Most of the time, he's just a damned good reason to stay out of Britain. Immortals hold such grudges-- the last time it was the forties, it was Scotland, and she's still so sorry and maybe she just shouldn't use this name any more, Mélisande Girard then Sinclair and now Bellerose. It was simpler, last time; she knows if it's complicated now, that's her doing and Irene's hand on her arm.
Dear Irene, if I wrote to you a confession it would be one never repented--
Dear Irene, you are too dangerous for my world.
Her hands comes up to Irene's - there's the gun, now she's not wearing her coat, easily visible in that translucent blouse and those close-fitting pants - and she leans forward into her and the instinctive sway of it is as honest as the way her arm is being clasped right now. Shooting him didn't matter, she shot him because she doesn't want him dead, she wants the two of them far apart again; it matters because it's the end of this life and there's not going to be any coffee. There won't be any hopeful phonecall. A hand on her shoulder, her foot on his throat, a gunshot-- and everything Mélisande Bellerose loved is...something that she loved, once.
“It's family,” she says, and for a heartbeat she is so much older. It's always been there in her distance, but she's good, and she's always been good, and this lifetime she'd let herself be less tethered, and it was like camouflage. (The Belleroses are dead, the adoption records for her sealed; her birth father owns a security firm in Germany, nothing of her mother to find.) “I have to-- I have to go home.”
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Dear Irene, if I wrote to you a confession it would be one never repented--
Dear Irene, you are too dangerous for my world.
Her hands comes up to Irene's - there's the gun, now she's not wearing her coat, easily visible in that translucent blouse and those close-fitting pants - and she leans forward into her and the instinctive sway of it is as honest as the way her arm is being clasped right now. Shooting him didn't matter, she shot him because she doesn't want him dead, she wants the two of them far apart again; it matters because it's the end of this life and there's not going to be any coffee. There won't be any hopeful phonecall. A hand on her shoulder, her foot on his throat, a gunshot-- and everything Mélisande Bellerose loved is...something that she loved, once.
“It's family,” she says, and for a heartbeat she is so much older. It's always been there in her distance, but she's good, and she's always been good, and this lifetime she'd let herself be less tethered, and it was like camouflage. (The Belleroses are dead, the adoption records for her sealed; her birth father owns a security firm in Germany, nothing of her mother to find.) “I have to-- I have to go home.”
But not yet.