by kimberly
Danielle held out her hand. "Let me," she offered.
She smiled, relieved. "Really?"
"Sure. That's my job. It's what I do. I tie it up in so much red tape no one will ever get through to you," Danielle joked.
"What about the bills? I'm sure that's what most of them are."
"Don't worry about it. They're already covered. Any special orders?" she asked, offering a brief, toothy flash.
"Yeah. Tell my ex-husband never to contact me. Ever. I'm through with him. I don't want to hear from him again." Julienne wondered if Danielle had helped orchestrate the purchase of the photos from James. She'd burned them last night.
Danielle returned the letters to her purse. "Okay. Will do." She rose, bid them good day and departed. When the sound of her car faded into the distance, Julienne turned to her grandmother.
"Are you feeling all right? Really?"
Anlese stopped her knitting and settled her hands in her lap. "You might as well know, dear. I'm not well. I haven't been for a long time."
"You can tell me." She reached out and gently took one of the old woman's hands in her own. How awful the wrinkled skin looked against her unblemished skin. Anlese's was dry and wrinkled, thin as tissue paper. She's only in her sixties, yet she seems much older.
"I have a cancer, in my stomach," Anlese explained.
"Cancer?" Julienne parroted, stunned.
"It's been in me for some time."
"Have you seen doctors?" she asked. "Surely, they can do something?"
"I've seen no doctors, because their medicine is useless to me," Anlese explained. "This body is old and run its course. I am readying myself to leave it. But you mustn't be sad."
"Does Morgan know?" Fighting not to cry, her throat too tight for speech, Julienne lowered her head.
"Yes, he's aware I'll not much live longer," Anlese reached out to stroke her hair. "My final desire was to bring you home before I died."
Julienne lifted her head, drawing in a deep breath. "I wish I'd have come sooner, that Mother had told me the truth about us--what we are." Can't pussyfoot around the facts anymore. "Tell me the truth, Grandmother. Please."
Anlese's gaze searched for and found hers. "Cassandra should've told you, given you the choice to know your heritage, but she despised our kind."
Julienne was following her words closely. "Our kind?"
"Wiccans."
"Then it's true?" she asked gently. Witches, her mind echoed giddily. We're witches.
The old woman nodded. "Yes." Her face was drawn, but a soft radiance lit her eyes.
"How? And where does Morgan fit into our history?"
"Morgan is our history, dear. A long time ago, he took a Blackthorne woman and taught her the ways of the magic he was born to, knowledge belonging to another world, one that exists outside this mortal realm. For generations, we have guarded his secrets, acted as his sentinels."
"If I hadn't seen with my own eyes," Julienne began carefully, repeating aloud her earlier thought. "I simply would not believe this. I'd say you're all insane." Intoxicated by her grandmother's mesmerizing words, Anlese's beautifully accented voice making every word sound exotic, mysterious, as though the old woman were pulling aside a dark curtain, illuminating corners of her mind that she hadn't suspected existed before. Her perception of the world around her was changing with every new thing she learned of Blackthorne and its inhabitants.
Anlese tightened her grip on Julienne's hand. "But you know it's true, don't you, dear? There is so much Cassandra should have told you."
Julienne searched her grandmother's blue eyes. They were filled with a pain she could plainly see. She knew in her heart the old woman wasn't insane. Just as Melissa hadn't lied.
Just as Morgan isn't human.
"Why didn't she?" She blinked back the tears that rose unexpectedly.
A faint, bitter smile haunted Anlese's lips. "Cassandra was afraid to embrace her gifts as a priestess. She was a very powerful psychic, and she feared what was revealed to her. She thought by running away and taking you with her she could escape."
Julienne felt her stomach turn. A chill crept through her. Her vision of Morgan and his ways was beginning to darken, leaning toward unspeakable things. "What did she see, Grandmother?"
Anlese unexpectedly put her a finger to her lips.
Julienne shot a glance over her shoulder, following the old woman's eyes.
Morgan stood behind them.
How much had he heard?
"Dani says you gave her a hard time," Anlese greeted him, as if there were absolutely nothing abnormal in her question.
"I am in no mood for figures today," he said in reply. Shading his eyes from the sun, he fished a pair of dark glasses out of his breast pocket. They would also help cover the dark circles ringing his eyes, made darker still by the paleness of his skin.
"You look well." Julienne could not help but notice he gave his injured arm some leeway as he unfolded the glasses. Clearly, he was still feeling some discomfort. Although the unusually designed cuffs of his shirt were firmly in their place, aside from looking a bit hung over he seemed none the worse for last night's wear.
Morgan wasted no time on small talk. "Walk with me." He motioned for her, holding out his hand, but pulled it away when she tried to take it.
Julienne shot a glance to the sky. "Where are we going?" She felt the abrupt sinking darkness as clouds overtook the sun in a frontal attack, dousing its light as easily as she could blow out a candle.
"Not far, if you are worried about the rain," he said. "There is a place I want to show you."
"I understand you rarely go outside during the days," she commented, falling into step beside him.
"I do not care for the light. I live my life by night," he replied. "I can take a cloudy sky rather well. It suits my mood this day." He pushed his glasses up on his head. The wind kicked up, ruffling his hair, doing little damage to the style of loose curls gone awry.
"Is it far?" she asked.
"Less than a quarter-mile."
Julienne followed, and they made their way across the lawns toward the hedges. Coming around their great breadth, she could see a choice of confusing outlets; back trails led through the wild greenery that had overtaken the land in the last seventy years as it had been allowed to go uncut.
Morgan chose an ingress he clearly knew, leading her up an uncobbled walkway. They soon entered the overgrowth constantly threatening to engulf Blackthorne's lawn and gardens.
"Where is this place?" she groused, wondering if he indeed had a place to show her that would be worth the struggle to walk through the heavy vine growth. A machete would be useful, she thought.
"Just beyond," he answered with a maddening vagueness. He kept walking, weaving his way through the trees and bushes with the familiarity of one who knew the terrain well. She had no choice but follow. Not wanting to be left alone in the encroaching storm, she went after him.
After a few minutes, they came into a clearing.
"There."
Julienne's gaze followed his arm. Eyes searching, she began to pick out the details. She could see a great circle of stones, huge monoliths streaking toward the sky like the fingers of a giant trying to dig its way out of the grave. The stones were capped with still other stones, forming graceful square arches over their heads. Not the rough brown rock one would imagine, the circle was fashioned out of some opaque mineral veined with opalescent fires streaking through from its heart. Moss and other, vine-like growths had insinuated themselves around the structure, giving it dignified dress as well as helping it blend into the landscape. The rolling clouds and patterns of the shadowy trees bestowed an elusive, unreal quality on the strange construct.
She shivered, the hand of fear clutching around her heart with cold fingers, threatening to snatch away her breath. This is the place I saw in my dream, came her panicked thought. This is the place where Morgan killed me! She turned suspicious eyes on him. Was that why he had brought her here?
To kill her? Is this something my mother foresaw?
"What is this?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice calm and even.
"This is the Chiamble solas," he replied. "The Temple of Light. Come." He walked into the clearing and passed beneath one of the stone arches, continuing on.
Julienne stood, afraid to follow him, yet afraid, too, that he would leave her behind. She wanted to go with him, but the stone giants both frightened and fascinated her. Finally, she drew in a deep breath and touched one of the stones with the tips of her fingers. Its surface was rough, cool, but under her fingertips she detected a distinct thrumming, as if the stone was holding inside an energy it could barely contain.
Letting her hand fall to her side, she ducked under one of the arches, immediately noticing that nothing grew within the heart of this sacred place. Underneath her feet lay hard, barren ground. In the center of the stone guardians, she could see an altar on a raised stone platform. Time and the elements had worn down its surface, tempering its hard edges and weathering away the symbols carved on its face.
Morgan leaned against the altar, took off his glasses and tucked them casually back into his shirt pocket. He was the picture of perfect repose. His dark eyes crinkled and a slight smile played on his lips. "This is where I created Blackthorne when I came into your world."
Though she was apprehensive, she came forward and ran her hand over the altar's irregular, cold face. Curiously, it did not resonate energies as the stone pillars themselves, but that did little to reassure her, for she could not forget the dream she'd had, the dream where Morgan had ended her life.
"This place," she shivered, drawing her hand away, "it feels like eyes are watching me. I…I don't like it."
"The wisdom of centuries lives within these stones," he said, studying her closely, his eyes heavy-lidded and enigmatic. "The whole history of Blackthorne is written here in my blood…and yours."
"Then you are a practitioner…" the word hung in her throat, "…of witchcraft?"
"Was," he corrected. "I turned from the occult many centuries ago."
"Why?" Her breathing quickened in anticipation of his reply. Her hand lifted to her neck, a casual gesture, but one that nevertheless reassured her that the soft skin was intact. The dream, her mind whimpered. He killed me. Stepped over my body, leaving me to bleed to death.
"The darkness was devouring me," he said, his voice unexpectedly harsh.
The darkness. She heard his words in curious clips and phrases. "My mother was running from the darkness, too, wasn't she?"
"She was running from her heritage," he replied simply.
"From being a witch?"
"A priestess," he corrected.
"Why was she afraid?"
A curiously ominous glint came into the depths of his eyes. Pushing away from the altar, he brushed a few clinging bits of leaves off his clothes. "She valued her soul." His voice hardened into ice, his accent thickening. "When you come into the occult, that is the thing you lose."
Julienne edged away from him, scared. "Is that what you deal in, Morgan? Souls?"
He rewarded her question with an outright scowl. "Such is useless to me." His denial was angry. "I no longer seek that power." His ebony eyes, whose scrutiny Julienne had begun to fear and hate, seemed to burn through her.
"Please," she said, feeling a swift, unexpected jolt of fear pierce her heart, "can we leave?"
His dark brows swooped together. He studied her with an intimacy that made her shiver, as if he could see through her hastily erected defenses and straight into her mind.
"Of course," he acquiesced. Pushing away from the altar, he departed the stone circle. Not wanting to be left alone in this evil place, she went after him. She was glad to get away from the temple. It frightened her.
When they next came onto open ground, she could see they were on a low grade overlooking the winding drive and, in the distance, Blackthorne itself.
Morgan pointed. "When I first came here in the seventeenth century, the trees were thicker than even now, and wild animals still knew this land as their habitat. Now, it has mostly been destroyed by encroaching humanity."
Julienne nodded at the vision he was describing for her, a time when the land was young. In her mind's eye she could almost see the fiery torches smoking in the night; no harsh glare of modern lights revealed the night's secrets then.
A pelting of rain and rumble of thunder rudely broke the calm moment between them.
"It's raining!" she exclaimed over the crack of lightning.
Jumping over the edge, Morgan held up a hand to her. Hesitating, she took his hand and let him help her down. Their bodies came together as his hand went around her waist to steady her. "Careful," he rasped, his lips close to her ear.
Aware of the nearness of him, of the strength of him as he supported her, she brought her hand to his chest. Feeling the hardness of him, the solidity of his flesh, she was aware of a stirring need inside her body.
"You feel it," he murmured under his breath.
Julienne shivered, not really knowing what it was. The realization was startling. Her attraction to him was strong, stronger even then the first time he had touched her.
"Yes," she gulped. Warmth flushed her cheeks.
"You are still trying too hard to hide from it." He lifted his hand to caress her cheek, helping the rain wipe away the makeup she wore. "You do not need that illusion."
His fingers brushed her lips. His mouth found hers, his fingers circling around the nape of her neck as he brought her close. She slid her hand down his chest, not wanting to him to stop. She was enjoying the tingling of her skin under his touch, the warm thrill of desire quivering through her body.
"You want me?" she asked breathlessly when the kiss ended.
"Yes, very much," he kissed her again, with a deeper, more soulful abandon. He was relentless, seeking to make her relinquish all restraint she held over herself.
Shuddering, Julienne extracted herself from his hold when his hands slid to her slender waist, catching them just as they reached her belt line. She was trembling from the wanton hungers building inside her. She managed to take one faltering step in retreat, then a second.
"No, I can't!" she protested. She commanded her trembling legs to support her weight, praying he would not touch her again; if he did, she was sure she would collapse in a quivering heap. It was clear what his intentions had been--strictly dishonorable! She had to remind herself what kind of man, human or not, he was. I won't be another woman he uses and throws away, she pledged to herself, remembering Ashleigh.
Morgan let her go. "You cannot blame a man for trying, caile," he smirked, drawing away and recollecting his composure. His face was once again unreadable, a mask of unshakable poise, the tenderness in his manner vanishing like a wisp of smoke.
Always the bastard, going after every weakness, she fumed. I never know when he's being sincere and when he's just pretending.
"We should get out of this," she said firmly, drawing herself up, knowing her own face mirrored his. If he was going to play indifferent, so would she. She must continue to keep him at arm's length with her independent attitude.
He unexpectedly grabbed her arm. "I know another place. Come with me."
Shaking her head, Julienne shivered, feeling the cool drops on her curiously feverish skin. "Out of the rain, I hope?"
"The old slave quarters," he prompted.
"All right," she gulped. Her mouth still tingled from his kiss, but she made herself extinguish the emotions he'd brought to flames deep inside her. "Just so long as it's dry, and you keep your hands to yourself."
Abandoned for more than a century, little remained of the log shacks that had once housed Blackthorne's black slaves. Presently standing as only a memory of an ugly time, the row of decaying buildings had long ago been overtaken by the thriving plant life, gradually to disappear into a comfortable obscurity. Under the shelter of overhanging trees, stables, blacksmith and other log cabins where the blacks
had produced goods for the plantation were scattered among the dwellings in which they had lived. Once sturdily constructed, years of neglect had turned the slave quarters into a shrine of the South, one that was best left unworshipped. Through shuttered windows that stared like empty eyes and fallen doorways gaping like rotten teeth, there were no signs of habitation.
Entering one cabin behind Morgan, Julienne clasped her arms around herself. The rain had drenched her, and she was shaking from cold. The thunder boomed, its crashing bass symphony vibrating the ground. Lightning cracked, clawing the sky with electric fingers. There would be no leaving now. They would have to stay put until the storm had run its course.
The cabin hosted remnants of furniture; a rough wooden table and a bench with a shattered leg had been shoved into a corner with a few other odds and ends. The roof was thankfully solid, and everything inside dry. Morgan had no trouble gathering a few good-sized pieces of wood for a fire, snapping the remaining legs off the bench. Piling the wood inside the hearth with small pieces of kindling and dry leaves, he soon had a good fire burning. Old and brittle, the wood was quickly consumed by dancing red-orange flames.
"I see you've been here before," she said, noting more than one empty scotch bottle in a far corner.
He sat down on the hard-packed earth floor before the fire, crossing his legs lotus-style. "This ought to take the chill out of the air." He motioned her to join him. "You must be cold."
Kneeling before the fireplace, Julienne's gaze raked over him. His skin was lit by the cheery glow. Strands of black hair were plastered to his face by the water. Nevertheless, he was a man flattered by firelight. Its animated flames snapped and crackled, their light dancing in reflection in his dark eyes.
"Last night, you told me you're not human," she began. "Do you feel the cold?" She impulsively reached out to smooth his wet hair off his forehead.
Picking up a stray piece of kindling, he began to rip slivers off it and toss them into the fire. "When I am undamaged, I do not notice the elements."
"And when you're damaged?" Remembering his slashed wrist, she could not suppress the cold sensation of fear caressing her like a hand reaching forth from a restless grave.