He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. Her hands reached his shoulders and her eyes filled his vision, swirling pools of sparkling green fire. He felt an odd sensation of rigidity and fluidity; his muscles tensed to the limits of their strength, and his mind melted, completely unable to control his shivering body.
Her hair was the red of sunsets, not the subtle orange of their birth, but the deep, glowing maroon of their death, that moment just before the sky goes blood red, when darkness claims the night. Her dress seemed to flow from the mist upward, molding so perfectly to her body that he couldn't tell where skin ended and the silken material began. Her skin was a pale, alabaster white, almost pearlescent in the moon's dim glow, accentuating in contrast the brilliant colors of her hair and her eyes. All of this Klaus took in in a second, then his breath returned, and he staggered, nearly sinking to his knees.
"Who are you?" he breathed. "How do you know that song?"
Her laughter was like the tinkling of ice covered bells whose coating shattered and fell in jagged shards when struck. "So many questions," she said, sliding even closer and wrapping him tightly in a cool, sensuous embrace. "I am Rosa. For now, that is enough. The song, as I have said, is old. Surely you didn't think differently? Did it not call to you, as the mountain calls? As I call?"
"Why did you follow me?" he asked, shocked at the immediate reaction her touch drew from his body. He pressed against her, even as a voice deep within his mind (his mother's voice?) cried out to him to pull away. "It's been a long time since I was here last; I thought I'd be alone."
"Do you wish to be alone?" she asked, her grin almost coquettish, and her eyes wide.
"I… no." He didn't want her to release him. He wrapped his arms around her back and pulled her closer. The scent of sandalwood slipped into his nostrils, and he grew giddy. He wanted this woman, whoever she was, wanted her so badly it was almost painful to touch her without release. He trembled in her embrace, but he still did not pull away.
She seemed so aloof, so in control of the moment, but Klaus sensed otherwise. Her shoulders were rigid with the same controlled tension he felt. The long, sinuous length of her pressed urgently against him, molding to his form. Bending slightly forward to meet her kiss, Klaus gave himself over totally to the sensations of the moment. Her lips parted and her tongue sought his urgently. It tasted faintly of mint and – something else. Klaus couldn't place it. He felt the blood pounding through his temples – crashing in his chest. What in God's name was happening to him?
As suddenly as she had surged forward to meet him, she shoved him back with uncommon strength, nearly sending his taller form sprawling in the dirt.
"I'm sorry," he stammered, reaching out toward her. "I don't know what came over me . . . I --"
"Don't apologize, Klaus," she chided him softly, remaining just out of reach, but smiling. "I feel the heat even more strongly than you, but it is too soon. We have much to talk of, you and I, much to learn one of the other. Why did you come to this place?"
"The mountain," he asked, "or the shrine?"
"Either or both. I'm curious," she said. She folded her long legs beneath her and swept her hair back over her shoulder in a practiced gesture. The moonlight played tricks on his eyes, glistening off her skin and giving her an ethereal, almost spiritual aspect. "You are young for such an ancient place as this," she concluded.
"I've been here before," he said, turning to walk around the perimeter of the clearing, carefully avoiding her eyes in an effort to regain control of his emotions. He knew he was near the limits of that control; her presence drew him like nails to a magnet. "My father walked these trails and hunted these woods, and his father before him. As a child, I played on these steps. Much of what I am, I found here, and my past begins here. I guess I came here hoping to fill in the gaps."
"Gaps?" she prompted, the ghost of a smile still playing about the corners of her lips.
"My parents." he finished, turning back to brave the emerald depths of her eyes. "I lost my parents to this mountain, years and years in the past. My father disappeared into the forest. He was a hunter. After a month had passed, even my mother began to despair. Not long after that she sent me away with no explanation to live with her Aunt in Hamburg. The day after I left, she disappeared as well. I don't know what she thought she could do, how she thought she could help a man whose life had been this mountain, but she went after him. Neither was ever seen again.
"I've asked the villagers, the few who are still old enough to remember them, but they know nothing. Most of them won't even talk to me, as if they fear something in my return. I only want to put my heart at rest. I thought I might find the answer of how to do that here, and instead I found you."
She laughed again, head back and eyes glittering in the moonlight. He felt a chill. Was her sudden delight at his loss of his parents, or at his final comment? Who was this woman, and how had she come to find him here?
"I am no stranger to this mountain, either," she told him. "I feel almost kin to the grass and stone beneath us. Sometimes I think the trees are whispering to me, trying to tell me long lost secrets. I've heard the tale of your parents before. I often wondered what happened to their son. I heard of them from – my mother. Though I never came to this place to play, I have seen it often enough. I come back here to relax once every few years. Perhaps it is fate that has brought us here at the same time?"
"I don't believe in fate," he answered, moving to kneel at her side and reaching out to take her hand. She didn't pull away, but he felt her tremble at the touch. There was something dangerous in the barely concealed desire that rippled just beneath her skin, something hypnotic about her eyes, and the way her hair flowed down over her shoulders, dancing in the breeze.
"You saw our concert, then?" he asked, aware that he was being rude, that he was staring, but unable to control his eyes. "Did you enjoy the music?"
"Very much," she breathed softly, reaching out to stroke his hair as he leaned in close to her leg, seating himself beside her and one step beneath on the stone stairs. "Your music is alive, full of energy and passion. You did great justice, in the last piece, to music from my own past. My mother sang that song to me here on this mountain. It is very a very powerful love song. Perhaps you have put a spell on me?"
"If so then I've trapped myself, as well," he said, feeling the heat rising once more, centered on the point where their fingers met.
"You are gallant as well as charming," she said, sliding down until they were seated side by side and drawing him close once more. He closed his eyes as her lips sought his, and his arms circled her slim waist, pulling her into a tight embrace. She moved her hands downward, slipping them past the buttons of his shirt and the snap on his jeans, his belt, removing them so artfully that the motion didn't intrude. Her dress seemed to melt from her it slid downward so easily.
Her skin felt cool, like expensive silk, and she slid it urgently against him, driving all thought from his mind and causing him to draw in his breath sharply. The scent of sandalwood had returned and almost overpowered his senses. Her hands roamed incessantly. She found his nerves effortlessly, controlled his body and heated his passion. He let his tongue stray downward, moving it in tight circles across her breasts, which were taut and smooth. She grabbed twin handfuls of his hair, pressed his lips tightly to her skin, and arched to meet their touch.
Suddenly she slipped from beneath him and pushed him urgently to his back. He didn't struggle but grabbed her shoulders and slid her on top of him with a sigh. She glided over him, touching lightly on his skin with her tongue, nipping and biting playfully. The soft moans, almost an animal whine that escaped her lips spoke of a hunger far beyond play. Then she moved upward, held her eyes above his and captured him in their depths. She held him like that, hands on his shoulders, lips slightly parted, until he fairly squirmed with desire – until his body threatened to lurch upward to hers. It was almost painful, and he was about to mouth a protest, to pull her close again, w
hen she literally drove her mouth to his and forced her tongue hotly between his lips to dance across his own.
She kissed his face then, hot, wet circles of moisture trailing down his cheek to his throat, and then she was nibbling again, harder this time, though the pain blended perfectly with the ecstasy of the moment. He felt her teeth graze his skin – press tight – penetrate. It was smooth and impossibly sensual, as though her mouth were filled with soft needles and transferring pure opiate to his whirling mind. He felt her grow rigid, then relax, felt the rhythmic pulse of his blood, felt her move against him in undulating waves of passion.
He grabbed her hips and lifted her body slightly, positioning her above his erection. She never released her sensual grip on his throat, allowing him to enter her in one smooth motion. It seemed to wake her from whatever dazed stupor gripped her, because she pulled away from his throat with a shudder and arched her back. Klaus groaned and felt her sliding over him, building to a hot, rhythmic pulse. He closed his eyes and moved with her, though not before he saw her face, her eyes, and the droplets glistening on her chin. Sweat?
It didn't matter. He rose to his own climax faster than he would have believed possible, thrusting himself against her harder and harder as she wrapped around him and pulled him deeper. When the end came, it was a swirl of darkness and wonder, a blending of pain and pleasure such as he'd never experienced. The mists rose again, though he didn't notice, closing around them with damp, cloying fog-fingers and blocking out the soft white light of the moon.
~*~
Klaus bolted upright and stared about the empty clearing wildly. He was alone, and the first glowing hint of the sun already tinted the tops of the trees a brilliant reddish-orange. Like her hair, he thought. Letting his head fall into his hands and struggling to clear his thoughts. He sat quietly for a moment, regaining his bearings.
His memories of the night before were dim and hazy. He could almost hear the strains of the concert running through his mind, but they twined with the slightly different melody Rosaan had sung until he couldn't tell one from the other. He remembered walking up the mountain, coming to the clearing and the ancient shrine, but little else would come into focus. What in the hell had happened? And where, by the way, was his mystery lady?
He dressed slowly. Somehow he didn't feel self-conscious, naked and alone in this place. What he did feel was strangely weak. His stomach complained of a hunger that would not be long denied, and he rose quickly, fastening his belt and brushing the leaves and dirt from his clothing. With a quick motion he brushed his hair back over his shoulder and ran his fingers through it absently.
"Damn," he said to himself, "I feel worse than if I'd actually gone to that party."
The walk down from the mountain seemed shorter than the previous night's climb had been. It was peaceful and uneventful. Everything he saw seemed to have taken on a new glow and fascination for him. There was a nagging pain in the back of his head whenever he got into a patch of bright morning sunlight, but the sheen of newness that coated the trees and the flowers along the way brushed it aside impatiently. If it hadn't been for the gnawing hunger, he might have wandered aimlessly throughout the entire morning, lost in thought.
The village was just coming to life in the aftermath of the "great concert." Roadies and equipment handlers already swarmed like tired ants over the mass of wires and speakers, loading it back onto the trucks and packing it away in great black boxes that swallowed it up with amazing speed. The buzz of activity lent a further air of unreality to his already hazy memory of the night before. It was impossible to equate this slowly eroding mountain of electronics and paraphernalia with the music, or with any part of the night he'd just experienced.
Klaus felt an eerie distance grow between him and the scene he passed. It was as though he walked through a world he was no longer a part of on any level that mattered, as though he passed among people who not only did not see what he saw or how he saw, but would not have comprehended if they had. There were huge barrels of refuse, drink cups, candy-wrappers, streamers and flyers. It might have come from some alien world for all it affected him.
He finally made it to the door of his cottage, not bothering to knock, and entered quietly. As he'd expected, Damon was still sleeping. The guitarist had passed out on the small couch in the cottage's main room, his guitar clutched to him like a lover. His breathing was ragged, and he twitched restlessly, apparently caught in the throes of a bad dream.
Klaus didn't wake him immediately. He went into the bathroom and ran his head under the water, letting the cool liquid wash down through the long, golden locks of his hair and across his face. Though it was cold, he didn't flinch; it felt too good.
The sound of the water running must have reached Damon, because Klaus heard him moving about in the next room. Of the three others in the band, he knew that Damon was the only one who wouldn't be nursing a hangover. He seldom drank these days, and had never been one to give over control of his mind or actions to alcohol. If the guitarist had a vice, it was probably his intensity, an intensity that he applied indiscriminately to whatever he did. It had made him a hopelessly tragic lover while they traveled about and left Melissa behind.
He shook his hair back and dried it quickly with a towel, then returned to the outer room, a grin on his face. He made enough noise that he was pretty certain Damon was awake, though the guitarist had yet to move.
"So," Kluas said, "how was the party."
"How would you expect it to be?" Damon answered sourly. "The promoters and the few fans that managed to worm their way in were too loud, too drunk, and clamoring for you until nearly 3:00 before they finally realized you weren't going to show. Then they spent the next hour taking it out on us. Hechinger was there, and he was not pleased. Seems he brought his newest love down all the way from London just for the privilege of meeting you. He wants us back in Hamburg in three days."
Klaus shook his head ruefully. "I guess I shouldn't have taken off like that, but I needed the time. It was just too much, the song, you know? I'm not sure I'm ready to leave this place yet."
Damon's eyes kindled to instant anger. "Damn it, Klaus, what do you mean by that? We came to your mountain, and we played your concert, and it's time to go! This is no place for us; the people even want us gone."
Seemingly unaware of the guitarist's outburst, Klaus went on. "I feel a calm here, Damon, a peace. I feel as though I could create magic here. An album, maybe? We have almost everything we need to do first tracks, and Hechinger could send up the rest of the equipment." He saw the flames rising in his friend's eyes, and he added. "You could even bring Melissa up – I'm sure we could come up with a third cottage."
"But . . ." Damon fell silent and went to place his guitar back in its case. "Whatever," he said, aware that he might as well be arguing with the mountain itself. "But don't you think you might consult the others before you make another monumental decision?"
"They won't mind," Klaus said almost absently. "Sebastian only cares about the music, and Peyton can find a woman anywhere. As long as the wine holds out, we'll be fine. Besides, I've met someone. I don't think I'm ready to pass it off as a one-nighter without at least trying to find her again. Let's go get something to eat, I'm starved."
Shaking his head in exasperation, Damon followed. He didn't notice how Klaus flinched when the sunlight hit him full in the face. He was already working out the details of bringing Melissa to the mountain, hoping she'd be happy with the idea. They headed for the other cottage in silence, each lost in their own private world.
Chapter Seven
The Flagon and Barrel was a bustle of activity. There were still a lot of people left to feed and get on the road before the dregs of the concert would be completely washed away, and the locals attacked the task with a vengeance. If they had been unwilling to support the band's presence, they were more than happy to help them on their way Klaus sat throughout most of breakfast, waiting patiently for the coffee and sausages to bring Peyton
and Sebastian back to some semblance of life. Damon ate in a silence of his own, eyes focused on some point far away. Sebastian watched Klaus warily. He knew something was up; he'd spent far too many such mornings with Klaus to think otherwise. Klaus had that look in his eyes, preoccupied and focused at the same time, that always preceded some new thought or idea.
Peyton groaned aloud, poured his third cup of coffee almost straight down his throat and swallowed with an exaggerated gulp. "I don't know why in hell we have to be up and around so damned early," he complained. "I only laid down about four hours ago, and that wasn't to sleep!" His face twisted into a grin, though the obvious pain in his head belied it. "I thought, honest to god, that girl was going to kill me. She . . ."
"We're not leaving," Klaus cut in softly. "I want to stay here and make an album."
Peyton almost spit his coffee across the table. "Are you crazy?" he finally choked out. "Hechinger will have your hide! He's already got three more gigs set in London and is talking about another US tour. What are you going to tell him, forget it?"
"Hechinger isn't a problem," Klaus said, waving his hand almost dismissively. "He'll scream and moan and end up doing whatever we tell him, because we make him his money. No, I want to stay right here for a while."
He turned to face them, one at a time. His eyes were so bright they seemed to glow with a strange, inner light. "I didn't just come here to make music." he said finally. "There are a lot of unanswered questions in my past, things I need to know. The answers, if they exist, are somewhere on this mountain."
"Then it isn't because of this someone you met?" Damon asked sarcastically, coming out of his own reverie.
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