The immortal man who calls himself William Blackmore, could not rest and has been speaking to me lately. Yes—I know you can stop making fun now. It’s getting crowded in there (my head) and I have to let them out once in a while or I go crazy…
It has been so many years since his birth that he has almost forgotten what it was like to be young. His dark nature and twisted spirit, revels in the shadows and keeps to the darkness. He would not consider himself evil and yet there is nothing about him that he would consider good. Over two hundred years ago, he saw something in another that reminded him of a time when he was not so dark. He saw her across the room, twirling in happy circles in her ballroom dress. He could still see her in that perfect time where her beauty matched her innocence, the lacy silk falling around her in a froth of pink Priscilla was happy, and so young and so full of love. No one could miss her, her radiant spirit glowed like the sun. She had given him so much hope and he had never felt so alive as he did that night. The emotions, and the power he felt rush through his veins at her subtle scent. It was so much more than a casual attraction. He had thought he had found his mate, a person to chase away the loneliness, and to spend many years in the future with. And if he was ever one to think good luck had shined on him at last, he didn’t doubt it was untrue by morning. The slayer that had hunted him into the centuries, matching him step for step had chosen that same night to strike, leaving William with no choice but to entrust his woman to two of his friends.
With the few words that he spoke to them, they did little else than to leave her, near dead to watch the sunrise. It was a miracle she survived to see the night. It was a miracle that she discovered what he had done to her, how he had changed her. How she learned to survive he would never know, but she did, with a vengeance in her soul. Twice she made an attempt on her life, and twice she was thwarted, yet she escaped. He regretted what he did. Not because he feared death or because he feared her attempts to kill him in the future. There was nothing he deserved more than death.
He regretted that it made no difference in his own lonely life. He regretted that he could not have kept her near to him, and became her friend and her lover. He regretted that he was responsible for her bitter nature now. That she had changed into something as deeply disturbed as himself. He regretted so much. And there was nothing he could about it now.