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I looked at my house for a few moments before getting out of the car. It was a little worse for wear after the long winter—there were tiles missing from the roof and the trim around the eaves could do with a fresh coat of paint. And I really should replace the shutters. But there were also daffodils coming up in the front beds and the honeysuckle shrubs were filling out with tender green buds. This was my home now—for better or worse. My great-great-grandfather had set out from here a bitter and broken man, but somehow I’d found my way back and somehow, against all odds, I’d landed on my feet.
I got out, but instead of going inside I cut across the lawn and walked though a gap in the trees onto the path. The ground was damp from the rain, but at least the snow was gone. I followed the trail to the glade in the middle of the honeysuckle thicket. The twisted branches were stained dark by rain. Against the new trembling green they looked like stained-glass windows.
Like a cathedral, Dahlia LaMotte had written at the end ofThe Dark Strangerwhen Violet Grey and William Dougall find each other in a secluded glade in the forest. In the published book the scene ends with Violet accepting Dougall’s offer of marriage. In the handwritten manuscript there were a few additional lines.
I turned from my earthly lover and watched my demon lover rise in the mist beyond the trees. I could see longing in his face, a longing matched in my own sinews and veins. He was made up of a darkness that spoke to the darkness inside me. If he called to me, I would follow. But he didn’t call to me. He lifted a hand—in parting or benediction I’d never know—and then he vanished into the shadows from which he came.
A fine mist rose from the ground, filling the arched doorway. I stepped closer and the mist parted for me, curled around me, and caressed my face. I felt it linger on the iron key I wore around my neck and lap at the marks on my wrist Liam had made when I was willing to follow him into the shadows.
He was made up of a darkness that spoke to the darkness inside me.
Yes, Dahlia had that right. The truth—if I was going to be a stickler for the truth—was that I recognized something of myself in the incubus. Down at the pit of my being was a shadowy place, which had remained closed and hidden since I was a child, that was only now beginning to stir. The incubus had awoken it. And while I hadn’t fallen in love with the civilized man the incubus had made himself into, I thought I might have been able to love the wild creature of moonlight and shadow.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of sea air and honeysuckle.
“No,” I said, answering the last question Liam had asked me. “A lie told out of love isn’t the worst thing.”
Then, my face damp from the mist, I turned around and went home.
