by Lynsay Sands
“Here.” Marguerite stood and moved quickly around the table to her side to take the phone. She immediately began to tap on it and Ildaria saw that she was entering G.G.’s name and number in her contacts list.
The older woman had been pleased with her flowers, but almost ecstatic to learn Ildaria was now working for G.G. Over ecstatic really, she thought and worried that the lady, whom she liked a great deal, was finding her presence in her home a trial.
“Of course, I do not find your presence a trial,” Marguerite said with exasperation, drawing her attention to the fact that she’d finished her chore and was now holding out the phone.
“Oh.” Ildaria flushed as she took back the phone. She wasn’t used to people reading her thoughts. Vasco, like herself, didn’t read people unless it was absolutely necessary. No one on the ship had. Or at least, no one had made it obvious that they did if they were reading others. Neither had Raffaele if he had read her while she was living with him and Jess, and Jess herself was too new a turn to be able to read anyone. Not that she could have read Ildaria. Younger immortals couldn’t read immortals that were older than them. As for Marguerite, as far as she knew her host hadn’t read her much since her arrival in her home. At least, she hadn’t said anything that gave away that she had read her. Until now, and Ildaria found her doing so a bit discomfiting.
“No, dear. I am not reading you. Not on purpose anyway. Your thoughts are just a bit loud at the moment,” Marguerite announced, moving back to her seat at the table.
“Loud?” Ildaria repeated uncertainly as she returned to her own seat.
“Hmmm.” Marguerite focused her attention on pouring more tea into both their cups, and waited until Ildaria had finished sending G.G. the pic of H.D., before commenting, “You obviously didn’t try to read G.G., did you?”
“I—No.” Ildaria glanced up from her phone with a small frown. “There was no need. G.G. isn’t a threat to me.”
“No, I agree. G.G. is not a threat to our kind,” Marguerite said at once as she pushed her teacup back to her.
“Right,” Ildaria murmured, doctoring her fresh tea with sugar and cream.
“Do you know the symptoms that an immortal experiences on meeting a life mate?” Marguerite asked as she lifted her cup to her lips.
Ildaria peered at her blankly. A life mate was something every immortal hoped to find. That being the case, the symptoms of meeting one were well known to their kind from a young age if they were born immortal, and shortly after turning if they were not born immortal. Or usually before they were turned if a life mate turned them. Of course, she knew what the symptoms were. She just didn’t understand why Marguerite was asking her that.
Clearing her throat, Ildaria finally said, “Si, of course. A return of the desire for, and pleasure in, those things that often leave an immortal between the first and second century of their lives,” she murmured, and then listed them off. “Food, drink, and sex topmost among them.”
Marguerite nodded. “What else?”
“Shared sexual dreams if they sleep within a certain distance,” she said now.
“And?”
“Experiencing each other’s pleasure when indulging in sexual relations,” she said a bit stiffly. “And then usually fainting or passing out at the end of a coupling. Although I’ve heard of cases where that doesn’t happen.”
Marguerite made a humming sound and nodded, but then waited expectantly.
Ildaria went through what she’d already said to see what she’d missed, and then added, “The inability to read or control the life mate.”
They both fell silent briefly, and then Marguerite said gently, “There’s one more symptom, dear.”
Ildaria started to shake her head, but then blinked. “Oh, si. Both life mates’ thoughts are easily read for the first year or two after finding their life mate, no matter their age.”
“Actually, it isn’t so much that they are easily read as the immortal’s ability to keep their thoughts private is usually hampered after finding a life mate. It’s almost as if they’re screaming their thoughts. Other immortals can’t help but hear them,” Marguerite corrected gently and then added, “Like you are presently doing.”
Ildaria stared at her blankly. “You think I’ve met my . . .”
When she fell silent, unable to finish the thought, Marguerite smiled faintly and lifted her cup before commenting, “G.G. is very handsome, is he not?”
Ildaria’s eyes widened as she watched Marguerite sip her tea. “G.G.?”
Marguerite raised her eyebrows. “You do not find him handsome?”
“I—” Ildaria hesitated, images of the man rising up in her mind. Looking serious, looking amused, cuddling H.D. . . . Yes, she’d thought him attractive. Adorable even. Especially with the little fur ball in his arms. Dogs and babies always made men more attractive.
“I think you should try to read him tomorrow, dear,” Marguerite said softly. “I suspect you will not be able to.”
Ildaria started to nod, but then stopped and asked with alarm, “What do I do if I can’t?”
“Ah.” Marguerite frowned and set her cup down. She stared down at it briefly and then sat back with a sigh. “If you cannot, then I suggest you walk softly. G.G. . . .” She paused to grimace, and then said, “G.G.’s parents were both mortal. His father died in a car accident when he was just a toddler of three. Things were tough for him and his mother for the next two years and then she met Robert Guiscard. They were life mates, and he of course, turned her. Unfortunately, G.G. witnessed his mother’s turn.”
“Oh, no,” Ildaria breathed. Going through the turn was not a pleasant experience. She remembered very little of her own. Most people didn’t recall it afterward. But she’d witnessed others during the throes of theirs and it was a terrible, agonizing experience to watch. If the one being turned was tied down, chained down, or otherwise restrained, they screamed, shrieked, and thrashed, trying to break free. During two of the ones she’d witnessed, the turnees had thrashed so wildly they’d broken bones in their wrists, arms, ankles, and legs, just elongating the experience. But if they weren’t restrained, they had been known to try to rip their own skin off or claw their eyes out in a desperate bid to end the agony.
Watching his mother go through that would have been more than traumatizing for a five-year-old child, Ildaria thought and shook her head with dismay. “How could they let him see that?”
“He was not supposed to. His mother, Mary, had asked her neighbor, who was also apparently a friend, to take him for the night. But Mary’s turning took longer than a night. Sometimes, it does,” she added gravely. “But Robert apparently did not realize that, or had not made it clear to Mary. She apparently told the neighbor that she would collect G.G. the next day. I gather her friend thought she meant in the morning, so when she hadn’t shown up by noon, the neighbor brought G.G. home, and heard the muffled screaming coming from inside. Unfortunately, she was a good enough friend that she had a key, and she opened the door, in a panic to help her friend. She told G.G. to wait by the door, but he followed her upstairs, arriving at the most inopportune time possible. Mary had just snapped the ropes Robert had used to bind her and was clawing her stomach open in a desperate attempt to end the pain.”
“Oh, God,” Ildaria breathed with horror.
Marguerite nodded. “Unfortunately, Robert was so distracted between attempting to restrain Mary again and trying to control the hysterical neighbor, that he was completely unaware of G.G.’s presence.” She sighed unhappily, and then said, “G.G. told me this some time ago. He said he wanted to run to his mother to comfort her, but she didn’t look like herself. Her face seemed to be boiling.”
Ildaria grimaced. She’d seen that on a turn a time or two. Usually on mortals who had acne or some other sort of scarring on their face. What young G.G. had thought was her face boiling, was the bioengineered nanos that made immortals what they were, working on removing the scarring and returning the skin to the perfe
ct, unblemished complexion they’d been born with. It was their job. They’d been programmed with blueprints of both a mortal female and a mortal male at their peak condition, and their one directive was to return their host to that peak condition.
“Yes, but G.G. did not know that,” Marguerite said on a sigh, obviously catching her thoughts. “So he ran before he was noticed, not stopping until he was outside. I gather the neighbor found him in the front garden, simply standing, staring at nothing when Robert sent her below with her memory erased and the thought that she’d talked to Mary and had agreed to keep G.G. another day.”
Ildaria frowned. “Well, surely, once he was returned they read his mind, realized what had happened and erased . . .” Ildaria fell silent. If they’d erased the memory, he couldn’t have told Marguerite about it.
“No. They did not realize. When Mary approached G.G. in the garden, he jerked as if just waking up, and then raced away when she tried to grab his hand to take him home. He ran right out into the street, in front of a lorry. It couldn’t stop in time to avoid hitting him.”
“Oh, sweet heavens above,” Ildaria breathed.
Marguerite nodded. “I gather he barely survived the accident, and he woke up in the hospital several days later in terrible pain. Mary’s turn had finished and she was at his bedside when he woke, but he had no memory of what had happened at all the day of the accident. He did not remember what he witnessed until years later, on his eighteenth birthday when Mary explained about immortals and offered to turn him. Then it came back to him in a rush of hellish memories.” She shook her head unhappily. “Of course, he was hardly going to agree to the turn with that image in his mind.”
“Of course not,” Ildaria agreed with understanding, but asked, “Why didn’t they wipe his memory when it came back to him?”
“It is not that easy,” Marguerite said quietly. “You cannot reach in and remove something as old as that without the risk of damaging the mind.”
“But—I mean, it may have been an old memory, but he only remembered it in that moment. It was gone before that.”
“Not gone. Cloaked,” Marguerite assured her. “It was always there in his mind, though, and while he didn’t consciously recall it, some part of his mind was aware of it. Apparently, he had terrible nightmares for years after the accident. Mary thought they were because of the accident, but they were about her being an alien or pod person or some such thing.”
“Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” Ildaria murmured and when Marguerite raised an eyebrow in question, explained, “It was the first movie Jess and I watched when I moved to the States. I gather it was first made in nineteen fifty . . . something, remade in the seventies, and then renamed just Body Snatchers and remade again in the nineties. It’s about these pods, from space I think, or maybe from the damage caused by pollution or something. I can’t remember, but when near sleeping humans they grow perfect replicas of them that then kill them and take over that person’s life.” She noted Marguerite’s wide-eyed expression and grimaced as she realized it didn’t really matter what had influenced his dreams about his mother. “Never mind. Go on.”
Marguerite nodded, took a moment to regather her thoughts, and then said, “At any rate, the memory was there all along, influencing him subconsciously, even if he couldn’t consciously remember it. So, trying to remove it . . .” She shook her head. “It could have damaged him terribly.” She paused briefly, and then added, “Besides, now that he knew about immortals, now that she’d explained them to him and he understood what he’d witnessed, it was a less horrifying memory.”
“But he still refused to turn,” she said, knowing that was the case, because the man was still mortal.
“Yes,” Marguerite said unhappily. “He claims he just has no wish to be immortal. He’s happy and fine being mortal, but I think what he witnessed is still affecting his choice. He does not wish to go through what he saw his mother suffer.” She met her gaze. “Mary was terribly upset when he refused her offer to turn him. No mother wants to lose her child and his not turning meant she would have to watch him age and die. So Robert bought the Night Club in London as a birthday gift for G.G. His hope was that with so much exposure to a varied number of immortals, G.G. would meet one he would be a life mate to and change his mind about the turn. But I do not think it is going to be as easy as that.”
Expression becoming grave, Marguerite warned, “I really think you need to take this slowly. If you cannot read him, keep it to yourself as long as you can. Hopefully, once he falls fully in love with you, which—as a life mate—he will not be able to resist doing . . . Hopefully then he will agree to the turn.”
“And if not, I get to watch him age and die alongside his mother and have to go on without him,” Ildaria said dryly, and then raised her head to the ceiling and growled loudly, “Argh! Why does everything in my life have to be so damned hard? Just once, couldn’t you let something be easy?”
Marguerite cleared her throat, and when Ildaria dropped her gaze back to her, said, “I assume you are talking to God?”
“Who else?” she asked, flicking a glare toward the ceiling.
“Yes, well . . . perhaps you should consider that you are very young to find a life mate. Most immortals are not this lucky and have to wait millennia.”
“Si, but—”
“And perhaps you should consider that all these difficulties, your troubles in Punta Cana, and then Montana, and now at university here . . . well, they did all work together to land you at the Night Club to meet G.G,” she pointed out gently.
A small smile tugged at the corner of Ildaria’s mouth at Marguerite’s pointing out the bright side to the hell that had been her life, but then she said, “Actually, you sent me to the Night Club to meet G.G., but I get your point. Quit my bitching. I’m lucky to have a problem like this.”
“Basically,” Marguerite agreed with a smile.
“Right,” she breathed and then stood up. “Well, I guess I’ll take H.D. upstairs to my room and ponder ways to make G.G. fall in love with me without revealing that we’re possible life mates.”
“It might help to consider the things he loves best in life,” Marguerite suggested.
Ildaria had started to turn away from the table, but paused and swung back now, her eyebrows rising. “Do you know what that might be?”
Marguerite nodded. “His dog, food, and women.”
Ildaria’s jaw tightened. “Women? In the plural?”
Marguerite shrugged. “It’s why women love him. He understands them, appreciates them, admires and loves them; all shapes and sizes and personality types. G.G. loves women.”
“Great,” Ildaria breathed and bent to scoop up H.D., muttering, “Come on, buddy. You’re sleeping with me tonight. Or, at least, you’ll get to sleep. I’ve got some thinking to do.”
G.G. was on his third cup of coffee when he heard the knock at the Night Club’s front door. Setting his cup down, he walked around the bar and headed for the door, moving at a quick clip.
Purely because he was eager to see H.D., G.G. told himself. It had nothing to do with the beautiful and charming Angelina Ildaria Sophia Lupita Garcia Pimienta. Even if just thinking her name made him smile.
Shaking his head at the thought, he quickly moved through the tables and chairs littering the center of this room of the club and unlocked the front door. The moment he opened it, H.D. started barking and launched himself at his legs.
Chuckling, G.G. bent to scoop up the little fur ball, crooning, “Hey buddy. How was your night? Did you miss me?”
“Of course he did.” Ildaria’s voice, soft and a little husky, brought his eyes to her and his smile widened as he took her in. She’d gone for a professional look for her first day on the job, donning a slim black pencil skirt and a white blouse. Her long, dark hair was up in a bun at the back of her neck, and while she wasn’t wearing any foundation or blush on her face, she didn’t need it. All immortals had a perfect complexion, but she seemed to h
ave a soft glow to her skin as well. Maybe from years sailing the seas under the Caribbean sun with the wind in her hair, and salt spray peppering her body in the sexy pirate outfit she’d described to him.
All right, he acknowledged, she probably hadn’t spent much time in the sun. She was immortal after all. But damn, did she glow. And while she wasn’t wearing the face paint most mortal females depended on, she was wearing a bright red lipstick that drew the eye to her pouty lips, as well as a bit of eyeliner that accented her large, gorgeous deep brown and gold eyes. She looked beautiful, he acknowledged, and then realizing he was blocking her from entering the building while he stood gawping at her like a love-struck teenager, G.G. cleared his throat, muttered a gruff, “Morning,” and turned away to head back to the bar, leaving her to follow.
“How was traffic?” he asked as he claimed one of the high-back bar stools, settled H.D. in his lap, and reached for his coffee.
“It started to pick up at the end of the drive, but was good most of the way,” Ildaria said lightly, taking the seat next to his.
It put her close enough that he could smell her perfume, a mix of vanilla and spice. It made him think of muffins, which made him hungry. And then he became aware of the heat coming off her body, and realized that if he shifted just the tiniest bit to his left, his arm would rub against hers. It made G.G. think perhaps they had too many bar stools along the bar. Maybe a few should be removed and the remaining stools spaced out farther to give customers more personal space.
“How was your night?” she asked.
Fighting the urge to shift a bit to his left to better feel her heat and perhaps even rub up against her, G.G. took a sip of coffee before answering. “Good. Busy as usual. Thanks for the pictures,” he added, recalling the photos she’d sent him during the course of the night and morning. The first had been of H.D. cuddled up with Julius on a dog bed, the pair both sleeping. The next had been of H.D. curled up against Ildaria’s legs on a bed. The picture had focused mainly on H.D. and had only shown her legs from mid-thigh down, but they’d been bare, and he’d found himself staring at them and wondering what she wore to bed, if anything. The next two pictures had been waiting for him when he’d woken up this morning, one of H.D. and Julius playing in Marguerite’s large backyard. The other of H.D. and Julius, side by side, gobbling up their breakfast. The last picture she’d sent had been just a little more than half an hour ago and had been of H.D. standing on the front passenger seat of the car, looking out the half-open window, his fur blowing in the breeze. Which reminded him—