Lace Confessions

The black lace would burn beautifully. Burning as only black lace can with the darkest flames and the blackest ashes. Even the thought of touching it would sear the skin from your fingertips. Leir smiled. She was gone. The poison of her rose red lips to never touch his again. The porcelin skin of hers, cold like death never to touch him anymore. Cold like death, he mocked his own thoughts. They weren't alive, they hadn't been for centuries. One of the un-dead, they very epitome of immortality. Leir snorted, immortality was a joke. And, they weren't in love. Oh sure, maybe long ago before he could now remember. It had been torrid pure passion which fueled their blood lust. He must have put Amaranth out of her misery. She was considerably older than he. Both had origins that began in France but they had met, by chance, in Italy. Bitter memories. In the more modern era they came to life in America. Now here, they had grown apart over the last 7 decades ... more than they already had. Still moving from place to place because when you didn't age, people began to ask questions. But Amaranth was dead, not just a living beauty captured by death, but dead. He had killed her with his own cold hands and greedy thirst. The irony was sweet, for Amaranth's very name meant 'flower that never faded.' She had faded though.1