you won’t hurt each other. It just means you love them. Sometimes in spite of who they are, and sometimes because of who they are. And you know that they love you, sometimes because of who you are, and sometimes in spite of it.