My Immortal by Erin McCarthy Page B

But he could no longer take personal pleasure, wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he did, knowing that women found him irresistible, that his powers of seduction were demon-induced, that he was nothing more than a vile snake charmer.
    He gave pleasure to women who benefited from his attention, who grew in confidence from their dalliance, who were empowered by it. It was the only way for Damien to reconcile what he was with doing a small measure of good. Marley was different. It wasn’t compassion he felt for Marley, but intense desire, interest, longing. There was no way he could touch her and stay in control, and that was a risk he simply couldn’t take.
    Rosa was the child of a Watcher, a demon sent to look after human welfare, who instead had embraced his lust for human women, one of two hundred Watchers who had done so. For Rosa and her father, who had given in to temptation and sin, it was a game to tempt Damien to do so as well. To them it was inevitable that he would give in, become just like them in their proud, evil mischievousness, and over the last one hundred years they had sent many, many women to him to achieve that ultimate triumph.
    Yet Damien knew he had made many mistakes, and he didn’t want to repeat them. What he had done back in his mortal youth and his early days of demon servitude, how he had pulled Marie down into his moral sewage, then manipulated Marissabelle to save himself, all fed his convictions, his self-loathing.
    Long ago he had come to terms with who and what he was, and accepted responsibility. This was how he had to live. He would provide an atmosphere for those already eager to immerse themselves in their sexual appetites.
    But he would not take the innocent down with him this time, not when Marie’s dark, agonized eyes still haunted his dreams, showing him that for all his long life, he had never been a man of worth.
     
     
     
    When our baby died, and I lost so much blood, my dislike of Damien’s plantation grew. It was this place, I told myself as I sat on the porch, staring endlessly out at the overgrown drive, at the pigeonnier flanking the west of the house, at the new slaves’ quarters marching in a solemn row down by the indigo fields, this place was the reason my baby had died.
    Nothing is healthy here. Disease is rampant, the air unbreathable, my constitution compromised by the lack of adequate care.
    I refused to dress, refused to powder, but spent many, many weeks sitting aimlessly in my most comfortable mourning gown, the extent of my activity to move from the porch to the salon, to the garden, to bed. Have you ever been swimming, Angelique? Do you know how it feels when your limbs are underwater, how you have to push harder to make them move? That is how I felt, as if my every movement required more effort, as if my world had slowed to a turtlelike crawl, where it hurt to breathe, was fatiguing to walk, was beyond my ability to think.
    At first, I believe Damien tolerated my behavior, though I saw little of him. But I think, to give him proper credit, he was allowing me to indulge in my grief, and perhaps needed time to deal with his own. At the time, however, I had little notion of him or what he was about, as I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around anything other than my own pain.
    But I believe that as fall shifted into winter, he grew weary of my invalid state. Just before Christmas, he approached me in the salon where I was listlessly watching the fire.
    “You will be dressed this evening. We have dinner guests.”
    “But…,” I said in alarm. “I cannot.”
    “You will.” His green eyes were hard, completely lacking in patience and concern.
    When Gigi dressed me that evening, I was startled to see that I had lost weight, that my breasts no longer filled the bodice of my gown, that the waist was too loose to be flattering.
    Gigi clucked. “Madame, you must eat! Men like women who are soft and round.”
    But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about