Master of the Shadows

“The blood is too old.” She cradled it in her palm. “It cannot work.”



“You will not know,” he said, “unless you try.”



“But you love the woman I am now,” Claris said. “If I keep this shape, you can have your Reese forever.”



“There is only one woman I have ever loved,” he told her, “and her memory is in your hands.”



She reached for the bottle of wine on the table, and carefully wet the rag with a few drops before she brought it to her lips.



The shifting of her body happened much slower than before. She felt every inch of her hair as it grew out of her scalp, and every muscle that shrank and tightened. Reese’s generous curves became her smaller, more modest form. She lost four inches in height, her spine shortening a fraction at a time.



She walked over to look into the mirror on the library wall. Reese’s honey gold hair had turned to her own rich brown, falling over her shoulders to stream down her back. Her face hollowed, the cheekbones sharpening and her oval eyes narrowing and tilting down at the inner corners. Green and gold starbursts swept away the dark chocolate of her irises before a fringe of heavier, dark lashes shadowed them.



She expected it to hurt, but there was no pain. And when it was finished, she felt at ease in her skin for the first time in centuries.



“I forgot how small I was.” She turned away from her reflection and held out her thin arms. “And freckles. I had freckles.” She looked up at him. “Am I as I was?”



“Claris,” he said, taking her into his arms. “We can never be who we were. We can only be who we are.” He frowned. “But as I recall, there were nine freckles on your nose, not eight.”



She still felt troubled. “What about Reese?”



“Reese was my friend,” he said. “You are my love. And that, sweetheart, will never change.”