by kimberly
Throwing aside her covers, she got up, picked up her robe and put it on, belting it tightly around her waist. "Knowing what you do," she said angrily, "you're going to walk off and leave us defenseless. How very heroic of you."
Morgan reached out and caught her by the wrist. She tried to pull away from his grasp, but he held firm, refusing to let her go. "It is not as if your people are not aware," he said in a low voice. "This battle for lives--and souls--has been going on since the beginning of time. Their only mistake is in believing it to be a spiritual battle instead of a dimensional one."
Julienne twisted away from his grasp, angry tears of defiance burning in her eyes. Her wrist was ringed with the marks of his fingers. She rubbed the soft, pale skin, disgust thinning her lips. "If we have known, then we have been fighting."
He nodded. "It has been this way since the three worlds came together on the day of creation. My staying or leaving will hardly matter."
Her gaze looked wounded and hollow, but she refused to let her tears fall, swiping at her eyes with her fingers. He could see she was upset. Here was the truth she'd been searching for throughout her life and, as insane as it sounded, it was all too real. She pierced him with an accusatory glare.
"You've been away a long time. How do you even know your world still exists?" She was grasping, trying to reason, trying to make sense. "And there's nothing to stop this? Nothing? Surely, others of your kind believed the same as you."
Morgan reached up and pressed his fingers to his throbbing temple. Suddenly, blood seemed to fill his veins to the bursting point. A headache was looming. By now he was only half-hearing her words. Where the hell is this coming from? he wondered. Surely it wasn't…guilt? He soundlessly cursed the pain that was part of a legacy condemning him to insanity. In his mortality, the headaches drove him to dismantle all vestiges of a normal life as he pushed himself into the emotionless life of an assassin. When the headaches struck, they completely destroyed his ability to think clearly for stretches encompassing weeks. If it were merely pain, he could have lived with it. What he could not stand were the blackouts in his memory, days of irrational actions he could not recall.
"There is the council of justices," he affirmed. "Those who also believed in preserving your world. If they still stand…"
Seeing his distress, Julienne sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. "Then there's some chance?" she asked, swallowing hard. The look in her eyes, the set of her jaw were visible signs that she did not want to abandon all hope.
Lowering his hand, he resisted the urge to move away from her. Sometimes the closeness of humans became a stifling thing. The sounds of their breathing, of their hearts beating, grated on his nerves.
"There is always hope," he replied gently. Though he did not believe the words, it did not hurt to say them. Why tell her different? It wasn't like she could change events one way or another.
"Were you one of these justices?" she whispered, still upset, but fighting to regain her poise.
He leveled his gaze. "I was," he replied.
"Why did you turn away?" she asked gently. She stretched questing hands toward him, grasped his fingers and took them into her own.
Throat aching, he turned his head so he would not have to face her. "The occult began to extract more than I was willing to sacrifice," he said quietly.
She searched his face, glanced down at his covered wrists, then forced her gaze back to him. "But going back may cost you your life," she said tenderly, tightening her grip, clinging in a wordless plea for reassurance.
Drawing his hand away, Morgan pushed himself off the bed, moving out of her reach, away from her touch. Better than losing my sanity, he thought. Stiffening his back and pulling his shoulders back, shoving his hands into his pockets, he reassumed the mask of indifference he'd worn for so long, the one he felt most comfortable hiding behind.
"My life means nothing to me," he said moodily. "I seek only the darkness."
"But you have this great gift, Morgan," she argued. "You have been given the ability to walk though time unscathed, to heal those you touch. Melissa told me what you did for the people here. That shows you care for our kind."
"It is no gift!" he countered savagely, upset by her words. "It has been a curse on my head since the day I was born."
"Why?" she demanded. "Just tell me why." She stood up, coming to him, but he evaded her, taking one step back, then another.
He held out a hand, silently warning her to come no closer. "I do not wish to be a savior of your people--or mine," he said ferociously.
Julienne began to pound her chest with the flat of her hand. "Then teach me," she said suddenly. "Give me what my mother denied me. Train me to be a priestess so that I can fight for my world. That's why Grandmother bought me back here, isn't it? She knows I can learn."
"She was misled to think it!" Morgan snapped. "The Blackthorne legacy dies with Anlese." Turning on his heel, he exited her suite, slamming the door behind him, departing neither quietly nor calmly.
When I leave here, he stormed, I shall not think again of this place or its people.
Three more weeks.
Twenty-one days.
He would depart.
He would not let himself be hindered by the love of a woman…certainly not Julienne Blackthorne.
* * *
Julienne shivered as she took off her robe and stepped under the steam. The warm needles of water felt wonderful on her skin. Hands braced against the porcelain tiles, she stood under the flow, letting the water massage her face. Though her body was still, her mind replayed the morning's conversation.
This is almost too much to believe, she told herself. Still, she felt Morgan's words to be true, just as she knew why her mother had left Blackthorne: Cassandra was afraid of the truth, afraid to face the coming events. Who would want to? It was a frightening thing, learning of the existence of other beings in another realm, beings that took lives and souls like a farmer harvested his crops.
And Morgan doesn't care. Her stomach churned bile. Our world, our people, mean nothing to him. Why should he care? He has the knowledge, the power, yet he chooses to do nothing. Why?
Searching for answers, she closed her eyes. She thought about what she knew of him, from their first meeting in the airport until he'd stormed out on her this morning. Morgan Saint-Evanston was a very confusing and complex man. On the one hand he exuded cold restraint, an absolute and unbending façade that he manipulated brilliantly. On the other, he was the least disciplined person she'd ever encountered. He drank to excess, possessed a vicious tongue and self-destructive temperament.
Suddenly, all Julienne's senses united; past and present fell together in a single coherent moment of awareness so intense that it almost seemed as if she could see inside the depth of Morgan's psyche.
Her mind jumped to the night she'd learned he was not human. He doesn't fear death. Suicide is a tease for him--he must know a slashed wrist isn't deadly. It was an act, a catharsis of sorts. When the pressure became too much, he retreated into his own little death, a temporary, not permanent, escape.
Her brow wrinkled in thought. What is Morgan running from? What's he got to lose?
She gave herself a wet smack on the forehead. My God. I've been so blind.
The price the occult extracted from Morgan was his mind. Headaches. The man always had a damned headache. He tried to hide it, tried too hard, she realized. The drinking, the erratic behavior; all gave him away. The pain had to be excruciating--bad enough to make him turn to self-mutilation.
A ritual of some sort. It must allow him to begin some sort of healing. But the toll? How thin has his mental rope stretched across twelve hundred years or more? No wonder he wants out. Death must look attractive to someone who can't die. I remember how strung out I was. I almost killed myself. And James… He tried, too. But I lived. I survived. I'm stronger now. There has to be a reason I'm here, why I know what I do. Is it possible I can use this knowledge?
Grandm
other.
Anlese would have the answers she needed.
I have to talk to her. Why can't I learn the ways of Wicca? She could teach me. She hasn't got long to live, so we'd have to work fast. I know I could learn. It's in my blood, I know. It's my destiny.
Finishing her shower and dressing, Julienne hurried downstairs. Finding no one in the library, she went into the kitchen. She found a very queasy Melissa sitting at the kitchen table. Melissa was sick, nibbling a piece of toast. She was politely trying to ignore Anlese, who kept trying to force one of her brewed concoctions down her throat.
"Get away from me, please, Miss Anlese!" Melissa pushed the cup away with a grimace.
Glancing into the brew, Julienne did not blame her for not wanting to taste it. It looked as if the old woman had forgotten to strain the black tea leaves out.
Anlese pushed the cup back. "Drink it so I can know whether or not your child is doing well, Melissa. You can't know how delighted I am Blackthorne will soon have the sounds of a child's steps in its halls again. It'll be music to my ears." Able to get up for only hours a day, the old woman seemed to be having one of her better ones, though she leaned heavily on her cane.
Julienne sat down. I don't think she'll live much longer, she thought, looking at Anlese's drawn, pinched face and grayish skin. The cancer inside was eating her up as surely as a hungry cat devoured a tasty mouse. Though no one said it out loud, they all knew the old woman would probably not live to see the child born. Her heart sank. How could Anlese teach her the Wicca when she could barely stand?
"Can I have a cup of coffee, Gretl?" she asked.
"Yes, miss," Gretl answered, reaching for a cup. The German woman was smart enough not to involve herself in the struggle. Instead, she concentrated on her pancakes, trying to keep from tripping over the large cream-and-white pug-faced Persian cat meowing at her feet, begging for morsels.
"Breakfast?" Gretl's flushed face held a hopeful glow.
"Toast."
"Eggs?"
"Scrambled, please." Julienne reached for the cream and sugar as Gretl placed a steaming cup of coffee on the table for her. She turned to Melissa. "Are you pregnant?"
Melissa burst into tears and nodded. "I think so. I didn't think it could happen again, but I guess I was wrong."
"Don't you want children?" Julienne asked, remembering the story Melissa had told about losing her other child.
"Sure." Melissa smiled through her tears. "I think I'm about two months along." She sighed. "Looks like Tobias and I are going to have ourselves a baby. He ought to be pleased."
"Now, you listen here," Anlese cut in. "You have to take care of yourself, Melissa. This," she picked up the cup, "takes away the ills. Takes just a teeny sip, dear. Like blackberry brandy takes away the cramps." Her wrinkled face held the hope Melissa would take her words seriously. She pushed the cup closer. Her hand shook with the effort. The cancer was taking its toll on her ability to coordinate her movements.
Melissa looked at the steamy, noxious tea and groaned.
"Take it away, miss. I can't stand the sight of it near me. Guess I'd better make a trip into town to see the doctor. I'm just too nervous that I'm wrong about this."
"I think you already know," Julienne said.
"Yes," Melissa admitted, "but I don't want to say anything to Tobias until I'm sure."
"I'm sure," said Anlese and smiled.
Chapter Twenty-One
Anlese led Julienne into her bedroom.
"It's time you see, girl," she said, opening the door at the rear of the room. She beckoned her granddaughter inside. "Here."
Stepping past the old woman, Julienne's eyes scanned every corner of the windowless room. The fire in the hearth burned bright. A black kettle hanging over the flames boiled furiously, thick steam rising from its innards. A pungent trace of incense tickled her nostrils, the fragrance lingering hauntingly in the air, mingling with the acrid tang of wood smoke. She drew in a deep breath, taking its many strange scents into her lungs. Her heart seized in her chest at the sight of the altar and its implements of witchcraft. She quickly assessed the purpose of the chamber.
This is where Grandmother works her magic.
She shivered as she contemplated the candles, the sharp athame, frightened, yet also fascinated by their symbolism. As one uninitiated in the ways of ritual magic, she could not comprehend the mysteries of conjuration, of calling upon invisible forces to serve the will. She hovered at the threshold, at first afraid to enter further into the chamber. It took her a moment to summon the courage to advance further.
When she did, she pointed her steps toward the stone altar as if pulled by some greater force. Something mystical moved her and, trance-like, she knelt in front of the ancient shrine and laid her hand upon its face, letting her fingers graze its rough surface. Her lips moved imperceptibly, as if in prayer. In her mind, she was consecrating herself, offering herself to her people's gods. A tingling sensation ran up her arm, as if the stone were infused with energy. She had the odd feeling that she'd been in this room before.
A flash came into her mind, that of Morgan carrying her to the altar, lowering her limp body to the cold stone. She heard Anlese's voice echoing from far away. 'Great Mother, may you manifest and bless this child I lay before you.'
This was impossible, wasn't it? She'd never been in this place before. Or, had she? She had the impression of Morgan bending over her, pressing his mouth to hers, kissing her, hard enough to take her breath away. She remembered her body convulsing, then stiffening, chest heaving as she fought to take in air.
The dreams, she sharply reminded herself. No, more than dreams, the impressions this room had made on her mind were deeply ingrained, going past memory, delving into the intense experience of dying, and being reborn, under Morgan's hand.
"Great Mother of the comforting breast," his whispered words repeated in her mind, "of the protecting arm, this is your child. As you have held her, return her from harm. Those who are against her in thought, word or deed, let their efforts fail. Let their evil return to the lower darkness…"
"… as you bear her forth in safe hands from the valley of the netherworld," Julienne murmured from memory. "I know those words." She turned, facing her grandmother's deep, grave expression. She felt no fear. "How?"
Anlese came up to her granddaughter and put a hand on her shoulder. "The night you arrived," she began, "you were very weak, near death."
"I fainted," she finished. Her eyes remained fixed on her grandmother's face.
The old woman nodded, her face a benediction. "We brought you here, Morgan and me. Your heart was damaged. You wouldn't have lived the night."
Julienne shivered, as she looked across the altar, seeing the candles, an athame with its crescent moon pommel, a container of pure white salt and other implements of Wiccan witchcraft. Swallowing hard, she struggled to stay the chilly fingers of panic grasping at her throat. "Morgan cured me, didn't he?" she asked in a wavering voice.
Anlese nodded. "That night, he gave you his blood to save your life," she said with a little smile.
Julienne lifted her arm, turning her wrist up. "His blood," she murmured, pressing her fingers to the pulse under the delicate pale skin. She spoke at last, quietly, aggressively. "It's in me. He's in me."
Anlese put out her hand, stroking her granddaughter's flowing red tresses. "Yes. And on that night I joined you, made you his mate."
His mate. The words sounded so good, so…right. Julienne's hand moved up her arm, over her shoulder, skimming the curve of her breast, down to the flat plane of her belly. She remembered the feel of Morgan's hands. There wasn't an inch of her he hadn't explored.
Closing her eyes, she fought the ache in her heart, the strange emptiness in her soul. Though he'd pleasured her well, the way he'd pleased her was not the same as actual penetration. She wanted, needed, to feel him inside her, feel his naked skin under her exploring hands. She could imagine the hardness of him inside her, imagine her fin
gernails raking down his back as she arched under his hard male body.
Oh, God, she groaned silently. Quit holding yourself back, Morgan.
She thought of the woman in the airport, how her necklace had snapped under Edith Danridge's grasp. Her hand lifted to her throat, devoid of the cross. Do I belong to him now? she wondered. Have I truly walked into the hands of the devil himself?
"Does he know?" she gulped, fighting for air through the lump growing in her throat.
"No." Anlese shook her head. Her eyes were sad "I didn't dare."
"Why, Grandmother?" she asked with a restraint that gave point to her words. She covered her face with her hands and shuddered. The room's atmosphere was becoming an oppressive thing. "Why did you do this?"
Anlese fell silent, gazing off into the distance beyond. Her face held momentary torment. "To save you," she finally said. "To save him. Alone, he doesn't care about his life. But now, he has someone."
Remembering his biting words of the morning, Julienne clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle the sob bubbling in her throat. "No. It was wrong. He doesn't want me. He doesn't want anyone."
A look of confusion crossed Anlese's old face. The eyes of the two women met and locked, one's eyes holding a question, the other's the answer.
"But...hasn't he? Aren't you…lovers now?"
Julienne felt a hot blush suffuse her skin with heat. "He pleases me," she began slowly, with a helpless gesture, "but he hasn't, ah, he won't…take me."
Anlese's face showed disappointment. Gone now was her uncanny calm. Her weak fingers twitched faintly at her sides. "He hasn't?"
Embarrassed, Julienne shook her head, hardly believing the words she had said. How embarrassing to admit the man she spent her nights with wouldn't sleep with her. "No. He hasn't made love to me, hasn't taken me completely." Her words held a twinge of regret.
"Until he takes you fully, as a man should a woman, the mating is incomplete," her grandmother sighed, her voice sounding suddenly tired.