‘Aaahhh.’
Again that expression of understanding; of knowledge deliberately withheld. This time coupled with a hint of distaste. I leaned my forehead into my palms and closed my eyes.
‘Do you have any idea how annoying that is?’ I asked, weary of all the mystery.
‘Of course. My aunt does it to me all the time. Drives me nuts.’
I sputtered a laugh.
Various clinkings and rustlings said Logan packed my things away. Now I’d never find my lipstick in the mess. It would be justice if he was at least embarrassed at the presence of tampons in my bag.
‘Did you know there was a Calain Gilmore in the court of Queen Elizabeth the First? He was a Viscount,’ he said, apparently not discomposed at all.
He slid my bag across the smoked glass table top. I dropped it onto the floor and leaned back, folding my arms.
‘As a matter of fact,’ I said, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm, ‘I did know. He got made the Earl of Lothien. He’s my great-somethingth grandfather. We have five hundred years of family portraits and an ornate family tree with lots of gold leaf on it.’ I plucked my phone out of my bag. Reseating the battery, I slid it across to him. ‘Since you’re so fascinated, there are photos in the album. My father was the last Earl and I’m the last Gilmore. I even have a coat of arms, a motto, a suit of armour and a goddamned money-sucking estate in Ireland if you’d like proof. What the hell has this got to do with anything?’
Logan raised his left eyebrow in arrested surprise. He picked up my phone and thumbed through the photos, both brows lifting as he studied them. By the time he arrived at the last photo, his expression dropped into a deep scowl. The small muscles in his jaw worked and his eyes narrowed.
‘You know you’re his descendant? Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’ I brandished the gold and emerald ring. My mother had given it to me for my eighteenth birthday just weeks before. ‘Here’s his signet. Now tell me why you’re asking me a bunch of stupid genealogy questions when you’ve given me the mother of all migraines, beaten me for speed in a way I didn’t believe was possible, saved me from a kidnapping, then kidnapped me yourself. Someone is out to get me and you seem to know something. Tell me what the hell is going on!’
He regarded me for a long, silent moment. Then he went back to inspecting the photos on my phone. All lightness had dropped away. His face was grim, his eyes leaden.
There were only twelve photos, Elizabethan through to First World War era. Not every generation had had a portrait done. Logan examined the final one, a painting of my great-great grandfather as a young man, dressed in full British military uniform, for the longest. He regarded me again, then the painting.
‘You’ve got your mother’s hair and face shape, but you also look a lot like him – the light eyes with dark rims and olive skin. Although his is darker than yours.’
‘Thanks.’ I stroked my upper lip. ‘And don’t you love my matching handlebar moustache?’
He laughed; a wholehearted sound that made me smile, in spite of my irritation. When the stern distance fell away and the sharpness of his face softened he was…beautiful. An odd description for a man, but true nonetheless. His eyes met mine and the humour vanished. He pokered up and returned his attention to my phone, thumbing through the photos again.
‘Only paintings, no photos; not even of your father.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Well, that’s not surprising. The camera never lies but a painting can.’ Before I could ask him what he meant, he continued, ‘And no wives and or children. Didn’t you think that was strange?’
I shrugged, impatient with the whole subject. ‘There is one wife – the first Earl’s. A redhead named Fionn. My mother always claimed Fionn was the reason my father picked her: because she had red hair, too. After that…maybe they all hated their families – arranged marriages. I repeat: what the hell does this have to do with my current situation?’
Logan leaned forward, his eyes intent. ‘Do you know what your father died of?’
‘Aaagh! Enough! I’m done. Give me the phone.’ I tried to take it from him. He clamped my wrists to the table and raised his brows, daring me to test his speed and strength again. I glared until he let go.
‘Yes,’ I said, rubbing my wrists as an excuse not to look at him. It was old, old history and not something I liked to discuss, even with my mother. ‘He…went insane and killed himself.’
10
Logan, they have men posted at her apartment. Get what you need from her. Fast.>
I am. Be patient. She knows she has to hide, but not why.
Not sure yet. She knows more than she’s telling me. I need to see more.
We still don’t know why they want her alive. You told me yourself who Gilmore was; the enemies he made. She could be useful. If they want her badly enough they’ll come after her. We need to be ready. If they take her now we may not be able to track her. If we help her now she may help us willingly.
Possibly. Either way, we still need more information. I’ll connect her. You’ll undo the damage. Then we’ll see if she’s useful or not.
‘I’m sorry.’ Logan’s tone softened with a sympathy I could hardly bear.
The admission wasn’t easy, the stigma still strong, even after all this time.
His hand covered mine. Only briefly, but gently this time. ‘That must’ve been tough on you, Red, and your mother. Do you remember him?’
Were we on a nickname basis now or was he just being sarcastic somehow? I pulled free but there was only grave empathy in his expression; no judgement, no recoil, no discomfort or awkwardness. And, lurking at the back of that, a hint of deeply-hidden pain, swiftly-shielded from my scrutiny. He honestly seemed to understand and that disarmed me.
‘Not really. A few half-memories. He used to rub the back of his head when he was annoyed, I remember that. Probably I annoyed him a lot, which it why it stuck with me.’ I smiled ruefully. ‘And one clear image of him staring at me. Like he was trying to imprint my face on his memory – or his on mine, maybe. And the last thing he said to me.’ I hunched a shoulder. ‘That was just a few days before he left, I think. I was only a kid. I didn’t know about the mental illness or his suicide for ages. When I started getting the migraines at about thirteen, and the medics asked questions about him, my mother told me.’
‘You think the mental illness might be related to the migraines? Genetic?’ Logan’s brow darkened to distaste. He leaned away, his expression shifting to blankness as he stared over my shoulder.
Released again from his subtle spell, I was able to think clearly while his attention was elsewhere. How did he do that? In a few short moments I’d exposed more of my past than I had to anyone, ever.
I folded my arms. ‘Look, stop changing the subject. What’s going on? Who are you and what did those men want with me last night?’
He frowned. He seemed to do that a lot. I returned the look steadily, not willing to give up this time. He had answers and I wanted them. He was good at getting them out of me. It was time to return the favour. I shut my mouth.
He leaned back on his chair, looped his fingers together behind his neck and turned his eyes to the ceiling. The chiselled line of his jaw and lean torso made my blood rush. I gulped and pulled my gaze away. This was stupid. What was wrong with me? Focus, girl. It was just hormones. Focus.
In the warm, buzzing silence, beams of sunlight crept across the floor. The fan ticked lazily overhead, doing little to stir the now-humid air. Outside the kookaburras chortled to a halt and cows lowed in the distance, mournful.
I just needed to regroup and get Anna out of town. That was my next step. Or maybe she really was safer with Michael? Possibly. I did need to speak to her, though. My car keys were in my handbag
. There was nothing stopping me from getting up and leaving, right now. Well, apart from a lack of clothing, but that could be rectified. No, wait. We’d swapped cars last night. I had no idea where mine was.
Logan dropped his chair legs to the floor with a sharp thunk that brought me back to reality. He grinned in that raffish, heart-stopping way that annoyed me all over again for no reason I could think of, except it tugged alarmingly at my self-control. Scraping the chair back, he rose and pulled out some clothing from a chest of drawers. A pair of shorts and a shirt landed on the coffee table and he dragged on a white shirt.
‘Those should fit you. We need to take a short walk.’
‘What?’ I dropped the sheet and dragged the ridiculous blue-patterned board shorts over my hips, tying them tightly to keep them up. The green t-shirt was about three sizes too big. ‘A walk? It’s seven in the morning. I should get home. Where’s my car?’
His hands landed on my shoulders and the certainty in his eyes derailed my decision to leave. ‘This is important. I’m pretty sure I know who you are and I can help you find out what’s going on. But I need to try something first. It won’t hurt and, if I’m right, it should make a lot of things clear for you. Then, if you still want to go, you can leave any time. I promise. But, as you said: someone’s out to get you and I do know something. So are you coming with me or not?’
I stared up at him, mesmerised by the profound intelligence in those grey eyes.
‘Man, you can be really annoying, you know that?’ I shrugged. ‘But you make a good point. I guess I’ll trust you. For now.’
‘One more thing, though.’ He picked up my phone and dropped it into a jug of water next to the bed.
I watched the phone sink to the bottom, bubbles forming, electricals shorting out inside, gps... I got a grip on outraged astonishment. Phones could be tracked. I should have thought of it myself.
He jerked his head and I followed, chewing my lip. Was I endangering my own and my mother’s life by handing myself over to this man? Or was I taking a step towards solving the mystery of my own existence? There was only one way to find out. Risk had to be taken. Life was risk and I’d had enough of half-life.
I followed Logan through the house.
‘Where are we going?’ I tiptoed on the cool, polished timber, conscious of the sleeping occupants.
‘You’ll like it, I promise.’ He smiled. My suspicions melted.
I had no idea why, when he irritated the hell out of me, I should feel an almost instinctive trust whenever he pinned me with that steady gaze. It annoyed me to be the follower, like some helpless heroine in a trashy romance. But I followed anyway. In silence, I slid into my waiting shoes and trailed him outside, along the drunken timber fence line of the back yard.
Looking back revealed a stately old house, with wide verandahs and a corrugated iron roof, nestled in a bower of trees, isolated from any visible neighbours. It was a fabulous oasis. I envied his family and their ability to put down roots in such a glorious place.
Logan called to me. He opened a rusted gate, wincing as it gave an ear-tearing squeal. Then he stepped onto a track that meandered into a valley behind the house. I hurried to catch up. Thick, red dirt stuck damply to the soles of my shoes. We left a clear trail of footprints. Mud flicked up my calves.
A white-noise of rushing water became audible. The trees thickened, reaching for the sky, their leaves broad and dark green now: a true, tiny patch of rainforest hidden away here. After about five minutes treading silently on the leaf-strewn path, Logan stood aside and gestured for me to precede him.
‘Oh.’ I inhaled the sweet, earthy scent of the forest. ‘This is just beautiful.’
Dappled shade and pale morning sunlight flickered on the golds and reds of leaves lying on the ground. Troubles sliding aside, I ran towards the sound of gurgling water just out of sight. A bird sounded an alarm call and I watched its movement through the green canopy, entranced by the vivid green wingbeats.
The stream came into view. Clear waters coruscated over round, black rocks. A small pool beckoned, sparkling and clean. Above it a waterfall gurgled and splashed a misty rainbow down the regular columns of a black basalt cliff. Brilliant blue flashed. A kingfisher darted out of the shadows to sweep along the creek and vanish into the overhanging branches.
Impulsively, I kicked off my shoes, put a toe into the water and laughed. It was freezing but I didn’t care. A huge tree, possibly a fig of some sort, leaned out over the water on the opposite bank, its massive buttress roots sculptural and beautiful. From deep within me rose an overpowering urge to touch; to feel its rough-smooth bark and embrace its ancient strength.
Picking my way across a shallow part of the creek, I clambered up the bank. A convenient, cradle-shaped root looked comfortable. I sank onto it, leaned my cheek against the coarse-textured, flat surface of a buttress and closed my eyes.
I’d never spent much time in a forest before – my mother’s work had always taken us to big cities. The light here seemed fresh and soft, the smells those of damp earth and wood, the space filled with the gentle rustle of leaves and gurgle of water. The air here was cleaner, the underlying throb of life slower. There was a sense of being part of the world rather than separated from it.
Something in me relaxed. This was home. The fears slipped away, and the darkness and constant anxiety stalking my thoughts fled before the encompassing, cool peace of this place.
Nothing could hurt me. Here I was safe.
In my imagination, I opened myself, embracing the interconnection of all the living things around me; my place in it. I almost felt the life force, sensed small animals, even the slow, reaching growth of the fig below my cheek. It was a vivid image and I bathed in it, rested, truly at peace.
‘What do you think?’ Logan’s soft question made me smile languidly.
I sighed, contented as the deep knot of tension coiling through my stomach dissolved and slipped away. ‘I feel like I belong here; like I can be myself, not some frightened, half-alive…whatever I am, running from everything and everyone. I used to wish I could disappear into the forest.’ I didn’t want to open my eyes in case the feeling of being joined to the forest vanished. ‘I know it sounds silly. My mother always said I had an overactive imagination. I just feel...connected somehow.’
He sat next to me and his arm brushed against mine. ‘You’re not imagining it. I feel it too. If you’ll let me, I’ll show you something else. Don’t open your eyes. I’m just going to touch your forehead.’
‘Like you did last night? I’m not sure—’
‘No, it’s alright. I’ll leave that part of your mind alone.’
His words didn’t make sense but I felt so damned good I relaxed my usual guard.
The tip of his finger brushed my skin and a curtain slid back. Light, for want of a better word, filled my mind.
Can you hear me? Logan’s voice whispered inside my head.
Yes! What the hell...? I scrambled to my feet, stumbling over tree roots and clinging the tree, staring at him in openmouthed horror.
He was still there, in front of me and inside my mind, trying to soothe my spiralling fear. I shoved at the intrusion, pushing his presence out. He slowly rose. I retreated another step, jumbled and disbelieving, each breath jerky and quick, one hand out to stop him coming any closer. As though physical distance would prevent mental intrusion.
‘Stay away. What the hell did you just do to me?’ I glared at him. Could I get past him to the path? Even if I did, he was fast. I wouldn’t get far before he caught me.
He raised both hands, palms out. I checked his feet. Yes, that wasn’t a placating move, that was a fighting stance. I backed up another step, clutching at the rough tree bark as my head spun a little and my heel caught on a root. Fear flashed and darkness lifted its formless, faceless head, eager. I pressed cold fingertips to my temple. No. There was no threat. I could handle this.
‘Stop running, Red,’ he said quietly. He seemed calm, assured
, unfazed by my mistrust and hostility. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
‘But how did you do that?’ I tapped my temple. ‘Talk to me here. What’s going on? Who are you?’
Do I need to tell you anything? His voice echoed in my mind.
I clutched at my head, squeezing my eyes shut. ‘How are you doing that? What did you do to me?’
‘I didn’t do anything. I undid something.’
I glared at him. ‘Not helpful. What does that mean?’
‘Someone put a block in your mind, years ago by the feel of it. I just took down part of it so we could communicate. If you’ll give it a chance, you’ll also be able to sense the forest. Let me connect you properly.’ He scanned my face. ‘You need it. Before that headache gets worse.’
I eyed him suspiciously. ‘But last night you tried the same thing, didn’t you and it felt like my brain almost exploded. Why?’
‘I tried to take all the blocks down at once but your mind couldn’t take it. You’re naturally trying to use those parts of your mind. The migraines are the blocks preventing you. Whoever put them there didn’t want them removed. Let me help.’
I winced, massaging my temple.
His fingers closed around my wrists, holding tighter when I automatically tried to twist free. He regarded me enigmatically, eyes hypnotic in their intensity. Then he was there, in my head, soothing my shock, his presence somehow comforting and secure, rather than intrusive; as though the connection between us was totally natural. The pain faded.
Trust me a little. His mental voice was a whisper, like the breeze overhead. I can’t lie to you like this. You’d know it. I won’t hurt you and it ought to help. You want to know who you are? This is part of you. He nodded at the trees around us. Let the forest show you if you don’t believe me.
I stilled, mesmerised by the grave truth in his eyes and mind. I did know he spoke the truth. Reluctant, curious, afraid, ready to pull free at the slightest hint of deception, I sank down at the base of the tree again.
Relics and Runes Anthology Page 69