by Grey, Shanon
“Melissa?”
“And Thomas,” he nodded and waited until the approaching young girl set down two drinks, very nearly dropping them, her eyes so attached to Dorian. He thanked her, ignoring her blush.
“A fan?” Morgan teased when she left.
“I used to babysit her, believe it or not. Somewhere in there, she began to grow up but she never quite outgrew the crush. She’s a sweet gal, so I try not to hurt her feelings.”
“She’s cute.”
He gave a husky laugh. “Well, I’m afraid I won’t have a chance much longer. She’s going to Emory University in the fall.”
Morgan watched the pretty young girl clean one of the tables, eyes still lifting repeatedly to look their way. “I don’t know,” she teased. “Looks like true love to me.” She laughed and took a sip of her tea. Peppermint with a hint of lime. Perfect. She let the cold drink run down her parched throat and let her gaze wander around her surroundings.
Across the water, a wall of what looked like stacked granite rose upward, forming the backdrop for a small waterfall. A pair of swans glided effortlessly across the lake. It was lovely here. When she looked back, Dorian was watching her, a thoughtful expression on his face. “A penny,” she said and smiled at him.
“Not a million,” he looked away, flustered.
“Dorian, you started telling me about yourself,” she encouraged, ignoring his comment.
“There’s not a lot to tell,” he evaded.
“You were born in D.C. and yet came to be raised by my biological parents. But, you were never adopted by them.” She paused, hoped he wouldn’t pick up on her emphasis.
“It’s complicated.”
Morgan shook her head and placed the napkin in her lap. “That seems to be a pat answer for you, doesn’t it? Well, I am in over my head here,” she chided softly, “and you’re all I’ve got for answers.”
“In this case, answers only beget more questions.”
Morgan actually growled in frustration.
A different waitress approached with a large tray. She expertly swung a stand she had looped over her arm, flipped it open and set it next to the table, all the while balancing the large tray on her shoulder. Her movements were quick and efficient. Morgan winced, knowing that, had she tried that trick, all the food would have landed on the ground.
The aroma rose from the plate as the girl placed it in front of her. A steaming slice of quiche with a side of spinach-strawberry salad adorned the plates. The waitress set a basket of fragrant herb bread in front of them. Nestled next to the bread was a crock of honey butter. Dorian broke off a piece of bread, slathered it with butter, and handed it to Morgan.
She looked down at the fare in front of her and mentally declared a truce until she had time to savor what was in front of her. All the questions in the world—and she had some doozies—couldn’t compete with the enticing smells making her mouth water. Waiting for the waitress to finish loading their table, she glanced around her tree shelter once more. It was terribly quaint. Even romantic. Just what was he up to? Cold one moment, hot the next. He was obviously trying to impress her. And, there was no doubt, Ruthorford was gorgeous. An ideal place to live. Well, minus the small hallucination or delusion she’d had earlier. Once she was fortified with a full stomach, she intended to pin Dorian down on a lot of things, complicated or not. She slipped a bite of the quiche into her mouth and moaned.
“That’s a common reaction to their food.”
“God, this is heaven. And I thought last night was good.” She took another bite. “Do you eat like this all the time?”
“No. The shop keeps me pretty busy. However, if I don’t make it by a couple times a week, Teresa will show up, food in hand.”
“Do they have some famous chef?”
“Actually, her husband, Bill Ruthorford, is the chef.”
“As in Ruthorford? This Ruthorford?”
“The one and same.” He handed her another piece of bread generously adorned with the sweet spread. When their fingers touched, he didn’t pull back. Neither did she. The current, less shocking and more throbbing, ran up her arm and settled deep in her core.
He kept talking but watched her with darkening blue eyes. “He actually left, made a name for himself in Charleston. He came back on a visit, but because he was a little on the outs with his folks, he stayed at the Abbott Bed & Breakfast, run by none other than Teresa Abbott. And the rest, as they say, is history.” He slowly pulled back his hand.
“So, Teresa is related to the Abbott House in Atlanta?” Her voice sounded husky when she spoke. She took a quick bite of bread and nearly choked as the velvety sweetness spread across her tongue.
“Uh-huh.” He popped a final bite and sat back. “If I let her keep feeding me like this, I am going to be too big to get through the door,” he said, deliberately lightening the moment.
“It’s fabulous. Thank you.”
His expression changed. “Now,” he said pouring her more sweet tea from the pitcher that had been left on their table, “time to get down to the nitty-gritty. About the Gulatega.”
She tensed. “The what?”
“The creature you saw earlier.”
“Oh, that.” She waved a nervous hand to dismiss the aberration. “That’s from my nightmares. It isn’t real. Probably too much heat.”
“No, Morgan.” He leaned forward, demanding her attention. “It’s real and has been for a very long time.”
“What are you saying?”
“I tried to explain in the cottage,” he said with an edge of frustration. “There is still a lot we don’t know. The Abbott House has been researching it for forever, it seems.”
“A bunch of lawyers are doing research?”
He ran his hand through his hair, pushing back the curl that tended to brush his brow. “Abbott House is much more than just lawyers.”
He saw her confusion and he didn’t feel like taking on more than one complicated topic at a time. For now, he’d prefer the Gulatega.
Dorian tried another tact. “Do you know anything about String Theory?” Her expression said she didn’t. “It’s a theory in physics that basically leads one to explore the idea of multiple universes, multiple dimensions. The Gulatega is from another dimension.”
“Yeah—” she stopped at his expression. “Gulatega,” she sounded out the word. “You’ve called it that several times.”
“The name came from the tribes. It’s more or less a bastardization from several languages. Basically, it means naked raccoon.”
Remembering the creature she saw in the garden, she sniffed, “I can see that. But what about those glowing eyes and the violet outline?”
“I don’t know. I can’t see them.”
“You can too,” she countered. “You knew exactly where it was.”
“I took my cue from you and from what I learned being around Melissa. Only some woman can see it that I know of. Apparently, women with tribal heritage can see it.”
Three questions popped into her mind all at once. She opted to stay on track. “Them? There’s more than one?”
“Yes. But, I don’t think that there are that many. When you and I connect, we set up some sort of harmonics. With the rocks—the universe. Hell, I don’t know, except—supposedly—we open a portal and back it goes.”
“If you can’t see it, how do you know it’s gone back?” Her voice sounded shaky.
“Meesha can sense them, even if she can’t see them. I understand cats can see them.”
Morgan immediately thought of Mrs. T and her nightmares. Maybe the cat hadn’t been hissing at nothing. Maybe—oh God—maybe her nightmares weren’t nightmares at all.
Dorian watched the color drain from Morgan’s face. He was up and around the table in one motion, pulled her around and shoved her head down between her knees. She winced at his touch.
“Breathe slowly,” he ordered but removed his hand.
“What’s wrong?” Teresa rushed through the branches.
She knelt beside Morgan. “Honey?”
Completely embarrassed, Morgan sat up. The world tilted slightly, then righted itself. “I’m fine. Heat, I guess,” she defended.
Teresa rounded on Dorian. “What did you do?”
“Nothing. I was just trying to explain—” He stopped when she punched him in the arm.
“Men,” she hissed, exasperated. “Why don’t you take Morgan back to the shop for a while? Let her relax.” She turned to face him. “You hear me, Dorian? She’s had quite a few shocks in a short period of time.”
She turned to Morgan. “Unless you would rather stay here? We would love to have you.”
As much as Morgan would have loved staying at the bed and breakfast—almost as much as she didn’t want to stay in that cottage—she realized there was too much information Dorian possessed, and that she needed, to avoid the inevitable. “I’m fine now. Honestly. I do think I will go back to the shop though.”
She stood up, reached over, and hugged Teresa. “Please give the chef my compliments. And you, too. Thank you.” She thought for a moment, then added, “I hope we can be friends. I would like to know more about Melissa.”
“I would like that too, honey. I’m here, any time.”
She looked away, at the people at other tables—people that probably knew her parents. The parents she hadn’t been allowed to know. She looked at Dorian. “Can we go?”
“Are you all right?” He started to reach out to her and stopped, knowing his touch wouldn’t be comforting.
She nodded. Without waiting for him, Morgan started walking toward the side of the building.
Dorian turned back to Teresa. She patted his arm and nodded her head toward Morgan. “Go on. She’s gonna need you. I can feel it.”
He kissed her on the cheek and raced to catch up. As he rounded the side of the bed and breakfast, he saw Morgan, looking back at the house, a wistful expression on her face.
“There’s quite a history here, too,” he nodded back over his shoulder.
“I bet there is. I was just thinking about how I had planned to stay here and luxuriate.”
“We could probably arrange something,” he offered.
“No.” She sighed. “That seems like a million years ago.” She turned and headed back toward the shop.
They walked a few moments in silence. Morgan looked at him. “Tell me more about yourself, Dorian. I feel like I am missing something and I don’t want to feel this…this animosity,” she said, still searching for the right word. Animosity was too strong a word for what she felt. It was frustration, or confusion. Right now, it was directed at him. He wasn’t being particularly helpful either, with his continued evasiveness.
“Well, I was born in Washington, D.C. to a drug addict,” he stated and moved around her so he was walking on the roadside edge of the pavement.
Given what he was saying, Morgan knew that little point of etiquette had to have come from Melissa and Thom.
Morgan stopped, realizing the tale wasn’t going to be pretty. “Look, I don’t mean to pry.”
He shrugged. “That’s okay, it’s ancient history. The story is that someone from Abbott House, the one in Atlanta—that’s another story we need to explore—heard about my mom and came looking for her. Unfortunately, by the time they got there, she was gone.”
“She left you?”
“No, she OD’d.”
“Oh,” Morgan whispered.
Chapter Five
Morgan didn’t know what to say. He’d made the statement so cavalierly, as though it had happened to a stranger. A sense of remorse replaced the resentment she’d allowed to build. Where would he be if they hadn’t rescued him? These thoughts slowed her steps until they stopped in front of the Boutique across from the shop. She looked across the street at the building that had been his home. It no longer had the macabre feel that it’d had when she first saw it. It looked welcoming.
A loud scream pierced the air from the direction of the Boutique. Dorian and Morgan swung around.
“Damn wasps!” Jasmine shrieked, as she came flying out of the building, a spray can shooting streams of liquid chaotically at the windows, ceiling, and out toward them. Dorian threw out his arm as he saw the stream heading toward Morgan. He blocked most of the spray, but not enough. Morgan screamed and covered her eyes. In one swoop, he yanked the can out of Jasmine’s outstretched hand, swung Morgan into his arms, and ran across the median to his shop.
“Open,” he commanded and the door creaked and began to open. He backed in with Morgan squirming in his arms. “Don’t rub your eyes,” he told her. “Try to cry.”
Not a problem. Tears ran down her cheeks. Her eyes burned as though fiery embers had landed in them.
He rushed to the sink, reached out with one hand to twist the nozzle of the faucet upward and turned on the water. He set her down and, none too gently, shoved her face into the stream.
“Open them, Morgan,” he demanded. When she pushed back against his hand, he held her in place, “Don’t fight me.”
She did as he commanded.
“Keep rinsing them. Both of them. Don’t rub.” He turned his attention to the can. It was organic, so it was the oils, including some mint, that were the problem. He reached around her and turned down the pressure. “I want you to keep rinsing. Gently. I am going to prepare some drops that should help.”
“Don’t leave me,” she begged in panic.
“I’ll be right over here. You’ll be fine,” he soothed. “Don’t step back. Meesha’s right behind you.”
Dorian worked quickly, compounding several items and mixing until he’d made a salve. Then he a grabbed a bottle of distilled water and pulled down small flasks marked tinctures of dilute boric acid and green tea. He glanced over his shoulder as he mixed. Morgan was gently switching one eye for the other over the fountain of water. He could see her hands shaking as she held on to the side of the sink. Water dripped down the front of her shirt. He looked back at the bottle and the dish. Slowly, he raised his hand over each and let a current jump from his hand to each container.
“What was that?” There was panic in her voice.
“Nothing.” He turned toward her.
“I thought you touched my hair.”
“No, but I’m about to.” He moved to the sink and lifted her hair back from her shoulders. She didn’t flinch. He was surprised at how soft and heavy her hair was. Like heavy silk. He reached onto the windowsill and pulled twine from a spool, yanked it against the cutter and then wrapped it around her hair, pulling it into a loose ponytail.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“I think that’s enough.” He shut off the faucet.
Morgan heard a drawer open as she lifted her head. Something soft touched her face.
Dorian dabbed at her skin and around her reddened eyes with the soft towel. The skin around her eyes was beginning to swell slightly. Dorian prayed that she didn’t have an allergy as well.
“I’m going to pour soap in your hands. Wash them.” He flipped the faucet back around and guided her soapy hands under the water. His hands massaged hers as he helped her clean them. He washed her wrist and forearms as well, and then pulled them under the warm water. The current from his touch sent a slight tingle up her arms. This time it didn’t hurt, or even bother her. Maybe she was getting used to it.
She blinked. Everything was fuzzy. She started to reach up. He grabbed her hand. “Come over here,” he urged softly and guided her to a chair. “I have a solution that I’m going to put in your eyes. It should help dilute the oil base of the spray. It won’t hurt. Then, I’ll put a salve on your eyes and cover them with patches. You should be fine by tomorrow.”
He knelt down in front of her. “Let me see your eyes.”
Morgan opened her eye and gazed toward the sound of his voice. She heard his intake of breath and immediately glanced downward. His hand raised her head back up. Then she felt the warmth of his breath across her face as he leaned in to examine her ey
es. She blinked.
Her eyes were pools of shimmering emeralds surrounded by red. Her pupils expanded and contracted rapidly. He could see diamond shapes in the iris enlarging and shrinking as the pupil changed. He had never seen anything like it. He assumed Melissa’s were the same but he had never been this close or noticed them change this abruptly. He hoped what he was about to do wouldn’t do any harm.
“Your sclera,” he saw the furrow in her brow and amended, “the whites of your eyes are very bloodshot. Lean your head back so I can put drops in them.”
She tensed.
“I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
“I know,” she said, visibly trying to relax. “I just don’t like people messing with my eyes.”
Dorian put several drops in each eye. He waited. She blinked. He gently wiped away the excess as it ran down her cheeks. Already the redness was going away. He tilted her head back again and once more applied the drops. Again, they waited. He dabbed at her closed lids and her cheeks with a clean cloth.
“How’s that?”
“They don’t burn as much.” She looked at him, squinted, blinked again. “I can’t see very well.” Her voice hitched.
“It’s okay. I’m going to put some salve on them. By tomorrow they should be good as knew.” Mentally, he crossed his fingers.
He had just finished putting tape over the gauze when he heard Jasmine call from the front room. “Dorian?”
“We’re in the kitchen.” His voice was cold.
“Oh, Morgan, I’m so sorry.” Jasmine rushed into the room. She gasped and dropped to her knees in front of Morgan. “Oh my God. She grabbed her hand. “I am so sorry.”
Morgan flinched and pulled back her hand.
Dorian reached out and grasped Jasmine’s arm, pulling her to her feet. “She’ll be fine. I just didn’t want to take any chances.” He glared at her.
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she whined.
“It was an accident,” Morgan said. “I’ll be fine. But I think I would like to lie down, Dorian, if you don’t mind.”
“I could stay—” Jasmine started to offer.