by Brenna Todd
His black eyes, which were as dark as a winter night, narrowed, and a harsh scowl suddenly came over his handsome features. What? she felt compelled to ask. What makes you so angry with me?
His clothes were like the rest of the men's, indicating that he fit in with the others at the party, but somehow Erin knew this wasn't the case at all. He had a hard, rough quality about him that his fancy, civilized garb couldn't disguise. And it was that quality which had drawn her to him the very first time she'd seen him. First time? But this was the first....
Chatter and giggles and raucous laughter spilled from the lips of the other partygoers, but his mouth was a grim, tight line. Tell me! she wanted to shout. Why are you looking at me this way when I know you can't hate me? When I know you love me!
The image broke apart as suddenly as it bad formed, and the man's face seemed to disintegrate before Erin's eyes. She cried out at the profound sense of loss that overwhelmed her, gripping her heart, slicing at her soul. No! Come back! Don't leave me.
She came back to reality with a jolt. Her hand fell away from her chest and she stumbled back a step or two. As she stared at the front doors of the mansion, her mouth worked, but she couldn't speak... could barely breathe. Tears had gathered in her eyes.
Confused and shaken, she turned away from the doors, descended the steps and began running to her car. The gardeners, the people who had come to tour the mansion, the cars parked beneath the portico—everything and everyone became a blur at the edges of her vision as she bolted to the parking lot.
She fumbled at her car-door handle, her breath coming hard and fast, the man's face still devastat-ingly clear and real in her mind, and she dug in her pocket for her keys. Her heart pounded as she jerked the door open and slid quickly behind the wheel, then jammed the keys into the ignition. She swiped at the tears that had spilled from her eyes. Had it been a vision—or hallucination?—of a man she was certain she'd never met, yet also knew she loved... ? Oh, God...
She could barely hear the engine of her car as it fired to life, so loud was the rushing of the blood in her ears. And still the man's face was there, his intense onyx eyes blazing, passionate.
She gulped in air, as she wrapped her hand around the gear shift. The mansion loomed in the rearview mirror, and Erin tried to look away, ordered her muscles to shift the damned car into reverse and her eyes to focus on the windshield. But she was unable to tear her gaze from the sight of the house, unable to escape what had just happened there and step back into reality.
The man was connected to the mansion in some way. And to her. That thought resounded in her head, and beat with the pulsing of her heart.
Connected... connected. She switched off the ignition with trembling fingers and turned around in the seat to look at the mansion again. Would there be answers inside?
"IT TOOK A FULL FIVE years to complete," Betty, the tour guide said. "Architects and artisans were brought in from all over the world to design and build it. Mr. Munro had expensive tastes and wanted the best of everything."
The guide pointed to the high ceiling, and Erin and the rest of the tour group glanced up. From her place at the back, she murmured in awe along with the rest of them. The entire ceiling was done in gold leaf!
The mansion fairly overflowed with one awe-inspiring feature after another. Erin's group had seen only half of the place so far, yet had already viewed the shiny chrome-laden kitchen that could easily have served hundreds of guests at once, beheld priceless paintings and sculptures and been allowed to run their hands over furniture that her mother would have killed for.
In his office had been a large portrait of J.B. His posture rigid and his expression dignified, he stood next to a chair where his first wife, "Virginia, was seated, her hands folded in her lap. She was attractive, but had a stern mouth and no warmth in her eyes. And her husband was not the man in Erin's vision, as Erin had wondered before seeing the portrait.
She had searched each painting after that, hoping to find him, but hadn't seen him yet. She had also groped the entire time for an explanation for the strange vision, thinking that surely she must once have seen a picture of him, then buried his image in her subconscious. Maybe the Munro Gazette had run an article on the mansion's history with accompanying photos? Those first few weeks after his heart attack, her father had enjoyed listening to Erin read from the newspaper. It was possible, wasn't it, that she'd come across a photograph of the man there? But how could she have forgotten a face like his? How could any woman not remember the image of those sinfully black eyes, even if she'd seen them in a grainy newsprint photo?
Interrupting her thoughts, Betty—who'd been giving Erin the strangest looks—took them through a formal dining room paneled in rich mahogany. A huge stone fireplace with the Munro coat of arms on its mantel covered most of one wall, and several sets of china were displayed in lighted cabinets.
Next came the family's private quarters.
J.B.'s bedroom was the most impressive room in the mansion, definitely the lord of the manor's chamber. It was furnished in English baroque, Betty informed them, with chinoiserie side chairs, a massive walnut chest, and a huge bed inlaid with marquetry. Italian torcheres lent circles of light to impressive Chinese vases.
The group then moved through various salons and parlors, a floor full of guest bedrooms, and even a handball court in the basement before finally reaching the last room on the tour.
"He had it fashioned after the great hall in a medieval castle that had been built by one of his ancestors," Betty informed them, sweeping her arm toward the oversize chairs and trestle tables. "This fireplace," she said, as she led them to it, "is amazing, isn't it?" She ducked her head, then stepped inside the huge brick enclosure, easily able to stand erect. "Notice the doorway back here? It leads to tunnels that J.B. had installed during construction of the mansion. Entrances have been found in other estate buildings such as the guesthouse."
"Oh, my. The tunnels... I'd heard about them," one of the women said excitedly. "Weren't they used to smuggle in bootleg whiskey during Prohibition?"
"Actually, no," Betty answered with a grin. "Remember, J. B. Munro founded the city. He served liquor at his parties and did little to conceal that fact. No, the tunnels were built more with convenience in mind. During construction of the house, the artists brought many of their treasures from the studio he'd built for them through the tunnels to prevent damage from the weather. After the mansion was finished, the tunnels were rarely used."
The woman frowned, apparently unwilling to have her romantic notions so quickly dispelled.
Floyd once killed a man here over a poker game, then dragged the body out through the tunnels and dumped it in one of the lakes."
The guide shook her head. "Only a rumor. And if every rumor he's been linked to was true, he'd have had to be triplets."
"Can we see the tunnels? Go down inside them?" someone asked.
"I'm sorry." Betty pointed to the padlock on the door. "Closed by order of the fire marshal. But we do have one more item of interest on the tour. It was found just this week in one of the storage rooms of the tunnels. A portrait of J.B.'s second wife, Della."
Erin's stomach fluttered as she recalled that J.B. had called her Della. Her gaze followed the others' to the far end of the room where a very large portrait, covered with a black velvet drape, sat on a brass easel.
"His wife was murdered," the woman so fond of rumors declared as they all began walking in the direction of the portrait, Erin still in the rear. "I hear that the police thought J.B. did it."
"Actually," Betty continued with a note of impatience in her voice, "the murder was never solved. And J.B. was never listed in police records as a suspect. Again, that's merely a rumor. Their records show that Waite MacKinnon, Mr. Mun-ro's partner in Munro MacKinnon Railway, was questioned. There was speculation about an involvement between him and Della Munro. He disappeared soon after her body was found in a cave here on the estate and was never heard from again."
"An affair! And then he disappeared after her murder? How did he kill her? I hear that—"
"She was strangled," Betty said curtly, her patience with the woman clearly spent. "Now, before we see the portrait, there's one other interesting thing about this great hall. Mr. Munro, a former Easterner, was intrigued with the history of his adopted state. He had a mural painted depicting that history. It's one of the most unique murals I've ever seen," she finished, then pointed to the ceiling.
Along with the others, Erin tilted her head up. There, covering the entire expanse of the room's enormous ceiling, was the painted history of Oklahoma. From the first settlers, to Indian Territory days, to the coming of the railroads, to recent governors, the mural had obviously been a lifetime project for J.B. The historical events weren't melded into one large collage, but were depicted in chronological rows so that anyone viewing it could see the order of what had happened.
"Now," Betty said when the group finally arrived at the portrait. "As I said, this is the last item on the tour so on behalf of all of us at the mansion, we'd like to thank you for coming. You're all welcome to stroll through the building at your leisure, or if you'd like to take the tour again, sign up in the office, please."
Betty then pulled back the drape. "Mrs. Della Richards Munro," she announced in a slightly theatrical voice, and stepped back for all to view the portrait.
Erin's eyes widened and her hand rose to her throat. "As you can see," she heard the guide say, "she's wearing the gown in the glass display case in her bedroom I showed you earlier. It's said she loved to have her picture taken and her portrait painted. She was quite attractive, wasn't she?"
The guide's words barely registered past Erin's shock, and moments later, when the group had dispersed, Erin hung back, rooted in place. She felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped.
"You kept to the rear of the group, but I couldn't help noticing," the tour guide said with a curious smile. She nodded at the portrait. "Are you... related somehow?"
"No," Erin managed to say. "No, I'm not."
Betty's forehead creased. "That's amazing. You're sure? Of course, we have no record of any living descendants, but the similarity is so striking-"
"No. I'm... not related. I promise you, I don't know these people at all." Almost not at all.
"How odd..." Betty began, then shrugged. "But you know what they say about everyone having a twin...."
"Yes, they do say that."
When she was gone, Erin stared at the portrait again, disbelief and confusion swirling in her mind. Odd? It might seem merely "odd" to Betty, but she didn't know about Erin's vision on the steps of the mansion, or about J.B. calling her Della and then knowing Erin's name when he had no way of knowing it. Now there was this portrait... This impossible portrait.
Shaking her head in denial, Erin noted Della's almond-shaped green eyes, her short auburn hair and heart-shaped face. Impossible, she thought again. This simply couldn't be Della Munro; Erin's mind simply refused to accept it.
Her complexion couldn't be that easy-to-sunburn impossible-to-tan shade of pink. Her jaw couldn't be slightly squared, and her chin couldn't have that small cleft in it. These simply couldn't be Della Richards Munro's features.
Because they were Erin's.
Della... Can you ever forgive me, Della? You're not Della.... You 're the other one.... You 're Erin. Erin closed her eyes, covering her mouth with a hand that trembled. Before she opened them, she prayed that her mind had been playing tricks on her and the image of Della Munro would be different. But it wasn't. In fact, the longer Erin stared at the woman, the more similarities she found. Their smiles were the same, both had noses that tipped up just a bit at the end.
Erin ran her hands through her own short-cropped auburn hair, then over her face, almost as though to assure herself that her features hadn't been stolen away to create this stranger's image.
She stepped closer to the portrait, within touching distance, and narrowed her gaze as she studied it more intently. It was then that her shock became complete; then that she noticed the locket.
It was just like the one—
She fumbled beneath the placket of her denim shirt and plucked hers out, tracing the etchings in the gold with her fingertips—the same designs as those on the locket that Della had worn for this portrait. Springing the latch, Erin wasn't that certain she would find nothing inside, even though it had been empty when her mother had given it to her.
To Erin's great relief, the locket was empty. On the heels of relief, she wondered exactly what it was she'd expected to find. An old photo of J.B.? One of the man Della was said to have had an affair with, Waite MacKinnon?
Or the man Erin had seen in her vision, the man whose image had compelled her to come inside.
She felt the same compulsion now. Stronger than the need to take her next breath, more tempting than vice to a sinner, it engulfed her and she watched in paralyzed amazement as, against her will, her hand reached for the portrait. At the same time the strange humming noise and the black cloud of foreboding she'd felt the day of Munro's death returned.
Erin grasped her own locket tighter—for what reason she didn't know—and when her fingertips finally made contact with the locket Della wore, she felt her hold on consciousness slip. Then blackness descended, like midnight blanketing a noonday sun.
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN SHE AWOKE IT WAS dark, cold and humid. The air smelted as though she was near a lake or ocean. But there was no movement, no sea breeze. The chill was dank and clammy. She lay flat on her back on a frigid, hard floor.
She tried to move, but found her limbs wouldn't cooperate. The only feeling in her arms and legs was a slight tingling sensation. She swallowed, fighting to will panic away. She could turn her head, and when she did, saw that she was in a hallway of some sort, about six feet wide by six feet high.
How had she come to be here? Where was "here"? And what had happened to cause her paralysis? The last thing she remembered before blacking out was touching the locket in the portrait.
Then came the sound of footsteps... voices...
Erin glanced quickly to her left and saw two shadowy shapes, one large and one slight, walking in her direction from what seemed yards and yards away. A single naked bulb in a distant wall sconce provided little help. Erin squinted, but couldn't make out details like features, clothing and hair color. She could see nothing more than hazy silhouettes. She tried to call out, but like the rest of her body, her voice seemed to be afflicted with paralysis. Not even a whimper would issue from her lips.
Had she died... ? Was this the famous tunnel leading to the light that those who had near-death experiences spoke of? But no. There was never pain or fear in the stories told by people who'd come so close to the gates of heaven. Their tales always included mention of being at peace, feeling secure and wrapped in warmth and love. Whereas Erin was most definitely afraid.
The pair continued moving toward her, then stopped about twenty feet away. She could see that the small figure was a woman, the larger one, a man—a man with a beard. Their features were still blurred, indistinct. She could hear their voices, and detected anger in the man's tone; fear in the woman's. But she couldn't make out their exact words.
Didn't they see her? They acted as though they were the only two people in this... this hallway. As if Erin weren't there.
Then the man turned his back to Erin, blocking her view of the woman, and their heated whispers quickly became exclamations, then angry shouts. She heard the sound of an open hand delivering a sharp, hard slap.
An all-out struggle began. Erin clenched her eyes shut and focused every ounce of her willpower on trying to move—anything; a finger, a toe. But her body had been leached of strength. Not a single muscle responded. She tried to shout again, but that was of no use, either. Her vocal chords were still frozen. Meanwhile the violence escalated rapidly, and Erin glanced back at the pair to see the woman's arms thrashing wildly. Her terror echoed from wall t
o wall.
Then there was silence. The woman's body slumped to the floor.
Erin turned her head away. A sob rose in her throat, but was trapped there. She felt tears slip from the corners of her eyes and stream into her ears. This couldn't be heaven. But, dear God, if it wasn't... what was it?
She heard footsteps again, and jerked her gaze back to the couple in time to see the man walking away from the body. He was leaving the way they had come in. Holding her breath, Erin watched until he was no longer visible, until the shadows had swallowed his image. The sound of a door opening, then scraping closed, echoed far along the hallway.
It was Bin's chance to help the woman. But how could she help when she couldn't move? God, what a nightmare. To have the skills but not the means to get close to the woman!
Just moments later, the nightmare intensified. Excruciating, fire-hot ribbons of pain snaked through Erin's body, and she gave an anguished cry. Starting in her shoulders, then traversing her torso, the wicked tendrils left searing agony in their wake. Had she been standing, the pain—unlike anything she'd ever known—would have driven her to her knees.
In her prone, paralyzed state, she could only grimace and suck in her breath as the pain spiraled down into her legs and radiated through her arms, stabbing every muscle, tendon and bone. Through clenched teeth, she hissed in a breath, then huffed it out in staccato bursts. Again and again. It was the only method at her disposal to fight the god-awful pain—the Lamaze breathing she'd learned in paramedic training.
Just as quickly as it had come, it was over, and Erin exhaled deeply. Tears of blessed relief filled her eyes. She lifted her hand to wipe them away, then almost shouted for joy. Her hand! She could move it again! And her feet, her legs.. .everything.
