by L. J. Smith
She sat in the contoured chair. “The only thing is, how can we get to the bottom of it? I don’t understand what’s upsetting me, either. It’s all too strange. I mean, on the one hand, I’m clearly insane.” She spoke flatly as Paul took his seat on the opposite side of the desk. “I have crazy dreams, I think the world is going to end, I have the feeling I’m being followed, and yesterday I started hearing voices in my head. On the other hand, me being insane doesn’t explain wolves jumping through the windows.”
“Voices?” Paul murmured, looking around for a pencil. Then he gave up and faced her. “Yeah, I know. I understand the temptation. Last night after having those wolves stare at me, I was about ready to believe that there had to be something . . .” He trailed off and shook his head, lifting papers on his desk to glance under them. “Something . . . really strange going on. But now it’s daytime, and we’re all rational people, and we realize that we have to deal with things rationally. And, actually, you know, I think I may have come up with a rational explanation.” He found a pencil and with an expression of vast relief began to waggle it between his fingers.
Hope stirred inside Hannah. “An explanation?”
“Yeah. I mean, first of all, it’s possible that your premonitions and things are entirely unconnected with the wolves. People never want to believe in coincidence, but it happens. But even if the two things are connected—well, I don’t think that means that anybody’s after you. It could be that there’s some sort of disturbance in this area—something that’s stirring up the whole ecosystem, making wolves crazy, doing who knows what to other animals . . . and that you’re somehow sensing this. You’re attuned to it somehow. Maybe it’s earthquake weather or—or sunspots or negative ions in the air. But whatever it is, it’s causing you to think that some terrible disaster is coming. That the world is ending or that you’re about to be killed.”
Hannah felt the hope sink inside her, and it was more painful than not having had it at all. “I suppose that could happen,” she said. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “But how does it explain this?”
She reached into the canvas bag she carried instead of a purse and pulled out a folded slip of paper.
Paul took the paper and read it. “ ‘They’ve seen you. They’re going to tell him. This is your last chance to get away.’ ” He stuck the pencil in his mouth. “Hmmm . . .”
“I found it this morning wrapped around my toothbrush,” Hannah said quietly.
“And it’s your handwriting?”
She shut her eyes and nodded.
“And you don’t remember writing it.”
“I didn’t write it. I know I didn’t.” She opened her eyes and took a deep breath. “The notes scare me. Everything that’s happening scares me. I don’t understand any of it, and I don’t see how I’m supposed to fix it if I don’t understand it.”
Paul considered, chewing on the pencil gently. “Look—whatever’s happening, whoever’s writing the notes, I think your subconscious mind is trying to tell you something. The dreams are evidence of that. But it’s not telling you enough. There’s something I was going to suggest, something I don’t exactly believe in, but that we can try anyway. Something to get to your subconscious directly so we can ask it what’s going on.”
Get to her subconscious directly. . . . Hannah held her breath. “Hypnosis?”
Paul nodded. “I’m not a big hypnosis fan. It’s not some magical trance like TV and the movies want you to believe. It’s just a state of mind where you’re a little more relaxed, a little more likely to be able to remember threatening things without choking up. But it’s nothing you can’t achieve yourself by doing breathing exercises at home.”
Hannah wasn’t happy. Hypnosis still seemed to mean giving up control. If not to Paul, then to her own subconscious.
But what else am I supposed to do? She sat and listened to the quiet helplessness in her mind for a moment. Not a peep from the cool wind voice or the crystal voice—and that was good, as far as she was concerned. Still, it pointed up the fact that she didn’t have an alternative.
She looked at Paul. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
“Great.” He stood, then reached for a book on the corner of his desk. “Always assuming I remember how. . . . Okay, why don’t you lie down on the couch?”
Hannah hesitated, then shrugged. If I’m going to do it, I might as well do it right. She lay down and stared at the dark beams in the ceiling. In spite of how miserable she was feeling, she had an almost irresistible impulse to giggle.
Here she was on a real psychologist’s couch, waiting to be hypnotized. Her friends at school would never consider even going to a shrink—out here in Montana craziness was okay. After all, you had to be a little eccentric to be living in this hard land in the first place. What wasn’t okay was admitting you couldn’t deal with it on your own, paying too much attention to it, asking for help. And allowing yourself to be hypnotized was even worse.
They all think I’m the most independent and together of any of them. If they could see me now.
“Okay, I want you to get comfortable and shut your eyes,” Paul said. He was perched with one hip on the edge of his desk, leg swinging, book in hand. His voice was quiet and soothing—the professional voice.
Hannah shut her eyes.
“Now I want you to imagine yourself floating. Just floating and feeling very relaxed. There’s nothing you need to think about and nowhere you need to go. And now you’re seeing yourself enveloped by a beautiful violet light. It’s bathing your entire body and it’s making you more and more relaxed . . .”
The couch was surprisingly comfortable. Its curves fit under her, supporting her without being intrusive. It was easy to imagine that she was floating, easy to imagine the light around her.
“And now you feel yourself floating down deeper . . . into a deeper state of relaxation . . . and you’re surrounded by a deep blue light. The blue light is all around you, shining through you, and it’s making you more comfortable, more relaxed . . .”
The soft soothing voice went on, and at its direction Hannah imagined waves of colored light bathing her body. Deep blue, emerald green, golden yellow, glowing orange. Hannah saw it all. It was amazing and effortless; her mind just showed her the pictures.
And as the colors came and went she felt herself becoming more and more relaxed, warm and almost weightless. She couldn’t feel the couch underneath her any longer. She was floating on light.
“And now you’re seeing a ruby red light, very deep, very relaxing. You’re so relaxed; you’re calm and comfortable, and everything feels safe. Nothing will upset you; you can answer all my questions without ever feeling distressed. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Hannah said. She was aware of saying it, but it wasn’t exactly as if she had said it. She wasn’t aware of planning to say it. Something within her seemed to be answering Paul using her voice.
But it wasn’t frightening. She still felt relaxed, floating in the ruby light.
“All right. I’m now speaking to Hannah’s subconscious. You will be able to remember things that Hannah’s waking mind isn’t aware of—even things that have been repressed. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Again, the voice seemed to come before Hannah decided to speak.
“Good. Now, I’ve got this last note here, the one you found wrapped around your toothbrush this morning. Do you remember this note?”
“Yes.” Of course.
“Okay, that’s good. And now I want you to go back in your mind, back to the time that this note was written.”
This time Hannah was aware of a need to speak. “But how can I do that? I don’t know when it was written. I didn’t write—”
“Just—just—just let go, Hannah,” Paul said, overriding her. His voice soothing again, he added, “Feel relaxed, feel yourself becoming very relaxed, and let your conscious mind go. Just tell yourself to go back to the time this note was written. Don’t worry about how. See the ruby
light and think ‘I will go back.’ Are you doing that?”
“Yes,” Hannah said. Go back, she told herself gamely. Just relax and go back, okay?
“And now, a picture is beginning to form in your mind. You are seeing something. What are you seeing?”
Hannah felt something inside her give way. She seemed to be falling into the ruby light. Her ordinary mind was suspended; it seemed to have been shuttled off to the side somewhere. In this odd dreamlike state, nothing could surprise her.
Paul’s voice was gently insistent. “What are you seeing?”
Hannah saw it.
A tiny picture that seemed to open up, unfold as she stared at it.
“I see myself,” she whispered.
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know. Wait, maybe I’m in my room.” She could see herself, wearing something long and white—a nightgown. No, she was that self, she was in her bedroom, wearing her nightgown. She was in Paul’s office, lying on the couch, but she was in her bedroom at the same time. How strange, she thought dimly.
“All right, now the picture will get clearer. You’ll begin to see things around you. Just relax and you’ll begin to see them. Now, what are you doing?”
Without feeling anything—except a kind of distant amusement and resignation—Hannah said, “Writing a note.”
Paul muttered something that sounded like, “Aha.” But it might have been, “Uh-huh.” Then he said softly, “And why are you writing it?”
“I don’t know—to warn myself. I have to warn myself.”
“About what?”
Hannah felt herself shake her own head helplessly.
“Okay . . . what are you feeling as you write it?”
“Oh . . .” That was easy. Paul was undoubtedly expecting her to say something like “fear” or “anxiety.” But that wasn’t the strongest thing she was feeling. Not the strongest at all.
“Longing,” Hannah whispered. She moved her head restlessly on the couch. “Just—longing.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I want—so much . . . I want . . .”
“What do you want?”
“Him.” It came out as a sob. Hannah’s ordinary mind watched somewhere in amazement, but Hannah’s body was entirely taken over by the feeling, racked with it. “I know it’s impossible. It’s danger and death to me. But I don’t care. I can’t help it . . .”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I mean, you’re feeling very relaxed. You’re very calm and you can answer my questions. Who is this person that you’re longing for?”
“The one who comes,” Hannah said softly and hopelessly. “He’s wicked and evil . . . I know that. She explained it all to me. And I know he’ll kill me. The way he always has. But I want him.”
She was trembling. She could feel her own body radiating heat—and she could hear Paul swallow. Somehow in this expanded state of consciousness she seemed to be able to see him, as if she could be everywhere at once. She knew he was sitting there on the edge of the desk, looking at her dazedly, bewildered by the transformation in the young woman on his couch.
She knew he could see her, her face pale and glowing from inner heat, her breath coming quickly, her body gripped by a fine muscular tremor. And she knew he was stirred—and frightened.
“Oh, boy.” Paul’s breath came out and he shifted on the desk. He bowed his head, then lifted it, looking for a pencil. “Okay, I have to admit, I’m lost. Let’s just go back to the beginning here. You feel that somebody is after you, and that he’s tried to kill you before? Some old boyfriend who’s stalking you, maybe?”
“No. He hasn’t tried to kill me. He has killed me.”
“He has killed you.” Paul bit his pencil. He muttered, “I should have known better than to have started this. I don’t believe in hypnosis anyway.”
“And he’s going to do it again. I’ll die before my seventeenth birthday. It’s my punishment for loving him. It always happens that way.”
“Right. Okay. Okay, let’s try something really basic here. . . . Does this mystery guy have a name?”
Hannah lifted a hand and let it drop. “When?” she whispered.
“What?”
“When?”
“When what? What?” Paul shook his head. “Oh, hell—”
Hannah spoke precisely. “He’s used different names at different times. He’s had—hundreds, I guess. But I think of him as Thierry. Thierry Descouedres. Because that’s the one he’s used for the last couple of lifetimes.”
There was a long silence. Then Paul said, “The last couple of . . . ?”
“Lifetimes. It may still be his name now. The last time I saw him he said he wouldn’t bother to change it anymore. He wouldn’t bother to hide any longer.”
Paul said, “Oh, God.” He stood, walked to the window, and put his head in his hands. Then he turned back to Hannah. “Are we talking about . . . I mean, tell me we’re not talking about . . .” He paused and then his voice came out soft and boneless. “The Big R? You know . . .” He winced. “Reincarnation?”
A long silence.
Then Hannah heard her own voice say flatly, “He hasn’t been reincarnated.”
“Oh.” Paul’s breath came out in relief. “Well, thank God. You had me scared there for a minute.”
“He’s been alive all this time,” Hannah said. “He isn’t human, you know.”
CHAPTER 4
Thierry knelt by the window, careful not to make a noise or disturb the dry earth beneath him. It was a skill so familiar to his body that he might have been born with it. Darkness was his native environment; he could melt into a shadow at an instant’s notice or move more quietly than a stalking cat. But right now he was looking into the light.
He could see her. Just the curve of her shoulder and the spill of her hair, but he knew it was her.
Beside him, Lupe was crouched, her thin body human but quivering with animal alertness and tension. She whispered, softer than a breath, “All right?”
Thierry tore his gaze from that shoulder to look at her. Lupe’s face was bruised, one eye almost closed, lower lip torn. But she was smiling. She’d stuck around Medicine Rock until Thierry had arrived, tailing the girl called Hannah Snow, making sure no harm came to her.
Thierry took Lupe’s hand and kissed it. You’re an angel, he told her, and made even less sound than she had in speaking because he didn’t use his vocal cords at all. His voice was telepathic. And you deserve a long vacation. My limo’s at the tourist resort in Clearwater; take it to the airport at Billings.
“But—you’re not planning to stay here alone, are you? You need backup, sir. If she comes—”
I can take care of things. I brought something to protect Hannah. Besides, she won’t do anything until she talks to me.
“But—”
Lupe, go. His tone was gentle, but it was unmistakably not the urging of a friend anymore. It was the order of her liege lord, Thierry of the Night World, who was accustomed to being obeyed. Funny, Thierry thought, how you never realized how accustomed you were to being obeyed until somebody defied you. Now he turned away from Lupe and looked through the cracks in the boarded-up window again.
And promptly forgot that Lupe existed. The girl on the couch had turned. He could see her face.
Shock coursed through him.
He had known it was her—but he hadn’t known that it would look so much like her. Like the way she had looked the first time, the first time she had been born, the first time he had seen her. This was what he thought of as her true face, and though he’d seen various approximations of it through the years, he’d never seen it again. Until now.
This was the exact image of the girl he’d fallen in love with.
The same long, straight fair hair, like silk in different shades of wheat color, spilling over her shoulders. The same wide gray eyes that seemed full of light. The same steady expression, the same tender mouth, upper lip indenting the lower to give her a look of unintentional sensu
ality. The same fine bone structure, the high cheekbones and graceful line of jaw that made her a sculptor’s dream.
The only thing that was different was the birthmark.
The psychic brand.
It was the color of watered wine held up to the light, of watermelon ice, of a pink tourmaline, the palest of gemstones. Blushing rose. Like one large petal, slantwise beneath her cheekbone. As if she’d laid a rose against her cheek for a moment and it had left its imprint on her flesh.
To Thierry, it was beautiful, because it was part of her. She’d worn it in every lifetime after the first. But at the same time the very sight of it made his throat clamp shut and his fists clench in helpless grief and fury—fury against himself. The mark was his shame, his punishment. And his penance was to watch her wear it in her innocence through the years.
He would pour out his blood on the dry Montana dirt right now if it would take the mark away. But nothing in either the Night World or the human world could do that—at least nothing he’d found in uncounted years of searching.
Oh, Goddess, he loved her.
He hadn’t allowed himself to feel it for so long—because the feeling could drive him insane while he was away from her. But now it came over him in a flood that he couldn’t have resisted if he’d tried. It made his heart pound and his body tremble. The sight of her lying there, warm and alive, separated from him by only a few flimsy boards and an equally flimsy human male . . .
He wanted her. He wanted to yank off the boards, step through the window, brush aside the red-haired man, and take her in his arms. He wanted to carry her off into the night, holding her close to his heart, to some secret place where nobody could ever find her to hurt her.
He didn’t. He knew . . . from experience . . . that it didn’t work. He’d done it once or twice, and he’d paid for it. She had hated him before she died.
He would never risk that again.
And so now, on this spring night near the turn of the millennium in the state of Montana in the United States of America, all Thierry could do was kneel outside a window and watch the newest incarnation of his only love.