Wherever Azazel had been, she didn't seem to be tripping over herself to say. Ishmael might've pressed her, asked outright, if he had not been struck by a funny little shiver down his spine at the way she was still calling him my love, a pointed phrase in a honeyed tone, words that spun him back to years ago and worlds away without a moment's warning.
It was like no time had passed. Like they had never been apart. No: that was not true. Ishmael had scarcely thought of her - had never meant to, at any rate. He didn't feel the way he had, once, when he had been so young, still, and clinging to life and passion and distraction ferociously, and she had been as much a lifeline as he had been hers, he had thought, from the midnight waters. But he had been the furthest thing from a lifeline for her, he knew that now, better than he ever had. The seed of guilt in him had been slow to grow, resigned to pushing through the idle cracks in his mind, his long-abandoned morals, but - apparently it had sprung up, somewhere in there. He had turned her, barely an instant after he had been turned himself.
He hadn't known what he was doing. She hadn't considered what might happen. He hadn't meant to do it - or maybe he had, Ishmael wondered with a start. Had he thought they'd had some connection? Had he really, quietly, unwittingly, only wanted to stave off his own loneliness, saved by a pretty face?
'Course, it didn't matter how it had happened now. He hadn't forced himself into taking responsibility for what he'd made of her before.
Now, however, was perhaps a different story. "It's not just any town, you see," he'd started off in explanation, always tempted towards trying to be impressive - and the place probably would be to her, once a muggle - "that down there is Hogsmeade. A village full of wizards. A village full of wizards, and that fog? Just taken away their magic." This truth was one Ishmael rather regretted sharing about as soon as he'd said it. (He had no business trying to impress her; he ought to be getting rid of her, sharpish.)
He followed her gaze and then stepped better into it, closed in on her at the fire once more, slipped his fingers around her wrist to grasp her with some pretence of authority. He looked at squarely (at squarely as he could, given the fact she was slightly taller than him): "They're not to be killed, though. They all know what we are." They knew what vampires were and weren't capable of... and in all this fog, they didn't need more reasons to rally their pitchforks, or this could all get much, much messier.
It was like no time had passed. Like they had never been apart. No: that was not true. Ishmael had scarcely thought of her - had never meant to, at any rate. He didn't feel the way he had, once, when he had been so young, still, and clinging to life and passion and distraction ferociously, and she had been as much a lifeline as he had been hers, he had thought, from the midnight waters. But he had been the furthest thing from a lifeline for her, he knew that now, better than he ever had. The seed of guilt in him had been slow to grow, resigned to pushing through the idle cracks in his mind, his long-abandoned morals, but - apparently it had sprung up, somewhere in there. He had turned her, barely an instant after he had been turned himself.
He hadn't known what he was doing. She hadn't considered what might happen. He hadn't meant to do it - or maybe he had, Ishmael wondered with a start. Had he thought they'd had some connection? Had he really, quietly, unwittingly, only wanted to stave off his own loneliness, saved by a pretty face?
'Course, it didn't matter how it had happened now. He hadn't forced himself into taking responsibility for what he'd made of her before.
Now, however, was perhaps a different story. "It's not just any town, you see," he'd started off in explanation, always tempted towards trying to be impressive - and the place probably would be to her, once a muggle - "that down there is Hogsmeade. A village full of wizards. A village full of wizards, and that fog? Just taken away their magic." This truth was one Ishmael rather regretted sharing about as soon as he'd said it. (He had no business trying to impress her; he ought to be getting rid of her, sharpish.)
He followed her gaze and then stepped better into it, closed in on her at the fire once more, slipped his fingers around her wrist to grasp her with some pretence of authority. He looked at squarely (at squarely as he could, given the fact she was slightly taller than him): "They're not to be killed, though. They all know what we are." They knew what vampires were and weren't capable of... and in all this fog, they didn't need more reasons to rally their pitchforks, or this could all get much, much messier.
