by kimberly
His words seemed to satisfy Melissa. "Fine. Though why you're fighting this, I'll never know. I suspect you've taken permanent leave of your senses." Setting her shoulders, she turned to leave. "I'll clean up tomorrow. Sometimes I think staying on the streets of Singapore would have been better than knowing what I know now." She headed for the exit.
"Wait!" Julienne cried. "Don't leave!"
Melissa paused at the doorway and cast Julienne a look of sympathy. "Miss Julienne, make him explain himself." Then she was gone, a trustworthy hireling retreating now that her job was completed.
Shaking her head in Melissa's wake, Julienne reluctantly turned back to Morgan. "That stuff will kill you," she said, then winced at the total lameness of her comment. Like he cared!
"So?" Morgan raised the bottle for another drink. Obviously, he was using the alcohol to kill the pain he'd inflicted on himself.
"I think we need to talk." Her hand went out, then stopped. She picked up the feeling he did not want to be touched. She drew back her hand.
He gave her his attention as far as he was able; at the moment this was not much at all. "I am in no mood to explain myself!" he growled, cutting conversation to the quick.
"Since you might be dead later, maybe you had better try!"
He graced her with a curt look. "I owe you nothing."
"I think I just saved your life!" she snapped. "That should count for something."
"I would not have died." His black eyes bored into hers. Drawing up his injured arm, he began to unwind the haphazard bandages she'd made.
"Don't." She pulled his hand away. "I don't want to see."
"You have to see to know." He began to tear the material away. The flesh of his inner wrist was ripped, swollen and purplish, but no blood escaped. "Regeneration has begun." He lifted his arm to show her, turning the damage to the dim light of the lamp.
Julienne bent closer, unbelieving of what she was seeing. With tentative fingers, she reached out to trace the ragged slice. His pale flesh was cold, with no sign of a pulse through his veins.
"My God, how is this happening?"
"I am not human," he said simply. "Given a couple of hours, there will be no sign of the damages." He opened his left hand, showing her his palm. "Do you remember the day I quarreled with Ashleigh? Do you see any scar?"
Julienne mutely shook her head, her eyes skimming his unblemished palm. Yet, even though his hand had no marks, his wrist was mutilated by long, thick scars. Why does he wear these scars, yet others heal without leaving a mark? She didn't know how to take his words.
"Your kind," she said. "What are you, really?"
"I am of another race," he said simply.
She blinked, puzzled by his words. "I don't understand." She chose to ignore the sting in his voice and concentrate on what he was saying.
"This is not the time."
She grabbed his arm. "Don't cut me off like this! There's so much I need to know. About you--and my mother."
He shook her off. "Give me time to recuperate."
Julienne sighed, miserably. "That doesn't tell me a damn thing!"
With a definiteness that left no room for argument, he shushed her. "I will see you tomorrow."
"Will you? Promise?"
He signed to her impatiently to be silent. "Yes, tomorrow. Then, I have more to show you."
"Why not show me now?"
He presented a wearied frown that said he damn sure did not feel like getting off the floor, much less showing her anything more.
"I know what you are thinking," he said. "My actions are difficult for those outside the occult to understand. You simply cannot comprehend a thing such as I am."
The occult. The word bought incomprehensible evil visions of sorrow and suffering into her head. Suddenly, she wasn't so sure she wanted to know any more.
"All right," she finally agreed, with some reluctance, not seeing what other choice she had. She studied him, as if she were trying to memorize everything about him. "Will you be all right? Alone?"
"You have no need to worry. I survived the trial," he said. "However, I regret you saw it. No good can come from the shattering of innocence this way."
He took up his bottle and pushed himself off the floor. Swaying, he had to reach out to the wall for support. He drank down more of the numbing scotch. Sheer will kept him from collapse. When Julienne rose and stepped toward him, he raised his hand in warning.
"Stay away from me," he said. "Give me the time I need alone." Slowly, he smiled, and the smile chilled her.
* * *
Julienne quickly slipped into her own suite and shut the door. She did not want anyone to see her bedraggled appearance.
Feeling she would die unless she took a good bath, she went straight to the bathroom and turned on the tap. The swirling hot water filled the claw-footed tub to capacity. She stripped off the remains of her torn clothes, discarding them in the hamper.
How can he get away with doing what he does? she wondered. Does anybody really see the truth, or do they choose to ignore it because they can't believe it? The woman in the airport, she knew something. 'I remember Cassandra,' she'd said. 'She didn't have a chance…belonging to them.' Then the woman had reached for the cross at her neck, saying, 'You don't yet, I see.'
Turning off the tap, she stepped into the tub and eased herself inch-by-inch into the water. Soothed by its warmth, she dunked her head and came up spluttering. Wiping the water from her eyes, she took soap in hand to wash her sore body before turning her attention to her tangled hair. She slathered it in shampoo and scrubbed her scalp hard before giving it a good rinse.
Feeling almost human, she wrung the water from her hair, pulling the plug to let the dirty water drain. She wrapped a large towel around her head and dried herself with a second before slipping into a heavy robe and belting it at her waist.
Satisfied that she would live, she checked her image in the mirror. Her bottom lip was swollen from the bite she had given it. Other than that, she seemed to be undamaged. Physically, that was. Mentally, she wasn't so sure.
Sighing, she left the bathroom and crawled into bed. She was exhausted, bone-weary. Burrowing under the covers, she made a safe haven in the darkness. Silence. Warmth. The beating of her heart. Pulse slowing. Calming. Then black stillness as the wind settled, the rain ceased.
"I don't belong to them," she yawned, murmuring sleepily.
Or did she?
Her mind cut to a new track. But am I one of them already? The dreams I've been having. Dreams…or prophecies? She could not begin to guess the answer. She only knew what she had witnessed, and she had witnessed the act of a deeply anguished man.
That morning's savage images played through her mind as she curled into fetal position under the blankets, her jumbled thoughts mingling with remembrances of Cassandra. The sun sent its watery autumn rays into her room, but she hardly noticed as she succumbed to a mercifully dreamless sleep.
Chapter Eighteen
The sun was poised mid-sky when Julienne forced herself to wake up. The clock at her bedside read noon, exactly. She yawned and stretched. Her muscles ached. The temptation to succumb to two or three additional hours of sleep was difficult to resist. It would be easy to do.
However, in the back of her mind loomed large the disturbing subject of Morgan Saint-Evanston. Fears and doubts came springing back. He was unlike any other man--any other thing--she'd ever encountered.
If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd think they were all crazy…or I was.
Tossing aside her covers, she got out of bed. She crossed to the bathroom, closed the door. Thirty minutes later, she emerged freshly showered. In her dressing room, she dug through her dresser and came up with a pair of fashionably faded Levi's and a sweatshirt, remnants from the rehab center. She completed her casual attire with a pair of running shoes. She groaned when she saw her reflection in the mirror. Her face was puffy, her hair an unkempt tangle, her eyes bloodshot: proof that last night had taken its
toll on her. She didn't feel like dealing with her unruly hair, so she tied it up in a ponytail with a ribbon. Sitting down, she began to apply her makeup, until a knock at the door startled her.
"Come in!" she called, dropping everything like a guilty child.
Melissa came into the room. "Morning, Miss Julie." She began to pick up the clothes strewn carelessly on the floor, tossing them into her laundry basket.
"How are you this morning?"
"I'm fine, miss." There was something different about her manner. Brisk. Efficient. Making no eye contact, she seemed nervous, a small bird fighting the cage; she quivered, anticipating escape.
"Just fine?"
Melissa glanced up. "Yes. Just fine." She laughed when she said it, but the dark circles under her eyes belied her smile.
Julienne frowned, puzzled by Melissa's aloof behavior. If I don't ask, she bet silently, she won't mention last night. She knows I've seen too much and now she's trying to skirt around me. Is she going to pretend last night didn't happen? I'm not going to let this be put aside. I know what I saw. I'm not the crazy one here.
"What happened last night, with Morgan..." she began, letting the rest hang unsaid between them.
A brief shadow of discomfort crossed Melissa's face but quickly vanished, replaced by relief. "I've seen it before," she admitted.
"Why does he do that to himself?"
"It's a price," Melissa's hands twisted nervously. "A penance he must pay for being what he is."
"What is he?"
"I don't know," Melissa hurried to confess, " and I don't ask. I only know what he's done for me."
Julienne could no longer restrain her curiosity. "I don't understand."
Melissa sighed, a heavy exhalation from the center of her soul. She sat down on the unmade bed. Her brown eyes began to tear, her voice quivering. "Do you know what I was before I came here?"
Julienne shook her head. She knew little of the people who worked at Blackthorne.
Melissa leveled her gaze. "I was a whore on the streets when he found me. I was sixteen then, strung out on heroine, nothing but trash." Her words blurred in weariness.
Julienne felt her heart surge, not in pity but in recognition of a kindred soul, someone like herself who'd seen the abyss at close range. "I didn't know," she whispered.
Melissa wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, refusing to cry. "My life was hell, but I didn't care as long as I could make enough to get my drugs. One night a, ah, customer, attacked me and left me for dead." Her hand went to her stomach. Stung by the twinges of her memories, a sob broke from her throat. "I was three months pregnant when he stabbed me."
Julienne's mouth flew to her hand in horror. Oh God, I'm going to be sick. She flushed, appalled, choking out the words. "I…I'm sorry," she stammered.
"It's ok." Composing herself, Melissa offered a weak smile. "Because of Morgan, I survived. He saved my life."
"He has the ability to cure, doesn't he?" she asked, thinking of her arm.
Melissa nodded. "He can…when he wants to."
"And he helped you?"
"Yes. And in return we struck a bargain," Melissa continued. "If I would serve him for a decade, I would be well compensated."
"Serve him?" Julienne asked.
"He doesn't exist," Melissa hurried to explain. "Not on paper, anyway. We work for him, handling the details. Money, travel, everything he needs to move undetected, we arrange."
"And you get a second chance at life?"
Melissa finished, "Healed, cleaned up, educated, more than amply paid." She paused, then blurted, "Most of us here came from very bad places."
"Such as?" She saw an almost imperceptible shudder as Melissa laid her slender hands across her body.
"Tobias. A drug dealer, thief," Melissa explained. "Ask him and he'll tell you. Seventeen years old, on his way to prison when he was shot three times by a rival dealer. Danielle. She embezzled from the bank where she worked. She overdosed on pills trying to escape prison." She hesitated, realizing she was being too free with information. "I…I could tell you more, but you get the idea."
Sitting down, Julienne felt her stomach turn. Her nerves were eating her up inside and she could do nothing to stop the sick sensations filling her. In a way, she was another lost lamb Morgan had pulled from the brink of destruction by purchasing the pictures and negatives from James.
What will he want of me? she wondered. "What does he ask in return?"
Melissa met her gaze with an unwavering stare. "Loyalty. Keep his secrets."
"Like last night?"
"Yes." Melissa smiled kindly. "Being what he is, he has his own demons."
Hardly pleasant ones, Julienne agreed in her mind. He's at least an alcoholic, probably manic-depressive, absolutely suicidal. The scars on his wrists tell that much. He has compassion for others, but isn't so kind to himself. Why does he beat himself up? How can this enigmatic, intelligent, mysterious man be so lacking in a sense of self-preservation?
"How is he?"
"He's up, around. Off the booze for a while. Cycle's over, until it begins again."
"Until what begins again?"
Melissa shook her head. "It's not for me to say. I just clean up the blood. One of these days, I've no doubt I'll find him dead."
"When he leaves, are you going, too?"
"No. He's leaving alone." Melissa looked troubled. She rose, brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt, then picking up her basket of laundry. Her face assumed its passive mask. We have to look normal, it said. We have to look sane. "Would you like me to bring you up some brunch?"
"No, thanks," Julienne said. "I think I'll go downstairs."
"Your grandmother's on the terrace," Melissa offered. "Perhaps you should talk to her."
"I think that's a good idea," she agreed absently. Her mind was racing with all the information she'd gathered through her week at Blackthorne.
The bits and pieces are coming together. Julienne nibbled at her bottom lip in thought. I just need to find out how my mother fits into this puzzle.
* * *
Downstairs, Julienne stopped, passing a bemused glance over Jennifer. The girl was dusting the foyer, running her rag over each item with care, consciously trying to do her job, certainly not wanting Morgan to come along and bite her head off, though, after last night, he was unlikely to be doing any shouting.
Grinning because she knew why the girl was taking such care, she passed into the library, going down the four steps and into its depth. As Melissa had told her, Anlese was sitting on the terrace outside, enjoying the sun's warmth as she knitted. Danielle Yames was with her, as was the inevitable tea and snack tray.
She opened the doors and stepped out. Tipping back her head, she enjoyed the feel of the sun on her skin. She breathed in the fresh air that smelled of freshly mown grass, a clean and invigorating scent to take into hungry lungs. Stretching, she lifted her arms to the sky. By the looks of it, the light would soon be fading. Black clouds gathered like a swarm of angry bees on the horizon. It was clear summer was deciding to rear its head in a final assault against the invasion of fall.
The day had become unusually hot, permeating the air with a drenching stickiness as the humidity rose. The clash of searing hot air mingling with the crisp coolness of autumn prodded the weather into revolt. Last night's storm would soon return, it's coming presaged by the unnatural silence surrounding the manor. Not a leaf whispered in the trees. The wind held itself back, the dead calm a harbinger the rain would soon be back full force.
It's going to be a bad storm. Julienne let her hands fall to her sides, frowning, remembering the sight of Morgan's blood mingling with the rain. That was horrible.
Pulling up a deck chair, she joined the two women. "Good morning."
"Afternoon, dear." Anlese corrected with a laugh and a gentle grin. "How are you today?"
"I should ask you that," she countered
"I'm better," her grandmother answered. Her shoulders sagged a littl
e. "I have my good days and my bad days."
Julienne could not fail to notice the fatigue enveloping the old woman. "I hope you're not unwell. I'm sorry I slept so late."
"You needed your rest." She began to count the stitches of the sweater she'd nearly finished.
"You didn't miss anything," Danielle piped in. "Morgan's useless today. Won't let me speak above a whisper and glares when I make a sound. I finally gave up. No work today."
"So, where's he now?"
"Hiding in his den from the light, hung over," Danielle said. "I can't feel sorry for his misery. He brings it on himself."
"Now, Dani," Anlese scolded with a wave of a needle. "Let's not knock each other's weaknesses."
"Oh, come on, Anlese," Danielle protested. "We all know he drinks too much. Let's get over this Southern thing of locking our skeletons in the closet."
What about your skeletons, Danielle? Julienne thought unkindly, struggling to keep her tongue silent and her manner civil. Embezzlement.
"Sometimes closets are shut for a good reason," Anlese cautioned.
"Yes," Danielle sighed. "The Southern way. Do it on Saturday, confess on Sunday, and find a new sin on Monday."
Julienne smiled in puzzlement. "I thought that was the Catholic way."
All three snickered.
"Anyway, as I was saying," Danielle continued. "No work today. I'm off early." She turned to Julienne. "I have something for you." She reached into her large bag and pulled out a sheaf of letters.
"Thanks." Julienne flipped through the mail. All had been forwarded. There was one from Daniel DiMarco. Another from her business manager. She flicked over another. Hmmm, one from James's attorney, and one from James himself. Miscellaneous bills. She did not open a single one. She didn't want to see them, look at them, or deal with them.
"Is something wrong?" Danielle asked, seeing the displeased look that must have crossed her face.
"I, ah, I guess I just don't want to see these," she explained, frowning.
"You sound like Morgan. He never wants to see them, either."
Julienne shrugged. "That part of my life seems so far away now."