"Kris," he says, his voice rumbling over my shoulders.
He takes one step. A second. And a third.
I subconsciously count the steps with him. When he steps out of the sunlight to stand in front of me, I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
"Sorry to barge in like this," I say, wringing my fingers together.
He doesn't reply. But his forehead furrows. Dark eyebrows slash over turquoise-blue eyes.
Sofia's coloring was similar. They are not related; they don't look like each other at all. Just the coloring.
His eyes sweep over my body before they settle on my features. He's studying my face, trying to place me.
"You don't know me," I say quickly. "Sofia, my grandmother, she..." I swallow.
I never knew Sofia that well. Yet now, when she's gone, her words are all I can think about.
Dropping my backpack to the floor, I rummage inside. Then, straightening, hand the note to him. "She left me this."
He scans the note and his lips tighten. His skin pales under that blue-black coloring. He's almost as dark me. As dark as her.
A gust of wind blows in through the window, bringing the smell of vehicle fumes and dust from the road below. But mixed in with them a whisper of peppery wood smoke. I just know that's him. His scent.
I feel an internal tug as if he's physically reached out and touched me, and a twinge in my womb takes me by surprise. It feels as if a cord has latched onto me and he's pulling me closer. I want to reach out and touch him.
No!
I push back against it, but that tug only grows stronger, churning my insides. I shut my eyes, my breath coming out in small puffs. My head whirls, trying to resist the pull. What is this? Do I know him? But it's the first time I’ve met him. Surely I'd have known if I saw him before?
He catches me staring, and my cheeks grow warm.
"You okay?" he asks.
The concern in his voice sends a shudder down my back.
I don’t want to stay.
Don't want to know who he is, what he means to me. She was right. Sofia was right. The churning swells, twisting my gut, making me nauseous. The sickness rushes over me, and world goes dark.
4
The ceiling fan swirls slowly, cutting through the heavy air in the room. I am flat on my back on a bed. I run my palms over the uneven surface of sheets. Rough cotton sheets. And turn my head to see him—Kris—stretched out on the far side, one arm flung out as if reaching out to me.
A shudder runs down my spine. All I can think is: Get away. Get away from here, before he tells you who you are and what your “real” purpose in life is. Before he seals your fate forever. I slide out of bed, my bare feet hitting the floor.
I’m not wearing my jeans. Did he take them off?
I look around. Walking over to the table, I pull my jeans off the chair in front of it. I slip one leg into them; then I see it.
There, framed on the table, is a print. A painting. Forgetting to pull on the other leg, I lean closer. Closer still, 'til my chest is almost parallel to the table. No, I wasn't mistaken. It actually is a close-up of the vagina and stomach of a naked woman, lying on a bed with legs spread.
Below the black curls, the folds of the skin bulge on either side of a slit. A slit that is not a slit but much, much juicier and much more erotic than the actual lips of the vagina which crowns it.
"L'Origine du Monde."
"Oh! What?" I turn around, forgetting I haven't pulled on my jeans completely and almost trip.
"The Origin of the World," he translates.
"Yes, of course, I know," I say, half-angry with myself at being so surprised. "A painting by Gustave Courbet, the French artist," I add, pulling the other leg of my pants up and zipping my jeans. "I was just surprised to see it here, is all."
"Gustave was wise, wasn't he? He knew the origins of all of us started between a woman's legs. The most sacred of spaces."
A ripple runs down my back and lodges at the base of my spine when he says that. And a sudden tug in my belly has my eyes darting from the picture to him. Is he making a pass at me? But his eyes are focused on the picture, his features almost worshipful, respectful even.
As if sensing my gaze, his eyes swivel to mine. He runs them over my jean-clad legs.
"Going somewhere?" He frowns.
"Yeah. Back home." I run my hands through my hair, my bare feet braced against the tiled floor.
"At this time of the night?" he asks. "The ferry doesn't start till 6 a.m."
Those eyes glitter in the dark room, now lit only by the fluorescent streetlight that throws a dirty-white gleam over the floor.
"So, I'll wait at the pier." I shrug.
"You're exhausted." His concern sounds genuine.
When I don't reply, he slides across my side of the bed then stands up in one fluid motion. I am struck again by how he moves. As if his joints are particularly well-oiled. As if there is less friction between him and the world than for most people.
Whatever had pulled at me and made me sick seems to have quietened. My insides feel fragile, though, as if they've been yanked awake. As if...as if my womb is coming alive. A shivering starts somewhere inside. I hug my arms round myself, but that doesn't help.
Picking up a glass of water next to the bed, he takes a step towards me.
And it's as if he's stepped within the circumference of where that invisible cord clicks into place, and there it is again, that slight tug at my belly.
No, no. I can't allow whatever it was that made me nauseous earlier to start up again, not now, not when I am just beginning to feel human again. I thrust out a trembling hand in his direction, and he stops.
"You okay?" His voice is soft as if trying to soothe a scared animal.
"No, I am not okay," I say. "Who are you? Why am I here?"
"Ah! You have a lot of questions, I know. Do you want to talk now or wait ‘til the morning, when you have given your body a chance to recover some more?"
Is he serious?
"Now, of course. Let's talk right now."
He makes to move forward, and I thrust out my hand. "Don’t. Don’t come near me. Not 'til I figure out what you're doing to me."
"You mean this?" He points to that invisible cord that binds us, as if he sees it.
Of course, he can see it! Feeling myself sway, I pull out the chair and drop into it.
He bends, places the water back on the side table, then stands up again in that curiously smooth movement. Crossing his arms, he waits.
He doesn't sit this time; and for some reason, that bothers me. It's something in the way his body simply settles into lines which are alert and yet at rest. As if he can stand there forever.
Waiting.
Watching.
He takes a step forward and immediately the bubbling in my womb thrums up a notch.
My fingers protectively creep around my stomach. "Wh—What are you doing." I gasp.
"It's normal, what you feel." His lips relax, that tenseness around them easing. A tentative brush against my mind. A tinge of electricity runs down my spine. Like someone just touched me in that deepest most intimate place inside my consciousness.
"Stop." I choke out the word.
He runs his fingers through his hair, making it stick up, "Sorry. I can't stop myself around you." His words come out on an exhale.
"What do you mean?" I snap.
"What you felt," he says, "is not common. It was my psychic touch. I can only sense someone on that level when we are connected. Either by blood or on a psychic level."
"Are we...connected?" The words dribble out.
I don't want to ask the question. And yet I can't stop myself. Something about this man draws me, pulls at me. Makes me want to know him better. I want to touch his face, his skin, his hair, place my nose at the base of his throat where his scent would be most intense. Take in more of that peppery wood smoke scent that's haunted me since I smelled it on that piece of paper Nana gave me.
It won’t be a hardship to mate with one of them. Nana's chuckle reverberates in my head.
No!
Kris must sense my distress, for a tendril of heat reaches out to me, curls around my waist. Soothing me.
He's trying to placate. And somehow that makes it worse. He's treating me like he would a scared animal. It makes me feel vulnerable, weaker than him. And I don't like that. I want to be stronger. I am strong. I can face up to this; whatever is happening to me, whatever connection I am supposed to have with him, I will not let it overwhelm me. I will hold my own.
I fist my fingers at my side. Meet his gaze. Unwavering.
Kris tilts his head. Acknowledging my unspoken stance. Folds his arms over his stomach. The movement causes the frayed gray T-shirt to stretch across his chest.
"There is a link between us. You responded to it. It's why you came?"
I open my mouth to deny it. Realize he's right. Ever since I read the note in Nana's black box I knew...Had felt this insistent need to respond to the pull I felt.
"Fine." I say. "I felt...feel...something." I concede. "That's why I came. Now why don't you tell me why I am here?"
He nods. A quick jerk of his head. "You are here to fulfill your mission, the reason you reincarnated in this life. You are the Golden Womb—the one I've been waiting for. " He half bows, and I cringe.
"Don't call me that," I say in a tight voice.
"Why?" He eyebrows slash down hooding those clear blue eyes. "It's an honor. There has only been one before you."
"So, there was another one of these—" I can't bring myself to say it, not when a part of me completely resists having any part of my future mapped out for me.
A light whisper, as if something or someone was brushing up against my thoughts.
"You're doing that again," I say. "Sensing me. Don't. It's quite intrusive. And impolite."
He bows his head. When he looks up again, the light, almost phantom presence in my head is gone. And along with it, the lingering tug from the cord at the base of my womb.
He was there all along. His psychic touch was inside of me, in a way no one was before.
I already miss his presence.
A part of me wants to reach out and tug that cord back into place. Almost like an umbilical cord.
A bond. One more than just sexual. One that ties us on a level so deep I wouldn't have thought it possible. I was waiting to feel this sense of connection. I hadn't even realized I needed it. Not till I had it for a second. And now when it's gone, it leaves such a feeling of emptiness I know I must sense it again.
I cross my legs. My voice tight, rigid. "What is happening between us; what is happening to me?"
"It’s normal, Fia."
Hearing him call me by my nickname sends a shiver down my spine. Coming from him, it feels so intimate. And unexpected. It warms me and yet...also makes me wary. Is he manipulating me?
"Feeling better now?"
I nod, hesitant. "No thanks to you," I say, my voice grim. "Now that you're not doing that thing." I point to the space between us, moving my palm back and forth to indicate the cord.
"On the contrary, it is because of our connection that you feel more aligned, more in tune with yourself and your surroundings; your broken energy lines have been repaired."
Everything he says makes sense in a weird kind of way; and yet, I don't want to believe it. Once more I get the sense of being caught up in something much bigger than me. Trapped.
I will not let myself be trapped.
"What am I? Who are you?" I ask, my voice abrupt.
Why are we pretending to have a “normal” conversation when there is so much unsaid between us?
"Why don't we go for a walk? And I can try to explain?" He nods to where the pale pink dawn creeps in through the window. His voice authoritative. He expects me to do as he says?
Something inside snaps. I am tired of people predicting my future, telling me what is good for me. I can't do this. Not. Any. More.
"No." Blue-black anger spurts through me.
"No?" He looks shocked.
I surprised him. Good! "I haven't come all this way to go for a walk." I set my jaw.
"Have you ever walked on the beach at dawn?" The making of a smile tugs his lips. The blue in those eyes deepen. "Don't you want new experiences? See the sunrise and the waves reflecting the pink blush of a new day?" A soft chuckle.
The sound shivers over my skin.
This time, there’s a tug in my belly—a real tug. Not the other kind where I'd felt him pull on me with his senses. No, this one's different, more real.
He's distracting me. This time with his physical presence.
"You're stalling," I say in a flash of insight. "What are you hiding from me?"
"You will not give up till I tell you everything, eh?" He takes a deep breath, runs his hand through his hair once again, messing it up even more. It makes him look a little more approachable. Less overpowering somehow.
Some of the tension from my shoulders fades.
He sits down on the bed before replying, "I am an Ascendant."
I nod. Finally!
"I know that," I snap.
"There are only a handful of us," he adds.
"So, I should be privileged to meet you?" I sneer, trying to get a rise out of him.
"You are the girl—" He corrects himself. "The woman who will birth the new world." He looks at me, tilts his head. Like that explained everything. "I admit I am surprised that it turned out to be someone like you."
He hesitates.
I pounce on him. "What do you mean someone like me?"
"Someone fragile. Someone so human..."
"You are not making any sense at all, you know that, right? Of course I am human. I mean, who else were you expecting? And I'm not fragile."
He looks at me, his face expressionless. But for his eyes. The blue in them ebbs, flows.
"Right." I grimace. "You said that purposely to get a reaction out of me." I jump to my feet and begin to pace.
Back.
Forth.
Back.
Until he says, "Just ask. Ask me what you're thinking."
His voice so soft I can just about hear him above the chaos in my head.
I’m grateful this time he's not trying to sense me again. I know because I can't feel him doing that “thing” where I feel his presence brushing up against mine.
Liar!
It was strange when he brushed up against my inner mind, but to be united with someone on that level...Is it even possible to feel so close to someone else?
"So, I'm going to immaculately birth a new race?" I try to phrase my question in as delicate a way as possible.
"Not exactly." He doesn't say anything more.
"What then?" I growl. "You want me to sense you and find out?" And it's as if saying it aloud is a trigger, and I am already reaching out to him. A silvery whisper of my shadow which zooms in on him and scans his thoughts. The images roll as if I've flipped a switch.
Me, and him.
Him, and Me.
And it's not a race I am going to give birth to. No. It's just one being. A child who will change the world.
"How? How can one child bring about this shift? How?" I demand.
"Just by being born, he or she will reconfigure the energy. It will make humans open. So they search for answers in themselves rather than opting for quick, external fixes. Just the mere act of looking inward changes everything. Do you understand?"
No, I don't.
It sounds unrealistic. Too far away from the life I want for myself.
"The most adventurous journeys are the ones we take inside," he adds, his eyes not leaving my face.
I know he’s right, and yet I can't rid myself of the doubt that gnaws at me. Telling me to wait. Wait. Wait 'til I know more, 'til I can rationalize, justify everything I heard. 'Til I can prove it to myself.
"What if I don't want to birth this being? To be with you?"
"But
you do, don’t you?" He takes a step towards me. And another, and another. He's almost halfway to me.
But I don't move away. Not even when he’s right in front of me.
Holding out his hand, palm up, he asks, "Why do you resist? When you know how it can be between us."
He gestures to where I’d last seen that cord. The one which binds me to him. The one I can’t see, because he's reined it in.
He's close enough for me to see his eyes go light, till they seem almost colorless; and when he swallows, the cords of his throat move.
So, my being here is affecting him too. Just for a second, I want to find out what I can do to him. How would it feel if I reach out to him with my being. As my unseen touch shivers over those muscles down to his flat stomach. Edging lower, lower, over the front of his jeans.
I'm rewarded by a groan.
Okay!
I can turn him on too. A sense of power courses through me.
My eyes dart back to his face.
Eyes shut, he tilts his head and bites down on his lower lip. "Not fair." His voice comes out heavy, deep, so thick I taste the desire in them.
And then in the next breath, he reaches for the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it off, and I gasp.
Heat plumes off him, hitting me in the chest, flowing over me, enveloping me as if he’s physically covered me with his body.
I touch his chest, tracing my finger over the tattoo that covers his upper-arm. It creeps up towards his throat before flowing over his shoulder, down his back.
He groans again, the sound torn out of him. It ripples up his throat, pulling at me, tugging me.
"Don’t stop," he says.
Desire spools off him, and I can smell him now. Smell his arousal. A peppery, wood smoke-tinged scent which yanks at my belly. But it's too late.
I pull back.
His eyes fly open. The pain in them reaches out to me, a swirling purple of desire, unmistakably sexual and deep and shot through with patches of red. As if he's in pain and holding himself back.
The cord between us snaps into place, tugging deep inside my womb. I gasp as a wave of nausea washes over me, and my knees almost give out.
"Stop it," I scream. "Stop. I'm not ready for this."
I can't go through with this, whatever the prophecy may say, whatever my connection is to this man. I can’t be just the vessel. I want…need to have control over my own life. I can claim that much for myself, can’t I?
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