In the moonlight, her features were pale perfection, as remote as the carved angel on the tomb behind her. The wind shifted his cape, brushed it against her so the silk-on-silk made a soft, whispering sigh. It seemed he felt the contact with every last fiber of his body. “If you are the daughter of a warlock,” he said in trenchant admiration, “what does that make you? A witch?” “I wouldn't call myself so.” Her gaze met his without evasion. “But you are not like other women?” “No, I have never been as they are.” The moon sailed behind a gray wraith of cloud, leaving her face in shadow. The light faded, as if with the dulling of her spirit. He summoned a smile. “If you are trying to engage my attention, Carita, you have succeeded. Though I should tell you, since we are being fair, that you already had it.” “You don't believe me?” A small frown pleated the skin between her delicately arched brows. From some distance away there came a low rumble of thunder. A rise in the wind shivered the leaves of the live oak that guarded the cemetery gate.
