by Stuart, Anne
The sleet had halted, but the wind still blew wildly through the huge pines, and in the distance he could see the faint light of another storm-ridden dawn. He would leave, and when her time came again, he would send someone else, someone impervious to her and the siren call of weakness. He had tasted life, but he was Death. He would not forget again.
He dressed in the darkness, out on the balcony, covering his eyes with his dark glasses for the last time. He wouldn't even say goodbye. She would mourn, and then she would grow angry, but she would never know the truth.
The voices were calling him. The old man, fading, well past his time. Another voice, louder still. A woman's voice, nearby. He recognized it with a start. The other voices were a rumble in the distance, but this one, he knew, couldn't wait.
He could feel the change coming over him, and he knew there was nothing he could do, no bargain he could make, to stop the inevitable. He'd had his respite, his brief glimpse of paradise. It was time to return to the dark place where he ruled supreme.
He would take up his role once more. He would take the soul that called to him, and in doing so, he would be gone. And there would be no turning back.
Laura woke with a start. Murky daylight was seeping in the French doors, and she was in his bed. Alone.
She lifted her head, looking around with the futile hope that he was still there, but she knew in every cell of her well-loved body that he was gone. She sat up, pulling the duvet around her, listening to the strong, steady beat of her heart. The breath that filled her lungs, the blood that pumped through her veins. The sheer sense of strength and physical well-being. And then she felt it begin to fade.
She slid out of bed quickly, wincing at the aches in her body. She took a quick shower, throwing on clean clothes and shoving her fingers through her still-wet tangle of hair before she started out into the hallway in search of him.
He would be drinking coffee, she knew it. He would be cool and noncommittal, and she would have to do her best to be equally sophisticated. To convince him that last night she hadn't died and gone to heaven.
There was no smell of coffee permeating the downstairs, her first signal that something was very wrong. It was after seven—Mrs. Hawkins was usually up by five and on her second batch of coffee by then. The dining room was cold and dark—the kerosene lamps had burned down, and no one had replenished them. The fireplace held nothing but coals, and the silence was ominous.
Her first thought was to check on her father. He lay in his bed, scarcely breathing. He was alive, but just barely. He was also alone, with no sign of Maria or any of Laura's siblings.
"Mrs. Hawkins! Maria?" she called as she ran down toward the kitchen. It was empty, as well, dark and cold. Far in the distance she thought she heard a faint pounding, voices calling to her, but before she could go in search of the source, lightning flashed again, illuminating the darkened kitchen.
She looked out toward the ravine below, and she could see them. Jeremy, dragging a woman who could only be Cynthia down the steep pathway that led to Nichols Ravine. And a tall, dark figure following behind them. Almost floating.
Somewhere along the way, she'd lost her strength. She slammed out the kitchen door, calling to them, but her voice was captured by the wind and whipped away. Yesterday she could run without pain—this morning her heart ached in her chest, and her breath rasped in her throat.
She started after them in a stumbling run, afraid of what she would find, but they couldn't, or wouldn't, hear her. Cynthia was fighting, screaming, but she was no match for Jeremy's unexpected strength. And the dark figure followed behind, saying and doing nothing.
She fell once, slamming down into the hard, cold earth, and she half expected the iciness of death to come for her. But there was no bright light, no explosive finale. She scrambled to her feet once more, and by the time she caught up with them they were at the edge of the ravine, the rustic deck of the family compound hanging over them, and Jeremy had his thick hands wrapped around Cynthia's throat as she kicked at him, struggling desperately.
"You won't die!" he screamed at her, and her body shook with the force of his fury. "Nothing kills you. Not carbon monoxide, not poison. I'm going to damned well choke the life out of you with my bare hands and then throw you over the ravine. We'll see if you survive that, you bitch. You can't cheat me out of the money. I earned it. I earned it sucking up to the old man, always being the good boy, doing what I was told. But I'm not going to anymore. It's all going to be mine, sooner or later. And I'm not going to give you the chance to get in my way."
"Jeremy!" Laura screamed. "What in God's name are you doing? Let go of her!"
His hands didn't loosen their death grip around his wife's throat, and the hoarse, choking noises Cynthia was making filled the eerie morning. "What does it look like, you stupid fool? I'll kill you, as well. I was willing to wait—you were living on borrowed time as it was, but now I can't afford to do that." With a last, wrenching twist, he dropped Cynthia's body on the ground. Laura had no idea whether she was alive or dead; all she knew was that Jeremy was advancing on her, and there was no mistaking the purposeful madness in his eyes.
Alex stood at the edge of the clearing, surrounded by the morning fog, indistinct, watching, saying nothing, making no move to come to her rescue. "Are you just going to stand there?" she demanded of him, backing away from her murderous stepbrother. "Aren't you going to stop him?"
Jeremy halted his determined advance. "Who are you talking to?" he demanded in a bizarrely irritated voice.
"Is he part of this whole plan?" Laura demanded, backing away from him and his murderous, outstretched hands. "Did you bring him here to seduce me, to keep me busy while you murdered everyone who stood in the way of your getting Father's money?"
Jeremy followed her gaze to Alex's still, waiting figure. "I don't know what you're talking about. There's no one left alive here but you and me."
As if to refute his claim, Cynthia made a faint moan, but Jeremy just shrugged. "She won't survive a fall down Nichols Ravine," he said. "Nor will you. I can't imagine what people will think happened. Perhaps I'll tell them Cynthia was despondent. Maybe you came after her, trying to stop her suicidal desperation, and in the struggle you both fell. I think that would work very well, don't you?"
She turned to look at Alex. "Can't you stop him?" she cried again.
Jeremy's expression of affable determination vanished. "There's no one there!"
"No," Alex said, and his voice was deeper, richer, more unsettling. The sound of it drew Jeremy's attention, and suddenly he was able to focus on what he'd failed to see before.
"How long have you been there?" Jeremy demanded, his voice rising in panic.
"He followed you down here," Laura said. "Don't you realize you can't get away with it? Even if you're strong enough to throw Cynthia over the ravine, even if you managed to kill me, as well, I'll still fight you. I'll fight you enough to make you give me bruises, and then people will wonder..."
"You already have bruises," Jeremy said, pulling himself together. "Doubtless courtesy of your friend there. He's already told you he won't stop me, though I'm not sure why. Maybe he knows I can be generous. Or maybe he knows that he's a more obvious candidate if anyone starts to get suspicious, and he has the good sense to get the hell out of here.''
"Why won't you stop him, Alex?" Laura whispered. "Do you want him to kill me?" She was half-afraid of the answer. He looked oddly indistinct in the misty gloom, almost insubstantial, and she couldn't begin to guess at the expression behind his mirrored glasses.
Alex moved forward through the mist, and overhead the lightning crackled in the gloomy sky. "He won't kill you," he said, and there seemed to be a built-in echo to his voice.
"The hell I won't," Jeremy said, lunging for her.
She was so mesmerized by panic that she didn't see Alex move. One moment he was halfway across the clearing; in the next he put his hand on Jeremy's shoulder, with seemingly the lightest of touches.<
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The white-hot light sizzled, illuminating the clearing with a blinding dazzle. Laura fell back, covering her eyes instinctively, and in the distance she heard a muffled cry, followed by a powerful clap of thunder.
She sank to her knees on the damp earth, terrified beyond coherence, shaking as the thunder shook the earth. It died away slowly, the brilliant white light faded back to the overcast morning, and slowly she opened her eyes.
Jeremy lay at her feet, his eyes open, staring, his face fixed in a grim rictus of death. She had no doubt that he was gone, nor did she question what had happened. She turned and looked at Alex, across the clearing. He looked as if he hadn't moved.
"You killed him," she said. "How?"
"I took him," he told her, his voice emotionless. "And it doesn't matter how. You'd better see to his widow."
Cynthia lay crumpled up against the lower railing, stirring slightly, a faint, choking rasp signaling that she was still alive. Laura sank down beside her, pulling her into her arms, stroking her tangled hair.
"It's all right, Cynthia," she whispered. "No one will hurt you. It's over."
Cynthia's eyes blinked open, and she stared up at Laura in uncomprehending horror. "Jeremy," she managed to gasp. "He was trying to kill me."
"He's dead, Cynthia. He won't be able to hurt you."
Cynthia turned her head, her eyes focusing on the other figure in the clearing. And then she screamed, the choked sound eerie. "No!" she gasped. "Don't let him near me. Don't let him hurt me!" She clawed at Laura's arm.
"Cynthia, I told you. Jeremy's dead. He won't hurt anyone again."
"Not Jeremy." Cynthia's voice was choked. "That…that thing." Her voice was deep with horror and loathing as she stared at Alex's dark, shadowy figure.
"Laura!" She could hear her father's voice from the deck overhead now, and the babble of confusion, as Maria and Mrs. Hawkins were crying and talking. She released her hold on Cynthia, then turned and rose, confronting the man who stood there. Realizing for the first time just how insubstantial he was.
She turned to him, amazed at how calm she was. "What is she talking about, Alex?" she said. "Who are you? Why do I know you?"
"Don't let him touch you!" William shouted from overhead. She glanced up, just for a moment, to see her frail father leaning on the railing, shaking a fist down at Alex. "He can't have you, damn it."
She turned back to him, taking a tentative step toward him. "Who are you?" she asked again.
He retreated. One small step away from her, as if he were afraid of her touch. Which was odd, she thought, since everyone seemed to feel she was the one who should be afraid.
"Don't you know?" Cynthia spit out the words like a curse. "Don't you recognize him? He's Death. The Grim Reaper. And he's come to take you."
Laura raised her head, staring up at him. Oddly enough, she felt nothing more than profound relief. She had known him. Through her darkest times, he'd been there, a presence, a comfort. He was part of her, and now she knew why.
"No," he said, his voice echoing in the morning stillness.
"Don't lie to her." William's choked voice came from overhead. "She's too damned smart to be tricked. Take me instead. I'm an old man, a bad man. I've lived out my life."
"I'm not going to take her."
The words fell into the clearing like a stone into water. And then Laura spoke.
"Why not?"
The question was simple, almost childlike in its curiosity.
He seemed to be growing larger now, shimmering in the murky light, and his voice took on the echoes of a thousand years. "Someone else will come for you when it's your time," he said, and even so, she could hear the desperation in him.
"Why not you?" she persisted, taking another step toward him.
He backed away again. "Because that's not how things work. I rule in hell, and I serve in heaven. If I were to take you, it would only be to pass you on."
"And if I didn't want to go?"
She could feel his fury, his longing, in every fiber of her well-loved body. As the moments passed, she was feeling more and more certain, and the strange hope began burning inside her, between her breasts.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"What if I want to stay with you?"
"Laura, no!" William cried out, but she ignored him.
"What if I wanted to come with you, be with you, forever?" she went on.
"Don't be a fool," he shot back bitterly. "This isn't some fantasy. We're talking about eternity. An endless black ether, a vast cloud of emptiness."
"It wouldn't be empty," she said very simply. "You would be there."
She took another step toward him, but he had nowhere to retreat. "You have no idea what you're asking," he said.
"Listen to him, Laura," Cynthia begged. "Get away from him."
"No." It wasn't a word she had used very often. But she used it now, her eyes never leaving his face. She reached out her hand, and he flinched.
"Don't let me touch you," he said. "If I do, you'll die."
"You touched me before," she said. Her heart was racing too fast, but she didn't care. She willed it to go faster, to speed up and burst.
"I've gone back to what I really am."
"And what is that?"
"Power," he said flatly. "Energy. Death."
"And love," she said.
"It's not a fairy tale, Laura!" he cried, and there was no missing the desperation in his voice.
"You love me," she said, very certain.
"What does Death know about love?" He yanked the sunglasses from his face as he loomed over her. "Look at me, and tell me you're not afraid."
She heard Cynthia's piteous shriek, the babbled prayers of the women above her, her father's choked gasp. None of it mattered. She looked up at Alex, into his eyes for the first time.
They were dark, endless, and she knew why so many were terrified of him. In those bottomless depths she could see herself, quite clearly, and she could see the future. The endless night that held nothing but him.
"Why should I be afraid?" she asked gently. "You've always been with me. You always will be, unless I let you go."
"Laura!" her father shrieked, but it was too late. She took a final step toward him and threw herself against his shimmering, vibrating body.
The white light filled the air, blinding her. The crackle of lightning singed around her; thunder shook the earth. And from somewhere far away his arms came around her, wrapping her tight against him.
They stood, bound together, in the midst of a tornado. She raised her face to his, and there was no horror in his eyes. No regret, just a fierce, possessive joy.
"I tried to save you," he said, though there were no words spoken. "Now you've lost everything. You'll be trapped with me throughout eternity."
For the first time in her existence she was exactly where she needed to be. He was warn and strong against her body, and when she looked up into his black eyes all she could see was love. "Even eternity isn't time enough," she said.
She closed her eyes as he kissed her, and the voices faded into the distance. Eternity was just beginning.
Dear Reader,
I've always been fascinated with the relationship between love and death. One is the ultimate light, the other is the ultimate darkness, and the joining of the two is deliciously, terrifyingly extreme.
This is a beauty-and-the-beast fantasy taken to the very limit—there's no pulling back from death, no settling down in an apartment with a two-car garage with the Grim Reaper. In order to love Death, you have to be willing to give it all, with no future, no past, nothing but a deep, velvet now. That kind of complete surrender, and triumph, can provide the ultimate satisfaction. Small things no longer matter—destiny is in force now, and the real world slips away.
For a woman to accept Death as her lover, she has to be very brave, selfless, loving.
For Death to succumb to human weakness, to a human female, he has to be willing to risk ever
ything, as well. Human emotions are foreign, and dangerous. But Death, like his true love, is willing to chance it.
The happy ending for such a union is, of course, bittersweet. But the greatest victories are always so. Prepare to take a dark ride on life's most fascinating amusement park attraction. Death, and its polar opposite, love. And the mesmerizing union the two create.
Anne Stuart
About Anne Stuart
Anne Stuart is a grandmaster of the genre, winner of Romance Writers of America's prestigious Lifetime Achievement Award, survivor of more than thirty-five years in the romance business, and still just keeps getting better.
Her first novel was Barrett's Hill, a gothic romance published by Ballantine in 1974 when Anne had just turned 25. Since then she's written more gothics, regencies, romantic suspense, romantic adventure, series romance, suspense, historical romance, paranormal and mainstream contemporary romance for publishers such as Doubleday, Harlequin, Silhouette, Avon, Zebra, St. Martins Press, Berkley, Dell, Pocket Books and Fawcett.
She’s won numerous awards, appeared on most bestseller lists, and speaks all over the country. Her general outrageousness has gotten her on Entertainment Tonight, as well as in Vogue, People, USA Today, Women’s Day and countless other national newspapers and magazines.
When she’s not traveling, she’s at home in Northern Vermont with her luscious husband of forty years, an empty nest, five sewing machines, and when she’s not working she’s watching movies, listening to rock and roll(preferably Japanese) and spending far too much time quilting and making doll clothes because she has no intention of ever growing up.
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