Julienne slanted a glance toward the woman sitting across from her. For the first time she began to realize how important these people were. Morgan had chosen each one for a specific purpose. They were here because he trusted them. She hoped that she could trust them, too. "Was it?"
Silence. It pulsed in her ears, throbbed in her temples. She held her breath, waiting for Danielle to answer, wondering what she would say. For a moment, Danielle looked baffled. Then understanding dawned in her eyes.
"It's ok," Melissa said. "I've told her how some of us came to be here."
Danielle nodded, tracing her top lip with her tongue. "Okay. Then I guess I might as well tell her my story." She turned to Julienne. "At first, everything about Morgan and this place wierded me out."
Tension lessening, Julienne had to laugh. "Wierded you out? Is that even a word?"
Danielle shrugged and picked up a cookie to nibble, her cheeks reddening a bit from becoming the unexpected center of attention. "I mean, you can tell Morgan's different, even without the otherworld elements."
"Very true." Melissa agreed.
"God, he can read people like a book, ferret out your every dark secret. I've seen him sit down with just a pack of playing cards and tell people their whole lives. It's spooky."
Julienne waited a beat, saying nothing. She had a feeling that Danielle wanted to talk. A brief smile ghosted across Danielle's face, then vanished almost as quickly.
"We all have a lot of sins in our pasts," Melissa chimed in, taking a seat on the couch and smoothing her skirt over her lap. "Tell her how you met him, Danielle."
Lines of tension deep around her eyes, Danielle's gaze dropped. She hauled in a short breath. "I embezzled from the bank where I worked. I had a good career and was trusted to handle a lot of money. To make a long story short, I got hooked on gambling after a trip to Vegas. God, I couldn't quit and I got in a lot of debt fast. Didn't take long to max out every credit card I had."
"So the next step was to steal it?"
A harsh laugh passed Danielle's lips. "Borrowing, I called it. I always intended to put it back when I made the big play. But I never won. I lost and lost. Before I knew it, I was almost one hundred thousand dollars in the hole. That much missing, you can't hide it for long. The shortages were found and they knew who did it." She lifted her hands, shrugging helplessly. It was clear that she was ashamed. "No way was I going to jail--I couldn't."
"You don't have to say anymore," Julienne broke in. "I didn't mean to bring up bad memories. I have enough to last a lifetime."
Danielle took a sip of coffee to clear her throat. "No, I'll tell you the rest. I got myself a lot of sleeping pills and a bottle of gin and I drove out to the country. No one on earth knew where I was going. Picked a deserted back road, turned on the radio and took every damn pill. I was so zoned that a flying saucer could have flown by and I wouldn't have known.
"Anyway, there I am, about to pass out and someone suddenly pulls open my car door and drags my ass out. Next thing I know, I am on hands and knees puking my guts up while this strange man leans against my car, smoking a cigarette--just like it's all well and cool to be there in the middle of the night. I was so damn sick I didn't care if I died right then."
Julienne shivered at the images that came to mind.
"Next thing I know," Danielle continued, "he's got me up by the scruff of the neck and says he's got a little deal to offer me. Give him ten years of my life and all my problems will be gone." She snapped her fingers. "Just like that."
"And if you had said no?"
"I'd be dead for sure."
"But she said yes," Melissa filled in with a smile.
"Yeah, I did," Danielle agreed. "And I don't know to this day how he found me, or even how he got there."
Julienne's brow ridged. "What do you mean?"
"Ever see those spooky movies where someone just vanishes into the dark as they walk away?" Danielle started to explain. "That's what he did. Just walked away, smoking that cigarette. Then he was just gone, into the shadows. I thought I dreamt it all. I went home shaking. Next day, I am in a whole new world. Debts are paid, with interest, all forgiven. I'm quietly resigned from the bank. Tobias picked me up and brought me here for the first time. I was in awe and so damned afraid of Morgan that I was practically petrified."
For an instant Danielle looked nonplussed. Then she gave an ironic smile. "I learned the hard way that he drinks too much, has a bad temper, will do anything to get his way and--oh yeah--he's not even human in any way that I understand. Anlese, bless her kind heart, helped me understand and cope when I was cursing his stubborn Irish ways and ready to deck him myself."
Julienne had to smile. Morgan often drove his staff to their wit's end. "You'd have to get in line," she joked, glad to laugh a little. "I wanted to slap him stupid the first day we met."
"We've all felt that way," Melissa said, rolling her eyes. The women laughed, then grew serious.
"But, you know, all of us here, ah, respect him a lot. I'm grateful. We all are. He's never let us get very close--not even Melissa, and she knows more than any of us. When I heard he was leaving, though, I almost lost it."
"I remember the day grandmother told you."
"And of course, Anlese was ill and you had just come," Melissa filled in. "It seemed like this place, too, was coming to its end. None of us here wanted that. When he came back with you last night, we all wondered if it was to stay."
"Melissa asked him." Danielle put in. "She's braver than I am."
Julienne's ears perked up. "What did he say?"
Melissa leaned close, putting a hand on her arm and speaking in sotto voice. "He said that he isn't sure. That whatever happens depends on you."
Her eyebrows shot up a mile. "Whatever happens depends on me?" Surprising news.
Both women nodded emphatically.
Julienne glanced toward the closed door. The butterflies in her stomach started their nauseating dance. Her feelings regarding seeing Morgan again seesawed from anxiety to anticipation. She wondered how he would greet her, remembering that his determination to forever leave this place behind had been aborted. Uneasy, suspicious, cautious might prove to be more applicable emotions than ones of relief and welcome.
"He's waiting for you," Melissa said softly. "Go."
Julienne glanced from one woman to the other. Both nodded, silently urging her on.
She stood up. "I guess I had better find out then." Her legs had all the strength of noodles as she walked across the library. She felt her pulse quicken when she opened the door and slipped inside.
Chapter Eighteen
The scene inside the den was a peaceful one. A fire had been built and stoked. Several candles also burned, their flickering, diffused light offering a tranquil atmosphere despite the shadows they cast around far corners. These twitched and danced, animated by her imagination.
Morgan lay on the couch. His boots scraped a dirty patch across the material and he used the headrest as a pillow. His eyes were closed; his hands rested on his stomach. An unlit cigarette was balanced between two fingers. The ashtray on the coffee table indicated he'd gone through a least a pack, maybe more. No sign of an open bottle.
There were books, though. A lot of them, scattered across every surface; many had been left open to certain pages.
Curious as to what he might have been reading, she crept to his desk and glanced at the closest. Immediately, she could tell that it wasn't like any other she'd ever seen. It was old, dog-eared, the edges of the parchment tattered. Beside the book, on sheets of unlined paper, were several drawings and notes, written in black ink using an old-fashioned inkwell and pen, the finer arts of conjuration recorded in a meticulously fine script.
Julienne felt a peculiar quickening of her pulse. A book of spell work. She could image him pulling these books from hidden places, taking in their dark secrets, word after word. Here were the forbidden things that most dared not whisper of. Witchcraft. She lifted her gaze from the
decrepit book, unconsciously clamping the fingers of her left hand around her wrist. Eyes closed, she felt a strange tension overtake her. This is the world he belongs to.
A hot tremor coursed through her. Though she could not read the words, she could tell by the many symbols and illustrations that between these dilapidated covers were the elements of a legacy too long denied.
She lowered her hand to one of the book's fragile pages. As the tips of her fingers made contact, an electric spark jumped from the page. She could see the flare of it, feel it thrumming through her body. Awesome. And fear-provoking.
Her mind flew back to the day she'd arrived in Virginia. In the airport, she'd encountered a strange old woman. Pulling the crucifix Julienne wore from around her neck, the woman had said, "You belong to the devil himself." It occurred to her that she had not worn the cross since that day.
Angels and demons are waging an invisible battle over our souls, she thought, even as we chose our sides. Has he chosen rightly? Am I choosing rightly? She had to believe she'd been brought back home to fulfill a purpose.
She picked up one of the pages. It was the first time she'd ever seen a legitimate sample of his handwriting. The man was absolutely pathological about not signing anything he didn't have to. If he did, it was an illegible scrawl, no more than a marking of a pen across paper.
Here, the penmanship was vastly different. Neat. Precise. Letter-perfect. At least, she thought it was letter perfect. She could not read it. It was not written in English. It was also more than a little intimidating. He was leagues ahead of her in--oh, everything.
What the hell made her think she could keep up with him, much less be remotely interesting?
A new wave of chills began a route through her bloodstream. She couldn't help herself. Everything about this man and his mysterious world seemed unnatural. An abomination. The occult was a terrible and frightening thing. A thing I belong to, she reminded herself. A thing I have to accept.
She cast another glance at the strange book, thinking about him, about his scars. His flesh was marked in ways different from hers, though his agony was no less tragic. His back was crisscrossed with the marks of a heavy lash, the repeated beatings in his early youth; his left arm was ringed with a blue-black tattoo of Celtic lions. There were other scars--from brawling and, most disturbing, the ones marring his wrists. From a suicide attempt, to escape what he was.
In the back of her mind she pictured blood flowing from open veins, his flesh growing chalky as life departed.
"Curiosity killed the cat."
Startled by the sound of his voice, she nearly jumped a mile. She was a bit embarrassed to be caught snooping. Again. Pivoting on her heel, she fired back.
"And satisfaction brings it back every time." As always, she felt an amazing combination of emotions toward him. Sometimes, he made her want to slap him silly. Other times, she wanted him to grab her and kiss her blind. "I thought you never slept."
He opened his eyes. "I was not sleeping." His English was perfect, but there was more than a trace of an Irish brogue. His diction was like his body--hard, concise, no excess.
"Yeah, right." She smiled. "Maybe you're just examining the insides of your eyelids for cracks."
His eyes were on her, studying her. "Exactly."
Reaching for his lighter, he lit his cigarette and waved away the cloud of smoke.
"Must be a lot of cracks," she teased, moving to the sofa and perching on the armrest by his feet. Seeing him dressed again in the clothes of modern times gave her pause for contemplation. He was the most amazing man she'd ever encountered. She was pleased by what she saw--his casual strength, the grace of his movements. Those taut muscles belonged to a man who knew how to fight.
He was not an exceptionally tall man, but he was an imposing one. Perhaps it was by virtue of the ramrod-straight way he carried himself that he seemed larger than he really was. As usual, he was elegantly turned out: white shirt crisp, vest of the best silk, trousers creased to razor sharpness. A hanging gold watch chain bridged both pockets of his vest. At the end of the chain hung a ring, also gold.
Her gaze shifted to his face. He'd inherited the genes of two truly beautiful people. His hair was not simply dark--it was black. Glorious raven's-wing black, salted with silver through his temples and bangs. An uncombed mass of loose curls, it came just to the top of his collar at the nape of his neck. His eyes were truly unique, black and unfathomable as a night ocean. His features were almost too perfect, with the strong, square jawline; high, well-defined brow; absolutely sensual mouth.
Feeling like a moth to the flame, he held for her the same fierce and immediate fascination she'd experienced the first time she'd laid eyes on him more than two months ago. How much had changed in that short space of time. It was disturbing to realize he maintained such a hold over her. She felt he always would.
Striking, arrogant, ruthless and commanding, he was the absolute master of his domain. His personality was a compellingly moody mix of prickly thorns overlaid with an arresting sensuality. Possessor of a rapier wit and razor tongue, he spared no one. Mulish to the last drop of his Irish blood, he was firm and inflexible. He would do anything to anyone at anytime to get what he wanted.
Blunt and to the point, he had a forceful, direct way of speaking. The words fun and relaxation did not seem to be a part of his vocabulary, and he did not have time to be bothered by any sort of nonsense. Brilliant, manic-depressive and an alcoholic, he could be by turns a genteel sophisticate or a complete ass. Fascinatingly dangerous and hauntingly sympathetic, he was ten men in one.
Abused in childhood, he suffered a lifelong rage that frequently poisoned his personal relationships, coupled with a survivor's guilt that led him into lacerating self-appraisal. He was obsessed with death, defying it even as he coveted it. Like glass broken and scattered then patched back together with clumsy hands, his was a shattered psyche. Some shards were missing forever, lost in the sweep. Other slivers, wrongly placed, cut deeply. Though enough pieces could be put back together into a semblance of wholeness, there was never a complete image.
"You are up sooner than I expected."
She shrugged, feigning a casual disinterest. "Such as it is."
He made a brief gesture. "Come closer. Let me see you."
She moved off her perch and settled in front of the couch, taking the hand he offered. She was touched by his simple gesture of acceptance. It was good to feel the solidity of his flesh, this man who was her lover. Looking into his eyes, she could see something new simmered there. Regret.
"You know I would not have left you if I had known you survived," he said. It was clearly difficult for him to say the words, for he very rarely admitted mistakes of any kind. A hard and inward man, he was not used to apologizing for anything, virtually strangling on the words he was compelled to speak.
She reached out and snagged his cigarette for herself. She needed something to quell the lump growing in her throat.
"Don't. There's no reason to go over that. You thought that thing killed me." He's suffered as much as I have, maybe more. I have to believe he thought I was dead, that he wasn't cold-hearted enough to walk away, leave me there alive.
No matter how much he professed to deplore any kind of emotional attachment, she hoped there was something buried inside him that said he loved her, if only a little.
He gave a wry grimace and reached out to stroke her cheek, a silent apology, and an acknowledgement. He had done all he could to help.
Except that thing was still inside her.
He knew it. She certainly knew it. Why beat around the bush? She needed some answers.
She put out her cigarette. Holding out her arm, she inched up her sleeve.
"It's growing." She turned her hands palm up. The lines there had been eradicated--life line, heart line and love line were all gone as her skin began to take on the leathery smoothness of the creature. "How much longer have I got to live?"
"Many centuries lie ahead of
you," he answered somewhat solemnly, gazing at her. "If you are willing to cross over."
If he were joking, if he were ridiculing her, she could find no trace of it. He was absolutely serious.
"Cross over?" she repeated uncomfortably. "You mean become like you?" The flickering candles were beginning to unsettle her. Half-shadow, half-light. Which to embrace?
Morgan rubbed tired eyes and flicked hair off his pale forehead. He briefly pressed his fingers to his temple. "What I have to tell you is not easy, nor will it make much sense, but it is the only answer I have."
"I didn't think it was going to be easy." Or painless.
"I cannot take Xavier's mutant out of your body," he stated flatly, passing her a hard glance that reinforced the finality of his words. "Since it attacked you, the creature has become a part of your system. In another few days it will be fully formed, and it will need more sustenance, thereby forcing it to exit."
"And when it leaves, I die?"
"Yes," he said evenly, studying her.
"That doesn't sound like much of a survival for me."
A tic drew down one corner of his mouth. He gave the ceiling benefit of consideration. Then he seemed to collect himself, sitting up and lighting a fresh cigarette.
"Because its essence is vampiric, it needs blood to feed on. Human blood. I have been doing some research into the spell-work of these creatures, and I propose to merge it with your system, joining the two into one complete being."
Julienne felt shock drive deep into her senses. How was she supposed to accept what he was telling her?
"One complete being?" she repeated. The words were a jam in her throat, a heavy weight on her tongue. She was neither excited nor pleased with the idea he proposed. She felt a cramping of her bowels that was fear and dread and regret.
"Yes."
"If you can change its form, can't you kill it?"
Descent of Demons Page 20
