by kimberly
A gentle smile teased the corners of her mouth as her dream progressed, then turned to a frown and, finally, a scream.
"No!" A sudden piteous howl of grief broke from her lips.
She bolted upright, an anxious agitation haunting her. A heavy film of perspiration slicked her pale skin. Her breathing was ragged and strained, heart beating ferociously in her chest. She pulled the blankets closer around her body for warmth.
"Oh God," she groaned. That was horrible! Awful! I would never…
Her eyes dropped shut on the ghastly images still playing in her mind, like a film without end.
…kill my children.
She glanced around her room, trying to center herself, assuring herself that all was normal, sane and well. Nothing seemed out of place. Everything was as she had left it the night before. A weak laugh, almost a sigh of relief, escaped her. Her gaze cut to the clock on her bed table. Seven a.m. Outside, she could hear sounds of the burgeoning dawn, the muffled voices of the men and women who worked at Blackthorne, bringing her back to reality. A new day was beginning and the frights of the night had been banished by the coming of wakefulness upon the earth.
Though not usually an early riser, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, ratcheted herself up and padded to the bathroom on bare feet. After emptying her full bladder and brushing her teeth, she reached into the shower and turned on the tap. When the water was at a decent temperature, not too hot or cold, she stripped off her heavy flannel nightgown and stepped under the showerhead. The warmth quickly drove the chill in her bones away.
She didn't want to think about the nightmare. It frightened her, far more than the one she'd had her first night at Blackthorne. Lingering in her brain like cobwebs in a far dark corner, the images abounded, some blurry, others stark and oddly angled, as though produced by a film noir auteur. Her mind had obviously receded into some unconscious depth where only a sick and tormented psyche existed.
The dream had begun pleasantly enough.
Morgan.
He had come to her in the night as she lay in bed, undressing her, making love to her. She had protested at first, but his mouth had silenced hers and her body's need for him had betrayed her logical mind as she gave herself over to physical desires. She had trembled. Not in fright. Anticipation. Under his touch, her alabaster skin was soft, her flesh willing.
Julienne felt a pleasurable tingling spread though her, made doubly wonderful by the massaging stream of the shower. In the dream she had felt stifled by the nearness of him; it was difficult for her to breathe, but his touch had melted the tension and doubts she'd had about him. Without thinking, she knew it was right that they'd become lovers and, as lovers, would never be parted. She could not say how she was aware of such an uncertain truth--only that she felt it inside her very soul.
She felt the blood rush to her face, and she almost dropped her soap. She remembered how shamelessly she'd writhed under his hard male body, begging him like a wanton hussy to take her. She sighed, remembering how he had kissed her passionately, his mouth claiming hers with a hunger she had not expected. Her body throbbed in aftermath when recalling how his fingers traveled her, seeking, finding, exploring every inch of her. She'd willingly molded her flesh to his, feeling his hardness. He'd explored her with the experience of a man who had learned how to manipulate a woman's pleasure to its ultimate heights, taking her again and again, sending her insatiable body to pinnacles of orgasm she'd never before attained.
When he'd left her, as silently and as stealthily as he'd arrived, the dream progressed, as all dreams do, through an odd timeless maze. Suddenly, she was pregnant, her abdomen huge and heavy with child. Morgan's child.
She looked down, pressing her hands to her belly, running her palms over the flat planes. A relieved half-smile crossed her face. Her mental images had been so real, the sensations so intense, that she could almost believe she had given birth. Certainly, the pain had seemed real. Agonizing, it had ripped through her gut, traveling through her back, legs and head, threatening to pull her in half with its very anger…the beginning of labor.
In the dream, she was not alone. Anlese had come, from where she did not know, and the next thing she knew, the old woman was bending between her spread legs, helping her deliver first one baby and then, stunningly, a second.
Twins, she thought, pleased. I had two children.
In the parallel world existing only in her mind, she'd given birth to two healthy babies, fathered by the man she desired. She could remember Anlese placing the babies--miraculously clean--in her arms. She had delighted in her two beautiful children: the girl pale and strawberry-blonde like herself, the boy equally pale but possessing the raven's-wing hair and dark eyes of his father. She remembered Anlese had smiled, the proud great-grandmother.
"Our line will go on," she'd said happily. "We will be immortals."
Immortals. What an odd thing for her mind to conjure up.
Finishing her shower, Julienne stepped out and began to dry. As she did, she couldn't help but let the remembered events progress in her mind. She'd gone this far through the examination of the dream. She had to conclude it.
She recalled very clearly that she'd laid the naked children down beside her, counting fingers and toes, making sure they were perfect in every way; but something about the male baby displeased her.
There's something not right with this child, she'd thought. Going to her knees, she positioned herself over the baby, then lowered her hand to his face and covering nose and mouth began smothering the life out of her son.
Julienne's hand flew to her mouth, and she shuttered her eyelids on the tears threatening to fall. She remembered her remorse, how she'd picked up the child, pressing her lips to his, trying desperately to breathe air back into the silent lungs, into the body of the infant whose life she'd taken…
God, no! How could I?
A dream, she reminded herself. It was only a dream. It never happened.
Feeling a warm trickle going down her leg, she pressed her hand between her thighs. A red stain colored her fingertips when she drew them away.
I'm bleeding! Anxiety, and then relief. Her period. Gone for years because of her acute thinness, it had returned. No wonder she'd had such a mind-bending nightmare about sex and birth. Her womanhood had returned full force. Her hormones were making her crazy!
Her doctors had told her that her menstrual cycles would resume as soon as she began to put on weight and reach normal levels. She'd steadily been gaining, and was now, though still thin for her height, more normal than she'd been in years.
I'm getting well, she thought. At least things are going right for me. Not that the whirling emotions inside her didn't cause confusion. Her first instinct was to suppress them all. Often, she thought of the smooth white drug that could take away bad feelings and leave an oblivious happiness in its wake, give her the boost of energy she needed to function through days when she could barely lift her body out of bed. The crash from cocaine to cold turkey abstinence had been excruciating, and four months later her hunger for it had not entirely faded.
It was worse when not her body but her mind needed the drug to function. The shaking, the nausea, the fatigue had been due to her own neglect of her physical self--drug dependency had made her forget she needed food and sleep. Away from the drug she was forced to remember things and deal with them as she hadn't in years.
Four months. I've been clean four months. My mind's still in pieces. The cocaine, James, my face, the divorce, this new family I never knew--it's all so strange, so new.
Pulling herself back together, Julienne finished toweling dry and dressed, rolling up a washcloth to pad herself with. One of Blackthorne's women would have what she needed.
* * *
Julienne sat, hands primly folded in her lap, while Melissa twined her hair in an elaborate French braid. She'd already dressed and made up her face, modifying her usual use of cosmetics to a simple flesh-toned base and light eye makeup, a mo
re natural effect that worked well. The less she tried to conceal the scars on her face, the less noticeable they were.
"Why don't you explore the house?" Melissa asked, pulling the hair tight and securing it in place with a bobby pin. "There are lots of rooms to see."
Julienne nibbled her lip. A long boring day stretched out in front of her and she had nothing else to do. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to know the layout of the place."
"Heavens, no!" Melissa laughed. "This is your home, girl!"
"Doesn't feel like it yet," she commented wryly, "but I would like to explore. Would Morgan mind?"
"He isn't home right now." Melissa finished her work and patted Julienne's hair in place with a light spritz of hair spray. "Got Ashleigh packed this morning, and now he's gone with Danielle to town--business with bankers, and they're bound to be stuck there all day. He was already in a bad mood when they left. I imagine he'll be in a worse one by the time they return."
Julienne smiled knowingly. He's kissing seven million dollars goodbye, I bet. Separate account for Ashleigh. Where? Monaco? Switzerland? She had a feeling Ashleigh wouldn't be paying taxes on the money, but, then again, Morgan probably hadn't, either.
"Okay, Watson, the game's afoot! I'm going to see the whole house today."
Four hours later, well into the afternoon, Julienne's explorations had taken her from the east to west wing, then back to the wintry decor in the foyer on the first level. Like the rest of the house, it was eerily placid and vacant of life. She had anticipated seeing beautifully furnished rooms upstairs, rooms befitting the style of the manor. Instead, she was disappointed to find most of the upper rooms not only abandoned but stripped bare. What few items remained were covered with sheets. Even Ashleigh's room down the hall had been cleaned out with an efficiency that bordered on sterilization.
This place is a husk, she thought. The staff worked, but their function was only to keep away the decay of time on the edifice called Blackthorne Manor. They repaired and cleaned constantly, but to what end? None. It was meaningless, because no one valued the place. It was simply kept up for two--now three--people to inhabit, and they were ciphers themselves. Anlese spent her days sitting and knitting endlessly. Morgan was limited to goading people between bouts of whiskey-fueled anger. And herself? Were she to disappear, the world would be none the worse for her absence.
Shaking her head in regret, Julienne weighed her own boredom. She'd explored every place where a door opened to her. Oddly, she'd discovered nothing of her mother. No stash indicating that Cassandra ever existed. No baby book, old clothes, photographs, nothing. This didn't mean they did not exist, but she found it curious that most traces of Cassandra had been erased from Blackthorne.
She had wanted to ask Morgan more about her mother last night, but he'd flustered her by turning the conversation. So, why not go up stairs and look around? The third floor was the only place she hadn't seen yet…and no one had said she couldn't go up there.
Morgan's gone. Anlese is taking a nap. I bet I could sneak in and out in two shakes of a rabbit's tail. Well, maybe four or six shakes.
Feeling every bit the clever snoop, she darted out of the library. It was easy to find the entrance to the third floor and she hurried up the stairs before anyone discovered her. Well lit, the wide steps had a solid railing. These ascended to a large vaulted anteroom.
Years ago, the attic had been converted into a lush third-floor apartment. Why had Morgan chosen to live above their heads when there were dozens of other rooms sitting empty on the second level? This would be her first look into his lair, a part of his life he kept separate from most all of Blackthorne's inhabitants. She wondered what she would find when she opened the door.
She put her hand on its knob, hoping it was unlocked. Sure enough, it gave willingly to her touch, and the door opened to admit her to this new, secret world.
The penthouse was a huge one, spreading out across the third floor of Blackthorne Manor like a cloak. A dim, fully furnished set of rooms met her eyes. Three sets of bay windows comprised almost the entire rear wall. Venetian blinds were drawn against the heat of the day, and sunlight filtered through the wooden slats.
"This is incredible," she said to herself. It's fabulous.
She crossed to the center set of windows. The shutters folded aside like an accordion, filling the main parlor with the golden glow of the afternoon sun. Unscreened, the windows to the right and left were designed to open outward, allowing one to sit on the wide window seats and enjoy the view of the grounds. The furniture was Early American oak, heavy and solid. The walls were paneled in darker wood, its seams so perfectly matched that one would have to examine it closely to reveal the joints between the individual sections. In the natural light, it was an attractive and comfortable place.
She walked through it leisurely, touching objects and furniture as she came on them. She fluttered the pages of a book left open by a lounge chair. To her left was a short, wide hallway and she took a quick peek, finding a large bedroom suite. Designed in clean lines, it was a very masculine room: dark paneled walls, sturdy furniture, as austere as the man who inhabited it. A smaller set of bay windows were also shuttered against the heat of the day. A bath and dressing room were adjacent. There was, oddly, no kitchenette.
She walked back into the main reception area, returning to the rays streaming through the windows. Basking in the soothing warmth, she could see the entire back garden. Outside, Georges Losch and his sons worked over a flowerbed, thinning out the plants that were wilting and dying under the onslaught of fall. Next spring, the truncated perennials would bloom again, assuring a continuance of the cycle of nature. The thought was a comforting one. More than anything, she wanted to be a part of that regeneration.
"To live forever, coming back year after year, untouched--infinite--eternal," she murmured, thinking about the dream. In her dream, Anlese had spoken of her kind becoming immortal. And what of her murder of the male child? Was it an unconscious rejection of her attraction to Morgan, her way of getting revenge on him for kissing her in the library last night?
Morgan. As much as that man exasperated her, there was still so much she wanted to know about him. After all, he was tied to Cassandra, a part of her mother's past that remained as mysterious to her as the day she'd arrived.
Turning away from the window, Julienne bumped into what turned out to be an easel. A heavy artist's pad balanced there threatened to tip off its stand. Hurrying to right it, she noticed the drawing on the facing page. In charcoal, with just a hint of pastel chalks in certain areas, was a perfect reproduction of the gardens outside the window. The hand that had created it had been steady, the eye sharp for detail, but there was something missing. While the technique of the artist was accomplished, there appeared to be no emotion behind the creation.
Curious as to what else Morgan might have sketched, she flipped through the heavy pages. There was one theme and one alone in the entire collection. The gardens. The pastoral scenes encompassed rainy, foggy, moonlit and sunny days during seasons spanning years, revealing the expansions and changes in the landscape.
"These are good," she said appreciatively, reversing her first opinion of the works. Still, she believed the artist created through his head and not his heart.
Julienne set the thick pad back in place. Curious to know more about him, her gaze gravitated toward his den.
I wonder… She bit her lip in indecision. I shouldn't.
An evil voice in the back of her mind prodded her.
Why not? she decided. I'm already here. Might was well finish my tour.
She crossed the threshold and was greeted with a compact version of the library downstairs. It was furnished as one would expect. A desk. A large square table covered with books in various states of perusal. A few heavy lounge chairs, a long sectional sofa and an impressive stone fireplace, a small but serviceable wet bar built into one corner. There were no windows.
Illumination came from a simple five-paddle fa
n with lights attached to the high ceiling. On another wall, bookshelves bore an even more curious collection of literature than that in the main library. All the books were written in languages she could not even begin to guess at, and a few were no less than a century old. But this was nothing compared to the collection of medieval weaponry taking up the entire rear wall.
Julienne approached the glass, hardly daring to breathe. Her eyes scanned the various models of crossbows, swords, and an impressive array of daggers. Each piece was obviously an antique, well preserved and no doubt very valuable. Drawn by the deadly beauty, she studied each piece, freezing solid when her gaze settled on one piece in particular.
Oh, God! Her heart leapt into her throat, nearly cutting off her air. I don't believe my eyes.
She bent closer to the glass. Surely she was imagining things. No, she wasn't. The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose, and she felt as if a black cat had not only jumped over her grave but dug up her bones as well. It was a compelling piece, inspired by the legendary Celtic lion, eyes narrow, mouth in full roar. Handset with black onyx, blue lapis and faceted crystal, the hand, pommel and guard gleamed with accents of sterling silver. The face of the tempered steel serrated blade was etched with strange runic symbols. Not so large as to be unwieldy or so small as to be harmless, the blade's cutting edge was perfectly honed. This is the dagger in my dream--the one Morgan murdered me with!
Trembling, she stepped away from the glass, trying to gulp back her fear, settle the acid churning in her gut. She'd never been in these rooms before, so how was it she knew the dagger on sight?
