Eternity

by Tmonique Stephens

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  EPILOGUE

  ETERNITY

  Tmonique Stephens

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  ETERNITY

  Copyright©2012

  TMONIQUE STEPHENS

  Cover Design by Steena Holmes

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the priority written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-119-6

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  For my daughter Cyre`.

  You continue to be my inspiration

  and my reason to keep striving forward.

  Acknowledgements

  My deepest, personal appreciation goes to my two best friends, Michelle De Leon and Diane Rora. Both of you saved me when I needed to be saved and told me the truth though I didn’t want to hear it. Thank you for taking this journey with me.

  I want to send a special thank you to the ladies at ACRA for your wonderful friend and advice. Also, I thank FCRWA and Savvy Authors for the terrific workshops. Writing is a solitary endeavor, but it’s not a journey any author takes alone.

  CHAPTER 1

  Stella ran. Lungs seizing. Pain racing up her side. She couldn’t stop. The heavy footsteps pounding behind her wouldn’t relent. Her tote banged against her hip, throwing her off pace, slowing her down. She tossed the bag away as lessons from her eighth grade track coach roared in her ears.

  Pump your arms, lengthen your stride, move your butt, Walker!

  Back then, running was easy on a regulation track. There wasn’t a damn thing regulated about racing through lower Manhattan at two a.m. with a killer chasing you.

  She took a turn too fast and her shoulder clipped the corner of a building, sending her careening into a mailbox. The big blue box rang like a tin bell and didn’t budge, while she fell forward and kissed the pavement. Stella pushed herself to her knees. Her arm tingled from the double impact and went numb at her side. She cradled the injured limb, then braced her body against the box and climbed to her feet.

  “Help,” wheezed from spasming lungs. The word died without an echo in an empty street.

  Harsh panting sounded over the heavy beat of her heart, like a spent beast tired from the chase, or was it her own breath rasping in her ears? She froze and looked into the night—and saw him.

  Big. Like a black hole, he sucked up the light around him. She stared, trying to see where he ended and the world began, and saw a vague outline. On the dark Manhattan street reality blurred, the world faded, leaving only him. A stalking nightmare, he turned the city into his hunting grounds. She refused to be his victim.

  The darkness came alive and lunged for her. Stella dodged left, agony stabbing her shoulder. She ignored the pain and streaked through the streets, praying lessons learned long ago would give her a few more seconds to make it to her small slice of New York.

  There! She spotted the glass door to her building and fished her key out of her jeans. If she could just get inside and close the door, she’d have a chance.

  She reached to slide the metal into the lock, but he grabbed a handful of her clothing and hauled her backwards, then slammed her into the glass. Senses reeling, she dropped to her knees onto the concrete sidewalk. Agony shot up her thighs and yanked her back.

  She glanced up. And up.

  Black material stretched tight across his rippled abs and pecs. He grabbed her jacket and snatched her up. His muscular arms bunched tight, biceps mini mountains. Dangling, her fist pounded a body made from steel.

  “No—” His meaty, gloved hand clamped over her mouth, abruptly smothering her cry.

  Air! Stella shook her head and clawed at his fingers for freedom. Lungs burning. Limbs flailing. She recalled the single self-defense class she took a year earlier at the Y and attempted to bring her knee up between his legs. He twisted and his rock hard thigh blocked her.

  But he missed the keys still clutched in her hand. She shoved the metal into him, digging deep into his elbow joint. He grunted and released her. Stella scrambled to the door, grabbed the knob to pull herself up, but her knees wouldn’t hold. She slipped and his fist grazed her head, bouncing her skull off the glass. She crumpled.

  He flipped her limp body over. Dazed, three of him wavered, merging and separating. He hauled her up by the neck. In her peripheral vision, the weak yellow streetlight glinted off something metallic. A blade came into focus. Stella grabbed his wrist, but as she stared into his cold, gaze, the metal slid into her abdomen. And jerked out.

  She gasped. Bright bursts of pain stole her breath and siphoned the rest of her strength. Darkness crept to the edges of her vision. She blinked. Her eyelids lifting and falling like lead lined shades. Jumbled parts of the Lord’s Prayer circled her brain. She turned her head a fraction and searched for someone to save her. In the deserted streets, no savior appeared.

  It’s not my time.

  She stared into the glowing blue eyes of her killer. Their eerie depths mesmerized and beckoned her to a watery grave.

  His grating chuckle scraped across her senses. The corners of his eyes crinkled and the ski mask around his mouth stretched across his face. His chest moved with laughter.

  Her death approached. He laughed at her. As if she was nothing but a trophy to mount on a wall. A burst of adrenalin surged through her weakening body.

  “Don’t laugh at me!” Stella slapped at him. Her fingers caught the edge of the mask and dragged downward.

  He pulled his head away and threw her into the door. The glass exploded and she skidded into the vestibule of her building, ending her journey midway into the lobby.

  Stella blinked, everything wavered, a shifting dizzying carnival ride. Glass crunched,
the vibrating thud of his feet on the tiled floor reverberated through her. Then his weight landed on her chest. Her ribs cracked and snapped like dry twigs echoing in a forest. Her breath whooshed out leaving her lungs quivering for air. She didn’t want to see what came next, but her eyes refused to shut, gradually losing focus.

  “In the name of Anubis, I claim your soul.” Rough, his abrasive voice was like gravel dragged across asphalt. He pierced her skin and ran the razor sharp tip down the side of her face.

  Pinned, lungs spasming, her muscles relaxed, and every pain faded. Tears squeezed out of her eyes for the things she would never have; the gentle caress of a loving hand, a kiss from someone who loved her and wouldn’t leave. Children. But no one would miss her.

  The elevator dinged.

  A woman screamed.

  Stella’s eyes locked with her killer before oblivion won.

  CHAPTER 2

  Roman paused at the door to his office suite. Nervous energy supercharged his senses. His hand clenched the handle, ready for a fight, needing to hit something, someone. This is why he should have stayed at the cabin. With his control slipping, only solitude would help him keep his sanity. For too long he’d put off the inevitable. Always placing the needs of others ahead of his desires, which hadn’t changed in two thousand years and he was no closer to achieving them. He pulled at the silk tie and shifted uncomfortably in the Armani suit he hated. His worn Levis and Timberlands were back at the cabin, along with his freedom and part of his sanity. The briefcase in his hand contained a few sheets of notarized paper. Two signatures and the company would leave his hands. The time for new leadership had come. He pushed the door open and assumed the mantle of CEO—for the last time.

  “Hey, Gracie.” He greeted his personal secretary seated outside his office.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Nicolis.” Gracie smiled. “How was your vacation?”

  He couldn’t tell his elderly secretary, he’d spent months in the woods with a sword in his clenched fist, reclaiming a skill acquired centuries ago and trying to justify his existence.

  “Fine.” He tugged at his tie again, loosening the noose.

  “Stop fidgeting.” She crooked a finger and motioned him to her.

  More parent than employee, he suffered Gracie’s attention as she fixed his tie. Roman enjoyed her motherly fussing. He would miss her, but at least he wouldn’t have to watch another person he cared about die a slow wasting death. Did that make him a coward? Yes, he could admit that.

  “Tell me again why I can’t wear jeans at work?” he groused, returning to their ongoing five-year argument.

  “Because you have to set a good example for the men.”

  Roman winced and his lips tightened. Since his fall from grace, he did that. He had too. Centuries ago his reckless, impulsive nature had cost him everything, leaving him without family or friends, cursed for eternity. But Gracie didn’t need to know his sorted history either. Enough people already shared that burdensome knowledge. She knew him as the thirty-something eccentric billionaire who griped to her. In these last days as her boss, he wouldn’t change that. He drew his eyebrows together, imitating a scowl.

  “Yes, you, good example.” She chuckled. With trembling hands, she brushed imaginary lint from his shoulders. “You were greatly missed.”

  “By whom?” With the exception of four, all his men were deployed on various assignments.

  “The boys. Bianca’s also been by three times looking for you.” Gracie’s lips pursed, trying to suppress a smile.

  He sighed, his grimace no longer pretend. His fiancée needed to know the wedding was off. “Maybe I should marry you,” he offered with a wink.

  She burst out laughing. “Not on your life!” Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “First, I don’t want Dragon Lady poisoning my coffee. And second, you couldn’t handle me.” At sixty, her eyes twinkled with delightful intention as she patted his forearm.

  He captured her knobby fingers with a hand that had seen many more decades than hers, and brought them to his lips. Her face broke into a smile and a rosy blush bloomed on her aged cheeks. Looking at her, all flustered and aglow, time peeled away and he could envision the girl she was forty years ago.

  “Now, don’t you tempt me. I’m a happily married woman.” She fussed with her messy salt and pepper bun.

  He laughed, but before he could respond, Bianca rounded the corner. She stopped short. Her eyes swept over him, narrowed briefly, then with fake surprise, widened.

  “Sweetheart.”

  Her voice washed over him, soft and alluring, yet moved nothing inside him. Pulled into her arms, Roman swore under his breath. A little more time before seeing her again would’ve been nice. He avoided her kiss and steered her to her office.

  “I missed you so much. You should’ve stopped by my office when you arrived.” The warmth of her smile didn’t thaw her icy eyes.

  “I just arrived, Bianca.” He tried to control the ire in his voice. Tall and leggy, icy blonde all over, with the palest hazel eyes and lipstick red lips, she was a beauty any man would want. His brother’s told him he was a fool and like a fool, he didn’t listen. He should’ve, especially about this. How could he have thought a marriage of convenience would quench the yawning hole in his soul?

  “How was your vacation?” Smiling, she leaned into him for a kiss.

  “Relaxing.” He moved away.

  “Still not going to tell me where you were?” she hedged with a slight whine.

  He shared the cabin with no one. His silence answered for him.

  “It’s seems like forever since we’ve been together,” she said. “It has been forever. Two months of loneliness.”

  Two months, try two thousand years.

  “We need to talk, Bianca.”

  “Yes, we do,” she said, a bit too brightly. “But, I should get going. I’m already late for a meeting.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and grabbed some folders off the desk. “There are things we need to go over for the ceremony. I know you don’t want to be bothered, but it’s your wedding too and I need your help with a few decisions.” She tried to kiss him again.

  He turned his head and her lips landed on his cheek. When she pulled away, he produced a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the lipstick from his cheek. Her eyes narrowed.

  Guilt clenched his gut. “We’ll talk tonight. Thane’s waiting,” he explained.

  Roman entered into his private office gritting his teeth. The situation with Bianca wasn’t the sum of his discomfort, but added to it. Anxiety ate at the center of calm that balanced his impulsive nature.

  He placed his briefcase and mail on the desk, then turned toward the window with the view of the murky East River. A garbage barge blasted its horn as a group of rower’s glided past. In the distance, the Williamsburg Bridge hid under scaffolding. Forty floors below, the FDR snaked along. Rush hour in Manhattan didn’t end. A twenty-four hour running of the bulls, endure the ordeal or take the subway. Just as the quiet solitude of nature soothed him, so did the honking and the drone of tires on blacktop. The river and traffic flowed like blood through his veins. Usually, the grit of New York was enough. Now, a violent storm churned his insides. He closed his eyes and remembered his last day at the cabin.

  The first rays of the sun cut through the swirling mist, peeking between the oak trees and reflecting off his great sword. The heavy weight in his palm called to the two thousand year old mercenary the twenty-first century could never erase. His arms to the sky, he paid homage to the rising sun before throwing his head back and roaring. He charged into the woods.

  On an obstacle course he designed himself; he attacked with his sword, taking chunks out of fabricated wooden men. A mercenary on the battlefield once more, he wielded his weapon in an arc and went through the Dance of Death he learned at his father’s knee. He moved with a warrior’s grace amidst the trees, disappearing into the mist, then reappearing yards away. Slashing and then fading away again. Swea
t ran freely as the sun burned off the early morning fog and the July heat returned. Clear-headed and free of torment, pine-scented air filled his lungs and the quiet calmed his soul, returning him to a time when he was but a man, mortal and frail.

  His second in command, Thane, entered his office and summed up the state of the business. Roman spared him his left brain, listening to where all the men were, while his right brain remained in the woods.

  “Roman.” Thane waited, holding a file out to him. “There is one more issue. Dr. Jacob Orley contacted us. He wants to hire us to protect a friend.”

  He took the file from Thane and studied his apprentice. Almost his height with sandy blond hair and green eyes, he still looked like he belonged on a beach instead of a boardroom. “You know we don’t protect individuals.”

  “I know you’ve been out of the loop and cut off from the world, but over the last few months nine bodies were found in Manhattan. There’s a file on your desk detailing each murder. This girl would have been number ten. She’s in a coma at St. Vincent’s and she may be able to identify her attacker. She needs our help.”

  Thane rushed through his speech, surprising Roman, but it changed nothing. He handed the file back to him. “There are other companies better suited for this. We don’t have the staff for personal protection.”