Chapter Twenty-Five

It's pasture bedtime.

Satiated, Eva snuggled deeper into Oliver"s embrace, slowly circling her index finger over the contours of his chest and down his abs as she floated down from the burst of power that had washed over her.

Despite her relaxed state, power hummed through her. Oliver could feel the vibrations under her skin and wondered if his body felt the same to her. She looked well fucked; well fucked and well fed, flushed and marked by the hours-long session. Pride settled through him; as promised, he'd made her scream, over and over again. But his little bunny hadn't begged him to stop; she'd matched him, taking everything he had to give her. Begged him to fill her with his cock over and over again.

He was content. Content for perhaps the first time in his long life. He slowly let out his breath as her exploration led back up the middle of his chest, and she traced the ridges of the puckered skin while he gently washed away the sticky strings of his cum that ran down her body.

"You're glowing," he stated, touching her pale, white skin as it shimmered, dancing under the moonlight. Uncomfortably, she rubbed her arm as if to remove the light that emanated from her entire body. Catching her hand, he whispered, "Don't. It's beautiful." He wasn"t lying, and truthfully, watching the shimmer was beautiful and mesmerizing. "I could watch you all night long."

With an awkward laugh, Eva admitted, "That will be a first; the fact that you're still awake after sex is a first for me."

Clearly, previous encounters had drained her lovers and while Oliver felt a twinge of jealousy that there had been others, he also felt pride that he was able to share this first with her. He vowed never to love her and then fall asleep. He would always bask in the peace of watching her body process the energy from the encounter. "As if I could fall asleep so easily with you."

Raising her head off his chest and looking more closely at the scarred tissue, so out of place on the rest of his body, she asked, "What happened here?" For a moment, uncertainty stopped her. "I mean, if you want to tell me. It"s none of my business. Just because . . ."

Oliver raised his free hand to trace Eva's lips and then moved it down with habit to trace the raised circular flesh. For a moment, the smell of gunpowder and death assaulted him, but it dissipated with a look into Eva's wide brown eyes. Kissing her forehead, he admitted, "That's how I died."

Eva raised her head to look into his eyes, her curls falling into her face. He smiled and kissed the same spot again and pulled her back down to rest against him.

"I was born Oliver Patrick Davis in 1887." Eva raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing, so he continued turning back the years. Sensing her mirth, he laughed. "Yes, I'm well over a hundred years old. Looking good for my age," he teased, knowing there would be no lighthearted moments to his tale.

"My family did well, well enough for me to receive an education. I was fortunate enough to attend the University of Florida's College of Engineering." He absently stroked Eva's hair, winding the silky strands through his fingers; its tantalizing softness overrode the desire—no, the habit—to touch his own scar.

The time rolled back easily for Oliver at Eva's question. The years spent in Florida had been some of the best of his life, his true life. The first time he'd been so far from home, and the freedom it brought. The cheap, shared beers that lingered long on the lips, the lively discussions that often begot table pounding and shouting, but always ended with laughter and a firm pounding on the back of one another even when agreements weren't made.

He hadn't truly experienced the camaraderie of such young men before or since then. The peace. Of course, the young men were long gone now; the bloody war had ensured that. Most likely none had been lucky enough to experience old age. He'd never checked, and his heart softened with the realization that he missed those young men, so hopeful and carefree.

Graduating in 1913 near the middle of his class, which was standard for his life, Oliver found a job in the city of Boston working for an engineering firm whose name now eluded him. Still far from home, he assumed he had plenty of time to settle back down in Illinois, closer to family even if he lived in the city.

Those days were baseless, not like college, one exhausting day running into another. Long days still ended quite often in a bar with a few drinks that were no longer as cheap. Conversations still flowed, but not as freely as in his university days. The office hours converged seamlessly with the evening hours, as the young engineers discussed projects and developed ideas without the constraints of desks, middle management, and time frames. Often the best solutions arose from these evening drinking sessions surrounded by the jazzy music and constant noise of a city always on the go.

And this was his life; of course, there were rumblings of a war in Europe. Newspaper boys shouted out the headlines, and politicians waved their arms about as they spoke of it. But that seemed so far away, places that he'd read about and places that perhaps someday he would visit. But as more and more American ships were sunk around the British Isles, more rumblings began that the president's proposed neutrality wasn't possible.

In April 1917, President Wilson asked Congress to join the war: "A war to end all wars." Today, Oliver"s chest tightened in sorrow as he thought of that promise, of that even being a possibility. But during those moments, those days, Oliver fervently believed in what the president was saying. Along with countless other young men, he joined the ranks to protect democracy.

"I wasn't a good soldier," he admitted, staring off into space, looking back over the years. "I was a good engineer, but really that didn't matter. I thought I could make a difference, the same as other young men, I suppose. The war needed bodies, and it was indifferent to strengths and weaknesses."

He was a member of the 11th Engineer Regiment, his unit attached to a British unit. A unit that found themselves in November of 1917 at the village of Fins, digging trenches behind British lines as the war raged on around them. All too soon, Oliver began to realize that the promises of old men were built on the deaths of young men. Even when the church bells rang of British victory, the screams of the injured and dying, as well as the silence of the dead, were deafening.

For ten days, the battle raged, the pounding of artillery and mortars making any amount of sleep impossible. Sometimes, the exhaustion would overtake a man for a few minutes, but true rest was unthinkable.

November 30th, a young, pimply-faced English private arrived at the back lines. Oliver guessed the boy was ten years younger than his own twenty-eight years. His haunted eyes told a different story, a vastly different age; war was imprinted on his soul. Death was a frequent visitor. He spoke in whispers. More men were needed. Any of the injured who could stand and hold a gun were called back. The Americans were needed at the front. Even a few men might make a difference, might turn the tide.

Just a few whispered words, and Oliver found himself gearing up for battle at the front lines. Digging trenches could wait; this could make a real difference. He could make a real difference. Dirty and tired, he clenched his rifle—the rifle he'd kept clean and oiled despite being on the rear lines. Training had taught him that much: clean rifle, dry feet. Most days only one was possible. But all the training in the world couldn't truly prepare anyone for war. Everything was damp, even downright wet at times. Miserable. Supplies were short, but on the bright side, the brutal hunger they felt meant they were still alive.

"The plans of gods and men differ," he quoted quietly.

Eva's hands had quit tracing his body and now clutched him, as if driving the demons away were a possibility.

The battlefield and trenches were soaked in the blood of the fallen. What the rain washed away was immediately replaced. Oliver couldn't begin telling Eva about the horrors. He didn"t want those images to mar her beautiful soul. He shook his head to bring himself back to the present. Back from the battlefield.

"It was a bayonet here." He brought up her hand and touched the center of his chest. For a moment, her touch replayed the shooting pain of the lance and then the frightening numbness that followed. "I'm not sure how I wasn't instantly killed. I lay there staring up at the boy. Yes, it was a boy who had speared me. Another boy. A boy whose eyes were filled with sorrow. Both sides were sending boys. There was so much noise and then I could hear nothing. It was as if a vacuum had sucked all the noise and air off the battlefield. Blood appeared on the boy's chest and spread slowly out. Shock and horror replaced the sorrow in his eyes. He let go of the rifle holding the bayonet and fell to the side of me."

Even though he couldn't turn his head to see him, for years Oliver had often imagined the boy's lifeless eyes staring at him as the last of his blood pumped feebly from his wound. What had been his last thoughts? His mother? Was he old enough for a lover? Had he seen whoever had fired the fateful shot that ended his life? Paralyzed and unable to move, Oliver waited for his own death to come.

What Oliver couldn't tell Eva was that as he lay there staring up at the clear blue sky, he had thought, This isn"t how death should come. Can death arrive on such a beautiful day? Who should die on such a fine day? The battle seemed to have moved on, and a strange, unearthly silence surrounded him—or his hearing had already left him, a merciful prelude to death.

Then a shadow blocked out the sun. A woman. A woman on the battlefield bent down over his head, upside down, her eyes even with his eyes. A hood covered her head and most of her face, but even in that moment he had no doubt that it was a woman who peered down at him. A strand of thick, straight black hair fell onto his face, although he couldn't feel it. He willed his mouth to say something, anything, but he couldn't manage even the tiniest of twitches. Oliver wanted to ask if death was a woman, if death was a Valkyrie sent to take him to the heavens? But the words formed only in his mind.

The dark eyes looked down at him and for a moment, he saw a flash of red. Red, which he was sure was his own life blood reflecting in her eyes. This stranger, this beautiful angel of death stared at him for a long moment, turning her head as if to examine his soul through his eyes.

Bending down closer, so close that he would surely feel her breath upon him, she whispered in an unrecognizable accent, "Do you want to live?" Then, pulling her head back, she began her slow perusal of his eyes again, waiting for his response, studying his face and his injury.

Oliver willed his lips to move, willed them to twitch. Willed his eyes to blink rapidly, screaming inside as he realized nothing was occurring. Prayed to whatever gods might listen that she understood that yes, yes, he wanted nothing more than to live. Nothing more than to see his mother again, nothing more than to go back to his boring, hopeless, but safe office job, nothing more than to find young women to love and grow plump together with age. He wanted to live. Did this dark stranger know that? Oliver didn"t know then but was told later that tears were running down his face. That despite not moving or speaking to her, she did know he wanted to live.

"I'm Ravyn." She bent down and first kissed one cheek, then the other, seemingly un-bothered by the dirt and muck covering him. "This is going to hurt." Then all the pain and more returned.

Laying her hand flat on Oliver"s chest where the skin still puckered from the injury, Eva again rose part way up. "Didn't this heal when you, um . . . changed?"

He pulled her hand up to his mouth and again kissed it gently. "So many things healed, aches and pains disappeared, and scars faded. All but this one. It's a reminder of my life and my death, I suppose. Sometimes I forget about it for months, maybe even years, but other times, I can still feel the bayonet sliding into my skin.

"Ravyn carried me from the battlefield under the cover of darkness. I disappeared, assumed dead like so many others at the Battle of Cambrai." Oliver found himself continuing, aching to tell Eva his story, needing her to know who he was and where he came from. "She wasn't a vampire looking to kill. God knows she could find enough blood and death on the battlefield. Humanity fears the unknown and the things that the dark might bring, but really they bring their own evil upon themselves. We don't need to search far for what we need; they serve it to us."

It only took a day and a night for Oliver to heal, to change, and to find himself desiring the blood that flowed plentiful across Europe for another year. Ravyn had been alone for many years at this point, and together they found companionship; friendship and freedom. Ravyn taught Oliver how to live without killing needlessly and without being caught.

"We would go into field hospitals and cure the wounded as best we could, passing through the night like angels of life and death. We used our blood to heal and spare those we could and ease the suffering of those who were not long for this world." Reaching over to the nightstand, Oliver retrieved the bottle of water he'd sat there earlier and took a long pull from it before offering it to Eva.

"After the war ended, we still traveled together for several years as the countries attempted to rebuild themselves. We saw the battlefields replaced with cities. Back alleys replaced the field hospitals, and instead of mesmerizing wounded soldiers in hospital beds, we began enchanting the rich at parties, slowly gathering what we needed to survive. I learned to live in a peace of sorts. Learned how to take care of Ravyn during her hours of sleep, hoping that if I were lucky enough to live so long, someday I might have such a companion."

Oliver allowed himself a sigh as he remembered what had been good years. "Of course, that peace didn't last long. Ravyn told me it never did, but I'd hoped. Before we knew it, another war erupted, just as the nations were starting to heal themselves. This time, the former soldiers who had survived were sending their own sons to die in trenches all over again. Rinse and repeat, it seems."

Oliver took another drink of water, his mouth dry from the memories he found himself eagerly wanting Eva to know about. "After that war, Ravyn and I went separate ways for many years. She didn't really need me. I think she created me in a moment of loneliness, and taking care of her gave me a sense of purpose for a while. We'd spent thirty years together and then we spent nearly that long apart. I came back to the States, and even though Ravyn had spent time in the Americas, she stayed in Europe and even Africa, traveling. There were still places she wanted to visit and people she wanted to see. Hell, she may have taken a long nap just to escape the world for a bit."

Oliver stopped himself. "Eventually, she did come to the States, and we've stayed in touch since then. Clearly, we followed different paths, but between Hollywood and security we"ve managed to overlap quite a bit. I know without a doubt that she trusts me with her life and I trust her with mine. That's why she knew I would help her when she needed it. I owe my life to her."

"Did you see your mother again?"

He sadly shook his head. "That was the wish of a dying man. I disappeared on that battlefield, and by the time I made my way back here, she was gone. I wondered for years if she welcomed death, thinking we would finally meet again. I disappointed her in life and in death, I suppose. I visited her grave a few times," he admitted. "It called her ‘Beloved Mother,' and I suppose that was the epitaph for a missing, forgotten son who couldn't have his own burial."

For the first time since his death, Oliver felt a different kind of hope, one that didn't revolve around living forever alone or even alone with Ravyn. He felt the same hope he'd felt on the battlefield all those years ago, hope for something more than just an eternity of nothingness and boredom.

Eva sat still for a moment, hesitating to ask the question that was on her lips.

Oliver could sense her uncertainty in the rapid beating of her heart. "What is it? You can ask me anything."

A nervous giggle escaped her. "It seems stupid," she admitted. "You've gone through so much and my only question is because I'm jealous or could be." She couldn"t bring herself to look at him and buried her face in his chest. A low rumble surrounded her, shaking her head from the vibrations. "Stop," she pleaded.

"No, it"s just that it's amusing. Ravyn is a sister to me, and an older sister, at that. I would say mother, but I think she might cut my balls off if I dared make that claim. Never lovers." Oliver gently pulled Eva's face up to look at her and earnestly reiterated. "Never."

A soft smile crossed Eva's face. "Thanks, and thanks for not thinking I'm a jealous harpy. I mean, we did just meet and yes, we did this." A blush crossed her face at the memory of "this."

"Not a jealous harpy at all, but I have a feeling we're seeing some of your succubus coming through. They do tend to be jealous of their lovers and very possessive."

Eva stiffened in his arms, clearly not wanting to think about the newly discovered succubus part of her, and Oliver feared she might pull away from him at the reminder.

"Why did you start security instead of staying with engineering?" she asked in a thinly veiled attempt to change the subject, which Oliver allowed with relief, since that meant she wasn't pulling away from him and his faux pas.

Don't bring up being a succubus unless she brings it up, he ordered himself.

"It sort of went hand in hand and as times changed, I needed to evolve with it. Engineering was the foundation and then computers, and then when the Internet came to life, I followed and grew along with it. Cyber security is my main emphasis, but I also have the entire force of physical security to hire out as needed. They're a good balance to each other and in this era are quite lucrative."

"Oliver," Eva began, and he waited. "Thank you for telling me."

He could feel her heart slowing down to a steady pace again as she relaxed into him. His own chest swelled with something he couldn't quite put a name to. Was it relief? Contentment? Happiness? Maybe a mixture of all.

"I dreamed of Ravyn for the first time after I had sex." Eva admitted with quiet words. "Maybe that event solidified our bond or my half demon nature. I never saw her, but it was more like I saw through her eyes. I saw an entire world through her eyes. She has been my connection to the world for so many years. A part of me is unsure how I will see the world now that we are no longer connected."

Oliver wanted to tell her the world was still out there to explore. He wanted to tell her that Ravyn's existence didn't define Eva, but such comments were weak platitudes.

"You didn't feed from me during sex," she questioned hesitantly. "Is that a part of the lore too? I mean, I fed from you. Even though I don't know how I do it, I still did. And if you wanted to . . ." Trailing off, she looked at him, waiting for his answer.

At her suggestion, his cock swelled once again. She did this to him. She made him insatiable, and she gave him permission. Already her heady, sweet scent began to fill the room again; she was insatiable too. Pulling her over on top of him, his bobbing, thick cock searched for her heat. Kissing down her neck as he gently rolled a nipple between his fingers, Oliver determined it was time to bring her heart rate back up again, and leave the past where it belonged.