Keepers of Eternity

by kimberly

  Witches, she thought. We're a bunch of freaking witches…

  Chapter Seventeen

  Punched with bolts of lightning and rumbling thunder, the steady patter of rain filled Julienne's room. Cloaked in a thin white mist, the trees danced in the arms of the cold, damp northern zephyr. Inside, the chill clung like dead fingers around the drafty old manor. No amount of wood could make a fire hot enough to stave off the onslaught of Mother Nature's mischievous third child. Autumn was coming in, roaring like a lion, warning of the harsh winter ahead.

  Grumbling, unable to sleep, she punched her pillows into lumpy shapes and snuggled back under her blankets to escape the chill nipping at her fingers and nose. In and out. She tried to count the rhythm of her breathing in an attempt to hypnotize herself into relaxing, but as soon as she closed her eyes and began to doze her lids flew open and she would again be staring into the canopy above her head.

  This isn't working.

  She knew why she was having trouble sleeping. The day hadn't exactly been a normal one. In fact, it had been downright bizarre.

  After Ashleigh's attempt to gun down Morgan, a flurry of phone calls by Danielle Yames, orchestrated under his direct orders, had produced quick results. A private, unmarked ambulance had arrived barely an hour later. Three men emerged, tight-lipped and grim-faced. One carried a physician's satchel, the other two a stretcher. Julienne knew their type on sight. They were there to "escort" Ashleigh to a private sanitarium. No one said a word when she was taken away, unconscious. She'd have good care. All the Valium seven million dollars could buy.

  Morgan. Could she blame him for Ashleigh's breakdown? In retrospect, not entirely. Both of them had played each other, using the other to feed their own needs and desires. When the sad end finally came, as it inevitably had to, Ashleigh had been the biggest loser. She'd made the mistake of falling in love with a man she could not have.

  And what of him? Had he fared any better? She thought not. Since Ashleigh's departure, he'd spent the evening alone, trying his best to crawl into a whiskey bottle, refusing all her further attempts to speak with him.

  I wish that man would get out of my head, she thought, but she could not stay her thoughts of him. Not after what she'd seen him do today. In the light of logic, it would be an impossible thing to believe. She realized, however, that nothing about him made sense. He was like a maze, all confusing corridors and dead ends. Now she knew why. Morgan Saint-Evanston had a lot to hide from prying eyes, for he was a man who knew the secrets of a darker art.

  Turning her head, she made out the murky outlines of the furniture between the flashes of lightning. As tiring as her day had been, she was too wound up to sleep. Annoyed with herself, she whipped aside her covers and sat up. Clawing her long hair out of her eyes, she squinted to read the luminous face of her bedside digital. Almost simultaneously, the grandfather clock in the hall began to intone the hour. Twelve chimes sounded over the patter of the rain against the glass. She held her breath, listening to the sounds of the old manor. Except for the storm outside, the place seemed strangely quiet, empty, as if death had settled onto the eaves and spread corroded arms around it, first enveloping and then consuming it.

  Flipping on her bedside lamp, she stretched out her arm, stroking the unblemished skin. Ashleigh had scratched her hard and deep. After Morgan applied his strange powder, the cuts had healed within minutes, leaving not the slightest traces of a scar. He had given her a fascinating glimpse into his world and then, abruptly, slammed the door shut. The wisdom of his people, he'd said. Celtic druids. Was he a priest of some kind? A conjurer?

  It's my world, too, her mind whispered. I know now it's what my mother was running from. I want to know more, I want to know the truth. I'm going to find him and we're going to talk.

  Sliding her legs over the edge of the bed, she got up. She did not have to worry about dressing. She was heavily bundled in a layer of clothes: sport bra, t-shirt, sweatshirt and pants, and knee socks. Blackthorne was not centrally heated and she was still thin enough to be bothered by the slightest chill.

  Slipping on a pair of moccasins, she picked up Morgan's cigarette case and lighter. It still had a few cigarettes, but she took them out and threw them away. She'd make the excuse of being out of cigarettes as her reason for disturbing him. She doubted he had retired for the night. For him, she was sure, the night had only just begun.

  She glanced down the hall as she exited her room. Checking around the corner, she saw no light burned under Anlese's door. She frowned. Her grandmother hadn't been out of her room all day. Anlese said she was feeling unwell, but hadn't explained further. Julienne wondered if she should knock on her door, check to make sure the old woman was all right. She hesitated, then decided to go on. If Anlese were asleep, she would not appreciate being roused at this hour.

  Continuing down the hall, Julienne found the door that allowed access to Morgan's rooms from the second level. Discovered during her explorations earlier in the day, it was part of a linen and utility closet for the supplies used for cleaning the upstairs rooms. Passing through it, she continued her trek.

  Arriving at his door, she knocked politely.

  No response. I wonder…

  Hesitating a moment, she reached down and turned the knob, opening the door wide enough to peek through. A chill wind smelling of the rain and a wavering light seeped through the crack, encouraging her to open the door wider and step inside. She shivered and instinctively rubbed away the chill bumps on her skin. Across the room, the bay windows had been thrown wide. She could see a solitary figure sitting in one of the window seats. She blinked to focus her eyes. Oil lamps burned at various points, giving the room an inviting glow, making it seem smaller, cozier than it actually was.

  At least he's still up. Caught by the stiff breeze, the door scraped shut behind her. She started, shivering. Suddenly, it didn't feel right being here alone with him. She felt her muscles tense, her nerves straining with an unease that began to tighten the back of her throat, set her heart to pounding. If he had noticed her presence, he gave no sign of it.

  "Morgan?" Her voice sounded foreign, even to her own ears.

  A long moment passed in silence. He seemed to be ignoring her presence until, without turning from the view outside, he said, "What do you want, Julienne?" Low and resonant, his voice was furred, his accent thick. He lifted the bottle he held and took a deep drink, swallowing the last of the whiskey.

  Julienne stood quite still, wondering if she had been wise to seek him out when she knew he'd been drinking. Maybe now wasn't the wisest time to try and talk to him. His mind was obviously elsewhere, mainly on the bottle in his hand.

  He's drunk.

  "I…ah, I wanted to talk to you. About today. What you told me you were." He was still dressed in the same clothes from earlier in the day and, coming closer to him, she could see he was drenched. And he hasn't got the sense to get out of the rain. She wanted to say more, but was unsure about speaking further until she determined his state of mind.

  Morgan chuckled, an unpleasant sound, as if lost in his own sick, private joke. He shifted his body, leaning back against the window's frame. His movements were clumsy, as if he were having trouble judging space and distance. His head rolled toward her, features darkening into a strangely tense expression. His mouth twisted, and the words that emerged from his lips were viciously flung.

  "What I am, I presently do not wish to be," he spat, the dark scowl he directed at her growing more pronounced. The bottle slid from his lax fingers and clattered to the floor beside his boot. Realizing the loss, he sighed deeply. "Go away, caile. You do not need to see me this way."

  "Jesus Christ, Morgan!" Julienne sucked in her breath, fingers tightening around the cigarette case she held. "You've been drinking all day. How many bottles have you had?" Her words had a hollow, accusatory ring. She judged that he was very drunk, on the point of passing out. In the inexplicable tangle of her feelings about him, there was not a bit of sympathy i
n her voice, only exasperation.

  Reflecting the lamplight, his coal-dark eyes seemed to glitter, feverish and unfocused. "I did not count them," came his sullen reply. His chin sunk to his chest, and he pressed a shaking hand to his forehead.

  Worried that he was about to pass out cold, Julienne put down the items she carried and hurried past the sofa and loveseat. I need to get this asshole out of the rain and into a warm bed.

  "Come out of the rain, you idiot," she admonished, putting a hand on his shoulder. She had never spoken so harshly to him before. "You'll catch your death."

  As she came closer, she could see he had positioned himself on the seat in such a way that his right arm hung out the window. Her mouth fell open with unchecked revulsion and horror. She uttered a little scream as lightning flashed, revealing fully what he had done to himself. For a moment she could not force herself to move or speak, but only gaped at Morgan's wrist as if transfixed. Blood ran down his hand, dripping down the tips of his fingers, mingling with the rain. He had slashed hard and deep, nearly the entire length of his forearm. No pain registered on his face, only an aggrieved emptiness, like a night sky stripped of moon and stars.

  "I told you" he said thickly, "to stay away from me." He shook off Julienne's hands and with a frightful curse rose to his feet. Swaying uneasily, he appeared barely able to hold his balance as strength began to desert him. Hand clenched, he lifted his wounded arm, his unblinking stare fixed on the crimson rivulet. Blood dripped on the hardwood floor around his feet. The grisly sound of it drew her back to the day in the foyer when she'd first come to Blackthorne. Somehow, and she didn't know why, she'd seen a glimpse of this night, foreseen that blood would be spilled. She'd believed it was to be hers. She was mistaken. It was Morgan's blood that was to be so thoughtlessly shed. When his gaze lifted, she saw only relief in the depth of his night-black eyes.

  Standing motionless and rigid with shock, she saw the hovering shadow of encroaching death cross his features. She didn't know what gave her the strength, but she sprang forward as his knees buckled, trying unsuccessfully to break his fall. He collapsed, striking the floor; heavy, limp, breathing with labored persistence.

  "Morgan!" she cried out, fearfully dropping to her knees and bending over him, stroking his rain-damp hair off his forehead. His skin was deathly chill under her touch. Dimly aware of her, he turned his head, perspiration breaking out on his brow, and choked out a few words in his native language, "Lhig ass! Lhig fairtlich skellal." He fell silent, staring past her, off into a distance beyond which only he could fathom. Then he slipped down into an unconscious void, closing his eyes as a sigh escaped from deep within his chest. For the moment he had come to the end of his endurance.

  Julienne froze, recognizing the words in her dreams, words that haunted her even though she did not know their meaning. They echoed in the dark chambers of her heart, stabbing deeper than any dagger ever could. She was crying and stammering, and there was a powerful block in her mind. She could not seem to pull her wits together.

  "You dumb bastard! Why?" she choked stupidly, striking him on the chest full force with her clenched fists, unintended tears stinging her eyes. Her mind raced. Why had he done this terrible thing to himself? Guilt over Ashleigh? A suicide pact? Drinking, thinking, and seeing nothing but a black void of depression?

  The edge. He'd gone to and then beyond it. Should she have known his words were a veiled threat? Should she have questioned him closer, watched him more? She knew the signs of self-destruction. Why had she not heeded them? Was it because his dominion over Blackthorne was so complete that he backed people down with merely a lift of his eyebrows? He must have been waiting for darkness, waiting for the day to descend into a night as unforgiving and foreboding as the specter haunting his thoughts.

  She started to back away from him but stopped herself. She could not leave him alone. That would be a cowardly thing to do. I have to do something, her anguished mind cried out, or he'll bleed to death.

  "Don't you die on me now," she rasped. Fingers of panic clutched at her breast, but she had to force herself to put aside fear. She could not afford to descend into hysteria. That would not help him. She was on her own. He was dying and she dared not leave his side to summon aid. The feeling of being powerless only added to her terror. She simply could not comprehend his action.

  You're not getting away from me this easily. She forced herself to be calm. Slow down and think rationally.

  Reason told her to use the materials at hand. She had some idea of what to do. Stop the bleeding. In trembling haste, she took off her sweatshirt and ripped it apart. Desperation afforded her an unnatural strength, and she tore the material into strips. His cut was savage, ripping through muscle and tendon. Grimacing as she worked, she was careful not to bind too tightly as she wrapped the makeshift bandage around his bleeding arm.

  Morgan moved, first a stir, as if returning to consciousness; then he writhed, moaning deliriously, his body jerking in a convulsive movement as he tried to pull away from her, a freakish line tensing across his distressed brow. His wounded arm stiffened, his fingers opening and closing in clenching spasms. He opened his eyes and a flicker of awareness momentarily brightened his dull, empty stare. His hand suddenly stopped twitching. His mouth worked soundlessly as he struggled to find the power to speak. Severe shock and pain were beginning to assail his damaged system as his semblance of awareness returned.

  Julienne gently restrained him. She felt dizzy and lightheaded. The inner reserve of strength that had supported her through the crisis was slipping away. The sudden vigor seemed to be vanishing as her heart resumed a normal rhythm. The cold and wet began to seep into her clothes, chilling her. She shivered, thinking he must be equally as cold and miserable.

  "Shhhh," she said through pursed lips. She could see his gaze cloud with anguish and madness. He muttered more incomprehensible words in Gaelic before his voice faded. Etchings of pain were deep in his features, as if incised there by something so terrible within his own mind that he would rather die than face it.

  Having done all she could, Julienne placed her open palm on his chest, wishing she could infuse her own strength and energy into his depleted spirit and body. His face was haggard and ashen, even to the lips, as if he'd bled himself bone dry. He struggled to rise, but she held him back.

  "I think you should be still," she warned, her voice quavering as she drew in a shaky breath. She felt a momentary relief, which faded at once. The worst of the crisis seemed to be over, but that didn't make her feel any better. "I can't go for help if you won't."

  His brows knitted in a terrible intensity, and he began to tear at the blood-soaked material, attempting to untie the gory strips preventing his blood from spilling. White-faced, eyes burning, he dug his fingers into the crimson-soaked material.

  Chin dropping with dismay, Julienne grabbed his arm, wrapping her fingers around his uninjured wrist. "Stop it!" Anger made her upend his left arm to reveal long scars marking the flesh of his inner wrist. "How many times…how many times have you done this before?"

  He pulled his arm away with a fierce jerk. He gave her a squinted, chary look, peering vaguely through swollen lids. He ran his tongue over dry lips. "Damn it, woman, have care!" A groan followed his sharp words. His accent was thick with the lingering effects of blood loss.

  "I don't think I can hurt you any more than you've hurt yourself." Julienne wiped her sweat and bloodstained hands across her T-shirt. She wondered who looked worse, him or her.

  Reaching up to wipe the perspiration from his cold forehead, he then rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. "You should have left me."

  "Some thanks. I had to stop you any way I could." She tried for a smile, but found none. Her mind churned with possible actions as she forced herself to remain cool. His mood was changing alarmingly from sullen regret to stubborn resistance. He lifted himself into a sitting position, moving too fast for his injuries, and vertigo threatened to overcome him.

  "What did
you think you were doing?" she demanded. "Did you and Ashleigh have some bizarre suicide pact?"

  "He's all right."

  Hearing a woman's voice, Julienne turned. Melissa stood in the doorway. She carried a bottle of scotch. She came, stopped beside Morgan and plunked the bottle down within his reach. She didn't appear to be concerned by his appearance. "Here. I know you need this."

  She's seen this before, Julienne thought.

  Stiffening, Morgan reached out, his fingers curling around the neck of the bottle. He cracked the seal, taking a long drink of its burning contents.

  "I don't think he needs more booze, Melissa!" Julienne exclaimed.

  Melissa sensibly closed the windows, shuttering the room away from the outside world. "You made it through with little injury this time," she grunted, shooting a glance over his bedraggled form. She did not appear to be concerned or worried in the slightest. "One of these days you'll forget yourself and go too far. If you were human, you would be dead."

  Morgan shrugged.

  "I see you're still in an ugly mood."

  "There are times the pain tempts me."

  Melissa reached down to swat at him as one would an errant child, surprising Julienne with her familiarity. "Death is not your freedom," she insisted staunchly.

  Ignored as the two spoke of things only they were privy to, Julienne shook her head. This definitely was not the reaction she would have expected. "What gives here?"

  Morgan tried to rise. "What gives is me."

  Melissa pushed him back. "You can wait a few minutes more. She needs to know about you, about what she is, too. It's time for her to find out." She offered Julienne a none-too-reassuring grin that was closer to a grimace. "I know you're confused. But, please, don't be concerned. Things aren't as they sometimes look here."

  Morgan tossed his head in defiance. "I might consider it."