She captured his image only once, and it’s haunted her ever since.
Kaylynn has photographed thousands of people all over the world. However, the one man she desires wants nothing to do with her. Elijah took Kaylynn in when she was a teenager, rescuing her from an insane preacher who wanted her for his own evil purposes.
Over the years, Kaylynn wants nothing more than to feel Elijah’s dark kiss. He wishes to keep her safe. In order to do that, he sends her away until an old evil resurfaces. Together, they have to confront the crazed reverend…and something else.
Walking down the hall, a photo caught my eye. It normally did. It was an 8x10 of an old vine covered cemetery. The stones were old, worn thin by the passage of time and weather. In the foreground was a figure, head bent and hands tented in prayer. Pale hair covered most of his face, but the little visible slice held so much pain and sorrow it broke my heart, yet there was a strength there I couldn’t put my finger on. It was a beautiful pose. An angel praying over a lost comrade. It was one of the rare occasions Elijah had let himself be photographed by anyone, including Simone. This one was taken unawares, when she had surprised him.
In the doorway of the den, I noticed Elijah bent over his writing desk. Papers were scattered all over it. It was the one place he was messy, when everything else must be pristine. The desk was old, with a rolling top and enough drawers to hide anything in. Books lined the walls, and above the mantle was a gilded mirror, which reflected the sunlight. However, for Elijah and Simone, it reflected the cool moonlight. His white blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
“Come in,” he said without looking up.
The boards creaked when I walked forward. His adept hands moved rapidly over the image he sketched. Elijah was an accomplished artist who could paint, draw, sculpt, and take photographs. When it came to the written word, he relied on others, and was a lover of Poe because the author was so morbid. I had once asked him if he had ever met the writer, and he just laughed and told me he was more interested in other things in that era than a drunken man who was composing poetry.
My eyes scanned the shelves. There were certain ones dedicated to books, but mostly the shelves all had different themes for different art types. There was a Native American pottery shelf, another with nothing but old tintypes. One of my favorites was of Simone dressed as a saloon girl. She always laughed when she told me stories; unlike Elijah, she was never hesitant to talk about the past and what she had done.
“Elijah.” He continued sketching. I hoped he would stop and acknowledge me, but he kept on going. I sighed and bit my lip. Nervous tension built in the air. Swallowing a few times, I noticed my hands were shaking, and so was the tin of pencils he had on his desk.
“What is it?” he asked. His fingers held the can. I took in a deep breath and tried to steady myself. It worked some, and I got a handle on my power.
“I’m leaving.”
“What do you want me to say?”
My heart fell. What did I want him to say? I wanted him to rant, rave, and beg me to stay. I wanted him to take me in his arms and tell me anything to convince me he couldn’t live his life without me. “I was hoping for goodbye,” I whispered.
