by kimberly
"She saw only what might be. The stars have yet to tell us." He tossed his head. "Besides, I have had enough, Anlese. Enough."
"The feelings of others, of us mortals, don't matter to one like you."
"They never have." He cut her off with an impatient gesture.
The faraway chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall sounded, breaking into the argument. Dawn was near and Julienne must be returned to her room. Throwing Anlese one final scowl of dissent, Morgan walked to the altar and, sliding his arms under Julienne's body, lifted her off its cold stone surface. She weighed nothing, perhaps little more than a hundred and ten pounds. Useless wench! She is just skin and bones. Why did I waste blood on her? He cradled her against his chest. She murmured softly, but did not stir from her deep slumber.
"Not even immortals are eternal anymore," he told Anlese. "Time wears on the spirit just as it wears down everything on this earth."
"You're throwing our lives away, Morgan," she warned. "Mine, yours…"
Forcing his voice to a deliberate calm, he said, "Forget it and move on." Holding Julienne close, he strode across the room, his resolute stride echoing and dying away on the wooden floor as he exited the secret chamber.
Unknown to him, after he had gone, Anlese traced the symbol of joining in the air, finishing her spell, whispering, "Merge Julienne's life force with his. May the two halves now be whole…" Such words she dared not let him hear her say, for she had awakened a psychic bond between Morgan and Julienne--they would be forever mated.
* * *
Like Alice down the rabbit's hole, Julienne's dream was dark and grim. Freed from the physical, her mind descended past sleep and into the astral zone that opened wide that pathway between the conscious and unconscious, to the place where past, present and future merged. Unbeknownst to her, the infusion of Morgan's blood had formed a connection between them, granting her an extraordinary sense of perception.
Suddenly, her soul parted from her body, and she floated free, untrammeled by the laws of gravity. Time seemed to rush by in undulating waves of radiant illumination, color and heat. A dazzling pinpoint of light formed in her darkness, gradually growing larger, bringing forth an oppressive veil of images. Wavering at first, the scene she gazed down on from far away gradually came closer, manifesting in her mind sharp, clear and astonishingly brilliant.
Through phantom eyes, in a place she did not know, at a moment seeming to be neither night or day, she passed into a great circle of monolithic, craggy pillars. The translucent stones glowed with a light that seemed to pulse with energy. Inside, a stone altar stood at the center. She saw herself, dressed in a diaphanous white gown, posed on her knees, her face twisted with some inner grief. She was not alone. Morgan, too, was present. Like hers, his garb was strange, seeming to be of an age long ago. Gone was the tailored suit and crisp shirt. These were replaced with a white, loose, string-tied shirt covered by a knee-length black tunic, sash tied at the waist, and knee-length black trousers tucked into the tops of laced leather boots. The ensemble was covered with a simply cut calf-length skirted coat of midnight shade. He stood behind her, holding a handful of her hair, craning her neck back to expose her creamy throat. His coal-dark eyes smoldered, their obsidian depth veiled. Emotion showed on his face, a stony grimness as he looked down on her. His hand moved, revealing the silvery flash of a dagger.
"I will give you an easy death, caile." His words resonated through her head. "You will not feel it."
Julienne wanted to call out to him, but no sound escaped her frozen throat. What had she done? Was she that bad? Why did he want to hurt her? What had happened between them that he would want to murder her? The cry for mercy in her mind became a soulless whimpering. A long shiver passed through her. Deep in her trance, she moaned, spasmodically gripping the sheets.
Convinced she was being punished for something unspeakable, something she had no knowledge of, she saw Morgan lift the dagger, saw his blade caress her skin. The bite of the steel was quick and deep. She watched, horrified, as blood pulsed with every beat of her heart, drenching the virgin white material, warming frigid skin as her body began to shudder in the throes of death.
"Níl ann ach an marbh." He let her shuddering body fall.
Julienne clenched her eyes shut, willing away the evil vision. No! she thought desperately. This can't be happening. It can't be real!
But it felt real. Even as she witnessed her own murder through the eyes of a specter, she'd felt the sensation of steel parting flesh, of blood pouring from the vicious slash in her throat.
As her blood ran in rivulets over the rock and dirt beneath her body, the frightening manifestation shattered, a thousand shards of conflicting mental pictures piercing her brain. Heart hammering hollowly in her chest, she gasped, fighting through the darkness, grasping fingers covering her mouth, a pressure that was denying her life giving oxygen even as she was drowning in an airless pit. She swam through the gloomy morass submerging her mind, desperately trying to find the conscious, sane world of wakefulness. If she failed to find it, she would be lost, forever bobbing on swells of lunacy.
The nightmare was shattered by her distressed cry of terror.
Her eyelids shot open. Back arched in the paroxysms of her visionary execution, she struggled to sit up, fighting the oppressive weight covering her body. Blood pumping, face flushed, the taste of her fear was vile in her mouth. Pushing aside the heavy quilt, her hand flew to her neck, palm pressing against her throat. She felt warmth, a pulse, but no cut. A weak half-laugh, half-sigh escaped her lips.
A dream. It was only a dream. She gasped, dismayed, still almost believing the event had been real. Thank heavens she was awake! Gradually, the thumping of her heart steadied and her raspy breathing returned to normal.
She switched on the small lamp at her bedside. Sinking back onto the pillows, she looked around the dimly lit, unfamiliar room. It took her a few minutes to realize where she was. Yesterday, she had left the rehab facility and come home, returned to the family her mother had taken her away from twenty-one years before. This room, now hers, had belonged to Cassandra. The French doors were thrown open to the night. Outside, a gentle rain fell, pattering gently against the earth. The cool, crisp breeze filled the room, eradicating the odor of incense. The night sky was growing lighter, layers of black giving way to variegated shades of pinks, indigos and yellows as the sun began to rise in the east underneath the clouds. Odd, she didn't remember opening the curtains, but neither did she remember going to bed. The last clear memory she had was of her grandmother.
Her brow wrinkled in thought. We were having tea… And then there was blackness that brought the awful nightmare. I guess I fainted. I must have fallen hard. Her whole body ached. A headache throbbed dully in the back of her skull. She lifted her hand to her forehead, feeling the vicious lump. As she lowered her hand, she noticed the perfect circle of finger-size bruises ringing her wrist.
"Oh, my God," she exhaled the words. "What the hell happened to me?" She could not remember. The dream came to the forefront of her mind. Morgan. In the dream, he had taken her life.
Thinking of him, a cold panic coursed through her veins. She lay for a long time, silent, in a solemn stillness, while strange, hard and blurry images roamed through her mind, indefinite, meaningless, yet filling her with an apprehension she had never before known--and was never entirely to lose again. Too clearly did she remember the words he'd spoken over her as he walked away.
Níl ann ach an marbh.
What did they mean?
A nightmare, that's all, she hastily reassured herself. A lot happened today. A wry grimace twisted her lips. I've got too much Morgan on my mind.
She was still vainly trying to imagine why her mind would conjure up such a horrible scenario between them when she fell asleep.
Chapter Eleven
Are you sure you want to get up, Miss?" Melissa hovered beside the canopied bed. Her gaze was weighed down with worry as her hands smoothed the
wrinkles in the blankets covering Julienne.
"I will get up." Julienne pushed aside her bedcovers. Blackness blurred her vision when she attempted to rise. She was tempted to lie back down, but after three days, she was tired of being treated like an invalid.
Seeing her falter, Melissa reached out to help steady her as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. "Careful, Miss Julie. You should take it slower. Stay in bed today."
"I can do this!" Julienne pushed away Melissa's hands. "I want to get dressed and go downstairs, if only for a few hours. I'm feeling better now. Really I am."
I'm tired of being treated like a sick person, she told herself resolutely. Time to get up and get myself around before Grandmother thinks she acquired an invalid.
"Well, I can't say lying in bed is good for you," Melissa replied. "Let me fetch you a tray. You need to eat. Then, you can get dressed and go downstairs."
At the mention of food, Julienne's stomach rumbled. She grimaced. Three days of broth and toast hadn't done much to help her regain her strength. She needed solid, wholesome food.
"Some eggs might be nice," she ventured. "Bacon, too?"
"With toast and jam," Melissa laughed, "and tea."
Julienne frowned, remembering her first day at Blackthorne. Anlese's bitter tea hadn't set too well. "No, no tea. Coffee."
"Coffee it is. I won't be long." Melissa left on her errand.
After she had departed, Julienne slid off the bed. She rose unsteadily to her feet. Her limbs were weak from her days of inactivity, and she was forced to stand still for several minutes, holding on to the bed as she gathered her strength. She wanted to sit down but was determined not to. She took a step, steadied herself, took another, gaining confidence in her determination. Her going was slow as she groped her way into the bathroom, one step at a time.
"I can do this," she insisted through gritted teeth. Her legs felt as wobbly as those of a newly born foal.
Fighting the bleariness threatening to overwhelm her vision, she gripped the deep-sculpted porcelain basin, resisting the misty curtain of darkness passing before her eyes. Taking deep breaths to steady herself, she waited for the spell to pass. She had suffered them in the last few years, driving herself to lose weight.
This has to get better.
When she had recovered, she turned on the cold water tap and filled the sink. Feeble, trembling, she dipped her hands into the water, bending over to wash her face. The cold water was bracing, and her surge of weakness passed. Dunking her face once more, she found a luxuriously thick towel hanging over the sink and patted her skin dry.
She stared into the oval mirror above the vanity. Her face was pinched and pallid. She could see a purplish bruise on her forehead, a painful reminder of her inelegant dive to the floor. It looked horrible, and so did the dark pouches smeared under her eyes. Her eyes automatically skimmed the scars James had etched into her face, a move she was perfecting each time she looked at a mirror. If she didn't dwell on them, she could pretend they were not there.
Because of her thinness, the skin over her high cheekbones was taut. Her neck seemed too fragile to support her head with its mass of long hair, and her collarbone was clearly outlined under the folds of the heavy cotton nightgown she wore. She looked tired. Her nights without sleep and the unremitting nightmares explained the black rings beneath her eyes.
"I look like shit."
Her hands went to her sides to feel the protrusion of her ribs and hipbones. She could not believe she had been so desperate to become thin. Her frame was tall, and her figure meant to be curvy. The lost twenty-five pounds had given her the look of a skeleton clothed in skin. In the hospital, she'd gained back fifteen pounds, but she was still leaning toward thin.
God, she thought, running her hand over rough skin. I should be dead. What grace allowed me to live?
Shuddering, she felt a cold chill creeping up her spine. Since her weight loss she was cold all the time. She needed warmth, heat, a total all-over body soak. She had two choices: the deep, sunken porcelain tub or the glass-tiled walk-in shower. Both were absurdly large, the height of deluxe luxury. Since she needed to wash her hair, she decided on the shower. Getting into hot water would warm her bones and help soothe her jangled nerves.
She reached in and turned on both shower taps, adjusting the temperature to a comfortable level. Steam filled the air as she undressed, stripping off her gown and panties before easing herself under the needles of water. For a long while, she stood under the stream, relaxed by the pleasurable massage of the water on her abused skin.
"I'm going downstairs today," she told herself resolutely.
Picking up a bar of soap, she began to wash her body, enjoying the feel of the creamy cocoa butter lather. Her hands brushed lightly against her breasts, under her arms, between her legs, her hand exploring into secret places that were hers alone. An unbidden rush of sexual warmth filled her and she blushed. How long had it been since she last made love to a man she desired?
Morgan Saint-Evanston was a man she desired. She was desperately hungry for a man's touch; and given due consideration, she would not have been displeased to have him for a lover. He possessed a sulky appeal that hinted toward a dangerous character. Such a brooding quality suggested he could be cruel if provoked, and it made him all the more fascinating. Then, remembering her awful dream, her lips curled. Had she lost her mind?
I shouldn't think of him that way! she silently admonished herself. She attempted to stifle the unsettling surge of erotic desire. Here was the man her mother had loathed, yet she was discomfited to realize she was undeniably drawn to him. Her attraction disturbed her.
Flipping open the lid on the shampoo bottle, she poured the fragrant liquid into her hand. It smelled of fresh pears and mangoes, her favorite scent. She set about washing her hair, remembering the song from the film South Pacific. How apt the words were, about washing a man right out of one's hair. She giggled at the images the song conjured up in her mind. It was amazing how a cleansing shower could bring out the best in a body.
A heavy knock at the door bought her out of her reverie. "Miss Julie," Melissa called. "Breakfast."
"Okay, thanks! Ten minutes, please," she yelled over the rush of the water. She began to hurry her bathing.
True to her word, Julienne emerged from the bathroom wrapped in the luxurious robe and slippers her grandmother had bought for her. Her waist-length damp hair she put up in pins out of her face.
Melissa lifted the cover keeping the food warm and set out breakfast, pouring a cup of hot coffee from a carafe.
"Sit down, miss."
"Thank you."
Julienne walked to the table and sat. Gretl had prepared breakfast with the greatest attention to every detail: two eggs over easy, crisp brown bacon, wheat toast and homemade peach jam spooned out beside thick pats of smooth, creamy butter. The coffee, a dark, fragrant Colombian roast, was accompanied by sugar and real cream.
Julienne suppressed an involuntary gag as the fragrant food assailed her nostrils. As delicious as it looked the sight of it unexpectedly turned her stomach. She frowned. Just half an hour ago she had been ravenous. Now, seeing the food spread out before her in such abundance, she found there was no hunger in her. Picking up her fork, she listlessly hashed the eggs, taking a small taste, grimacing as she forced herself to swallow the mass. Despite the salt and pepper, the eggs were tasteless. She sighed and set the fork down.
Melissa, watching her intently, frowned. "What's the matter, miss?" she asked.
Julienne picked up the cup and took a sip of plain black coffee. At least this tasted decent and warmed her insides. Too bad she didn't have a cigarette to go with it, but she'd been out since Morgan took her last one and had had no chance to acquire any more. She would have to ask someone where to get a couple of cartons. Smoking was a habit she wasn't going to be giving up soon or easily.
"Nothing," she said, swallowing hard to suppress the ache in the back of her throat for a cigarette. "
I guess I'm just not as hungry as I thought I was."
"Is there something wrong with it?" Melissa wanted to know. "I can have Gretl fix you something else."
"No, no." Julienne hastened to reassure her. "It's fine. It's perfect, but I just don't feel very hungry." I'd sure as hell like a cigarette, though.
"Well, eat what you can, Miss Julie." Melissa discretely headed for the door to give her some privacy. "You'll never get your strength back if you don't eat."
"I know." Julienne took another slow sip of coffee. "I feel fine. Really, I do."
Alone, she selected a piece of toast and buttered it, adding a tiny dollop of jam. She tore the food into bite-size bits and tucked a single piece into her mouth before arranging the other pieces around the eggs. Toying with food was a well-worn trick anorexics used to convince people around them they were, indeed, eating. She chewed slowly, tasting the sweet creamy toppings, almost choked, but forced herself to swallow anyway.
This is going to take awhile, she thought miserably. At this thought, she felt a nervous guttering in her stomach. Despite her lack of appetite, she must compel herself to eat, if only a few bites of each selection. It was vital she prove to those around her that she was no longer a weight-obsessed addict. More importantly, she had to prove it to herself.
The rules, she reminded herself. Healthy mind, body and spirit. She grimaced. Before her hospitalization, morning breakfast usually consisted of several cups of sweet black coffee and a couple of dexies to jolt her out of the stupor of sleep. She was almost as dependent on the pills as she was on the cocaine, which had further helped her health deteriorate. I have to live in the normal, sane world. It's the only way I'm going to be able to survive.
She took a second bite of toast and then a forkful of eggs. She refused to think about the food, about the act of eating. She simply consumed it. I have to eat to live.
It took thirty minutes of picking to put away half of what was on the tray. She smiled, contemplating her small victory.
