So now he could listen.
Stay close and watch.
And like so many times before, Lucy would never even know.
1.
She hadn’t expected the cemetery to look so spooky at this hour of the morning.
Like wandering phantoms, tatters of soft white mist hovered among the graves, and an unnatural quiet smothered the sound of Lucy’s footsteps as she made her way to the remote section of the burial grounds. The dead slept deep and undisturbed. Remembered and forgotten alike, they surrounded her on all sides, rotting peacefully to dust.
In the distance, the Wetherly mausoleum came darkly into view, silhouetted against the gloom. As Lucy got nearer, she could see the wrought-iron gates and stone angels that guarded it, and for one unsettling moment, she remembered her dream about Byron and his warning.
“Keep away . . . there’s no one in this place.”
An icy shudder worked its way up her spine. Hesitating, she dug her hands into her coat pockets and glanced back over her shoulder.
Come on, Lucy, get a grip.
It was easy to imagine eerie whispers and invisible watchers in a creepy place like this—what had she been thinking anyway, coming here so early?
Stop scaring yourself. Nobody here can hurt you.
Giving herself a stern mental shake, she walked over to the front of the tomb. To her surprise, the double gates weren’t padlocked as she’d assumed they’d be—in fact, they were standing partway open, one of them creaking rustily as the breeze swung it back and forth.
Heart quickening, Lucy glanced around a second time.
If someone were here, they’d be impossible to see, she admitted to herself. Anyone could be hiding close by or far away.
Lucy suppressed another shiver.
Turning in a slow circle, she scanned the graves and headstones, the sepulchres and statues, the trees and shadows and mist. A taste of fear crept into her throat, and she tried to choke it down.
Cautiously, she turned back to the gates.
Taking one in each hand, she eased them open the rest of the way. Cracks had widened along the foundation, and leaves had sifted in over the broken, weathered stones of the floor.
Holding her breath, Lucy walked into the crypt.
She saw the muddy footprints and tufts of clotted hair; the dark, reddish-brown stains smeared along the walls . . .
But she didn’t see the figure behind her.
Not till she turned and screamed and stumbled from his arms, trying wildly to fight her way free.
And then she stared up, shocked, into eyes as black and deep as midnight.
“Oh my God,” she choked. “Who are you?”
The dark-haired young man gazed coolly back at her.
“Byron’s brother,” he answered. “Who the hell are you?”
2.
He could almost have been Byron.
The likeness was so incredible that for one wild moment Lucy actually glanced around at the walls of the mausoleum, as though Byron himself might have stepped from his burial place to stand before her now.
And yet, in one swift moment of scrutiny, she could see that there were differences. Differences not only obvious, but subtle as well—differences she felt certain of but couldn’t totally define. Even in that moment of shock, Lucy sensed a sadness even more complicated than Byron’s, and a raw sensitivity far beyond any that Byron had ever shown.
She wanted to look away but was transfixed. At first glance, she’d mistaken his eyes for that same midnight black that Byron’s had been, but now that she was closer, she could see they were actually a deep amber color, surrounding unusually large black pupils. The effect of this was a wide, unwavering stare that Lucy found both disturbing and fascinating, and as he held her gaze, she noted that his eyes never blinked.
Lucy guessed him to be about the same height and weight as Byron, with the same lean build. His face was less rugged, his cheekbones every bit as prominent, his nose more slender, his features slightly more delicate. He had a high forehead and low curved brows, the same faint beard shadow along his jaws and chin and upper lip. His perfectly shaped mouth looked both sensuous and seductive; his dark straight hair, parting naturally in the middle, fell to just below his ears.
Weary shadows rimmed his eyes. Shadows like bruises, hollowing his cheeks and accentuating the unnatural ghost-white pallor of his skin. And slashing downward from his left ear to the right side of his chin was a long, jagged scar that seemed very deep and very old.
In this quick instant of observation, two bizarre thoughts flashed unexpectedly into Lucy’s mind.
That he was perhaps the most beautiful young man she’d ever seen in her entire life. And that he and Byron could have been magically superimposed, like two photographs layered together, forming a familiar, yet brand-new, face.
“Byron . . .”
Without even realizing it, she whispered the name. And though the stranger’s gaze had seemed to stop time, Lucy jolted back to awareness, realizing that only seconds had passed.
Realizing he wasn’t Byron.
This stranger, this bold trespasser standing before her now, wasn’t Byron, could never be Byron. Byron was dead, Byron was out of her life forever, Byron had no brother or she would have known, he would have told her. It was all too much—too much to absorb, too much to process—and suddenly Lucy realized that she was having trouble breathing, that her throat was closing up.
“Who are you?” she heard the young man ask again, but his voice was like a dream, and Lucy couldn’t answer.
She felt as if she was suffocating. The air in the mausoleum was thick and heavy, settling over her like folds of velvet, crushing her with a sweetness that was almost sickening.
She knew that sweetness.
She’d smelled it before, that cloying fragrance of allure and elusion, but where was it coming from now? It hadn’t been in the mausoleum when she’d gotten here—had it? Could she have somehow not realized?
Turning, she looked down at the dark red stains upon the stones, the clotted hair along the floor. Her mind reeled backward, back to the cave and back to her terror. Dark splatters over the ground . . . dark smears trailing back into the tunnel where light couldn’t reach . . .
No, it’s not the same, she tried to convince herself. This grisly scene has nothing to do with the other, this was just some stray animal, this can be explained.
But she was starting to feel light-headed and confused. Was this the scent of blood? The aftermath of fear? The lingering odor of death?
“What do you want?”
Had he spoken aloud just now? Had she?
Lucy put her hands to her temples and tried to concentrate. Bring herself back into focus. He was still staring at her, as though he didn’t even notice the sweet, sultry odor enclosing them. What was wrong with him? Surely he could smell it—how could he not smell it?
Yet even as she started to mention it to him, the sweetness was already fading. And then a cold, raw breeze snaked through the tomb and the fragrance vanished completely.
But the young man hadn’t gone. The young man hadn’t disappeared with the blast of the wind; he was still here, gazing down at her with a frown more curious than threatening.
Brother . . .
The word whispered softly through her head. Once again she wondered if one of them had spoken, or if the thought had simply crept unbidden into her subconscious.
“You didn’t know?” His lips were moving now. His voice was deep like Byron’s . . . soft like Byron’s . . .
Brother . . . of course . . . that would explain the resemblance . . .
“You’re not Byron’s brother,” Lucy said.
Her voice was strong with resolve, with a defiance that surprised her. And then came the anger, fierce and possessive, rushing through her like fire. How dare this stranger encroach into Byron’s resting place—how dare he claim Byron’s name! Her insides were trembling, grief transformed to protective rage, as though she
were facing down something evil that had crept onto hallowed ground.
She lifted her chin, fists clenched tightly at her sides. “Byron doesn’t have a brother.”
“Is that what he told you?” the young man countered. He sounded exhausted, too empty for any sort of emotion.
“Yes, he—”
Lucy stopped, suddenly unsure. What had Byron told her? He’d talked about Katherine and his grandmother, about himself when he was a child.
He’d never said anything about having a brother
But then again, he’d never actually said that he didn’t.
Flustered, Lucy gazed back at the stranger. He was leaning a little toward one wall, his left arm pressed close to his side. He must be freezing, she thought, and no wonder, dressed as he was in ragged jeans and T-shirt, scruffy denim jacket and dirty old boots. He’d looked pale before, but now he was even whiter. His skin seemed paperlike, almost translucent, and for the first time she noticed the slight trembling of his hands.
“I don’t believe you.” Even though you look so much like Byron, even though you sound so much like Byron, even though I wish you were Byron because you’ve made my heart ache all over again. “Matt would have told me if he’d found you.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He hesitated briefly. “And nobody knows I’m here.”
“Then you’d better leave before I call the police.”
“That wouldn’t be a very smart thing to do.” Backing away, Lucy drew herself to full height. “Are you threatening me?”
“No, I’m just saying—” He broke off, breath catching sharply in his throat, and Lucy watched as he braced himself against the wall and clamped his arm tighter to his side.
“I’m just saying,” he continued softly, “that I’m not particularly fond of authority figures, and I wish you wouldn’t call them.”
Lucy kept her eyes on him. “Why not? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“That would be a very long story.”
“Go ahead. I’ve got time.”
“Not that much time, I’m afraid.” One corner of his mouth twisted, though whether from bitterness or amusement, it was hard to tell.
“You were close to Byron?”
The question caught Lucy offguard. As she fumbled for an answer, she saw those strange amber eyes glide smoothly down her body, then up again to her face, with an almost suggestive—and calculated—slowness.
“Close?” Cheeks flushing, Lucy did her best to recover. “I was . . . am . . . a friend.”
“You must have known him well.”
Again Lucy hesitated. “I didn’t know him very long. Only a few days.”
“That’s more than just friendship I see in your eyes.”
Startled, she glanced away. She remembered the secret Byron had shared with her—his ability to view people’s souls through their eyes. Was this stranger referring to something that only Bryon’s brother could have known? Lucy forced herself to look back at him, but his expression revealed nothing.
“You don’t know anything about me,” she said angrily.
“You might be surprised.”
It was a quiet answer, and matter-of-fact, but one that sent a chill through Lucy’s heart. It was all she could do to keep her voice level. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His right hand lifted to fend off her question. With growing dismay, Lucy watched a violent shudder work through him, gnawing deep into his muscles. He bent lower, lips tightening, skin like chalk. His eyes squeezed shut, then opened again, seeking her out as though she’d suddenly gone invisible.
“Is Byron really dead?” he murmured.
He was still shivering but trying not to show it, easing himself onto his knees, left arm still clutched to his side. For a panicked moment she wondered if he might be on drugs or out of his mind—maybe even dying. Whatever was wrong with him, he was definitely in no shape to chase her, she decided. Now was her chance to run away, drive off, call for help. He even seemed a little disoriented; with any luck, he might not even notice she’d gone.
But he was between her and the doorway, and Lucy had to get past him. And even though there was enough space to slip by, something held her back. Something about the way he just knelt there, shoulders slumped, head bowed, his dark profile in sharp relief among many, yet seeming so alone . . .
She made a run for it.
With lightning speed he caught her, right arm flinging out, fingers clamping tight around her wrist.
Lucy gasped at the shock. Not just the iciness of his skin or the alarming strength of his grip, but the images that exploded through her brain.
Sweet night—leaves, stars, moonlight patterns—shadows swift on silent feet—dark desires deep as open wounds—wind flowing like blood, streaming like blood, hot wild fountains and rivers of blood—screams from secret places, screams that no one hears, pleasure, pain, and begging screams of terror and surrender . . .
No! Lucy tried to pull free. No more visions! Make them stop!
But the stranger’s hand squeezed tighter, sending a chaos of sensations to her very core.
Burning. . .
“Please—”
Burning lungs, burning skin, burning eyes . . .
“Let go!”
Burning like the moon, red just like the moon, burning eyes, burning lips, burning souls.
“Is he?” she heard him ask again. “Is Byron dead?”
Lucy felt the walls sway around her, the stones shift beneath her feet. For one brief second the young man’s eyes actually seemed to change color, black and amber fusing together in a liquid, luminous glow—yet she convinced herself it was only a trick of her own unshed tears. She tried to answer him—wanted to answer him—but her thoughts were all muddled, and she was so hot, and he was holding her so tight . . . so tight . . .
“Yes.” Don’t make me say it—I can’t bear to say it! “Yes! He’s dead!”
“You’re sure?”
Memories stabbed through her head, pierced through her heart. “If you were really his brother, you wouldn’t be asking me these questions! If you were really his brother, you’d already know—”
“How ... long?”
He could barely gasp out the words. There was sweat along his brow and upper lip, though his breath hung like frost in the air. Lucy felt sick with both sympathy and dread.
“What is it?” she begged him. “What’s wrong?”
“How long ago?”
Her mind raced feverishly, trying to find the answer. How long had it been since Byron died? Already much too long. Forever. A heart-breaking eternity.
“Days?” Strength was draining from his fingers; he fumbled for a tighter grasp. “Weeks?”
“Weeks. A couple of weeks—”
“Was there a funeral?”
“Yes.”
“A service? A special service?”
“Some kind of service, yes—”
“A casket?”
As hard as she tried to prevent them, more unwanted memories flooded in. The gloomy day, the weeping crowd of mourners. The priest in black, the flowers and personal keepsakes arranged upon the coffin. She couldn’t hold back tears any longer. They ran down her cheeks and dripped on the hand that held her.
“And there’s no mistake?” he persisted. “There couldn’t possibly be some mistake? You’re absolutely sure he’s dead?”
“I . . . ” Sobs rose into her throat, though she stubbornly fought them down. “I was with him when he died.”
His fingers slid from her arm. As Lucy stepped away and began rubbing circulation back into her wrist, she heard the hollow sound of his whisper.
“So . . . it’s true, then.”
Free to escape now, Lucy realized she couldn’t. Something about the tonelessness of his voice, the defeated sag of his shoulders, held her there in a conflict of emotions. She watched in silence as he eased himself back against the wall, legs splayed in front of him, head bent to his chest. His right han
d lifted in slow motion, fingers gliding back through his tangled mane of hair.
“Bryon.” Had he choked just then? Laughed? Sobbed? His voice was so faint, Lucy could barely hear. “Damn you, Byron . . . ”
Her heart caught at the words. She didn’t know what to do. What to say. What to think or even believe. Something inside her felt the need to comfort him; something inside her still sensed a threat. Finally, in spite of herself, she took a cautious step toward him and reached out for his shoulder.
“After all this time,” he murmured.
Lucy stopped, hand poised midair. “What?” she asked him gently.
He lifted his head and rested it back against the wall. He wasn’t looking at her anymore. In truth, he didn’t even seem to realize she was there.
“After all this time,” he murmured again. “And now I’m too late.”
Rest In Peace Page 16