by CJ Lyons
Yet somehow, he almost wished he was in her place, had her freedom.
He deliberately folded his notes in half, let them fall. Caught in the breeze from the vent, the white sheets of paper fluttered through the air like angel wings.
Vincent stared at them, head bowed as he stood beside his desk, frozen for a moment in time. He felt light-headed, unsure which direction to move in. Finally, the papers hit the bottom of the trashcan with a slapping sound that woke him from his trance. The sound of a fastball hitting a glove. The sound of cement landing on a trowel. The sound of someone, somewhere doing something.
But not Vincent. He stood there, vision blurred as he stared at the simple white sheets of paper, motionless.
Vincent clicked the overhead light off, shut the door and headed for the elevator. He had to get out of here.
Just wished he had somewhere worth going to. Maybe he should reconsider Eve Warden's offer--both the business partnership as well as the social one.
Lukas tossed and turned, his dreams shrouding him in the past, taking him back to the first time he had seen his father having sex with a woman.
He was nine. The woman was not his mother. In fact, he later learned from his mother that once he was conceived and a male heir produced to carry the upstanding Redding name into the next millennia, his father never touched her again.
He'd heard a woman screaming and rushed into his father's bedroom. Then stopped. The plush Persian rug beside his father's bed had been shoved aside. A strange woman was on the hardwood floor, on her hands and knees, naked. His father was still dressed and knelt on the floor, leaning up against the woman, pushing at her from behind, his fingers wrapped around her hips as they rocked back and forth.
The woman screamed again, but her lips were bared in a wide smile that revealed a mouthful of yellow, rotting teeth. She turned her head and made eye contact with Lukas, then laughed.
"Go back to your crayons and baby dolls, little boy," she said.
Earl Redding whirled around, disengaging from the woman's bare bottom. "Shut up," he told the woman. "That's my son you're talking to and he'll be a man soon enough."
Unlike Lukas' mother, Earl had never been employed and was always home. It was just the two of them rattling around in the Redding family's Fox Chapel mansion. Except for the servants, of course. Weeks could go by with Earl never making eye contact with Lukas or otherwise acknowledging his son, leaving Lukas alone with his computer and cyber-tutor.
Under other circumstances Lukas would have been proud at his father's words.
Now Lukas' attention was riveted by the long, red throbbing appendage jutting from his father's open pants. He knew it was called a penis--his tutor insisted he use correct terminology for anatomy instead of slang. But it looked nothing like Lukas' own penis, the only one he had to compare it to other than vague drawings in his biology text and a few bizarre photos he'd accidentally come across while on-line.
His father had an enormous penis. His father's penis was a monster. Pulsing with power.
Lukas glanced at the woman. No wonder she was on her hands and knees. And something that big shoved inside you--that had to hurt. Yet she had been smiling.
She caught his expression and laughed again. The sound was shrill, echoing from the vaulted ceiling of the large room. Earl Redding lunged forward, gripping her long, stringy hair in his fist, yanking her head up as he kicked her between her legs.
She yelped, an animal noise of fear and pain. Only Earl's hold on her hair kept her from slumping to the floor. Earl began to kick and pummel her with his free hand, his erection growing even larger with each blow landed and every cry uttered.
Entranced, Lukas took a step forward. Then another. Earl paused, looked Lukas in the eye and grinned. "Never let the bitches think they're better than you. You take control, you hear me? You make them do what they're supposed to do."
The woman was sobbing, tears streaming down her face, twin rivers of black mascara and blue eye liner. Earl reached for Lukas, pulled him closer. "Go ahead, son. Show her who's boss."
Lukas hesitated only a moment, the gleam in his father's eye frightening him. If he didn't do what his father wanted, would his father hit him, too? The woman was a grown up, he was just a kid. Also, there was this strange new sensation in his groin, a warm tingling that made him wonder if he might also someday have the same monstrous, strange power as his father.
He swung his fist into the woman's face, bouncing off her cheekbone. It hurt, but it also felt good, especially when her nose began to bleed. He hit her again and again, but the initial nosebleed was the worst damage he inflicted. His father's laughter stopped him.
That was Lukas's first lesson in sex. Earl must have felt his performance enhanced by his son's presence, or maybe it was simply one more form of revenge on his too-successful absent wife, but he began to order Lukas to join him for lessons on a regular basis.
It was the only father-son bonding Lukas had until he was fourteen and finally killed the bastard.
Maeve Goes Into the Light….
Lough Ree, Roscommon, Eire
1630 BC
Maeve slid beneath the placid surface of the dark waters and allowed herself to float, to simply be, released of all boundaries and responsibilities. She loved bathing alone at night like this, especially when the moon was bright and the stars shimmered and danced above her.
It was so unlike the way nights had been during the dark times. No moon, no stars, only a murky shadow that shrouded the land.
She tilted her head back, dipping all her hair into the cool waters, and sighed. How much had been lost back then. So long ago that the trees now standing guard over her hadn't existed. Most of her people no longer spoke of those times, they were merely a fairytale used to scare children.
Not to Maeve. She still dreamed of those dark days of endless night. Especially of the day when she was forced to kill Lothar, her brother.
As she floated in the quiet lake, bathing in moonbeams and quiet water, Maeve shivered. Tonight--could tonight be the night? Twisting her body to the right and the left, she scanned the perimeter of the lake. All was quiet. Except her memories. Those she couldn't silence.
She quelled her nerves, finished her bath, and returned to shore. As she emerged from the lake, a man's form separated itself from the shadows beneath the trees.
"Furbaide," she said, standing upright before her nephew, not bothering to cover her nakedness. He had chosen his ambush well. She was alone, unarmed. But not surprised. For twenty-two years she had been waiting to pay the blood debt.
"Maeve," he spat her name like a curse. He was less than an arm's breadth away. His face was raw, chiseled with sharp angles.
She took a single step towards the pile of clothing that concealed her weapon. But stopped when he raised the short sword, her sword, from behind his back, twisting it so moonlight danced over its wickedly sharp edge. The same edge which had killed his father.
Before Maeve could move to defend herself, Furbaide thrust the sword at her. The blade whistled through the air, impaling her.
She reached for the hilt, her hands covering his. His eyes were lit by a righteous fire as he leered down at her. He twisted the blade once, his grin widening as Maeve cried out.
Another man's arm snaked out of the darkness, wrapping itself around Furbaide's neck and choking him until he dropped to the ground. Maeve sank to her knees, her hands still wrapped around the sword hilt. The pain that shot through her was now a mere trickle of agony but she felt her life slipping away with it.
The second man crouched beside her, lowering her gently onto the rocks. She strained to focus and saw it was her old friend, Leonid. The druid who had led her and her people to salvation.
"You should have listened to me, Maeve," he chided her, his silver hair streaming over his shoulders and framing a miraculously unlined face.
Twenty-two years had passed, yet Leonid had not aged. What kind of marvel was this? She reached a hand out t
o him, beckoned him closer.
"You could have had it all Maeve," he continued, regret in his voice. "You could have ruled the world, changed history forever."
She managed to shake her head. "No," she choked out. "It was always meant to be this way."
"No. No, it's not." His dark eyes grew fierce. "Not if I have anything to do with it."
Maeve tried to speak again, but her throat had filled with a fluid she recognized as her own blood. She felt nothing, not pain, not the night breeze, not Leonid's hands as he cradled her. Her vision dimmed, her eyes fluttered shut. Then she opened them again in shock.
Leonid had leaned forward. He lay his mouth over hers and kissed her, drawing her breath into his body in an act more intimate than any she had ever shared with a lover. As he held his mouth over hers, she watched the stars above her swirl and spin, as if she were falling into the night sky.
She looked down and saw her body, Leonid still hovering over it, from above. His voice came from a great distance. "Sorry, my queen, but someone will be needing this in a few thousand years."
Leonid stood and with a mighty jerk, pulled free the blade that had impaled her. Maeve felt a flutter of curiosity, even as she spun further and further away. Then it too was gone, a handful of sand tossed into the churning ocean of night.
CHAPTER 10
Night Terrors
Grace lay on a bed in a deserted call room. The plastic-coated mattress rustled with every breath she took. After the girls' warning, she'd decided she was too tired to investigate the ECU tonight, had returned to the Annex instead. Now she lay in the musty, abandoned call room, staring into the dark, trying to will herself to sleep and failing. Maybe it was the room--brought back old memories. Her body tensed as if she were waiting for her pager to go off, primed to jump into action at a moment's notice.
Fool. She didn't have a pager and she wasn't a doctor, not anymore. Not for a long time.
She sighed and flopped over onto her stomach, face buried in the thin pillow, inhaling the scorched scent of hospital linens. She hadn't told the girls the entire story, about that day when she met Jimmy. Now she couldn't stop thinking about it. Her senses scanned the dark room, hoping for some sign he was here with her, but she was alone.
That first night in the beehive hut she had woken to find Jimmy crouched at the fire, adding more peat. His chest and feet were bare. The fire cast strange shadows on the rough stone walls of the hut, bizarre shapes of mythic beasts: griffin, dragon, unicorn. As he rose to his full height, silhouetted by the crackling fire, he appeared to be the master of them all.
The wind tore through the air shafts with the mournful cry of a lover lost. Jimmy looked over at her, brushing soot from his hands, and their eyes met. He returned to the sleeping bag, sliding in behind her without a word.
Of course, she told herself, trying to force her body to relax, there was only one sleeping bag--his. It wasn't as if he'd been expecting company. She kept her eyes on the fire and realized the shadows weren't creatures but her own clothing rescued from the sodden pile she'd abandoned it in, hung by the fire to dry.
Jimmy's body stretched out behind hers. She was no longer cold, but she still shivered. He circled his arm over hers, drawing her into his chest. His body was warm, solid, safe.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I believe you Yanks call it spooning," he said, his breath rustling the hair on the crown of her head. "Tsch, tsch," he crooned as her body remained tense, trembling like a child woken from a nightmare. "Go back to sleep."
"I'm not a baby--" she protested, her words blurred with exhaustion.
"Of course not, shh."
"I'm twenty-six, you know."
His chuckle resonated through his chest and into her. "Then you are a baby--compared to me."
Silence. Grace closed her eyes, hypnotized by his steady breathing. Still, she could not lose herself in sleep.
"I wouldn't have died," she whispered, too low to wake him but loud enough for the words to take on solidity. Jimmy sighed deeply and wrapped his leg over hers, snugging her closer to him. His protectiveness irritated her.
"The water would have risen and I would have been able to swim to the tunnel, climb out by myself," she continued. He was silent, but she felt his breath catch and knew there was a flaw in her logic.
She squeezed her eyes shut, imaging her plight in the burial tomb as a simple physics problem. The cavern was an empty wine bottle, upside down with its corked neck in a shallow pan of water. Pull the cork and water flowed into the bottle, seeking its own level. Then it stopped. Just as it had in the cavern--far short of the ledge. She would have lasted maybe a few hours, trapped with escape in sight but out of reach, until hypothermia and exhaustion took her under for the last time.
Her eyes flew open and she choked as she took in a smoke-filled breath. It was the peat making her eyes water, she told herself. But she was grateful for Jimmy's hand searching out hers, entwining his fingers around hers, giving her a comforting squeeze.
Jimmy stared out the window of the helipad door. He didn't like the new building across the way. There was something about the new tower that felt unbalanced, made the hair on his neck bristle.
Or it would have if he had any hair. Or a body. The only time he seemed close to being real was when Grace was there with him. Other times, he felt as empty as a beggarman's purse.
More frustrating was even when Grace was near and he felt somewhat whole, he still couldn't feel her. Yet, he felt all too much of what was going on inside her. The fears, the panic, the overwhelming darkness that threatened to devour her.
The pain of knowing he was the cause of it.
To be suddenly yanked back into the world was one thing. To wake and find yourself drowning in the terror and sorrow that had become your beloved's daily existence was quite another.
Christ, what he wouldn't give to be whole again, to find some way to heal Grace and to get his hands on the bastard who had done this to her. This he prayed with all his might, his gaze locked onto dark shadows moving past the windows of the tower opposite the helipad.
In answer to his prayer, rain slashed against the door and a man's laughter rang through the deserted hallway.
"Don't fret, Jimmy," the man he'd known in life as Brother Leo said. "There's not many who could have come as far as you have, even with my help."
Jimmy spun around. Or rather he changed the direction of his attention and the building seemed to spin around him. Leo lounged against the elevator doors, his silver hair falling around his face like a lion's mane. His eyes were darker than the storm-tossed night, darker than Jimmy had ever noticed them to be when he was alive.
As if Leo were more demon than man.
"About time you returned." Jimmy's voice thundered with emotion despite the fact he had no vocal cords or even a mouth to form the words. "What is this, then? Some kind of purgatory? I pay for my sins by watching Grace suffer?"
"There is no purgatory. I explained that to you when I brought you here. There's no heaven or hell either--only time."
"Riddles and rhymes. I want answers. You said I was here to help Grace, tell me how."
"You've done your job. You kept her here. Now you can go."
"Like hell I will!"
"You've no choice in the matter," Leo said with a nonchalant wave of his hand, dismissing Jimmy.
Jimmy felt icy fingers tug at his heart, trying to yank him back into the void from which he came. "No. I'm not leaving her. Not again, dammit!"
He reached out for Grace. In his mind's eye he saw her tossing on the narrow bed of the call room. She was dreaming about the first night they met. He felt her hand reach out, weaving her fingers between his, felt her squeeze his hand tight, holding on for dear life.
Jimmy fastened onto the memory, pulling from her strength. He pushed the cold emptiness back and watched as Leo's expression turned to surprise.
"I'm not going anywhere," Jimmy told the former Jesuit. His hand was clen
ched at his side; he imagined Grace's hand holding it, anchoring him.
Leo's face creased into a smile. "No. I guess not. So, what are you going to do? You can't stay here forever, drawing on Grace's strength."
"I don't intend to stay forever. Just long enough to see Grace out of danger."
Grace remembered Jimmy holding her that first night. In her half dream state, she could almost feel the weight of his arm, his breath rustling her hair, the beat of his heart slow and steady as she shivered in fear.
"I'm sorry," she had muttered, both embarrassed and comforted by his presence.
"For what? Being scared?" His grip around her tightened. "Let me guess. Your damned priests taught you to have faith, that fear was useless. Idiots."
She craned her head toward him, surprised by his bitterness. "What's wrong with faith?"
"And you a scientist. Christians seem to believe they created the concept of blind belief in a higher power. Pshaw. A thousand years before Christ, pagans like Maeve had faith. It was that faith that almost got her killed."
"What happened?"
He sat up on his elbow, looking down on her, shadows from the fire dancing over his face. They could have been living thousands of years in the past, him an ancient Druid or warrior poet, spinning his tale. "What happened? We're talking 1652 BC here, young lady. What do you think happened?"
She shrugged. The date meant nothing to her.
"Christ save me from children who don't know past what they see on a bloody computer screen. 1652BC, as in the eruption of Thera, the most powerful volcanic explosion in history. One hundred times the force of Hiroshima, it was heard over two thousand miles away.
"1652 as in the plagues of Egypt, the parting of the Red Sea, a colossal tsunami ninety feet high, powerful enough to destroy the palace at Zakros and eradicate the entire Minoan civilization. Any of this ringing bells?"
"Moses and all that," she replied hesitantly.