by Diana Duncan
They were gone.
Her skin was unmarred. Even if the writing had smeared off, dried blood would stick in the creases.
But her palm looked perfectly clean.
The room tilted. What was real and what wasn’t? She didn’t know anymore. “Archer,” she whispered. “I have to tell you—” I found an amulet and a naked Scottish hunk on the beach, and then the whole world got wacko. She tried, but could not make her mouth work correctly.
Nay, Rowan warned. You cannot tell anyone! Especially not him.
Archer propped his elbows on the countertop. Behind him, the hissing espresso machine belched steam. “I’m listening.”
“I…um—” I know this sounds certifiable. The guy painted scary symbols on the door with blood. She struggled to force the words out, but couldn’t make a sound. And I think his consciousness has somehow merged with mine.
The pressure inside her skull hit excruciating levels, like her brain might explode any second. Her vision grayed at the edges. Dear God, was she having a stroke?
You’re absolutely healthy, Rowan’s lyrical burr soothed persuasively. Just inexperienced and exhausted. No use fighting it, luv, you can’t win. You need rest. Surrender to me.
Never! “I’m really tired,” she was horrified to hear herself parrot to Archer, totally against her will. “I need rest.”
Quit that! she screamed silently at Rowan. I will not be manipulated!
You want to obey me. Go to bed. Now.
Unable to resist the compulsion, she continued, “I’ll skip the food for now. And…just go to bed.”
Archer frowned, then shrugged. “Okay. Grab a nap in my bed. I’ll fix you something to eat when you wake up.”
Archer, help me! But like an obedient little automaton, she got up and jerkily walked into his bedroom.
Lie down, the deep brogue ordered.
She had no choice but to stretch out on Archer’s king-sized four-poster bed and cover herself with the downy throw.
Aye, there’s a good lass, Rowan purred.
Languid warmth flooded her limbs, infusing her with euphoric pleasure. Seducing her. Satisfying a deep craving she didn’t even know she’d possessed.
When the journey beckons, don’t be afraid to follow. Sleep sweet, Delaney.
Summoning her final scrap of strength, she flung out a mental slap. Go suck ditch water, Braveheart.
If only you knew… The last thing she heard was Rowan MacLachlan’s rumbling laughter.
* * *
Relaxed, rejuvenated, and slightly giddy, Delaney stepped out of the steamy, berry-shampoo scented shower enclosure in Archer’s luxurious bathroom. As she blotted her hair with a towel, dusky twilight clouds drifted past the fogged windowpanes. Geez, she’d slept four straight hours. She’d probably be owly until dawn.
She skimmed the towel down her body, wrapped it around herself, and then stood in front of the vanity mirror to weave her long damp curls into a French braid. Just as well, because it was going to take forever to clarify today’s events for Archer and Vanessa.
Delaney tensed, staring at the charm secured around her neck. She would tell them. Arms behind her head, she hesitated, listening warily for Rowan’s reprimand. The bathroom remained silent. Hopefully, the delusions had fled along with her headache while she’d napped. She felt mostly normal again, aside from the odd intoxicated buzz, but in the morning she’d make an appointment for a check-up.
When she’d awakened, Archer reported that Zack had called thirty minutes after she zonked out. The riot had been quelled, Connor was safe. However, inmates had managed to set fires in the prison and beaten and burned the warden and several guards.
Snatches of Archer and Vanessa’s conversation drifted from the kitchen, where they corroborated on one of his I’m-in-Paradise meals. Sustenance first, then she’d tackle discussing her Scottish SNAFU with her friends. Her nose twitched at the smells wafting beneath the door. All her favorites. Grilled wild salmon, herbed baby Yukon gold potatoes, fresh-baked biscuits, and asparagus. And…yum…Archer’s divine chocolate raspberry brandied flambé sauce to pour over ice cream.
Van had popped into Delaney’s apartment and fetched her shampoo, cosmetics, and clean clothes. Delaney banded off her braid, hung up the towel, and then shimmied into a lacy coral bra and panty set that matched her toenail polish. Leave it to Van to ensure she was color coordinated. She tugged on jeans and a sapphire sweater with ruffled fringe at the wrists and hem, careful to hide the charm beneath the neckline. After Connor’s reaction, she wasn’t taking any chances with Archer until she could explain everything.
Not bothering with makeup, she padded barefoot over the cool oak floors down the hallway and into the kitchen. Vanessa had also cleaned up and changed into a chic pearl gray blouse and black pants accented by yellow platform heels.
Delaney’s mouth watered at the plates of heaped food on the countertop “Hi, guys. Van, you feeling better?”
“Sure, other than a lovely parting gift from the Hangover Faerie.” In the midst of tossing a salad, Vanessa grimaced and waved her tongs. “And the temptation to return Juicy Jason’s non-official ‘how you doin’ message.”
“Oooo…Detective Kim called you to see how you are? On his own time?”
“Yeah. But since I’m one bad breakup away from turning into a crazy fat bitch with forty-seven cats, I’ve decided to join the Delaney Morgan just-say-no-to-men club.”
“You’re not fat, or bitchy. I might have to concede on crazy, though,” Delaney continued over Van’s giggle. “You’re also smart and gorgeous, and any man would be lucky to have you. Now is there anything I can do to help with dinner? I’m famished.”
Archer grinned. “Well, hallelujah, look who found her appetite. And you’re not a hot mess anymore.”
“Thanks, pal.” She blew him a kiss.
“You can get out the butter.”
“After that shot, I should make you fetch it yourself.” Chuckling, she opened the stainless steel door and scanned neat shelves.
Beside the platter of grilled salmon on the countertop, Archer’s cell phone vibrated and then burst into the Killers’ “Somebody Told Me.” It spun in a circle on the countertop, blaring.
“That better not be Rini bitching about the liquor stock downstairs again,” he muttered, snatching it up.
Head in the fridge, Delaney listened to him bark out, “When? Are you sure?” A brief pause. “Where?” Another pause. “On the way.”
Delaney emerged with the covered glass butter dish. “Problems at the club tonight?”
He held her gaze, bottomless dark eyes somber. “Brace yourself, baby girl.” As he shoved his phone into his pocket and clasped both her hands in his, her heart sank.
“Archer? What’s wrong?”
“Something’s happened to Connor. He’s been life-flighted to Sisters of Mercy Hospital’s trauma unit.”
* * *
Inside the hospital, overhead fluorescents garishly illuminated corridor after endless corridor. The smell of disinfectant layered over more sinister odors made Delaney’s stomach jitter.
They hurried to the third floor ICU desk where a nurse consulted her computer for interminable minutes. Finally, another nurse appeared and led them to a small private waiting room. She quickly departed, saying a doctor would speak to them as soon as possible.
“They said he was fine after the riot.” Gut churning, pulse raging, Delaney paced the tight space. “Where’s the doctor? Why won’t anyone tell me Connor’s condition? They sequestered us in a private room—this is not good!”
Van moved into step alongside her, tears shimmering in her eyes. “We’re here for you, Delaney.”
Archer stood sentinel by the open doorway, arms folded, feet spread. “Keep it together, ladies. Don’t go worst-case-scenario until we have to.”
“I need to be with my brother!”
“I know.” He nodded reassuringly. “If the doctor doesn’t show soon, I’ll track somebody down.�
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Delaney paced to the window, staring into the gathering darkness below. Her focus narrowed on a tall, long-haired man dressed in jeans and a black duster lounging against a street lamp. She jolted. Even from here, Rowan MacLachlan was clearly recognizable. Was he stalking her?
Soon you’ll understand. He lifted a hand. Godspeed, Delaney. See you on the other side.
Again, as she watched, his form began to fade into mist. The other side? She spun. “Archer, quick! Come—”
A slender blonde wearing green scrubs and carrying a clipboard walked into the room. “Connor Morgan’s family?”
All else forgotten, Delaney faced the newcomer. The serious young woman meticulously shut the door behind her.
The news wasn’t looking positive.
Delaney swallowed hard. “Yes. I’m Delaney, Connor’s sister. This is Vanessa and Archer, our other siblings.” In every way that mattered.
“I’m Doctor Adams, a neurologist on staff here. Let’s sit down.” She commandeered the mauve-printed club chair opposite a small gray sofa.
A sit-down. Definitely not positive. Delaney woodenly followed the doctor’s lead and perched opposite her on the sofa. Vanessa flanked her on one side and Archer on the other.
“Your brother was brought in several hours ago.” Doctor Adams consulted her notes. “According to the prison, he was not involved in the riot, and behaved normally afterward. He spent the afternoon reading in his cell. He thanked the guard who brought his dinner and ate all of the meal. During a routine head-count around sunset when he didn’t answer the guards, they entered his cell to find him unresponsive and not breathing. He was given CPR and immediately life-flighted to our trauma center.”
“What the hell happened to him?” Archer asked.
“We don’t know. There’s not a mark on him. No masses or bleeding in the brain, no symptoms of infection, nothing irregular in his blood-work.” The clipboard pages fluttered down, and Doctor Adams looked at Delaney. “Does Connor have a history of head injuries, drug or alcohol use, allergies, seizures, or anything you can think of that would give us a lead?”
“No. He’s normally very healthy.”
The doctor’s mouth pursed. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid Connor’s prognosis isn’t good.” She rifled her notes again, and Delaney clenched her hands in her lap. “We’ve run every possible test. Full blood work-up, EEG, cerebral blood flow, an MRI, a CAT scan—” She rattled off an incomprehensible list. “Connor isn’t breathing on his own, his other reflexes are completely unresponsive, and he shows very limited brain activity.”
“I don’t understand,” Vanessa whispered.
Dimly aware of Archer’s arm sliding around her, Delaney made her numb lips form words. “What are you going to do for him? How do you treat this?”
“There’s nothing more we can do, except wait and monitor his vitals.” Sympathy stamped the young doctor’s face. “You should prepare yourselves for hard decisions…and if you have any other family, they need to come immediately.”
“So you’re just giving up on him?” Delaney’s nails bit into her palms. “No! That’s not acceptable. Connor’s strong. He’s a fighter, he’ll beat it.”
“You need to face the facts, Ms. Morgan.” Dr. Adams leaned forward. “Unfortunately, every medical indication is that your brother will continue to deteriorate. Again, I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but in all likelihood, he’ll never regain consciousness.”
Hopelessness overtook Delaney. But only for a moment. “You don’t know Connor won’t wake up. You don’t know my brother. I’ve read about people recovering from comas after years.”
“Every medical situation is different. And your brother is not in a coma, he’s in a serious deep vegetative state,” Doctor Adams said. “Patients who’ve awakened from comas show far more brain-stem function than your brother. Connor isn’t responding at all—to any stimuli. The best thing for him, and for yourself, is not to cling to false hope.”
Delaney shoved awkwardly to her feet. “I want a second opinion. And I want to see my brother.”
“Certainly.” Doctor Adams rose. “I understand how difficult this is. I’ll arrange both.” She glided out.
“Connor wouldn’t just quit on me,” Delaney insisted to Van and Archer as they stood up beside her. “On us.”
Van patted her shoulder. “Of course he wouldn’t.”
“Delaney.” Archer’s voice was gentle as he reached for her. “You need to be prepared to accept…”
“Don’t say it.” She thrust out her hands, warding him off. “Don’t believe them. They don’t understand. There are weird details about our prison visitation I haven’t had a chance to tell you. Something’s not right. I’m not abandoning him.”
“Nobody’s asking you to.” Sorrow etched his features. “We’ll take as much time as you need.”
A gray-haired nurse leaned into the doorway. “Ms. Morgan? You can visit your brother whenever you’re ready.”
Delaney turned to her friends. “I have to… I need to… Can you just wait for me here? I– I need to be with him by myself for a little while.”
“Absolutely.” Archer moved to hug her, but she backed away. One touch, and she’d fall apart. She had to stay strong for Connor.
“Go ahead, Lanie,” Vanessa said. “We’ll wait.”
Delaney followed the motherly-looking nurse past rows of glass doors. Past patients who slept, patients who cried, past the rattles and hums and blips of machines attached to bodies invaded by so many tubes and wires they no longer resembled human beings. Desperation and pain hovered in thick clouds, making the air too heavy to breathe.
She knew which room was Connor’s because of the armed policeman stationed outside. Another insult to her brother, who’d already endured so many. The cop demanded I.D., and she had to fumble inside her purse for it, then sign a visitors’ log.
Delaney straightened her shoulders, slid open the panel…and tiptoed into the dim quiet.
Through the darkened window, lights in downtown high-rises glowed like thousands of eyes peering into the room. Illuminated by a low light bar over the headboard, Connor lay on the bed, covered with a white blanket and encased by railings on both sides. His eyelids were closed, a ventilator tube taped into his mouth. His face was an expressionless mask. IV tubing snaked from a needle in his left hand to a bag of clear fluid hanging on a metal pole. Beneath the faded hospital gown, his chest rose and fell with barely perceptible breaths.
“I’m here, Connor.”
The only sounds were the whooshing ventilator and the beep….beep….beep of the monitor recording his scarily slow heartbeat.
She stumbled closer, her own heartbeat thundering in her ears. The cloud of despair swallowed her alive. Only Connor’s body lay on that bed.
Her brother wasn’t anywhere in the room.
She knew it, as surely as she knew her own name.
Sorrow choked her. But then, her name wasn’t even her own, was it? Nothing in her life was really as it seemed.
No matter what kind of freaky shit goes down during the next forty-eight hours…stay far, far away from me.
“My God, Connor, what have you done?” Anger spiked hot and hard, eclipsing her grief. “I won’t lose you. Not after everything we went through, everything we survived.” She lowered the rail on his bed with a decisive thump. “You’re not walking out on this fight.”
What was mine now belongs to you.
“You’re mine, and I won’t let you go, do you hear me?” She grabbed his too-cool hand in both of hers and focused all her thoughts, all her energy on her brother. “Connor Eamon Morgan, where are you?”
The moment she made contact, her head started spinning. Then the room started spinning. The lights outside the window swirled past faster and faster.
Got bigger.
Closer.
Whirling, dizzy pressure built, smothering her. Slashing pain pushed against her skin from the inside out. A scream boiled up in
to her throat and stuck there, her mouth stretched in mute agony.
Gasping for air, she clung to Connor’s hand and silently challenged the roaring power attempting to tear them apart.
The only thing that can force me to let go of my brother is dying!
So Death came for her.
Chapter 5
Giant black wings rose in the night sky outside the spinning window and beat against the glass. The windowpane rattled and screeched. Glass shattered. Frigid air and razor-sharp shards blasted into Delaney’s skin. The smell of blood clashed with tearing pain, and then Delaney shattered, too.
Broken into millions of molecules, she tumbled into the dark, icy whirlwind, over the window sill, out the opening. She went blind.
Falling, falling. Cold, blind and out of control.
Mid-air, she landed on downy softness…those huge black wings? Her broken essence was swept upward. She soared impossibly high.
Higher.
Ever higher, until she lost track of time and space. A tremendous sonic boom exploded around her, inside her…
And then there was nothing.
* * *
Delaney’s hearing returned first. Freezing wind moaned in her ears. Scraped her body. Laying flat on her back…where? Her fingertips twitched, and scraped powdery sand.
Forcing heavy eyelids open, she stared up at a leaden sky. Spent cinders whipped down and stung her chilled limbs. Groaning, she struggled to sit up and look around.
Her fingers dug into the powdery substance piled beneath her—not sand, but deep drifts of cold, black ash. She froze, paralyzed by fear.
What had once been a vast, mountainous area was a nightmare of scorched ruins. Black hills bristled with immense spires of scarred tree trunks. Jagged, charred rocks thrust out of the ash. Skeletons of burned bushes scrabbled in the bitter wind, wafting the stink of decay.