Red

by Tracey H. Kitts

  I had forgotten all about my promise to cook dinner for Elijah that night, but I'd learned enough not to question how Mathias could have reminded me after being dead for forty years. It's best not to question a wizard who could see the future.

  I lifted the back cover and found hidden in a small chamber within it, a necklace with a large pink stone encased with silver, and a lock of brilliantly red hair. I knew without being told that it was Mathias’ hair. I turned back to the last page, hoping for more of an explanation but found only these words:

  I will explain later.

  Realizing that I would get no further explanation until it was time for me to know, I replaced the strange necklace in the hidden compartment, but the hair I examined more closely. As I ran my fingers over the silken red lock I closed my eyes and felt the presence of a man I had never known, though he was as familiar to me as my own face.

  "The hair is enchanted," I heard him whisper. "It was the only way a part of me could ever survive long enough to touch you."

  In my mind, my eyes opened, though my physical eyes remained shut. I saw before me a vision, a balm to soothe my wounds, and strength to ease my weakness. He stretched out his arms toward me and I fell against him.

  A peace like I had never known enveloped me as I heard him whisper, "Much of our power is in our touch. Through this, my final touch, I give to you all that I am."

  I looked up into the face of Mathias Alexander, but he could not see me.

  "I know that you now look upon what I once was." His voice broke and tears began to streak his beautiful face. "But I cannot see you. I did not know if you would be my daughter or granddaughter. I only knew that your name would be Lilith, and I would know you when I saw you. Only recently have I seen Jacob, and I knew you would be his child."

  He cradled me against him as he said, "Please accept what I have to give, for it is the only way that I can ever embrace you ... my daughter."

  Immediately, I was flooded with a feeling of such love, peace, and completeness that I was overwhelmed. Never had I felt such understanding. Nothing mattered, there was no world outside his embrace, and even if there was a world beyond those arms, I didn't want to know. I wanted to live and breathe, and die in his embrace.

  But just as suddenly as he had appeared, Mathias was gone and I collapsed to the floor with only the lock of his hair to cling to. I held his hair over my heart as I cried. Instinctively, I knew what it had cost him to appear to me. He had taken his last bit of life, his last breath ... his final touch and put it into that lock of hair. His last moments had been spent reaching out to me with a message that it had taken forty years for me to receive.

  The only thing I could do was cry. Never in my life had I felt so loved. Despite Mathias’ advice I mourned him. I grieved deeply for the one person who ever fully understood me, and I would never see him again.

  But, after several minutes, when I finally picked myself up from the floor, I realized how very fortunate I was to have had that one moment with him. The more I remembered his lovely face, it gave me hope and I smiled to myself as I got in the shower, knowing that that was what he had intended. I let the warm water wash away the last of my tears, and realized I felt better than I had in months. There was something cleansing in his touch. I certainly hadn't forgotten about Bradley, or Peter, but it made their memories easier to deal with. Mathias’ touch had helped to settle the emotional storm that had been raging within me ever since I had seen Marco that first night at club Red.

  I still didn't know what the answer was, or what would end up happening to me. I did not have visions of the future on command as he had, but I now knew that whatever happened, somehow everything would be alright. That certainty wouldn't always last. I'm too much of a worrier for that, but it helped tremendously and was what I needed at the time. The man had used his last breath to give me that message. The least I could do was listen. I took a deep breath and allowed myself to be comforted.

  As I looked for something to wear, I made the decision to wait a while before reading Mathias’ journal again. He said that I would turn to him many times and 'find wisdom that was not here before'. Since I had reached the end of the book for now, I took that to mean I had read all that I was meant to know at the time. Besides, there's only so much information one can digest at a time and, in all honesty, my mind was still spinning. I wasn't sure if I should be shocked, thrilled, or concerned to learn of my mysterious heritage. Just to be sure I hadn't missed the appropriate emotion, I was all of the above.

  Finally, I decided on jeans and a light green t-shirt. The shirt was short, coming just below the waist of my jeans, with a v-neck. I hated long sloppy t-shirts with rounded necks, and I never wore them. I also hated baggy jeans, but after the weight I'd lost recently, my jeans were no longer the perfect fit that they had been. After a while, I reminded myself that this wasn't a date. We were just going to spend some time together. So, I stopped obsessing over my clothes, fixed my short spiky hair, and applied a minimal amount of makeup.

  When I finally made my way downstairs, I passed the answering machine on the kitchen counter and noticed I had twelve messages. I had been so engrossed in the journal that I hadn't heard the phone ring all week. Ten of the messages were from Elijah, who was worried after the first four calls, because I wasn't answering the phone. His last message said he would be there Friday as we had planned, and if I didn't want him to come that I should call.

  One message was from Kat, just checking on me. I was going about my business looking for something to cook for dinner when the last message began to play. “Hello, Red,” Marco's rough and sexy voice stopped me in my tracks. “I waited as long as I could to call.... “There was a pause. “I'm not sure what made me think that you would answer the phone, or what the hell I was going to say if you did.” The machine then announced that the call had been received thirty minutes earlier, when I was in the shower.

  There wasn't time to ponder exactly why Marco had been calling me. I had twenty minutes to get something going before Elijah would be at the door. But, I couldn't shake what Marco's voice had made me feel. Maybe I had gone too long without sex, or maybe it was just him. Either way, Marco's voice did things to me that went beyond arousal. Not because of any magic or particular power in his voice, but because of the man behind it. No matter how much I tried to fight it, Marco just did it for me.

  Thanks to Alfred, there was never a shortage of food in the house, so I quickly began to collect the ingredients for a dish I knew by heart, Chicken Marsala. Naturally, the only porcini mushrooms I had on hand were dehydrated, so I quickly tossed them into a cup of warm water to let them soak. I had just started to brown the chicken when I heard a knock at the door. We had a doorbell, but no one ever used it. The door knocker was just too much fun. It was an antique lion's head with a ring hanging from its mouth, which happened to be made of solid silver. This also succeeded in letting me know whether or not it was relatively safe to answer the door. Whatever was out there, if it knocked, it wasn't a werewolf. The knocker may have been a bit gaudy, but it went well with the large oak door I had managed to salvage when the old house was renovated most recently by Alfred and myself. The Hunters who were in charge of the first renovation years ago felt that a Victorian style would be more pleasing to the eyes. The original structure had a much different, more medieval look.

  I had been attracted to that particular spot, not only because of its lack of neighbors, or because it was in my home town, but because it had belonged to another Hunter.

  After the death of the previous owner, The Hunters had retained the rights to the property. However, the Hunter who'd had the place built, leaned a bit to the macabre, and no one was thrilled with the idea of living in a house with a fully equipped dungeon. But the novelty was too much for me to resist.

  There's good money in werewolf hunting, but I got the house and surrounding property at a steal because of its ‘undesirable amenities'. The space that is now Alfred's laboratory, use
d to be a large storage room. Rumor has it, the place was completely filled with bizarre weapons, some of which my father confiscated for his own private collection.

  When my training was complete and my father was looking for a place to have me permanently stationed, he knew that I would love it here. Medieval history has always fascinated me, particularly torture devices, which coincidentally, were the only pieces of ‘furniture’ that went with the house.

  The house had been empty for over three hundred years before I moved in. I had a suspicion that the man who built it was of wizard descent himself since he died at the ripe old age of seven hundred years. The average Terran life span is around two hundred. Even then, he hadn't died of natural causes. He was visiting Terra and was killed by a dwarf in a bar fight. Aside from that, all I knew was his name, Vincent Cole. Apparently he was quite the character. It was a shame that I never met him, but I felt very comfortable in his house, which said good things about him. I have been in many places where I was far from comfortable. However eccentric Vincent might have been, I could say with certainty that he was not evil.

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  Chapter Twelve

  I opened the door expecting to be berated for not returning any of his calls but found Elijah to be in his usual good mood. My heart leapt when he smiled at me, and I couldn't help but return the favor.

  "Are you alright?” he asked, stepping through the door.

  "I'm fine. I've just been ... busy.” I smiled.

  "So, what are we having?"

  "Oh shit,” I ran back toward the kitchen just in time to save the chicken from burning.

  Elijah entered the kitchen with a laugh and replied, “I've never had ‘oh, shit’ before. What's it like?"

  "Mess with me and you'll end up with this chicken in places the French toast couldn't reach,” I punctuated my words with the jab of a fork and a sarcastic smirk.

  "Such hostility.” He laughed. “Can I help?"

  "Sure."

  Elijah pitched in and within the hour, dinner was served, but not like a volley ball the way the toast had been. Cooking with him was fun and as usual when I was around Elijah, I forgot to worry when I saw his smile. Most likely, I enjoyed displaying the food more than I enjoyed cooking. Leave it to an artist to think the plates needed to be decorated. But I believe that food is a lot like people. It's all in the presentation. You can make a perfectly good dish unappetizing with a bad presentation.

  Speaking of perfectly good dishes, Elijah looked great. He managed to wear dress shirts with jeans and make it look good.

  "Why don't we take this in the sitting room?” I suggested.

  "I'm agreeable to that.” He smiled.

  We moved to the small coffee table in front of the fire and I asked Elijah to light the candles while I retrieved a bottle of wine from the dungeon.

  "You mean wine cellar, right?"

  "No, we keep wine in the dungeon.” I fought to keep a straight face.

  "This I've got to see."

  "Wouldn't you rather wait until after dinner for the grand tour?"

  "If I let the chicken get cold, will you make me wear it?” he teased.

  "Quite possibly."

  "In that case, I'll wait until after dinner.” He smiled.

  The dungeon was an excellent place to store wine as it was the coolest location in the entire house. It had a rather large closet which was used for nothing but wine storage. We'd had several tall racks built into the closet walls so the room was lined with wine bottles. After a moment's thought, I selected a bottle of Vigorello San Felice 1998. It's a wonderful Tuscan wine that smells of chocolate and berries with a touch of vanilla. I've found that it goes very well with chicken.

  When I returned with the wine a few minutes later Elijah asked, “You really have a dungeon?"

  "Let it go, Elijah."

  The wine was good, but the company was better, as I once again managed to lose myself in his eyes. Until then, I didn't know much about Elijah personally, so I enjoyed hearing where he was from, about his younger sister, and his love of animals. He had moved here from a small community just outside of Tulsa, Oklahoma. His sister, Mary, was two years younger than him and was working toward her degree in interior design.

  He said that had been the reason he wanted to talk to Kat. “I'm trying to talk her into moving here after she finishes school,” he said. “It would be good experience for Mary if Kat would be willing to give her a job."

  "Good experience for her, huh?"

  "Well that and I could keep a closer eye on her.” He smiled.

  Before I could stop myself I asked, “And does she also have her father's eyes?"

  He leaned back slightly, and I saw a trace of surprise on his face, but not fear.

  "How did you know that?"

  "It would take too long to explain, but just now, as I looked at you, I saw your father."

  "Does that happen to you often?"

  "No, this is the first time."

  He looked at me intently for a few minutes before answering. “No, she has my mother's eyes. They're green."

  I reached out to touch Elijah's face as I gazed more deeply into his eyes, almost as if I were in a trance. He was gorgeous, but it wasn't him that I saw. It was the feeling behind his eyes, the thoughts running through his mind. I didn't know them all, but I could sense them.

  "They say that the eyes are the windows of the soul.” I used the hypnotic quality in my voice, but without the overtones of sex, like when I spoke to Marco.

  Elijah leaned into my touch as he asked, “And what do you see?"

  "Hope."

  "Is that all?"

  As I brushed my thumb underneath his eye I answered, “Your smile hides many worries, but you do not hide behind it. You are genuinely happy."

  He sighed deeply and closed his eyes, leaning further into my touch and I couldn't help asking, “Don't you have other things to do besides spend time with me?"

  Elijah opened his eyes, but his lids were heavy, as if he were intoxicated. “There are other things I could be doing, yes. But nothing I'd rather do."

  "That's sweet,” I whispered softly, “but you should be careful whose company you keep."

  "Why? Are you dangerous?"

  "To you ... I'm afraid that I am."

  He slid closer. “Is this something that you see, or something that you feel?"

  "Something that I'm afraid of,” I whispered as his lips came dangerously close to mine.

  "Would you ever hurt me?” he asked.

  "Of course not."

  "Then why are we having this conversation?"

  With that question he closed the distance between us. For one stunned moment, I didn't respond, but then I wrapped my arms around him. He felt firm and warm beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, and I breathed deeply of his wonderful cologne.

  His lips tasted of sweet red wine and I drank him in. I held him more tightly, running my hands through the softness of his hair. But the feel of Elijah's soft hair between my fingers brought back the memory of someone else whose hair shined like polished obsidian in the morning sun, and I pulled back.

  "I'm sorry.” His breath was a warm promise against my lips.

  "No, you're not."

  "No, I'm not.” He sighed as our lips met once more.

  "I can't,” I whispered, pulling back again.

  "It's Alfred, isn't it?” he questioned with a frustrated sigh.

  "Yes."

  "Is it just the Italian thing?” he asked.

  "No.” I smiled. “But that doesn't hurt."

  I was relieved to see his smile return, lacking none of its usual charm.

  "I took Spanish in high school,” he said, doing a fairly decent imitation of a Spanish accent.

  When I laughed he said, “Don't worry, I won't push the issue."

  "Is it really an issue?"

  "No, not really. I enjoy being around you."

  "Me, too,” I confessed. I meant I enjoyed bein
g around Elijah, but the comment sounded like I was full of myself. Fortunately, he seemed to get my meaning.

  "So.” He got to his feet. “Let's not screw with that."

  It was nice to know that he didn't plan to stop coming by. I really did like spending time with Elijah and the thought of not seeing him depressed me. Going without his smile would be like never being able to watch another sunrise.

  "But, if you ever want to screw, I did give you my cell number, didn't I?"

  "Come on.” I laughed. “I'll show you my dungeon."

  Elijah followed me through the foyer into the kitchen, where I collected the key to the dungeon before entering the door that led down to Alfred's lab. The staircase was narrow and dark, barely wide enough for two people, and made completely of stone. It looked as if someone had carved the steps out of a natural rock formation long ago. The years and many footsteps had worn them until the edges were smooth.

  "How do you see down here?” he asked.

  "I have excellent night vision,” I replied taking his hand. “And Alfred knows the way by heart."

  "What did he do before then?"

  "He used a flashlight. There are sconces along the wall with torches, but in the time it would take to light them all, I could just show you the way."

  I led him down for a ways before turning to an ornately carved door to the left.

  "What's that way?” he pointed down the stairs.

  "That way goes to Alfred's laboratory."

  I took the lighter from my pocket and lit the torch beside the door in order to give Elijah a better view of the etchings. An elegant archway was carved into the surface, amongst a tangle of vines and leaves so real that you almost expected them to part in order to pass. Elijah reached out his hand and traced the delicate pattern with his fingertips.

  "What's it made of?"

  "Silver."

  "It's beautiful."

  "Yes, but I believe its purpose was to keep werewolves from escaping the dungeon."

  He continued to stare in fascination at the carvings until I opened the door with the silver key I'd picked up in the kitchen. Stone steps similar to the ones that had led us thus far, continued down into the dungeon. This was not the dank and frightening dungeons in history books, but a magnificent display of architectural talent. The ceiling that arched upward, reminiscent of a castle, was carved from the same gray stone as the steps. The arches were carved just as expertly as the pattern on the silver door, making them look smooth to the touch. However, as they met the wall, the stone had been only roughly chipped away except for the pillars sculpted to meet the arches of the ceiling.