‘Unknown to historians.’ I relaxed my arms. ‘No offence, but that sounds pretty convenient.’
‘Perhaps, but it is the truth, nonetheless. When we have been together longer, I will tell you tales of my life.’
‘I see. When we’ve been together longer. It sounds like you have ambitious plans.’
He just smiled. My heartbeat stumbled and I felt suddenly hot.
This is not normal.
I fanned myself as his smile broadened. ‘Er, what was it you said about wizards? You mean like the guys in the pointy hats in the fairy tales about King Arthur or Harry Potter?’
His expression turned serious, which surprised me and made me anxious. I shifted my gaze and nervously studied his collection of New Age paraphernalia on the nearby table.
‘Ah, my dear Kismet, as a psychologist, you should know that all fairy tales contain a grain of truth. The actual stories of wizards are not commonly known, but they were indeed powerful beings. I do not expect you to believe everything – or perhaps even anything – that I will share with you, but I do ask that you keep an open mind. I want you to know why I am so drawn to you. Long before I became a nightwalker—’
I looked up from the crystal ball I’d been gazing into. ‘A nightwalker?’
‘A vampire, the undead, an immortal.’
I took a breath, preparing to ask more questions, but he held up a hand to stop me. ‘Please. Let me finish.’
I nodded and picked up a crystal-encrusted wand.
‘Since my human birth, I was schooled in the art and craft of magic. Generations of my family had apprenticed themselves to the witches and wizards who came before, and the skills and abilities of each ancestor were passed along the bloodline. By the time the gifts came down to me, they were extremely potent.’
He clasped his hands behind his back and paced to and fro, as if he were delivering a speech.
Why do I find his mannerisms so charming? If Tom did the same thing, I’d be irritated.
I followed him with my eyes. ‘It sounds like you had an unusual childhood,’ I said.
‘Yes, in some ways. And in others it was perfectly normal. I was very fortunate. I had parents who loved me and who raised me in a beautiful place. In addition to my talents in the realm of the magical arts, I also inherited artistic abilities, which revealed themselves very early. It was not long before my ability to see the future blended with my love of painting to give me an extremely potent tool for expressing the prophecies and visions I sensed in my deepest mind. I became a seer.’
‘A seer? Do you mean a psychic?’
He gave a quick nod. ‘I suppose the word seer is old-fashioned and people today would call themselves psychic, or perhaps clairvoyant. My gift was only visual at first. I could enter into altered states and view the probable future. Now I have access to all the channels: visual, auditory, olfactory and others.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘What’s it like to be able to do that?’ If he really could do all those things – and I was still a long way from believing he could – he had to be the most powerful psychic I’d ever heard of.
Sadness shadowed his features. ‘Not as wonderful as you might imagine. The longer I have existed, the harder it has become to be aware of what is coming, to accept the poor choices made by most of humanity. My journey has been challenging. Lonely. Unfortunately, I cannot always see what is ahead for me – my vision dims when I focus it on myself. Had I known the true reality of becoming immortal in the beginning, I might not have made the same decisions.’
He suddenly looked like the lost, wounded child I had assumed he was when Midnight first mentioned him. My heart ached for the pain he had experienced. The loneliness. Obviously he’d had some trauma or crisis that precipitated his paranormal role-playing. I had just taken a step towards him to comfort him when he strode over to a large wooden cabinet and opened the wide double doors. Inside were scores of painted canvases, lined up next to each other like dominoes. He reached in and selected one particular canvas and drew it out of the cabinet, holding it carefully along the edge.
He carried the painting back to me, turned it around for me to see and held it up with both hands.
I gasped, staring. It was a portrait of me.
‘Devereux! That’s so beautiful. When did you have time to paint this? How could you have memorised my face so perfectly in the short time I’ve known you?’
I stood, speechless, taking in the details of the portrait. As I examined the exquisite artwork, something began to tug at my consciousness. There was something odd about this painting. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was until it rolled over me like a wave.
‘My necklace.’ Suddenly I felt tense. ‘You’ve never seen this necklace. In fact, this is the first time I’ve ever worn it, yet it’s in the portrait. How can that be? And my blue blouse. How could you have painted me as I look tonight?’
But he did say he’s psychic.
He propped the canvas on an easel. ‘When I created this portrait, I did not know the woman in the picture or why I was compelled to adorn her with that particular piece of jewellery. As always when I am in the midst of a prophetic vision, I simply painted what I saw. Unlike the other visions that had been born on my canvases, this one would not release me after the image was complete. The woman in the portrait haunted me. She filled my dreams until I was sure I would go mad. She spoke to me in my mind and repeated one word, over and over again.’
‘What word?’
He pointed to some writing at the bottom of the painting and I leaned in to read that single word.
Kismet.
‘I thought the word meant the woman in the painting was my fate, my destiny. I waited patiently for her to find me, and after a time I locked the painting away. Until now.’
He closed the distance between us and grasped my upper arms. ‘It was not a word at all. It was your name.’
I shook my head, searching the depths of his eyes for some clue to what he was talking about.
‘I don’t understand. Are you saying you didn’t paint this recently?’
‘Yes. Far from it.’
‘When, then? When did you paint it?’
‘More than eight hundred years ago.’
CHAPTER 12
It was official. Like Elvis, my brain had definitely left the building.
At some point during the last few hours I’d apparently fallen down the rabbit-hole. I didn’t have a map of Wonderland, and nothing in my previous experience or education had prepared me to deal with the strange parallel universe I’d landed in.
Had someone slipped LSD into my Bloody Mary?
There I was, in the nether regions of Dracula’s castle, staring at a gorgeous self-proclaimed immortal who insisted he’d painted my portrait eight hundred years ago, and I couldn’t find the instruction manual to put the pieces together. I couldn’t even find the box the damn thing came in.
Devereux seemed to have that effect on me. One minute I was ready to rip my clothes off, leap into his arms, and lose myself in a frenzy of body parts. The next minute I was rocketing between shocked horror, mind-numbing confusion, and righteous anger. My brain just wasn’t equipped for that kind of neurochemical rollercoaster ride.
Then all hell broke loose.
I heard loud, angry voices out in the corridor and frantic pounding on the outer door to Devereux’s office. Evidently the villagers with burning torches had arrived.
‘Master! Master! Come quickly. They’re back and they’ve got Luna.’
Devereux grabbed the painting from the easel, shoved it at me and ordered, ‘Stay here.’ He moved so quickly through the opening in the wall of books that my eyes registered only a blur.
He must have opened the outer door because a cacophony of chaotic, fearful voices filled the air before the door clicked shut again, leaving me in eerie silence.