Demon Moon

know when it happened, because you’d be in different clothes; so maybe you’d shower every day before coming home so that I don’t know exactly when, but it would still be a constant reminder. Eating away at me. At us . And not just the sex—you’d feel like shit because it hurt me, and I would feel like shit because you felt guilty for something you can’t control. It would ruin— taint —everything good between us.”
    She was right; and she saw far too much for him to hide anything from her. “And so your solution is to run? To avoid this for the remainder of your life? Do you think that will hurt less?” His tone was harsh, but not cruel. Still he saw each word striking her, the depth of his pain reflecting hers. “You love me, Savi. You will always love me.”
    “I know.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “I’ll come back. A day or two at a time. Once a month. More frequently, if I can.”
    His throat closed. Like a blood donation schedule—enough time between feedings that it wouldn’t endanger her. But even once a month would take its toll. Hope warred with misery, anger. “Must you leave San Francisco?”
    Her hand cupped his cheek; her gaze searched his. “Yes. It would kill me to have you so close, but not to have you to myself.” She forced a smile. “And I’m rich, but don’t have much time compared to an immortal; I might as well spend some of both seeing the world. I can perform most of my responsibilities online: work, help out with the community stuff, the information and IDs. I can come back to check on Nani—and be with you as much as I can. And maybe once a year or so, when you’ve built up your tolerance to animal blood, we can have two weeks. Or three.”
    His chest constricted painfully. This would be their life? Was their situation so hopeless that a stolen moment here and there was the only solution; that her gaze brightened as if three weeks per year was a bloody miracle?
    Yet it was a solution—far from perfect, but he would take it. Take anything she had to offer him. “There will still be others,” he said softly. “How will your leaving make that different?”
    Moisture pooled in her eyes; she blinked it away. “Because it’s not as real if I don’t see it.”
    “And I’ll not be the only one who pretends things I don’t like don’t exist,” he said ruefully.
    Her smile was watery, but genuine. “Yes.”
    “You’ll ring me every day?” And he would hunt her down when he couldn’t bear the separation.
    She nodded. “And instant messenger. And text message.”
    “I’ll be fastened to my computer and cell phone in anticipation. Only I hope not to receive more e-mails whilst you are aboard airplanes, unless they are to inform me of your flight home,” he said. “I will live for your every return, Savitri, and die upon your departure.”
    “That’s so melodramatic,” she said, but she kissed him frantically, as if her leaving would be in the next moment and death imminent.
    He slowed her, soothed her with lips and hands until her breathing regained its steady rhythm and his eyes no longer pricked with tears.
    With a sigh, she leaned back to look up at him.
    “So…what’s in the bag?”

    The paintbrushes he laid out on the fountain wall didn’t surprise her; the airtight bottles of prepared henna did. Colin poured the mixture into a wide-bottomed bowl; the fragrance of tea tree oil, lavender, and lemon saturated the sterile air. The dark scent of mehndi .
    Mesmerized by his hands as he stirred and smoothed the mahogany paste, she belatedly realized, “The consistency’s too thin.” Like pudding, when it should have been like frosting.
    “For cone application, perhaps.” A half-smile curved his lips as he selected a line brush. “But I’ve no intention of decorating you as one ices a wedding cake. Lift your arms.”
    He stripped her T-shirt over her head, then picked her up to slide her skirt and panties over her hips before setting her on the wall again. Stepping back, he surveyed her as he did a canvas before he blocked out the underlying shapes. Her skin tightened; her nipples hardened beneath his slow, assessing gaze.
    “What do you intend?”
    His lashes lowered, and he took her right hand in his. “My intentions,” he dipped the brush into the paste, turned her palm up, “were completely destroyed. Do not move.”
    She couldn’t, not when he rapidly traced a tiny flower in the center of her palm, reapplying henna to the