by Melanie Rawn
“Not a whole bunch, no,” he replied, trying to sound as if he didn’t care.
“Then do something about it.” The way he looked up at her, perhaps it would have been kinder to hit him. She took a few steps back, taunting him: “Come on, Lachlan. You’ve been at this routine for at least a week now. Everybody’s aware that you sulk very effectively. You’ve made your point. Now get over yourself.”
“Holly—Jesus, Holly, don’t you understand?” The cry was torn out of him, ragged, desperate. “I lost everything!”
She stood her ground. He didn’t need her tenderness; he needed her strength. “I’m staying.” Then instinct stronger than reason made her take a step backward—because he surged to his feet, powerful muscles bunching beneath shirt and jeans, and his eyes were truly dragon’s eyes now: vicious and feral.
“What the fuck does it take? Letters six feet high shoved under your nose?” he shouted. “Goddammit, I don’t want you here!”
“Get off it, Lachlan! What good’s a tantrum if you don’t have an audience?”
“You bitch — !”
She supposed she ought to be glad she’d succeeded in touching off his temper after all. But she’d never known how filthy that temper could be. He surged toward her and she stumbled, one shoe turning under her foot and twisting her ankle painfully. His big hands flatted to the wall on either side of her head and he crushed himself against her. He was breathing hard, right into her face, the stench suffocating. She wouldn’t have believed any man who’d drunk as much as he had would be capable, but she felt his hardness bulge against her hip.
He was half a foot taller than she and outweighed her by at least eighty pounds. For the first time ever she was afraid of him, of his size and strength, his tall body with its hard curves of muscle—and the danger within. But she wouldn’t relinquish his gaze, wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t show any weakness.
“You stupid cunt.” His gaze caught and held hers, the way dragons were said to do. “What’d you think, you could walk in and say you love me and make everything okay? ‘It’s all right, a chuisle,’” he singsonged cruelly. “‘I love you sooo much, I can make it allll better!’ Can you magic it all away? Huh? My own sweet Witchy Woman — c’mon, Holly, say ‘Abracadabra’ for me and make it allll better —”
“What’re you gonna do, Lachlan — hit me or fuck me? Or doesn’t it make any difference?”
It took a moment for the words to filter through the murk of alcohol. It was almost as if she could watch his mind struggle for comprehension—that such words had been said, that she had said them. Then his head bent, and he shoved away from the wall.
Holly sagged, sick and shaking, gulping precious air. She pushed her hair off her face and stared at his hunched, trembling figure. Somehow she couldn’t feel very sorry for him. He was doing such a good job of it on his own.
“Get out,” he breathed with no voice at all, arms wrapping himself, shivering as if August in New York had become December in Nome. “Just—get out.”
“No.”
He swung around and stared at her, still trying to catch his breath.
“You’re mine,” she said fiercely. “I don’t much like that right now, and I don’t like you right now at all, but you’re mine and there’s nothing either of us can do about it.” She went to the door, defiantly not limping on her bruised ankle. “You smell like sewage. Take a shower. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Shut up.” Without turning, her hand on the knob, she said quietly, “And if you ever raise your hand to me again, I’ll kill you.”
HE WANDERED AIMLESSLY ABOUT THE living room — looking for something, he couldn’t think what. Then he saw it: the cashmere sweater, blue as her eyes. Must’ve been chilly when she got on the plane—
—to come home to him. To this.
Carefully he picked up the sweater, smoothed it, folded it, buried his face in its feather-softness that smelled of her perfume. He felt like a thief, stealing the fragrance of a woman no longer his.
He surprised himself by doing as he’d been told. Stripped; stuffed soiled clothes into the hamper; stood beneath a blistering shower. After wrapping himself in a towel, he shaved—the electric razor, he didn’t trust his trembling hands with the straight-edge. He had to look at his own face while he shaved. The eyes were familiar, not because they were Evan Lachlan’s eyes—where was the gold in them that she loved so much?—but because they were hollow, stunned, empty. He heard his own voice speaking to people whose eyes had been like this: “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
He brushed his teeth until his gums bled, then drank two large glasses of water with vitamins and aspirin. He climbed into pajamas—an old pair, plain blue cotton, not the sumptuous black silk she’d given him for Christmas — and returned to the living room. Picking up the sweater again, he pressed his face against it and inhaled her fragrance. He took it with him into the bedroom, placing it on the bureau before sliding into bed.
Like a good little boy. Waiting for her to come back and make it all better.
Some of the alcoholic fog lifted, and as he lay there in the dark he knew that what he’d said tonight had been the truth. It wasn’t going to get any better.
She loved him. Despite what he had almost done, she was still his as thoroughly as he knew he was hers. She would stay with him if he let her. But he couldn’t let her. He’d made a wreck of things. If she stayed, he’d drag her down with him into this hell of his own making. Or, worse, he’d blindly seek the sweet haven of her arms, and never rise from his knees again—let alone stand on his own.
The life he could have had with her had escaped him before he’d had a chance to live it. He let himself imagine what it might have been like, coming home every night to her and the kids—he could see their red hair and blue eyes, feel their arms around his neck, hear their voices clamoring for Daddy to come see this and read that and please can I have a new bike for my birthday, and Holly was laughing at him as the kids conned him into just one more story before bedtime —
—and then it would be their bedtime, her warm giving body in his arms and her soft hair against his face, and they’d make love slow and tender or fast and frantic, every night for years and years and years until they were very, very old —
He curled on his side beneath the sheet and closed his eyes. Down on his knees — and the first move in rising was to stop regretting a future that would never be and dwelling on a past that he could do nothing about. He had to look at what was before him. Face it. Stare it down.
Without her.
HER ANKLE THROBBED AS SHE carried the grocery bags to his apartment. Bread and milk, steak and eggs, fresh fruit and greens; at twenty you could live off booze and junk, but pushing forty it wasn’t so easy to bounce back. She opened the door and locked it behind her. Scents of soap and shampoo told her he’d showered and was probably in bed. She couldn’t face the idea of going in to him just yet. The disaster in the living room depressed her completely, but she’d clean it up later. She was just so goddamned tired.
The kitchen was oddly pristine. Three glasses in the sink, a couple of forks, cheap wooden chopsticks still in their wrappers, and that was it. She filled the fridge, started the kettle to boil, and scrounged for coffee. He’d packed or tossed out just about everything in the cupboards, but she finally found a jar of instant coffee, with enough left for one very strong cup. She dosed it with milk and sat on the kitchen counter, legs dangling, and drank half of it before she felt braced enough to enter the bedroom.
He smelled clean and warm, tucked up in pajamas and a thin blue sheet. The thought crossed her mind that this was how his son would look when asleep — and, though she recoiled from the image, he was there before her, not the boy Evan had been but the boy he would father. Tousled dark hair, thick lashes shadowing smooth cheeks. Her heart twisted and she knelt beside the bed, setting her coffee mug on the floor.
“Heart of my heart,” she w
hispered soundlessly. “A chuisle mo chroi … I can’t lose you, I just can’t—”
He slept on. She pulled the sheet up, took her cold coffee back to the living room, and began to clean.
Her ankle hurt like hell. But every stab of pain felt like penance for not being here. It wasn’t right that she hadn’t been here. He was supposed to have picked her up at the airport this evening. That he hadn’t annoyed her only a little at the time; she was sure there’d be a message on her machine telling her he was sorry, he was tied up at work, he’d see her as soon as he could—and then his voice would deepen as he told her he loved her, had missed her, couldn’t wait to get her into bed —
But there’d been no message from him. Instead, Susannah: “Holly, call me the minute you get in — it’s important.” And that was all. The first thing Susannah said was that Evan was all right—he hadn’t been shot or wounded, don’t worry. Holly was ashamed that such things hadn’t even occurred to her. About to become a law officer’s wife, and she’d never even considered —
Mindlessly she filled two plastic garbage bags with bottles and cans, boxes and ashes. When she was done she sat on the couch and lit a cigarette and smoked it down to the filter, staring at the photograph of him and his parents.
What was it she’d said once—all raw bones and big eyes—tall and too lanky, his hair too short, his nose too big for his face, years before he’d grow into that face and that strength and that heart-catching beauty. He stood there with an arm slung around his father’s shoulders, grinning like a fool as the elder Lachlan smiled proudly at him. And there was his mother, blonde, lovely, oh-so-prim in her flowered dress and straw hat, not a hint in her pale eyes that she only wanted to get the hell out of there and find her next drink, her next fuck.
“It’s not gonna happen for us, Holly.”
His voice, calm and strong as it had not been earlier, startled her. He stood there in pajamas and an old blue bathrobe, hands bunched in its sagging pockets.
She didn’t pretend ignorance of what he meant. “I love you. I want to be your wife.”
“But I don’t want you anymore.”
She gasped with the damage of his words. “Liar!”
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I wish I could.” He took a few steps, then stopped. His eyes were enormous, all the gleaming gold gone as if it had never been and never would be again. “Maybe what I mean is that you shouldn’t want me anymore. All I know for sure is that it won’t work for us. Not now.”
“Why?” she cried out. “If we love each other —”
He shook his head, his voice gentle. “I couldn’t live with you, not the way we planned, and live with myself. I gotta work this out. I just—I can’t be with you now. I can’t be with anyone.” He paused. “Please.”
And with that one word from this proud man, her heart broke. She looked down at her empty hands, vision blurring. “All right,” she whispered. “Just — just do one thing for me, Éimhín, please-just h-hold me —” She lost her battle, her voice betraying her. She felt his hands on her shoulders, and looked up. Grief and guilt and absolute determination were in his eyes.
“Come here to me, my lady love,” he murmured, drawing her up into his arms. He rocked her, lips moving through her hair — very tenderly, and without passion. Something in her died.
She pressed herself against him, wishing she could make them into one person. She could take some of his pain and rage and despair. She could carry it for him, she could take all of it —
No. She was strong, and he knew it, but he wouldn’t let her. This was his, of his making. It had to be of his solving. She hated him for that. For being strong enough to do it—and strong enough to know he couldn’t lean on her. To insist that he wouldn’t lean on her.
She turned her cheek to the soft cotton covering his chest, missing the feel of his skin. She remembered the first time they’d made love, how his shirt and her blouse had ripped, buttons flying; how frantic they’d been—and how ever since that night they’d lain together with nothing but skin separating their hearts.
“Evan —”
“Shh,” he whispered. “Shh.”
After a long time, she pulled back. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t say anything as she left him.
Seventeen
SHE STARED THROUGH THE FARMHOUSE’S big picture window, mesmerized. They were dancing: the slight blond man caught easily, sweetly, in the arms of his tall dark lover, moving with a grace that bespoke half an eternity of knowing each other’s bodies. Hands stroking lightly, possessively, gold rings glinting — matched as the two of them were matched.
She and Evan had looked like that, she told herself. Since childhood she’d thought of Alec and Nicky as the perfect couple—never mind their gender — and wanted the same thing for herself. Evan was it. He always would be.
She knew there were wardings on the house, but couldn’t sense them — and neither did the wards react to her presence, for she was always welcome here. Eventually, though, the men inside felt someone watching them. Stopped; turned; saw her through the window. Alec was out the front door and with her in seconds.
“Holly! Come in, sweetheart, you’re white as a ghost. Sit down.” A strong arm about her shoulders pulled her gently through the foyer into the living room, into the familiar comfort of old books and Moroccan carpets and scarred leather furniture. “That’s it. You sit right there and I’ll get you a drink.”
“Make it a big one,” she heard herself say. “I’d like to be really, really drunk.” Although she’d tried that last night, after getting home, and it hadn’t worked.
“Uh-oh,” Nicky said from the doorway.
“What’s he done?” Alec added, pouring three large brandies. “Besides slug the Reverend, I mean. We heard about that.”
“And read about it,” Nick added, earning himself a glare from his partner. “What happened, Holly?”
“He I-left me. Goddammit—I hate weepy women!” She gulped liquor and coughed. “I am not going to cry.” But all at once she was clinging to Nicky anyway, face hidden in the faded green cotton of his shirt. “No man is worth —”
“Granted, but anybody as pissed off as you obviously are has only two alternatives: cry or smash something. Is the Beemer still intact?”
She pulled back indignantly. “No man is worth my car, either!”
“Of course he isn’t,” said Alec.
“That bastard—does he think he’ll ever find another woman like me?”
“Of course he doesn’t,” said Nicky.
“He’ll never find anyone like me again, and if he’s too stupid to realize it —” She drained brandy down her throat and damned near threw the glass into the empty hearth. “He’s in for a shock when he’s fucking some vapid little bitch with big tits and no ass, and half a minute into it he’ll be bored out of his mind!”
“Of course he will,” said Alec.
“Can’t you do anything but agree with me?”
“My darling girl,” Nicky said, “the mood you’re in, we don’t dare do anything but agree with you. You’d hurt us.”
She laughed until she all but cried again. Nicky guided her to her feet and toward the downstairs bath, where he directed her to wash up for dinner.
“I’m not hungry, but you go ahead.”
He pretended shock. “You can’t turn down Alyosha’s slum scallion!”
His partner shot back, “Slum gullion, you ignorant Hungarian. Come on, Holly, let’s eat.”
They did; she didn’t. Not much, anyway. Afterward, they repaired to the living room again, and Nicky offered, “If you like, I can help you get some sleep.”
“Would you? Oh, Nicky, I’m so tired —”
“Come on upstairs, then. We’ll find you a nice old pair of pajamas and tuck you up under a quilt, and you’ll almost think you’re back home at Woodhush.”
He did his best. Holly hadn’t the heart to tell him his best wasn’t good enough. After he murmured gentle inca
ntations for ten long minutes, she pretended to be asleep. She heard him leave the room, and his voice as he talked softly to Alec in the hallway. But she was no nearer slumber now than she’d been last night.
Holly waited an hour or two, until the house was dark and quiet. Then she slid out of bed, pulled on one of Alec’s old dressing gowns that he’d left for her, and padded barefoot downstairs with a fresh pack of smokes, a lighter, and an ashtray. The addition of a few pillows made the porch swing almost as comfortable as the bed upstairs, and she sat there smoking and rocking and staring out into the warm summer night.
“Holly, it’s nearly one in the morning.”
She glanced up. Nicholas, tousled and pajama-clad, looking ten years younger than his age, stood in the doorway.
“If you say so, she said.
With an impatient sigh he came outside, sat on the porch swing beside her, and appropriated a cigarette.
“Don’t tell Alec,” he warned as he lit it. “I quit thirty years ago.” Exhaling prodigiously, he eyed her sideways. “I knew you weren’t asleep, by the way.”
“Sorry.” She gave a little shrug.
“Sulking, I see.”
“Nursing my broken heart,” she countered lightly. “You’d think one of us over the years would’ve come up with a curing spell for that.”
“Don’t be maudlin.” Nick sighed out another lungful of smoke. “In point of fact, I could cure it if I felt like it. Which I don’t. Too much effort.”
“Bullshit.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But one does like to pretend one has powers beyond one’s puny gifts.”
“You’ve done all right with what you’ve got. Better than I have.”
“Ah, but what you’ve got isn’t something the rest of us poor drudges understand.” He leaned back, making the swing rock gently. “Do you remember when you found out?”
“Like I could forget?”
“Did we ever tell you our side of it?” He put an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll spin the tale for you, Witchling—a real paramitscha, the kind of stories told around the fire in Romany camps. And if you put it in a book, I’ll sue.”