On the drive back to Jackson, Conal and I discussed what Nonny had hinted. “Do you think she really does know what's going on with me?”
Conal shrugged. “With Nonny, anything's possible. She's the keeper of the pack's history, knows a lot she doesn't tell. The stories from our pack have been handed down, from generation to generation. Of course, the younger ones don't put too much store on the old stories; think a lot of them are superstitious mumbo jumbo. But Nonny's family has been the healers and secret keepers of our pack for thousands of years past. If anyone knows anything, it's likely to be Nonny.”
I yawned tiredly, watching headlights coming towards us on the steamy road. Even at close to midnight, the temperature was warm, the night air humid and sticky.
“You're tired,” Conal commented softly.
“I don't sleep well,” I admitted. There seemed to be no way of escaping Lucas in my sleep – every night he reached me in nightmares and it was always the same – Lucas running towards me, bloodlust clear in his eyes and I would attack him, a bright light erupting from my fingers and forcing him away. In my nightmares, he never survived and I woke at least two or three times each night, seeing him lying with his eyes wide open and lifeless.
“It's not surprising; the nightmares are keeping you from sleeping properly.” He reached across in the darkness and rubbed my thigh softly. “I hear you moaning and crying. Sometimes you scream.”
“I'm sorry. I didn't realize. I must be disturbing you.”
“It's okay, I wasn't complaining. But I worry about you.” He stopped rubbing my leg and held his arm up across the back of the seat. “Come over here,” he demanded quietly.
I slid across the bench seat until I nestled against his hip and he held me close as he drove along the quiet interstate. “You still miss him, don't you?”
Tears welled in my eyes and I brushed them away. “I'm trying, Conal, I really am.”
“I know, Sugar. What I don't get is the hold he has over you. It's like… I guess it's like a piece of you died when you broke up with him. You're here, you're living, but you still seem… tied to him. Like your happiness is dependent on him being part of your life.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking over his words. “I guess – I don't know. I feel like I am tied to him. My heart, my soul – everything inside me feels as though it's a part of him.”
Conal's arm stiffened on my shoulder and I peeked at him. His jaw was clenched, his eyes hard. “I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you want to hear.”
“You know he's dead?” he said abruptly. Seeing my startled look, he swore under his breath. “I know, I know. He walks and talks and pretends to breathe and all, but he's dead,” he said, bitterness in his tone. “And I'm alive, and breathing, and wanting you so badly that I ache when I hear you crying during the night.”
I blinked back tears, trying to find the right words to say. I wanted to make him feel better, but didn't know if I had the power to do it. “Conal—” I paused, trying to figure out what to say. “I do like you. I think a part of me loves you, a little bit. I'm just not sure there's enough of my heart left to give you. I don't think I can love you as much as you want me to. As much as you deserve. And I wish it were different. Maybe, with time, it will be.”
“That's all I want,” Conal responded huskily. “To think there might be a chance for you and me. I'm prepared to wait for it to happen, as long as I think there's a chance.” He kissed my forehead and squeezed my shoulder softly.
We continued the journey in companionable silence and I thought over a myriad of things. The silence in the truck gave me the opportunity to compartmentalize the new voices of spirits who'd joined me, allowing them to introduce themselves.
“Do you still hear their voices?” Conal queried in the darkness. “The spirits of Lucas's ancestors and the others?”
I nodded. “I hear all the voices, although I try to box theirs up.” I cringed at hearing Lucas's name spoken aloud; it was something I avoided because of the painful ripple it caused in my heart. “But sometimes when I'm tired, or not concentrating, they manage to reach me.”
There was silence for a moment before Conal spoke again. “What do they say?”
“I'd rather not talk about it,” I admitted carefully. I'd already hurt Conal tonight, I didn't want to hurt him more by letting him know Lucas's ancestors, along with Marianne's, Striker's, Ripley's – in fact all of them – were doing their level best to get me to return to Puckhaber Falls.
Conal seemed content to let the subject drop and lifted his arm from my shoulder as we reached the city. We pulled into the underground car park at his apartment block and made our way upstairs. At my bedroom door, Conal paused. “Goodnight, Charlotte.”
“Goodnight.” I was torn between a desire to have Conal kiss me again and an urge to flee into the bedroom. We stood there gazing at one another until Conal leaned forward and brushed a fleeting kiss over my cheek. I watched him walk away, down the hallway to his bedroom before I turned to enter my room. I was more confused than ever, disappointed that he didn't kiss me, relieved that he hadn't. Perhaps I was losing my mind.
I changed into a tank top and cotton pajama bottoms, throwing my clothes into the hamper in the bathroom. After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I fell into bed and lay on my back, staring at the pattern on the ceiling thrown by the bedside lamp. When sleep came, it was filled with the recurring nightmares I'd suffered for weeks. Lucas could be kept from my mind during the day, but couldn't be escaped at night. Repeatedly, I saw him leaping at me, teeth bared, eyes wild as I tried to run from him. Every time, the nightmare would suddenly shift and I'd be lifting my hand towards Lucas, white light erupting from my fingertips and he would be flung away from me. When I looked down, he was laying at my feet, his eyes staring and lifeless…
I woke to the sound of screaming, realized it was my own and sobbed, clutching my head in my hands. Clammy and breathing heavily, I felt the bed shift and turned to find Conal beside me. His upper torso was bare, he wore only pajama bottoms and in the lamplight, I could see the firm muscle in his chest and abdomen. Without a word, he pulled the covers back and climbed into bed beside me, holding me in his arms as I sobbed.
Conal lay silently until my crying jag subsided and I had calmed. His fingers traced endless patterns against my shoulder, his touch warm and comforting.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being here.” I pulled myself up so I could lean against my fist and look down at him. His black eyes were fathomless in the dim lamplight, his face more boyish, less rugged. I reached up to touch his dark hair and my fingers brushed across his cheek. He captured my wrist, encircling it with his big hand.
“Charlotte – don't,” he said gruffly. “Don't do this, unless you really want to follow through.”
I stared at him, my thoughts confused, wondering what I really wanted. “I don't know,” I finally admitted.
He sighed and released my wrist, capturing my hand in his and intertwining our fingers. “I've dreamed of you being in my bed for so many nights, dreamed of all the things I want to do with you. I know in my heart that you aren't ready for my dreams. But…” he looked up into my eyes, his own a pool of swiftly whirling emotions, “let me stay tonight. Just share this bed with me, nothing else. Let me sleep with you in my arms, holding you close and I'll keep the bad dreams away. Please.” The last word was soft, almost pleading and I closed my eyes, unable to bear the fact that this man loved me so much and I wasn't capable of returning the love he deserved. But I could give him this, could stay with him, and let him hold me close, feel his heart beating beneath my cheek.
I nodded and dropped down into his waiting arms. He encircled me with his strength and love and I felt safe.
Chapter 26: Talk of Angels
Nonny Tremaine was waiting when we arrived the following morning, sitting out on the porch in a wicker chair. She was dressed in a bright red skirt and a colorful floral blo
use, her feet encased in flat sandals. Her white hair was plaited and hung down across her right shoulder. She saw the car arrive and picked up a straw hat, shoving it firmly onto her head whilst she waited for Conal to help her down the steps.
“Slide over, young woman,” she commanded with a grin when Conal assisted her into the truck. “Conal, why can't you have a normal car that's easy for an old lady like me to get into?”
Conal smiled tenderly at his grandmother. “Come on, Nonny. You know you love going out in my truck.” He helped her with the seatbelt, and then shut the door gently before striding around and easing back into the driver's seat. He glanced past me at his grandmother. “So where are we going?”
“Merryweather Street in Jackson. The old Episcopalian church.”
Conal frowned as he started the ignition. “I thought that church closed years ago.”
A small smiled played across Nonny's lips. “It did.”
“So why are we going there?” Conal pressed.
“Because I know someone lives there. Someone who remembers a lot of our past, along with the history of other supernatural beings. I think he may have answer for young Charlotte.”
“Mrs. Tremaine?” I saw her disapproving frown and adjusted accordingly. “Nonny, do you really think you can tell me why I have this ability?”
“I have my suspicions of what you are, my dear. But the gentleman we're going to visit is the one with the true knowledge. I think we should wait to talk with him. But why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself? Conal tells me you're an artist…”
The drive to Merryweather Street took us back into the heart of Jackson. Where Conal's apartment was southwest of the city, he drove further east, through an area which seemed older and dilapidated. There were a lot of brownstones, peeling paint on their stoops, windows cracked and filmed with dirt. This area was quiet; very few people venturing out on what was shaping up to be a beautiful Saturday morning. It felt a little creepy and I shivered, goose bumps rising on my skin. Conal, who'd been resting his hand against my thigh (much to Nonny's delight), squeezed my leg gently. “This area of Jackson is where most of the supernatural live. There's another pack of werewolves, smaller than ours. Some shape shifters, a Kiss of vamps and a few warlocks.”
I was Alice and I'd stepped through the looking glass. Not so long ago, the mythical beings he'd mentioned had belonged in books, legends to be screamed at in the movies. It still seemed somewhat unreal to know they really existed. Not only did they exist, but also, I was sitting sandwiched between two of them right now. A smile played on my lips as I considered Nonny Tremaine turning into a wolf. The image was somehow incompatible with the little older lady sitting beside me in a bright red skirt.
Conal pulled the truck to a halt in front of a big old church, the grey stone aged and pockmarked. In my estimations, it must have been built more than a hundred years ago. Tall arched windows nestled at either side of wooden double doors and gargoyles with sightless eyes watched over the hodgepodge of old headstones that littered the grounds. It was like no Episcopalian church I'd ever seen before – this church seemed more suited to medieval England than southern America. The grounds surrounding the church were enclosed by an antiquated fence built of stone and mounted with wrought iron spikes in a regular formation. Any traces of paint had worn off years ago and the metal spikes were the rich red-orange of rust. There was an air of decay about the building, a sensation of abandonment that made me shiver in the warm June air. The hairs on my arms rose and I felt a trickle of something, some power floating around us. I couldn't begin to figure out what it might be, but it made me nervous.
Nonny was marching towards a rusty gate, which was fixed into the imposing fence. She was remarkably sprightly and I wondered how old she was. I asked Conal as we walked to the gate, trailing behind Nonny.
“She's one hundred and twenty seven next month,” he responded, holding the gate open.
“One hundred and twenty seven,” I repeated vacantly.
“Werewolves live longer than humans.”
“I see.” We walked up the weed-covered path towards the church and I stopped abruptly, looking at Conal and Nonny curiously. “Can you go in there?”
Conal grinned, the dimples in his cheeks deepening. “We're werewolves, Charlotte, not bloodsuckers. They can't enter consecrated ground, but it doesn't make any difference to us.”
Nonny pounded on the heavy wooden door and we waited in the sultry heat for a long while.
“Maybe they aren't home?” I suggested after another minute. I was hoping they weren't – the spine-tingling chill hadn't gone away and I wanted to leave.
“Of course he's home,” Nonny announced. She banged on the door again with surprising strength. “He's expecting us.”
“Who's expecting us?” Conal asked.
There was the sound of locks being turned from the other side of the heavy door and it eased open slowly, allowing a glimpse into the darkened interior. A head suddenly popped around the door, beady blue eyes staring at us from behind enormous round spectacles. “Nonny Tremaine, a pleasure to see you again. Come in, come in!”
We entered the cool sanctuary of the church and I looked around with interest. The inside of the church was as unChurchlike as it could possibly be. Where there should be pews, an altar and the vestments of an Episcopalian church, instead it had been converted into an apartment. A remarkably full apartment. Every wall was covered with bookcases, spreading from the floor right through to the highest level of the vaulted ceiling. There was a long wooden table where the altar should be, piled high with books and masses of paper and a variety of artifacts, all of which looked both interesting and slightly alarming. An aroma of old paper, leather and tobacco smoke hung heavily in the air. To one side, a fire burned in a hearth, an enormous iron kettle hanging near it on a sturdy hook. In the middle of the room was an overstuffed couch, resting on spindly legs. It too was piled high with books, some resting open and others piled precariously one upon the other.
“Epimetheus, I'd like to introduce you to my grandson, Conal Tremaine and his friend, Charlotte Duncan,” Nonny announced. “Charlotte, Conal; this is Epimetheus Vander.”
He was short, probably only a smidgen over five feet tall. His face was dominated by huge round glasses, held upon a bulbous nose. He looked ancient – his face lined with wrinkles which were deep and gave him the appearance of a tiny elephant. His head was almost bald, just a tuft of white hair created a halo around his skull.
He wore strange clothes - old-fashioned brown pants with a dull red tunic, leather boots on his feet. The tunic had been hand sewn with leather cord, the stitches large. He held out his hand, shaking ours with a firm grip that belied his apparent age. “And what brings you here on this fine Saturday morning, I wonder?” he asked.
“You know why we're here,” Nonny responded impatiently. “I rang you to talk about this young lady.”
I doubted this was a good idea – the man's appearance and attitude were so bizarre, he might have lost his mental faculties, or been gripped by dementia. He couldn't possibly help us.
Conal was obviously having similar doubts, wrapping his arm around my waist protectively. “Nonny, what is this about?”
Nonny turned her attention to me, a soft smile on her lips and curiosity in her eyes. “Did you read anything from him, Charlotte?”
I shook my head wordlessly. I hadn't realized there were no new voices until Nonny mentioned it. I'd been so stunned by the strange little man standing before me; he was all I could think about. I searched a second time, but found nothing and shook my head again.
“As I suspected,” Nonny grinned triumphantly. “Epimetheus is a warlock.”
“I don't understand.” I was completely nonplussed by this announcement and nervous because I couldn't hear voices from this tiny man. It meant I could be in danger.
Epimetheus was suddenly all business and seemed clearer-minded. “What you told me might be true, Nonny.” He smile
d broadly at Conal and I, the wide beam showing a distinct lack of teeth. “Let's sit down and chat, shall we?” He waved his arm politely towards the overstuffed couch and I wondered how we were expected to sit on it, when it was covered with books. The couch faded and disappeared, replaced by a rather rickety table with four chairs around it. I blinked, and not for the first time, I thought I was losing my mind.
Conal led me over to the table and pulled out a chair. I sat down gingerly, wondering if something which had just… appeared could possibly be solid. Conal pulled a second chair out and sat by my side. Nonny sat to our right and Epimetheus took the chair opposite.
“Now, let me explain what that was all about, my dear.” He spoke in a clear voice, unexpected from someone so elderly. His voice was strong with a trace of an accent, possibly English. “When Nonny telephoned and told me about you, I was convinced you were just an excellent psychic, perhaps even a fraud. I wanted to see if you professed to being able to read my mind, or whether there was the remotest possibility of you being what Nonny suspects.”
I glanced from the old man to Conal and back, frowning in confusion. “I'm sorry. I don't have a clue what you're talking about.”
Epimetheus spoke to Nonny. “You haven't told them anything, I take it?”
“Of course not. We need to be certain,” Nonny responded.
Conal stood up abruptly, his eyes blazing with annoyance. “Nonny, I didn't bring Charlotte here to listen to you two talking in riddles.”
“Sit down.” Nonny's voice was firm, her words echoing around the interior of the church.
Conal sat down slowly, staring at his grandmother as though he was wondering about her mental faculties.
Epimetheus studied me for a long time, his eyes magnified enormously behind the glasses. 'Charlotte, if you had come in here and been able to contact my ancestors, I would have chosen one of two options. You were a remarkably good psychic – and that was all – or you were a fraud. You went down neither of those paths. Which proved to Nonny and myself that you may be what I've studied and searched for, nearly all of my life." He saw the puzzlement in my eyes and shook his head. “I need to start from the beginning, I can see.”
Knowledge Quickening (The Nememiah Chronicles Book 2) Page 20