“Paul, whatever are you talking about?”
“You bloody well know what. And you’re hiding something. I know you; I know that voice. You’ve met him, haven’t you? But the question is, why haven’t you told us?”
“You’re mad. I haven’t . . . and I haven’t found him. To be honest I never looked very hard. I managed to look at his charts—and don’t ask me how—but that’s the end of it. And you are aware I can’t disclose anything from them without his permission. And until—”
“Bollocks. What is it? You want the discovery for yourself? Well, never mind. Doesn’t matter. We’ve got him. That photo is a dead ringer for the Miracle Man. Mr. Gaelan Erceldoune of Evanston, Illinois. And if you’re holding back from us—”
“Paul. I wouldn’t; it’s just that . . . you know, American legal bollocks. I cannot—”
“And his hand? The one with the missing fingers? Severed. It was the final experiment done by the physician at Bedlam on the ‘the patient,’ as the mad doctor calls him. Our Mr. Erceldoune, AKA Miracle Man. There was only one more entry beyond that. Some sort of screed on the injustice of gentlemen in medicine not wanting to get their hands dirty with lunatics and such. Methinks the mad doctor was a mad doctor.”
“Don’t be daft. Erceldoune would have to be at least two hundred years old, if this man was an adult when he was tortured. It’s a reckless leap, and you know it. Have you discarded your scientific good sense along with your ethics?” But was it really such a stretch, given the latest research? If a human could regenerate tissue infinitely, was infinite life possible? She thought of her T. nutricula research—her immortal jellyfish. But tissue regeneration did not ordinarily suggest any sort of immortality. Salamanders die, despite their physical capabilities. Extrapolation to humans . . . well, could it be? She shook off the thought as fanciful, and Paul’s wishful thinking for untold riches.
“I don’t happen to think it’s such a leap,” he said. “And, even if it is, there’s plenty of evidence to suggest further exploration.”
“The photo cannot be very good if it’s genuine and that old. Likely faded, easy to mistake. Don’t jump the gun, Paul. I know you’re good at it . . . being quick on the trigger,” she added to emphasize the dig. “But I’d hesitate if you value your professional career. Does Lloyd know where you’re going with this?”
“He does, and I’m on a flight to Chicago tomorrow night. Mr. Erceldoune has won a trip back home to the UK. He is coming to London. With me.”
Oh God. She glanced at Gaelan’s sleeping form. More peaceful than she’d seen him these last few days. But she needed to wake him up and warn him.
“You’re making some awfully big assumptions, Paul. First, you have to find him, and then what if he doesn’t want to go to the UK? Will you kidnap him? Would he even have a passport?”
“We’ll figure it out when I get there. By the way, make any progress on getting hold of the contact I gave you—on that book of yours?”
“I don’t need him. If you must know, I’ve found quite a brilliant scholar. And Mr. Er . . .” Bloody hell. Anne couldn’t believe she’d nearly said his name. She tried to think of every possible other letter combination to make Er . . . “Sorry, not mister,” she stammered. “Dr. Eric Luther.” Oh holy fucking mother of God. Paul prided himself on knowing her so well. She hoped he was as wrong about that as he was right about everything else. The silence on the other end of the phone line dangled for endless seconds.
“Ah, so you have met him. And collaborating with him. Excellent. I knew you were hiding something. You were always a terrible liar, my love.”
And then she heard it. At first, it was a low whimper, a cry, like a child trying to avoid a beating, getting louder. She clicked “End” on her mobile.
Then pleas, begging whoever it was to stop. “No. Not again. Please!” A low wail. Anne watched Gaelan thrash on the sofa, wondering briefly if he was having a seizure, but then she realized. Not a seizure, but some sort of waking nightmare—his eyes were wide open in terror.
Kneeling beside Gaelan, Anne softly called out his name, trying to engage him, whispering at first, then raising her voice very slightly. Nothing.
His forehead creased with tension, his mouth drawn into a tight line between his screams. The nails of his right hand bit into his palm, drawing a small trickle of blood.
The thrashing stopped, but now he was trembling. She wanted to pull the blanket up around his shoulders, but knew she shouldn’t—it could make matters worse if she alarmed him. He must come out of this. Slowly and on his own.
An idea: perhaps she might sing to him, a low, lulling wordless tune, ancient, its twists and winds, lilts and trills almost harp-like, from the fairy folk themselves. It had always calmed her as a child when her grandmother would coo it into her ear.
Gaelan blinked, and slowly, slowly the tension receded first from his forehead, then his jaw; his grip loosened enough to let her apply pressure to the wounds on his hand, but when she looked, the wounds had vanished, leaving only incongruous streaks of dried blood running from the middle of his palm to the wrist. She shook her head in disbelief. Bloody hell! Rapid tissue regeneration—in a human? Had she really witnessed it? Proof seemed to stare her in the face, yet her scientist’s mind wondered if she had only imagined it, and the dark streaks were simply inks from a very old book that had left their mark on his arm.
“Gaelan?”
His eyes focused on Anne’s face, widening in horror as his gaze shifted to his arm and realization dawned. He threw off the blanket, staggering to the bathroom without a word.
“Please leave,” he called out from behind the door.
“Gaelan. Listen to me!” She heard the water go on full force in the bathroom sink. She let him be, realizing this had not been the first such episode.
She heard the shower turn on, then off. More waiting. It had grown dark outside.
Finally the bathroom door opened and he emerged, hair wet but combed through. Vintage leather blazer, black faded jeans, dark blue dress shirt with aqua cuffs, as if he was off for an evening of clubbing.
He barely noticed her as he crossed the living room, or if he did, he ignored her completely, leaving without a word, slamming the door behind him. Anne stood alone amid the mess of his flat, feeling foolish and bewildered.
CHAPTER 48
Gaelan needed to walk. Find some peace from memories that seemed to be pursuing him with more vigor of late—since the discovery of the Bedlam diaries. And get away from Dr. Anne Shawe. He headed east toward the lake. Perhaps he would find comfort in the rhythm of the waves as they lapped onto the shore. At least this time he was on foot, and the likelihood of another catastrophic accident was minimal. The walking path above the lake was deserted—too cold, he guessed. Perfect for him, though. Bracing. Reviving.
An empty bench. He sat, grabbing a rock that caught his eye as it glinted in the starlight, its crystalline planes reflecting pink and blue. Some sort of calcite, he thought. He blew off the accumulated wet sand, cleaning the remains with his shirttail, examining it, wondering if it was more than just a simple rock. All rocks were more than they seemed. What’s hidden inside you? A geode, perhaps? Quartzite? Calcite? Either would be a rare find here on Lake Michigan, but not unheard of.
He opened the heart rate app on his watch. One hundred eight. Better than it had been back at the flat, but not great. The hot shower had put an end to this latest episode. And Handley had faded from his vision. But the inevitable killer headache had been left in its wake. Fair trade. For now. But in his haste to escape the humiliation of facing Anne Shawe, Gaelan had neglected to take something for it. Fuck. He hurled the rock against a nearby tree, watching it shatter, its crystals disintegrate into tiny slivers. Calcite.
How could he go back and face her? What must she think? Fact was, he liked her. After more than a century avoiding entanglements, he had to be attracted to this woman. All the gin joints in the world . . . Despite the fact she worked for a
company that would destroy him, despite the fact she’d ventured dangerously close to too many truths, these past two days had been . . . good. Welcome amid the chaos his life had become over the years. Exciting. The brilliant discovery, sharing it with someone who possessed the curiosity to still be amazed. And now? She must think he was completely unhinged. And now that he’d explained the book to her—or enough of it—she’d take it and disappear, and he’d never see it again. Or her. Fucking Handley always wins. He sighed, defeated.
Gaelan gazed up from the horizon; the twilight sky was breathtaking. Clear, with only a small sliver of moon to obscure the stars, their steadfastness a tether. Removing his iPhone to open his favorite astronomy app, he realized the battery was still dead.
He didn’t really need an app to map the night sky, so long ago etched into his memory. Looking up and to the south, he squinted Vega into focus, so very bright, and then the Lyre. Then the bright orange-yellow of Boötes, and he knew he would find it just to the right. Ariadne’s Crown.
His thoughts drifted to Eleanor—the Corona Borealis, their nexus into perpetuity, the skies never changing, his constant in the algebra of the universe.
That tune Anne had hummed to him—he knew that lullaby, and well. It had played in his mind so often over the years when he was at his most dispirited, always helping him to go on, put one foot in front of the other. Eleanor had murmured it so near his ear that night she’d comforted him just as he floated between wakefulness and sleep. She’d died never knowing what it had meant to him. A common enough English melody, he supposed, as he avoided projecting significance on it.
“Gaelan.”
He turned, startled, as Anne sat beside him on the bench. The last person he wanted to see.
He shrugged, trying to ignore her, turning his attention to locating Venus. Or Jupiter. Or anything but her nearness.
“Thank you, by the way. For awakening me.” His voice was a soft lilt barely above a whisper as he continued to scan the sky. Ah, there’s Venus.
“I don’t suppose you might want to talk about what happ—”
“No. I do not want to talk about it,” he snapped, his concentration broken. She looked hurt; he’d not meant to snipe. She’d done nothing to deserve it.
Gaelan scooped up another stone from the pavement and propelled himself from the bench. He walked toward the water’s edge, and she followed, standing at his shoulder saying nothing, so close he could smell the jasmine of her perfume as it mingled with the fertile, moist aroma of sand and algae, fish and chilled air. More intoxicating than any three tumblers of Lagavulin and twice as deadly. He sighed, drinking her in, every sensation magnified by her closeness. And she was so very close, her hand resting lightly on his arm. It had been meant to steady him, but instead breathed wildfire through his veins.
“Are you doing any better, Mr. Ercel . . . Gaelan?”
“Yes. All better now.” He feigned a weak smile, noticing her use of his given name. He turned toward her, considering what to say. He wanted to trust her. “A long time ago . . . something terrible happened to me. It’s nothing I can talk about, but sometimes . . . PTSD, I suppose.”
Anne nodded, as if considering his words. She would soon probe him for more if he didn’t veer away from what would soon become treacherous waters. He looked out toward the horizon again, watching the stars reflect on the black glassiness surface of the lake, so placid in the windless night air.
“If we stand here, at the water’s edge, and look up and to the right slightly . . . Do you see that star, the one that’s very bright and has an orange cast to it?” She nodded. “And then just to the south—”
“I’m not sure I see where you mean. . . . Can you . . . ?” Anne positioned herself in front of Gaelan. “Maybe if you might direct my gaze from a better angle.” She barely kept her balance in her stiletto-heeled boots.
It had been a long time since Gaelan had been so physically near a woman. He grinned, reminded suddenly of Simon’s perpetual teasing about his “monk’s” existence. But it wasn’t far from the truth. Easier to live without than yearn for something that would only cause more pain.
“Here.” He took her right hand in his and moved it in the direction of Ariadne’s Crown.
“What are we looking at? I can barely see anything!”
“It is called Corona Borealis, Ariadne’s Crown. I was only just looking at it. It comforts me when my . . . PTSD turns especially ugly. Tethers me. Reminds me of someone . . . I once knew.” She eased herself deeper within his arms, and he was transported to Simon’s garden on that first night with Eleanor so very long ago, distantly aware he was conflating past with the present. And Anne, with her indigo eyes . . .
“Oh!” She giggled, losing her balance and catching Gaelan off guard as they both tumbled to the sand. “Ariadne’s Crown?”
“You know the story from Greek mythology?”
She was practically sitting in his lap, making no attempt to move. Anne shook her head, her hair tickling his cheek. “Sorry, no. I slept through most of my classics courses.” Keeping hold of his hand, she stood shakily, leading him back to the bench.
She reached over, gently turning his face toward her. A kiss would only bring disaster. He needed to break the intimacy that had enveloped them before he was completely lost. But nearly two centuries of resolve began to slip through his fingers as fine as the sand beneath his feet.
A bag of half-eaten French fries sat at Gaelan’s left foot. He scooped it up and tossed one of the fries to a small rodent scavenging the beach. He was joined by a second. They fought over it, chattering noisily. He threw the entire bag their way, watching them do battle.
Anne slapped his hand playfully. “They’ll get heart disease, and it will be all your fault!”
Feigning horror, Gaelan brought his hand to his chest.
She surprised him by entwining their fingers, a sensation so familiar, yet so new. So much for professional distance. Emboldened, Gaelan lifted her hand and brushed his lips along her fingers. But Anne replaced her hand with her lips, kissing him openmouthed, trying to deepen it. He hesitated, shyly pulling away, but only slightly.
Oh, get a fucking grip on yourself. She is the enemy.
But everything that had transpired between them contradicted the argument. It simply could not be true. Gaelan ran his tongue along her lower lip, savoring the taste.
Common sense fought its way back through the fog of desire. He could not let it happen. Must not. He broke contact, regretting it immediately.
“I’m sorry, I . . . What’s the matter?” she asked dreamily.
“Say I am a bit old-fashioned.” It was the weakest of excuses.
“Oh. I see. Well, I am not.” Anne threaded her fingers through his hair, stopping to caress a particularly sensitive spot at the back of his neck, which shivered down his spine and right to his groin.
The battle was lost. Giving in to the sensations, he drew her into an embrace as her lips continued their relentless barrage on his mouth, his jaw, his neck. He moaned a low growl into her ear as he responded.
Do not get close enough to get involved had been his guiding principle since Eleanor. And those nearly two hundred years of avoidance mounted a final, futile assault on Gaelan’s usual good sense. But the parched, arid land in which Gaelan had kept his heart for those many years began to quake and the ground tremble. He allowed Anne to lead him down the street, into the shop, and up to the flat.
“Look, Anne, I’m sorry,” he protested without much bite as they entered his flat. “This is a bad idea. It has been—”
He reached for her other hand, holding them both in his, trying to stand his ground. She ignored the gesture, reaching past his barriers to brush her lips against his, soft and sweet.
The room spun; he was dizzy from emotions and desires, long denied. He gasped as she deepened the kiss, the flare of arousal assailing every nerve ending.
“Anne . . .” Decades of restraint, of refusal, evaporated in the w
hite heat that flared between them. Grappling with clothing, they left a trail from the living room through the kitchen and into the small bedroom. It had been so very long, yet nature compensated for Gaelan’s inexperience, thirst for her—for this—his guide as Anne’s relentless fingers and lips plundered his vulnerabilities, and it was nearly enough.
Exhaustion, weakness from injuries still healing, the too-recent PTSD episode, and the emotional toll of the last two weeks conspired against the pure flame of passion. Flushed and panting, Gaelan could not sustain the rhythm needed to complete the act.
It was over, leaving them both, he assumed, frustrated. A dismal failure. What could he expect? He was a wreck of a man, and very much out of practice—far too many years of celibacy. “I’m sorry, Anne.” He sat up, facing away from her, his legs resting on the floor. “You can go now.” There was no point to her staying, no point to trying to conceal the defeat and bitterness in his voice.
She reached out to him; he recoiled. Her cool, gentle hand at his back, her fingers tracing the lines of sweat as they traversed his spine were a keen reminder of his humiliation. Twice now in the span of hours she had seen him for what he was: a poor, deluded ruin of a man.
“Gaelan—”
He held up a hand, stopping her. “Please. I’d like to sleep. Alone, if you don’t mind. I believe I’ve endured quite enough abasement for one day, don’t you?”
“Okay . . . okay. You rest, and I will finish typing up the notes from today. Later—”
“No. There is no later,” he said sharply. “Not today, anyway,” he added, the edge gone from his voice. “Come back tomorrow, and we’ll continue work on the book. Please. Please. Just leave me be.”
“Okay, but let me finish the notes. You won’t even know I’m here. Then I’ll leave and see you tomorrow morning. Do try to sleep at least?” Anne’s feet padded barefoot across the wood floor; the door closed quietly, and he listened for her footsteps on the tile, hoping she’d left him alone in his misery.
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