Marcus held the glass door to a Lower East Side high-rise open for Abigail to enter, a gallant display not lost to his plaguing frustration. And a heavy frustration it was. The night had gotten off to a late start, due to waking at too late an hour, and it soured his mood. Equally distressing were Abigail's trailing steps. They forced him to slow to a brisk walk when a jog would have been preferred, and that irritated him.

He let his head fall back onto the door. The list was far too long to accomplish in the carelessly abbreviated night. How would he ever manage to collect them all? He sighed, accepting that even if his night had started at its normal hour, the frustration would remain. Even if Abigail's steps were to match his own, it would do little to alleviate the displeasure of his mind. Marcus tried not to think of the reasons for his aggravation, but to a masochistic degree, he replayed Abigail's words over and over in his thoughts, further spiraling him into fouler depths. There was nothing that could silence her revelation from earlier in the night.

'...striking blue eyes and blond hair.'

His pulse quickened. Looking out into the night in a manner that with each second grew to a habit, one of looming paranoia, Marcus saw nothing. The cold night strummed on with its damp coat of fallen rain. Sleepless dwellers and passing cars misted past in ignorance.

A wave of relief swayed Marcus. There was no one there. But as all natural things go, the waves receded. And with their natural sway back home, they dragged reprieve back into the deep black ocean, leaving him stranded in the cold sand, with nothing but his own ignorance as company. He could no longer deny it. This blond haired man, this collector of Abigail's past, was out there somewhere, waiting. He would reappear, but when?

Abigail passed Marcus and entered the building. Abandoning his grim thoughts, he turned to enter behind her when-

"Wait!" called a frail voice.

Marcus gritted his teeth and stopped. A stout woman with far too many groceries than she could manage approached him. Her hat barely sat atop her silver curls and she struggled to hasten her steps. When she reached the door, the exasperated woman lifted her head to Marcus with a grateful smile.

Marcus held the door open with his foot. "Allow me, madam," he offered, taking the bags from her carefully, accepting that there were some things that not even vexations could wither.

"Thank heavens you were there. It would have taken me forever to get my keys out with all those bags, and it's freezing out there. Aren't you cold?" She gave his coatless frame a curious look as he fell into step beside her. Not in the mood for conversation, Marcus feigned a smile in hopes of hiding his mood. But knowing he'd failed, he turned away.

Reaching the elevator, Marcus focused straight ahead on the reflection of his somber figure in the stainless steel doors. He shut his eyes and struggled to concentrate. All the murmurs of surrounding conversations fell away, as did the scent of peonies coming from the bouquet in the old lady's bag. Instead, he fixated on the cycle of his breath, hoping.

After mere seconds, he clenched his fists around the bags with a curse. For the life of him he could not focus on the life-source of his next charge, another matter of great frustration. He had managed to trace the dying soul to that building with much difficulty, but after that, nothing.

For the first time in a century, moving his mind into the unknown darkness of his closed eyes was impossible. Marcus found himself unable to navigate the millions of stars that shone bright and steady with life. There were the fading ones of whose time would come soon, yes, but in the midst of them all, there should have been his star, his flaming star.

Straining, Marcus swam in the shallow darkness that stretched far into a never-ending distance. The stars shifted all around, creating a sea of glittering waves before him. Slowly, they settled and formed one image. Marcus blinked his eyes open and shook his head.

It was her, Abigail, his blessing and his curse, the source of his problem and of all his frustrations. If only he could get past her face when closing his eyes. If he could filter past her words, 'I'm glad it was you,'maybe he could find his charge.

Marcus looked at her and his heart sank. She stood still, buried in his coat, closed and reserved. The ease he saw in her when he woke beside her had vanished. It burned him to know that like a thief in the night, his own mood had encouraged her back into her cave.

He opened his mouth to apologize, and to assure her that his mood was not her fault, but the words were swallowed by a soft ping and the opening elevator doors. He blew out a breath. Once the exiting crowd cleared, he waited to for others to enter, and then paced inside behind Abigail.

"Your floor, sir?" the elevator attendant asked. Marcus paused. With his flaming star a mystery, he didn't know. Needing time to think, he called out the last floor, nineteen. Perhaps on the ride his fiery star would ignite and make itself known. He excused himself to the back corner, deposited the bags beside their owner, and leaned back against the wall next to Abigail. She was tucked in the corner with her arms crossed over her chest, looking as if she wished to make herself as small as possible and disappear.

"I don't have to be here you know, she said, suddenly. "I could always go back to the room while you work. It'll be easier without me. I'm only slowing you down and you obviously don't want me here." Her soft tones echoed in the small space, and while her words were directed toward Marcus, her eyes were not. She swallowed hard. She didn't want to say the words. The way she failed to meet his eyes, and the way she plucked the coat sleeves, told Marcus this. With all certainty, he was sure that she wanted to stay with him, and he with her.

He looked down to his shirt and plucked imaginary lint from a black button nonchalantly. "You're right. It would be much easier without you here."

Her head shot up, her eyes widening in disbelief. Her face flushed and paled just as quickly. Marcus held her stare, trying to appear serious. Unable to contain a laugh, he looked down to hide the teasing smirk. Indeed, she was right. It would be easier without her there, but all be damned if he was going to leave her alone.

She gasped in recognizing his taunt and shoved him aside. "You're a jerk, you know that?"

He let out a little laugh. "So I've been told." When his laugh faded, he assured her, "I'm not angry, Abigail. I do want you here. I'm sorry about my mood. Really, it's not you. It's me."

At this, the green of Abigail's eyes sparkled with a youthfulness that seemed almost magical as she stared up at him. "You're breaking up with me so soon? When we haven't even kissed?"

Her fingers shot to her mouth and her face flashed with surprise at her own words. "I mean, well, you said, 'It's not you, it's me,' and that's such a cliché line when two people are breaking up, that when you said it I just thought well-that, well, obviously we haven't kissed, and it all came out wrong and..." Her voice trailed off in clear humiliation. She lowered her head. "I'm sorry, I tend to-"

"Ramble when you're nervous?" Marcus filled in, his mouth curving mischievously. Abigail lifted her head and stared, clearly surprised he remembered her words. She nodded, bit her lip, and tried unsuccessfully to tuck her hair behind her ear.

Somewhere between madness and a blinding sense of possession, Marcus stepped closer and rested his forehead on Abigail's damp hair. She didn't move away. With a slow breath, she curled into him, an affection that came so easy, so naturally. He surrendered and closed his eyes, inhaling her sweet scent of cold rain and comforting warmth. The assaulting sensation of her hair on his skin numbed the burn coming to life within the hands he held tightly behind his back.

He grazed his nose along her temple. "You're right," he said for her ears only. "We haven't kissed, yet."

She pulled back slightly, an open, uncertain look in her eyes that betrayed her inner desire. "Yet?"

Marcus focused on Abigail, all else slowly fading into a tunneled blurred reality around him. Timidly, Abigail raised her hands to his face, hovering just above his cheek. The soft contours of her face spoke of uncertainty, and meeting her eyes, he saw the questions in their depths. She wanted to know did he mind if she touched him and did he understand what was going on between them. Most of all, she faltered because of fear. Fear that he would reject her.

He leaned his face into her hesitant touch and met the tip of her cool fingers with his cheek. A silent confirmation, reciprocation, a quiet vow of paralleled desire. "Yet."

With a wordless nod, Abigail set her fingers off on a quiet journey of his face. She trailed them down the path of his jaw and shadowed every touch with her eyes, searching him, learning him, memorizing him. She didn't know what she wanted-well, she did, but Marcus knew she was scared. He was, too. The innocence of her touch told him that this ground she trod was new, a language of desire that she didn't know, and perhaps had never heard. And while Marcus had heard the language, he had never spoken as freely of it as he did then, surrendering wholly to her touch.

Cradling his face in her hands, Abigail's hands stopped their exploration as her thumb grazed his lips. On the gentle gliding of her finger, awareness dawned in her stare. It was no longer the look of a confused girl exploring unfamiliar territory. It was that of a woman having discovered what she wanted and laying her claim. This land, though foreign, was hers.

Her eyes closed in sweet anticipation as Marcus bent his head lower. With his hands fisted at his back, he surrendered to the same darkness. His breath caught. In the black of his closed eyes, his star ignited violently, clear as the morning sun. It raged in the sea of stars, shooting solar flares into the dark.

Marcus battled to focus on what lay just a short distance from his lips, straining to meet the promise of pleasure in Abigail's mouth when-

"Nineteenth Floor," the elevator attendant called out from over his newspaper. A soft ping reverberated between them and broke the spell. Abigail sucked in a quiet breath and flinched. Confusion and embarrassment doused her face in red. She took an unbalanced step back and, without a word, pressed fingers to her mouth and walked out. The elderly woman followed, grinning.

"Need help with your bags, Mrs. Kensington?" The elevator attendant set aside his newspaper and reached for the packages.

"No need, Rodney," she replied. "This young man here will help. Won't you, young man?" She smiled at Marcus. He took the bags from her in a dangerous daze and stepped off the elevator. Stopping just outside, he glanced back at the closing doors, watching the remnants of a missed opportunity, lost to duty, disappear behind the thick silver doors.

Mrs. Kensington led their orchestra of footsteps down the tiled hallway to Apartment 19A. With a gentle tune on her lips, the woman unlocked the door and pushed it open. She disappeared inside for second, and then dim lamplight cast its glow around the small apartment. Reappearing, she slid off her coat and turned to Marcus and Abigail.

"Well, you're not going to stand there all night are you? Come in, come in. You set those bags down there on the table and I'll make us some tea." She motioned for them to enter. "Unless you are coffee drinkers. If so, you're out of luck. There hasn't been coffee in this house for years. It tastes so bitter, I don't know how people stand it..." Her voice faded as she walked to the kitchen.

Bemused, Abigail looked at Marcus, then at the retreating woman. "We appreciate the offer, ma'am," she called into the apartment. "But we really must get going."

"Surely we can stay for some tea," Marcus said, entering. He deposited the bags on the dining room table, and looked at Abigail, who remained in the hall. "What's the matter? Aren't I supposed to show a bit of humanity? Isn't that what you said? Well, Mrs. Kensington has offered us tea, and tea we shall have."

Abigail blinked, yet said nothing. She remained fixed in the hall, her color never returning. For a stretch of time she just looked at Marcus, her face blank and her jaw set, hard. A small measure of guilt branded Marcus, but at least she would finally know the real pain of the attachment she claimed he rejected with the souls he collected. She would see how hard it would be to let go.

Mrs. Kensington walked to the door and gave a crestfallen Abigail a little push inside. "Now, child, you don't mean to deny me the pleasure of your company tonight of all nights?" she reprimanded playfully. "It's been a long time since I've had anyone over. This cold is terrible on my arthritis, so I don't make it out much. It'd be nice not to have to spend my last night alone."

Surprise flashed across Abigail's face. "You mean you know why we're here?"

"Why of course I know," Mrs. Kensington said, closing the door behind Abigail. "My mother always said that deep inside, we all know what's to come. You just need to be open and listen. And this morning, I knew. I had this feeling somewhere in my spirit from the minute I woke up, and then seeing him downstairs, so dark and handsome," she said, elbowing Marcus jokingly, "I had no doubt." She let out an accepting sigh. "Now sit on down, the water should be ready."

Marcus walked around the dining table and slid out a chair for Abigail, who sat down in a dreamlike daze. He remained standing until Mrs. Kensington reappeared. Then he took the silver tray from her hands, set it down, and slid out a chair for her as well. He inclined his head politely, to which Mrs. Kensington responded with a curtsy that clenched Marcus's heart. In a way that had not happened in so long, his mind drifted to his life-long past, to manners learned at the hand of his own mother, whose grace and ease matched that of Mrs. Kensington. Forcing his mind back to the matter at hand, he took his seat at Abigail's side.

Frozen, Abigail looked down at her tea. Marcus wasn't even sure if she was breathing anymore.

Mrs. Kensington mentioned no more on the looming matter. Rather she filled the next hour with tales of struggles and triumphs, of lost love and requited love, laughs and tears-a full life. And all the while Abigail listened. A deep silence afflicted her, as if she were caught in a waking dream with no knowledge of having ever fallen asleep.

Tea cups had long been emptied when the grandfather clock struck, singing of the late hour. Despite the many laughs and shared tales, there was still a single reason they were all gathered around the dining table, and knowledge of it overcame them. In an unspoken confirmation, Marcus set his napkin on the table.

Mrs. Kensington took a deep breath and pushed back her chair. She smoothed down the folds of her pleated skirt. "I suppose this is it then."

Marcus nodded, unable to get words through the knot in his throat.

Mrs. Kensington placed a hand over her heart with a genuine tenderness that hurt Marcus. "I could never thank you both enough for giving me this. I shall take this night with me and speak to the Good Lord about it."

A low sound came from beside Marcus, and looking at Abigail, he saw streams of silent tears streaming from her closed eyes. She was afraid, but it seemed she finally, understood.

"Oh, child." Mrs. Kensington reached out, and squeezed Abigail's quavering hands. With her other hand, she tucked Abigail's hair behind her ear and tilted her head up. "There isn't anything to cry about. I've made my peace, and if it's my time then it's my time." She leaned in closer to Abigail. "But you make sure to hold tight to him, dear. They don't make them like that anymore."

Through her tears, Abigail smiled and then fell into the woman's arms with a tender embrace. Over Abigail's shoulder, Mrs. Kensington met Marcus's eyes and nodded. Pulling back, she wiped Abigail's tears and released her.

Marcus walked to Mrs. Kensington, each step heavy in his bones. He knelt down before her and held out his hand.

Mrs. Kensington moved her hand toward his when a primal fear blanketed her eyes. Her hand faltered, suspended in indecision. "Do you know what will happen after?"

A dull ache invaded Marcus's chest. What reassurance could he offer her once she parted with her body? Would the Shadows be waiting or would the light claim her before they even had a chance?

Yet, the words escaped him before he'd had a chance to let reason wage its war. He assured her with no uncertainty whatsoever, "Everything will be alright. There's nothing to be scared of. I'm here, and I'll walk you to the end."

With a small smile, she exhaled one last time and slid her hand slowly into his. Pain jolted him. Waves of foreign memories unrolled before his eyes and nearly knocked him back. Holding onto Mrs. Kensington's hand tightly, he braced himself as the cold burn seared his veins, much deeper and worse than ever before. It surged through him, cutting to his very heart. It was a slash of familiarity and attachment, the puncture of compassion and empathy. It was the long suppressed feeling of grief and remorse. It was humanity. There were countless faces, confessions of love, never having kissed Brian Walker, and her daughter's smile. Life.

Faint murmurs eased Marcus from the crescendo of death and it was then he realized that the silent sounds poured from his mouth. In quiet tones, he uttered prayers to a God he had long missed and had been too ashamed to approach. Laying down his own faults, Marcus opened his soul, conscious of its blemishes, and prayed for another. With a weary spirit, he pled for mercy, forgiveness, rest, and infinite grace. A quiet Amen took the last of his shaking breaths.

He opened his eyes. Before him, Mrs. Kensington sat peacefully. While infinitely sleeping, she had yet to wake up. He squeezed her hand and brought his other to rest on top of hers. His tone low and soft, he said, "It is done."

She blinked her eyes open, but did not move. After an extended moment, she searched the room with mixed emotions on her face. There was shock, but it faded into a deep marvel at this world she now saw through new eyes. Entranced, she let Marcus pull her up. She paced away and ran her hands along the trivial trinkets and photos of memories seared into both of their hearts.

"It all looks so different, so empty." She turned to Marcus and placed a hand on her chest. "But you..." She approached him in awe. Her hand rose to his face with childlike curiosity. "You look so clean."

He stayed under her hold, meditating over her words. What she saw, he didn't know. Before he could ask her, Mrs. Kensington's sights flicked over his shoulder. She smirked.

Marcus turned. Abigail stood at the kitchen door, rapt by Mrs. Kensington's body that remained sitting at the dining room table, beside her empty cup of tea. Abigail lowered her face and tucked in her lower lip to keep it from trembling. She held something hidden in her hands and tightened her grip around it.

"Is she...?" she asked.

Marcus nodded. "Right here, beside me."

Abigail mirrored his nod, but didn't move.

He stepped toward her. "Abigail?" he called, but she remained still. "Abby."

Her eyes shot to him. Dark brows joined, she clutched her cradled hands tighter. Staring down at her feet, Abigail placed one foot before the other, full of hesitancy and of fear. Her timid steps stopped shy of Marcus. She lifted her head with a slow breath, and raised her hands between them.

"For you," she said. "You said the first of the night was the most painful, so I thought this might help."

Forcing his gaze from her face, Marcus looked down, only to have his heart tear from his chest and fall at her feet in full abandon. In her hands was a cluster of ice cubes within a damp, checkered fabric.

She shrugged sheepishly. "It's stupid, I know. It's just that you said it burned, and that the first one of the night was the worst, and so I thought..."

Marcus struggled through his next breath. It was something so logical and so practical. Yet in its simplicity and selflessness, it dug to deeper levels far beyond declarations of love from a balcony and far past serenades under moonlight. It was the act of gathering ice for a burn, a simple, intimate gesture making everything far from simple.

In the midst of the pain, Marcus lifted his hands. If by some tragedy she touched his hands, he swore to himself that instant that he would break all promises and do all in his power to join her. He would do anything for her, for his Abigail, his Abby.

Abigail placed the gift in his waiting palms. Numbing coolness pierced the blistering pain as droplets seeped from in between Marcus's fingers.

"Is it any better?" she asked quietly, scared. His throat went dry. Nodding, he closed his hands around the damp fabric, aching to leave the apartment. Desire aflame, he wanted nothing more than to collect the needed souls of the night and return to their four-walled heaven. There, he would beg Abigail to forget time and place, situation and circumstance, regrets and memories. With all the care in the world, he would beg to show her with unending gentleness and selflessness what her act meant to him.

For the first time ever, he would give himself wholly, unreserved, open onto her lips, under her hands. It would only be them, basking in exchanges that would live forever on their skin and bind their lives. He wanted her, desired her, to have her, to hold her...to love her, until tears of joy and passion washed his name from her lips.

Catching Mrs. Kensington's smirk from the corner of his eye, Marcus cleared his throat and offered her his arm. He allowed Abigail to exit first, and then he strolled from the apartment with a genuine smile coming from the promise tied to the cool fabric in his hands. Though the pain remained, and an endless list of names had yet to be collected, Marcus smiled still. Above all things, there was Abigail, and that coming morning, she would be his.

He closed the door behind him and paused. Cold sweat moistened his pores, and a building nausea clutched his stomach. They swirled into raging warmth...happiness.

How had he not recognized sooner what the contradiction felt like? Squeezing the wet cloth in his hands, he grinned at the answer and followed Abigail down the hall. How had he not known happiness? It was a simple answer really.

He'd never felt it before.

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Thank you for reading! Also thanks so much for your patience. I will be posting the rest of the book over the next week so don't worry about a long wait for an update :)