cold A Vampire Chronicles story by _Twi_ (mailto:[EMAIL PROTECTED]) , April 1998. Number six in the "Le Coeur" series; sequel to _"Given to Fly."_ (http://blood.less.as/hearts/given.html) Rated PG. I'm combing my hair in front of the mirror in the bathroom, getting ready to go hunting. Except I'm not really watching my reflection: The fog-blurred outline of my maker draws my eye, only a faint white shape behind the translucent shower curtain. He barely notices my presence, scrubbing his water-dark hair clean with sweet-smelling modern shampoo. He came to me, a few weeks ago. It seems like forever. I still don't know how he got out of the attic; perhaps some sympathic soul freed him, or he just realised that it was more his own mind holding him there captive than the rusty chains that bound his body. But there he was, standing sheepishly on the doorstep, silent but eyes imploring. He wanted me back. He loved me. All this I read in his eyes. I let him in. We all have our foolish moments. If I look, I can almost see the electricity crackling between us, the sharp blue charge of desire and despair unresolved. The centuries are an invisible barrier between us, silently separating and cutting off while he remains oblivious. It is the same oppressive feeling I knew the last time we lived together in this house, and the air hangs heavy with things unsaid, yearnings unspoken for. The curtain pulls back, appropriately, for the room is a stage and I am an actor. I have become very skilled at pretending I am content, playing the long-lost lover with grace borne of practice. He comes up behind me, reaching over my shoulder to wipe the steam-frosted glass of the mirror with his hand. He hardly notices me at all, examining his reflection. He combs back damp blond hair with a hand, letting it fall in carelessly exquisite waves. He is so beautiful. It hurts to look at him. His wet arms wrap around me from behind, and he smiles at our reflections as he bends to brush soft lips against my throat. His naked body presses against mine. I know what he wants. "No," I whisper, breaking the cold glass surface of the room's silence. I still haven't let him drink from me. "Why?" The same pleading look I saw on the porch. He's been practicing. "I'm not ready yet." Please, don't touch me. I don't say what I'm thinking. It hurts. He draws back, eyebrows knit, wounded. "I can wait." No. Please. "I think I want to be alone now," I say, turning to the door. My arm is caught in an iron grip, hand on my shoulder roughly turning me to face him. "Louis. You can't..." "Let me go, Lestat. If you care at all, let me go." His grip loosens, hand falls slack at his side. Eyes close, head turns away. He moves to the mirror, staring fixed at his own face. "Go, then." Voice thick, cold, trying to hide. I open the door, and the air in the hallway seems chill after the humid heat of the bathroom. The door slams behind me, and I pause, leaning against the wall. The wallpaper is cool and smooth against my cheek. Suddenly I'm running, feet flying out the front door, tripping over a rock but still running. I can't see. My hands move up to flick my hair out of my eyes and touch wetness. I know where I can be alone: There's a park nearby, and there I can get my bearings, figure out where to go. I slow, passing under a streetlamp, avoiding the eyes of concerned passerby. I feel cold. (http://star.less.as/) ************************************** Get a sneak peek of the all-new AOL at http://discover.aol.com/memed/aolcom30tour
