The Arrival (Children of the Morning Star Book 1)

by Kastie Pavlik

  Her father used to say that Eric was the truly talented one and that without him they never would have won half of their cases, but for some reason her dad always did the traveling and Eric stayed behind, working in the office via conference calls while also looking after her mother and her.

  She focused on his last name: Ravenscroft. Savage butterflies nipped just below her ribcage. Life had always seemed safe with him at her side. He had always been there—had always been with her—which had made his betrayal so much worse.

  Her stomach roiled. She wasn’t sure she could do this.

  Her hand trembled as she reached for the door. She tried to steady it, but gave up with a hefty sigh and forced herself to push on the handle. It refused to budge.

  For a brief instant, her body was hot as a wave of humiliation swept over her and she mentally chided herself. She had to pull the door open. Unable to stop an embarrassed smile from spreading across her face, she entered the building and pulled open the next door to the lobby.

  With the involuntary grin stuck on her face, she stepped into the richly adorned room. The air was still, disturbed only by faint tapping on a keyboard. For the second time in as many days, she felt suspended by the strings of time.

  The lobby had not changed much. The furniture looked newer, but was in the style she remembered. The heirloom portrait of Colonel Hawthorne commanding his troops towered overhead, while the same smell of old rugs, paper, leather, and wood filled her nose. Even her father’s brass nameplate still labeled the door on the secretary’s right.

  Eric’s nameplate was on the door to the secretary’s left. The door straight ahead. The door she’d enter in mere moments. She swallowed hard and focused her father’s office, yearning to run inside and hide.

  But from what? Numbingly familiar surroundings? Nothing had changed. Beyond that door sat a soulless desk in a room that had been empty for a decade.

  Why is it like this, Dad? She blinked fiercely at the sting behind her eyes. Why did he leave me with people I didn’t know?

  She had grieved alone, not only for her parents, but also for Eric and the life she had known. She’d been abandoned. Eric had tossed her aside without a single goodbye.

  So why is everything the same?

  Nothing made sense.

  She shouldn’t care.

  It wasn’t important.

  But it was cruel.

  She closed her eyes and rested her fingertips on her forehead. She was the heir. It was her birthright and she was strong enough to face him. She hoped.

  The room had gone silent. The secretary had stopped typing. She imagined the woman was staring at her, seeing her as some random stranger just standing in the doorway, trying not to breakdown.

  “May I help you?”

  The voice was close, warm and gentle, enfolded within a delicate floral fragrance—lilacs or gardenias, maybe. Paresh looked up to see the secretary standing before her, nervously studying her with wide eyes. She offered a concerned smile and a tissue. “Please, come this way, m-miss.”

  She accepted the tissue and folded it into shreds as she walked with the secretary to her desk. “I... I’m here to see Eric Ravenscroft.”

  “I apologize, but he’s away on a personal matter.”

  “Oh.” As she wilted, she caught the secretary eyeing Eric’s door. “Do you expect him soon?”

  “N-no,” the secretary—Molly according to her nameplate—stammered. “It’s just—”

  Straightening in her chair, Molly said, “His son, Darien Ravenscroft, is assisting during his absence. Who shall I say is here?”

  “Paresh Hawthorne...” Her voice trailed as she drifted into memory seeking any elusive fragments of his son.

  Molly’s hand shook slightly as she picked up the phone handset. “Mr. Ravenscroft, Paresh Hawthorne is here.”

  As Molly cradled the phone, Eric’s door opened and a young man in his twenties nearly flew out.

  “Paresh?” he asked, his eyes wide and incredulous.

  A knot formed in her stomach and her jaw fell open. He looked and sounded exactly like the man she remembered. Her knees buckled. “Er—Eric?”

  Stepping forward quickly, he grabbed her hand and threw an arm around her shoulders, effortlessly catching her as though the moment had been choreographed. His eyes, orbs of the clearest blue, mesmerized her, and his scent, the crisp citrus of bergamot with spiced musk, lulled her into nostalgia.

  “Eric’s cologne,” she murmured distantly.

  “I’m Darien Ravenscroft,” he said gently. “Although I’ve heard I do bear a striking resemblance to my father.”

  Helping her get steady on her feet, he subtly nodded at the somber look Molly shot him behind Paresh’s back. “Everything’s going to be okay. I promise. We can talk in his office.”

  Paresh moved forward with him in a daze. The uncanny likeness made her stomach sink, his soothing voice put her at ease, and his handsome features tripped her nerves. Her heart anxiously leaped over hurdles, while her body tingled and sang where he held her. Warmth nested in her core, signaling safety, as if she had known this man all her life.

  He glanced back at Molly as they crossed the office threshold and her mental fog lifted. Paresh caught her breath. Her father’s door still existed, but his office did not.

  “You remodeled.” She noted that the wide French doors that had once divided the space and allowed the men to work privately or collaborate on cases were gone. “I remember those doors. Dad and you—um, no, not you—but they always said the conference rooms were too cold and formal. I never understood because all the rooms looked the same to me.”

  The door clicked shut behind her. She grew keenly aware of his proximity, of his continued embrace, and turned to meet eyes that poured endless concern into hers. “Do you need to lie down? I thought you might faint.”

  Heat flushed her cheeks. “N-no, I’m fine. I-I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. You look so much like him.” Shredded tissue fell like snow from her fingers as she dazedly reached for his face, stopping just shy of touching his cheek.

  “But he’s not—I mean... everything is the same as it was before. It... it’s just been, well, difficult.” Her hand lowered and her gaze sank into the ball of tissue flaking to the floor.

  “Eric’s not here,” she whispered to herself, realizing that she had actually wanted to see him. She bit her lower lip as hot tears rained down her cheeks. “I feel like a lost child. A foolish child.”

  Eric pulled her to his chest, his steely muscles hard and firm around her soft, fragile body. He yearned to fix the heartbroken look plastered on her beautiful face and reassure her doubts, but listening to her heartrending vulnerability and holding her was all he could do, for now.

  Gradually, her tears dried in their wells, and she relaxed against him. He caught his breath in surprise, afraid that any movement would destroy the moment. It felt so natural. He wished they could stay like this forever. That he could tell her he was sorry he had failed her, that he would always be her shield and protector, and that no one would ever hurt her again. But he couldn’t and hated his silence. He hated David for it. Jonathan. Lucien.

  Yet in the end, it was his fault. It had always been his fault.

  Mentally justifying the lie, Eric immersed himself into being “Darien” and stifled a desire to stroke her hair—holding her felt too natural. He forced his voice to work.

  “We’ve been so worried about you,” he whispered at last, relaxing his arms. “Even Molly. Do you remember? She was your father’s secretary, too.”

  Straightening, she regarded him curiously. “Worried? About me? Why?”

  “We can talk more comfortably over there.” He nodded at the seating area. She followed with her eyes and then turned away from him, leaving her scent and residual warmth on his clothes and in the empty space between his arms. He regretted letting go. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Water, please.” She sank into the recliner closest to her
father’s door and massaged her temples. A headache had suddenly appeared, an oddity given that she although she got occasional migraines, they always came with dull pressure and head splitting sensitivity to light. But the office was dim and she’d never felt an ache like this. Realizing that her sunglasses currently resided in a suitcase at the train station, she scanned for windows and was relieved to see the arched screens on the back wall.

  “I’m sorry for the loss of your parents,” he said, diverting her attention. He sat on the coffee table across from her and offered a cold bottle taken from the sideboard. “It must have been difficult to grieve alone.”

  Her jaw tightened as she uncapped the bottle.

  Hesitating briefly, he continued, “There may be some confusion. What do you think happened after the accident?”

  Shocked into silence, she stared at him with hurt eyes.

  “I’m sorr—”

  “Why does that matter?” she interrupted, fighting back tears. “I’m not here to discuss them.” That door needed to stay shut. She wanted to forget that horrible day and the time that followed. His father had kicked her aside, and yet, she knew she’d answer him. She inexplicably yearned to bare her soul to him. To this strangely familiar man, waiting quietly, watching with such sympathetic eyes.

  Her lips quivered. “I—”

  A quick knock on the door trailed Molly into the office. “Sir, your expected visitor is in the lobby.”

  Thankfully, Paresh missed the irritation that flashed across Eric’s face. Walter had arrived much faster than anticipated. He eyed Paresh, wondering how she had so completely consumed his attention that he missed the chief’s arrival.

  “I’m sorry, Paresh. I had hoped to avoid interruption. Please excuse me,” he said, his hand resting on her knee. “I won’t be a minute.”

  Molly looked apologetic as he followed on her heels to greet Orison Crossing’s police chief, Walter Hodges.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “I understand Paresh Hawthorne is back, Mr. Ravenscroft?” he said gruffly, clasping Eric’s outstretched hand and giving him a knowing look.

  Walter Hodges was an older man, as tall as Eric, with graying brown hair. He had fought a losing battle with his weight and stereotypical love for pastries for all of the thirty-something years he had been on the force. His belly protruded over his waistline and he often conducted business without wearing his uniform or duty belt. Today was no exception—he wore tan slacks and a black polo shirt embroidered with his department’s logo and badge.

  “She’s in my office.” Eric guided Walter away from the door and lowered his voice. “I was trying to get her to relax. I don’t think she knows she was kidnapped.”

  Chief Hodges bobbed his head in thought. “So she’s comfortable talking to you? I mean you look—”

  “Yes, yes. My face is moot at the moment,” Eric said impatiently. “She is comfortable enough. And I can always put her at ease, if needed.”

  “Only if she gets too distraught. You don’t want to unduly influence her statement.”

  Eric nodded.

  “Do you want to continue alone and bring me in later?”

  “No,” Eric said firmly, glancing over his shoulder at the door. “This should be done once, so she doesn’t have to repeat herself and experience the pain twice. Besides, one trusted friend is better than a team of federal investigators. You and I will meet them after you turn in your report.”

  “All right, then. Let’s go,” the chief said, heading toward Eric’s office.

  Eric led the way in, tall with his shoulders squared, as if a steel rod had suddenly replaced his spine. The grimfaced officer followed in similar fashion.

  “Paresh, this is Chief Hodges. Do you remember him?” Eric asked as the lawman extended his hand.

  “I was a good friend of your dad’s. It’s real nice to see you again, hon,” he said with a smile. “Call me Walter.”

  “Hi Walter, nice to see you, too. I do remember you. You came out when those hunters trespassed and shot my coyote,” she replied, shaking his hand.

  Eric watched her closely. She may have regained her composure, but sadness filled her eyes.

  “Greywolf? I can’t believe you remember that! You were only six!” Walter chuckled. “You know, Dr. Grimley still has his veterinary practice. You always kept him busy by taming those wild critters.”

  “I’d love to see him again.” Paresh smiled. Finally, someone looked different. Chief Hodges had always been an overweight man with friendly brown eyes and prominent facial features, including a rounded nose blanketed by large pores. Age and years of sun exposure had ravaged his tanned face and neck with wrinkles and creases, making him a testament to the passage of time.

  She’d managed to calm down, but now that the spitting image of Eric—looking powerful and handsome in creased black trousers and a crisp white dress shirt—stood beside the friendly “old” face, her jitters returned.

  He looked so much like Eric, his skin smooth and ashen hued, faintly luminous even in the dim room. He kept his hair short on the sides and back, while longer strands on top sometimes dipped over his eyes. His features were chiseled, straight, and well proportioned, as though cut from fine marble. The only difference was the unobtrusive lenses, encased in a thin silver frame, resting on the bridge of his nose. Even the same friendly spark had glinted in his eyes. Every now and again, though, the color disappeared, turning them into bottomless, inky wells. Those dark eyes observed her now, despite his friendly expression and the chief’s jovial demeanor.

  “Paresh,” he said. “Walter has some questions for you. Please take your time answering and let us know if you need a break.”

  Her smile faded as she grew aware of their invisible tension. She shivered. “Have I done something wrong?”

  “No, no. You haven’t done anything,” Eric said softly, kneeling before her as Chief Hodges sat in the opposite recliner. Eric took her hands in his. She was trembling. “It’s going to be ok. I promised you, remember?”

  She nodded, but continued shivering. Worse, now moisture glistened in her eyes. Oh how he hated David.

  “After your parents—” he started, tightening his hold on her hands and his resolve. “After they died in that accident, we... they searched through the wreckage, but you were nowhere to be found. You were gone. This is the first time anyone has seen you since.”

  Chapter Four: Perspective

  T he room wobbled. Suddenly breathless, Paresh closed her eyes and felt herself shifting, falling, tumbling into darkness, cold with dread, even as the hands on hers grew scalding hot. Huffing, she tore free and tried to stop shaking. She gripped the recliner, her knuckles whitening and her fingers pale and quivering.

  “B-b-but Eric... no!” She leaned forward insistently, beseeching both men with wide eyes. “He sent me to live with my uncle! I mailed him letters, for years, asking him why! But he never wrote back. He left me there!”

  “Honey,” the chief said softly. “Mr. Ravenscroft has spent the last ten years searching for you. He never sent you anywhere nor received your letters. Where were you?”

  “With my uncle, David Hawthorne.” She answered plainly, simply, but as she gazed at Darien’s mask of sympathy and anger, an ugly reality began to surface. “N-no. I... but I mailed those letters myself. A-a-and b-besides, I saw...”

  She rubbed her forehead with badly shaking fingers. “I remember Eric’s face! He pulled me from the car after... after...”

  She snapped her eyes shut to stop the hazy memory from clearing. But it was too late. It hadn’t been Eric; rather, the foolish hope of a child. In the fog of twisted metal and steam, and ragged bodies and blood, the eyes had been cold brown, not safe blue.

  “No!” she wailed. “It wasn’t him! My parents were dead. It should have been him, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t. It was-n’t.” Hiccupping and hyperventilating, she buried her face into her hands and sobbed, her shoulders heaving violently.<
br />
  Eric swallowed the anger burning his throat like acid. She was right. He had abandoned her. He glanced at Walter’s grim face and the lawman gave a sad nod.

  Eric grabbed tissues from the side table and carefully pried Paresh’s hands from her face. He captured her eyes over the rim of his glasses and she quieted. Dabbing lightly, he dried her eyes and cheeks and covered her hands with his. He held her in this stasis, easing her distress with his warmth and emotional control.

  “Don’t influence her,” Walter whispered as quietly as possible.

  “I won’t,” Eric replied in a deep, even tone without looking away. “Paresh, prepare yourself. It’s going to get worse. I’ll give you what I can, but you need to be strong. Eric loves you more than you know, and he is so, so sorry he wasn’t there back then, but you were strong without him. You came back to us, all on your own.”

  To Walter, he said, “I’m going to release her. Go back to where you left off. She thought she saw me—”

  Aside from clearing a catch in his throat, Walter hit his stride perfectly. “I’m sorry, hon, but I personally notified Mr. Ravenscroft of the accident and was there when he arrived. You couldn’t have seen him.”

  She blinked at him uncertainly and sniffed. “The man I saw had brown eyes.”

  “And your letters never came, I promise you,” Eric said, once again resting his hands on her knees. “David must have retrieved them. This is the truth, Paresh. We aren’t here to lie to you or hurt you. We’ll help you sort everything out and figure out why he kidnapped you.”

  “Kidnapped?” she repeated. She slumped in the chair, knocked back by the single word, frantically rummaging through her most innocent experiences for any sinister motives. She was so far gone that she missed the quick knock at the door.

  Molly charged into the room carrying two taped up cardboard boxes. “I’m sorry to barge in, Mr. Ravenscroft. A gentleman just dropped these off with instructions to give them to you right away. He was quite insistent that they were ‘pertinent.’” She emphasized the last word and glanced at Paresh, who was absently blowing her nose.