by Grey, Shanon
Dorian had just suggested they break for lunch when a woman came in with an older man. Morgan could have sworn a cat had slipped in with them, the way that Mrs. T would do, given half a chance. When Meesha whined from the back room, she was sure of it. She walked around the counter just as two women opened the door to leave. The cat, or whatever it was, slinked past them and out the door. Morgan blinked. She would have sworn the outline shimmered.
She heard a commotion behind her. As she turned, the woman who’d arrived with the older man was hugging him.
“Papa?” She heard the catch in the woman’s voice. The woman’s eyes swam with tears.
“Cathy?” The old man looked at his daughter, then around, confusion etched on his face.
“Yes, Papa,” she said and hugged him again. She turned to Morgan. “He hasn’t said my name in three weeks.”
“Dorian?” the older man said. Dorian stepped forward.
“Melissa?” He looked at Morgan.
“No, Mr. Parker,” Dorian corrected gently, “this is Melissa’s daughter, Morgan.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Parker.” She turned to his daughter.
“I’m Cathy,” the woman smiled at Morgan.
“Does he need to sit down?” Morgan asked, watching the man’s gaze dart around the room.
“No…I think we’ll go home now.” She turned back to her father and guided him to the door. “Oh, Papa, it’s so nice to have you back.”
“I’ve had such a bad headache,” the old man commented.
Cathy quietly closed the door behind them, watching her father carefully.
“Do we need to call a doctor?” Morgan asked. “He said he’s been suffering from headaches. It could be a stroke.”
“It’s not,” Dorian said flatly, as he turned the sign over and locked the door. “We need to talk.”
She followed him into the kitchen. He didn’t stop. Meesha danced out the door as he held it open. Without another word, he walked over to the cottage and held that door, once again adjusting the top to stay open. It seemed a little warm to keep the door open, but Morgan said nothing, just followed him inside.
“You need to do as I say. It’s extremely important.”
She stopped, nerves tingling. “What?” she looked at him.
Dorian walked over to the carpet where he had dragged her last night and held his hand out to her. “Come,” he beckoned. She resisted.
“Hurry. Trust me, Morgan. You won’t get hurt. But we have to hurry.”
She stepped toward him. When he started to pull her into his arms, she stepped back. The shock was quick, stinging. “Okay, we’ll try it another way.” He held out both hands. “Five points of our bodies have to touch. We’ll try hands, feet, and forehead.” When she hesitated, he urged, “Hurry.” Then, softening his voice, added, “Please.”
Morgan stepped in front of him. He took both hands simultaneously. The jolt wasn’t as strong but she could still feel the current flow from him to her. He positioned his feet just outside of hers and bent his head, touching his forehead to hers. They were close, intimate. She could feel his breath as he spoke. “Close your eyes. Or open them. Just don’t move, whatever you do.”
“You’re frightening me.” She pulled back. He held fast.
“Don’t break contact,” he ordered. Frightened, but compelled by his urgency, she stepped back toward him.
Out of her peripheral vision, she saw the stones begin to glow. The fibers in the rug beneath her shimmered. She heard rustling. He held her hands tighter. She swallowed. She could feel sweat on her palm. Morgan wanted to pull back—she definitely didn’t want to sweat into his hands. Then she realized that was the least of her problems. Sitting over by the window, Meesha started to whine.
“Quiet, girl,” Dorian soothed.
The dog quieted but continued to stare at the rug.
“You’re still frightening me,” Morgan whispered.
“I’ll explain. Just don’t break contact until I do. Understand?” His voice was deep, firm.
“Yes.” She swallowed and held fast.
“The creature you saw last night was real. It’s what was making Mr. Parker sick. Together we can send it away. Several of them have been roaming free since Melissa and Thom died. With your help, I think we can control them.”
“What?” She impulsively yanked her hands. He held tight. She felt something brush against her leg. She glanced down. The rug glowed silver and she saw a faint violet outline of movement. She moved in closer to Dorian. Now, they stood, body to body. Far more points than five were touching. She heard the hum.
Morgan closed her eyes. Oh, God. She couldn’t be awake. This had to be a dream. One long continuation of her childhood nightmares. She would wake up any moment. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her body trembled. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. She stood stiff as a statue, afraid to budge. She could feel Dorian’s thumbs begin gently massaging the back of her hands, the back and forth motion her only reassurance.
Dorian stepped back. She held on, too frightened to let go.
“It’s okay,” he said softly and broke contact with her. The edges of the rug beneath her still shone a silvery hue. She leapt off the rug and looked around. Everything looked normal. Meesha stretched out and put her head down, but watched them, waiting for some command, some piece of attention. Like, Meesha, Dorian watched her.
“What happened?”
“It’s gone back through the portal.”
“Portal?” She edged the rug with her toe, lifting it. The shiny wood floor lay underneath, it’s pattern unmarred.
“Morgan, it’s a dimensional portal.”
“Yeah, sure.” She moved away from him, stopped and turned. “Like I know what that is.”
She studied him, waiting for some sarcastic punch line.
He didn’t say anything, just watched her.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What kind of joke is this?” She headed into the bedroom and grabbed her purse and the folder. He stopped her as she headed into the bathroom for the small make-up kit she’d left on the sink. She jerked her arm away from the shock of his hand on her arm.
“And you—what is it with you? Every time you touch me, I get shocked. Yet, you don’t seem to feel it.” To hell with the kit. She could buy more make-up. She swung around toward the French doors.
“Oh, I feel it,” he said, the timber of his voice slightly lower. His eyes now dark like a stormy sea. He took one step toward her before he stopped. “Believe me, I feel it,” he all but whispered and turned away.
As she scrutinized him, heat curled in her stomach. A small throb punched deep inside. Damn. Needing to do something, she went back and grabbed her make-up kit.
She came out of the bathroom to find him standing in her path. She carefully stepped around him. She wasn’t going near him. “That…that thing…”
“…is gone,” he said. “Please. Let me explain. Give me a day. Then, if you wish, you can leave.”
She stopped, turned toward him, her eyes full of questions.
Dorian pushed his hair back from his forehead, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Who am I kidding? I’m not sure I understand. It would take more than a day with her. She knew nothing. He had practiced this speech for three weeks, since he’d first gotten word of Melissa and Thomas’s death and of her arrival. He knew it was coming—it had to come. He’d been fighting against the inevitable most of his life. He’d wasted a lot of time being angry that his destiny wasn’t his to make. Angry with a woman he hadn’t met. What he hadn’t anticipated was her naiveté. She’d had no idea of her future—of him. He looked at her. Her face was flushed. Perspiration dampened her upper lip. She watched him warily, like a frightened wild animal ready to bolt. He wasn’t sure what he would do if she left. That had never been considered. So many things hadn’t been considered. Suddenly, he was pissed at them for dying.
“Let’s get out of here.” His voice was edgy. “We’ll go get something to eat. Y
ou’re probably hungry.”
As if by suggestion, Morgan’s stomach rumbled. Her hand went to her stomach. “I’m not hungry,” she started to say. Her stomach gave another loud protest.
“It’s natural to be hungry afterward…” He was just relaying what Thom had told him…he didn’t know for sure. It was his first time as well. He’d been taught. And practiced with Mel. But never the real thing. As long as they were alive, nothing happened.
He walked to the door and reattached the top and bottom and stood waiting for her. She walked past him and stepped into the bright sunlight, stopping just out of reach. She waited for him to precede her. He led her around the side of the building, along a plant-lined path to a high front gate. She stopped several feet behind him.
“Are you going to walk behind me all the way to Abbott’s?” he asked.
“Just don’t touch me,” she said.
“Okay. I’m sorry about that. We aren’t quite in sync yet.”
Before she could question him, he opened the gate and waited for her to go through.
“Stay here, Meesha,” he called over his shoulder. The dog sat.
“She’s not going to sit there the whole time, is she?”
He smiled for the first time. “Trust me; she’s just putting on the good girl act for you. I wouldn’t be surprised to find a plant or two uprooted when we return.”
Morgan smiled back and seemed to relax a little. Yet, the way she hugged her purse to her side, she looked as though she was ready to bolt. After all, what did she owe him, or this town? They needed her; he needed her. He would have to make her understand.
Morgan studied the way his brows drew together when he thought. He looked as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. She would give him the courtesy of listening. If she didn’t like what he had to say, she was out of here. No one had cared about her before; why should she care about them now. This whole thing unsettled her. Yet, she had a feeling he held the answers to her night terrors, as well as other things. Things she wasn’t even aware of—yet. However, she wasn’t making any promises, other than listening.
She was busy silently reaffirming her convictions when they stepped out onto the sidewalk. This was the first time she had walked around during the daylight. It was bright and airy. The well-tended median erupted in a profusion of color. The fountain shot water high into the air, letting it splash down into the basin. A toddler, closely watched by his young, very pregnant mother, raised back his arm and threw a coin with all his might. The coin fell short of the fountain. The young mother gingerly placed a hand under her burgeoning belly as she bent to retrieve the coin. Handing it to her child, she gently urged him a little closer and clapped heartily when the coin plopped into the water. In a motion belying her ungainliness, she quickly grabbed his arm as he tried to follow the coin into the fountain. He pointed at the fountain, tears streaming down his face. Drying his tears, she spoke softly to him. Morgan watched him take another coin, scrunch up his little face in concentration, close his eyes, make a wish, and toss the coin. This time it clinked as it hit the upper lip before splashing into the water. Beaming, he took his mother’s hand and they crossed the street.
Happy chatter preceded two teenage girls exiting a boutique near the woman and child. They stopped, made much over the little boy, and then bounded down the block to catch up with their friends. All perfectly normal activities for a hot summer day in a small town. She relaxed a little more as they crossed the street and began walking under the shade of the overhanging trees.
“Ruthorford is a very old town,” Dorian told her. “Originally considered very sacred ground by the Cherokee and Creek tribes, they began allowing a few white men to settle here. Which is ironic, since the tribes wouldn’t settle here themselves. A joint tribal council gave the final okay on the people. Surprisingly, no matter what uprising or war ensued, the people who were allowed to settle in Ruthorford remained untouched. Disturbances just seemed to flow around them. The few “unauthorized” people who made attempts to settle here without permission were—how should I say this—forcibly discouraged. More than a few of the families here today can trace their lineage back to the original settlement.”
“You?” She looked over at his handsome profile. The sun glinted off deep red highlights in his black hair.
“Oh, no. I was born in Washington, D.C.” He thought for a moment. “I say that, but I guess anything is possible.” He reached down and snapped a daisy, holding it out to her. Careful not to come in contact with him, she accepted the flower. Its pretty face beamed at her. She smiled back.
They had stopped walking. He turned and watched the pleasure play across her face. She lifted her emerald eyes to his. His breath hitched. Quickly, she looked away. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“Stop that.”
“Sorry.” She looked down and studied the pavement.
He started to reach out, but stopped. Instead, he let his words sooth her. “You have beautiful eyes.”
“According to your friend—”
“Ignore her. That was all an act.” Risking it, he dampened his energy and touched her chin, lifting her face upward until he was looking into her sparkling emerald eyes.
Morgan felt a tiny tingle tickle her chin as he touched her. She ignored it, although she had trouble ignoring the heat she felt moving through her veins.
“Melissa had beautiful, expressive eyes. You got them from her. They shimmer, like faerie dust. They’re very special.” His breath feathered against her lips and she realized how close they were standing.
She swallowed and watched his focus move to her mouth, not her eyes. She stepped away. Without a word, they both turned and began walking again.
Dorian picked up the story. “Ruthorford remained isolated from the rest of the country. Whether by intent or accident, the people remained close to their Native American sponsors.”
“I haven’t seen any Native American descendants that I know of,” she mused.
“You won’t. The Native Americans wouldn’t and won’t inhabit the area around here. They still say it is very special, sacred.”
“Then why allow outside settlers?”
They had arrived at Abbott’s Bed & Breakfast. Without answering her question and instead of going inside, he led her to the side of the building and through a black iron fence. They walked through the gardens she had seen the night before from inside the restaurant. As they passed the fountain, its spray cooled the air around them. In the back, century-old trees provided deep shade. Iron tables with glass tops were scattered around the lawn, the spacing giving good separation and privacy to each table. Dorian didn’t stop but moved down a slope toward the water. He parted the hanging branches of a huge willow, allowing her to pass. Another small table and chairs sat cozily sheltered under feathery limbs. He walked over and held the chair. Morgan slipped into it and looked around. She peered through the veil of branches, hidden but seeing. A light breeze whispered around her.
“This is exquisite.” She smiled at him.
“It’s my favorite place to hide—besides our gazebo during a light rain.”
She noted his use of the word “our.” Was he referring to the Kilravens or her? That was something else they needed to deal with, and, given the circumstances, the sooner the better. She wanted to get out of here. Yet, the thought of never seeing him again tugged at her. She felt a slight ache.
His chiseled features softened and she followed his gaze. Teresa was making her way over to them, waving and smiling. Morgan, too, smiled.
“That is also an interesting story,” he said, then added, “for later.”
Teresa swept through the branches, leaned over, and gave Dorian a loud smack on the cheek. “Heard you pissed off Jas,” she chortled.
“Now, how’d you hear that?” He lifted a brow.
“Well,” she drawled out, “if I hadn’t gotten an earful from Julia Emerson and that group—”
“The little old ladies
from this morning,” he interjected for Morgan’s benefit.
Morgan smiled and nodded. She’d liked them, as invasive as they were.
“Jasmine, her royal self, decided to grace us with her presence for lunch.” She turned an eye on Morgan. “Haven’t been in town twenty-four hours and already you have her hackles up.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Shoosh.” Teresa waved her quiet. “Everything gets that girl’s hackles up, especially if it pertains to Dorian here.”
“Teresa,” he implored.
“Well, honey bunny, she sure is upset with you. Both of you. Good thing that girl doesn’t have any might in her magic or you’d be croaking—as in ribbit.” She turned on Morgan, her smile full beam. “I don’t even want to think what she’d like to do to you,” she laughed long and loud. “Does my heart good. She gets away with way too much as it is. Now, whatcha gonna have?” she asked without taking a breath.
Morgan realized there were no menus. “Whatever is good?”
“You?” she glanced at Dorian.
“Oh, I’ll have the same,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“Be right out. You two enjoy.” With a wave, Teresa was off toward the house, waving at other seated guests as she passed.
“I like her,” Morgan said.
“And she likes you. Especially since you let her do the ordering.”
“There weren’t any menus.”
“You noticed.” He laughed and added, “You did just right, and you’ll have the best lunch you’ve ever eaten. Plus, you pleased her.”
Morgan found herself focusing on his smile. When he smiled, really smiled, his blue eyes sparkled and the fine lines in the corners of his eyes crinkled, showing her he knew how to laugh and did so often—just not with her.
“How’s that?” she asked, forcing herself back to their conversation.
“Jasmine’s her cousin.”
She sucked in her breath. “Oh, Dorian, I’m so sorry.”
He laughed. “Don’t be. She had it coming. She and Teresa are as different as night and day.” He sobered somewhat. “They are both from founding families, as are you.”