“Breathe, Emilia,” he soothes.
Memories…
“So…I’m…” I trail off, confused and unsure about how to finish my question.
“You and I are opposites, two sides of nature’s coin. My kind and yours are equally matched in strength and power, but your kind is more evenly tempered. You have a calming presence designed to balance out the volatility of my kind. When it comes to us, you soothe me to my core and I fire you up; I push your serenity to its limits and it makes you feel alive.
“Humans would call my kind vampires and yours Angels. But those are constructs based on their beliefs of good and evil…and we hate the names. I’m an Avidite and you are a Guardian, though both names are used less and less. There was a time in history when our kinds did not tolerate each other well, each suspicious of the other’s motives. We were more ‘in the closet’ and our affairs not as transparent as they are now. Your kind feared that we were taking advantage of humans as our primary source of nutrition and this is where the stereotypes for good angels and evil vampires came from. Guardians fought us to protect humans, even when they were in no danger, and Avidites saw your interference as a sign of your intention to control us. Thankfully the world changed and most of our attitudes along with it. Now we all just consider ourselves supernatural, each with different powers and requirements. The good/evil line doesn’t exist anymore, both sides realized it was just arbitrary and that neither side was innately one way or the other. Power is power and it can corrupt or strengthen either side. There are Avidites who are so good they’re almost saintly and Guardians whose power has twisted them into some of the shittiest people I’ve ever met.
“Times have changed, but some of the old prejudices still linger; intimate relationships between our kinds are still rare and it was your connection to me that got you killed.” His inky eyes are now bleak with pain, haunted by the memory of me dying in his arms and I realize that he’s been plagued with these frightening images for longer than I have, for longer than I can even comprehend; 18 years of nightmares is nothing compared to more than a lifetime.
“I was killed on purpose? By your own kind? Because of our relationship?” My voice climbs as the pieces slowly fit together and despite being caged in and protected by his body, I no longer feel safe.
Have times changed that much? Would I still be a target if his kind found out about us again?
“Yes,” his voice is strained, but not from the wild passion of our sex anymore.
“Am I safe?”
“No one has made the connection except me; no one here knew me when I lost you – they don’t know about you and they haven’t seen your eyes.”
“My eyes?” My trembling voice betrays my fear; I always knew something wasn’t right with them.
“Most Guardians have some shade of silver-gray eyes, making them interesting, but not obvious or attention-grabbing. Yours, however, are spectacular and they give you away; anyone who knows about our supernatural world wouldn’t fail to make the connection the moment they see them.”
“How long ago did I die?” My voice is hushed and my adrenaline is burning out. This evening’s revelations are starting to take their toll.
“One hundred and twenty years ago.”
Holy. Shit.
“How am I here? Am I the same person? Where have I been since then?” I blurt out my questions in a terrifying rush.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. No one knows for sure how or why this happens, but the working theory is that the most powerful Supernaturals never really die. Their force, power, and energy live on until they are reborn again. We can’t tell how often this phenomenon occurs, because very few can recall their previous life. So, it could happen more frequently then we think, but we have no clue what dictates when a Supernatural is reborn.
“In essence, you are the same person, but it’s the nature vs nurture conundrum – how much of you is shaped by your family and experiences, and how much of you was born to exist. I can see differences; you’re certainly feistier this time around. But I think it would be an insult to the person you are now and to my memories to compare the two. You are different and I would like to get to know the new you.”
“Is that what you meant when you said you didn’t understand this version of me?”
“Yes. You don’t do what I expect you to do and you don’t let me in, but then why would you? Up until an hour ago, you thought we only met five days ago. I need to remember that, to work for your trust and get to know you all over again. I know that this is a lot to digest, Emilia, but I knew that you were powerful and have spent the last century of my life hoping that you would come back.”
Jackson looks at me earnestly, his voice pleading, willing me to relax instead of bolting for the door. So I settle for what I hope is a suitable middle ground for us both.
“I don’t feel very powerful, I feel cold. I would like to get dressed and then would you walk me home, please?”
I wasn’t as desperate to have space from him as perhaps I should’ve been, but I still needed to process all of this in the quiet safety of my own room…without distractions. And despite my shivers of fear and confusion, Jackson Smoak is still epically distracting, which only confuses me more.
I’ve just learned that I am a supernatural re-incarnation of myself who was murdered in the arms of her hot-as-sin supernatural lover…
What the fuck, doesn’t even cover it.
This could take a while to process.
“Of course I’ll take you home. You’re taking this better than I thought you would; I keep thinking any second now you’re going to run to the hills screaming.”
“I’m numb; running and screaming aren’t currently available options.”
Jackson withdraws his cock from me with a heavy thud; I vaguely register that he’s still hard despite our serious, and frankly, scary conversation and I focus on anything but the empty ache I now feel inside me at his absence.
He passes me a pair of boxer briefs that are just about snug enough for me to pull my skinny jeans over the top without them bunching up uncomfortably. My bra is still damp, so I just pull on my grass-stained shirt and Jackson throws me one of his black sweaters.
When I look up, he’s already dressed in a black hooded sweater and a pair of gray sweats that sit low on his lean and sculpted hips…hello, dick print.
He looks like any other college kid…as long as any other college kid looks like a sculptured Adonis who just stepped off the page of a high-end fashion magazine with a serious package between their legs.
Jackson reaches out to hold my hand once I slip my feet into my ballet flats. I take it, knowing I’ll need his sure-footed stability to make it back to my room.
The warmth of his firm hand spreads out from where he’s touching me, but it’s not enough to thaw the chill freezing its way into the very core of me.
He laces his fingers with mine but doesn’t move to be any closer to me as he leads me silently out of his room and back down the stairs to the front door. The party is finally over, but there are drunken bodies asleep in random places everywhere I look.
We walk silently through the cool night air. I’ve no idea what time it is, but I’m weary to the bone and my mind is exhausted.