The following is an original work of fiction. All characters belong to the author and any likenesses to real people or places is purely coincidental. Please do not copy or repost any part or portion of this work to any other website.
Eris Jade
********************************************************
He can smell her over the acrid scent of cigarette smoke. Over the copper bite of blood and the bitter tang of sweat. Over the many and varied perfumes and colognes which have been assaulting his senses for the past two hours. Her scent cuts through it all. Clean and fresh, almost sweet, with a hint of ozone for good measure. Reminds him of what used to be. Of possibilities. Makes him angry, then has him drowning in a sea of down-feather memories.
Vincent goes after it, after that scent and the keeper of its memories, leaving the blond he'd been chatting up blinking and bewildered as he strides away from the table without so much as a word.
He cuts quickly, surely, through the late night crowd. Feels the heavy beat of the music knocking about inside his chest and thrumming through his veins. Feels his fingers curling into fists as he chases after her scent.
*Her.*
Outside, on the street, beneath wavering lamplight and the garish flash and pop of neon, he scans the night. Follows her scent, steps long and quick, shoes tapping out a steady rhythm against the pavement.
He stops at a park nearly a quarter mile away where her scent is heaviest, though there's no sign of her. Doesn't mean she isn't near. She's always been good at staying in the shadows. Watching him from afar.
Frustration furrows his brow. Pulls his mouth into a deep frown.
She always does this to him. Teases him, then slips away. Gives him another few years to stew and ponder.
"Lose somethin'?"
Her voice drifts like a breeze over his shoulder. Fills him with equal parts fury and longing, and he's almost half afraid to turn, in case she isn't really there. In case he's actually finally cracked and has only been imagining her.
"Yeah," he replies. Shoves his hands into the pockets of his slacks. "About 237 years ago."
There's silence. Long and heavy enough to have him second guessing, but then she's stepping around him, suddenly standing right in front of him, staring up at him with those bottomless eyes.
"You've kept count."
Her full, blood-red lips, stunning against the backdrop of her chestnut-hued skin, quirk up in a soft smile and he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to kiss them. 237 years without them, without the touch of her hands or the feel of her wings wrapped tightly around him. 237 years with the ghost of her, of memories that never fully fade.
And she's smiling at him as if they'd never parted ways. As if she'd never left him.
She itches to touch him. To reach out and feel the beat of his heart beneath her palm, but his ice-blue eyes are hooded. Guarded. Watchful.
"Have you missed me, Vincent?"
He doesn't speak. Stares down the long line of his nose at her. A small breeze wafts around them, tousling the hair brushing over his broad shoulders.
"Still angry, huh?"
This time he does speak, voice low and full of gravel.
"You tried to kill me, Illaine."
She blinks. "Just the one time."
He arches a thick brow, and she feels his power rising, coiling around her like a serpent.
She tries another approach. "I wasn't in my right mind. I'm sorry. There was a lot going on back then. I was under a great deal of stress."
"You chose."
His shoulders are tense beneath the midnight black of his suit jacket.
There's more shifting below the anger. So much more. Heartbreak. Resentment. Even as his power circles her, tightens and constricts, she can hear the pain of loss, of what might have been if she'd only stayed.
She watches his pupils swell and overtake the beautiful blue and the surrounding white. Spilled ink glittering in the lamplight. He looks fierce and frightening. Otherworldly.
"The *Angel* chose," he hisses and there's sulfur in the air now. Fire blazing in the dark pits of his eyes.
She should be afraid - his kind has taken out countless of hers over the years. But the blame is not hers alone to bear.
"The *Demon* chose, as well," she manages, though the air is leaving her lungs and every part of her is screaming for her to fight back.
She's done fighting. She's had enough.
He blinks, the invisible bands of his power releasing her, causing her to stumble for a moment before righting herself.
"We both made our choices, Vincent, and they were the right choices. Back then."
He inhales sharply. Takes a small step away. Realizes she would have allowed him to kill her just then if he'd continued. His fingers flex and release.
He doesn't want that. Has never wanted that, in spite of who and what they are. What they've become. He stares at her a long moment, the anger still present, throbbing hollowly in the pit of his stomach, but wavering now. Slowly ebbing away and leaving a weary resignation in its place.
Illaine moves, large dark eyes sad and full of regret. She steps in close, so close that her breasts graze the front of his suit jacket, and he imagines he can feel the heat of her through the layers of their clothing.
"We would have burned the world to ashes, Vincent," she murmurs.
He looks away. Keeps his fists in his pockets lest he reach out to her, pull her in close, and forget. "Now?"
Illaine laughs shortly, low and lilting, lifting her hand and splaying her lean fingers over his heart. Feels the quickening beat of it.
