Текст книги "Dark Journey"

Автор книги: Anne Stuart

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Copyright 1995 by Anne Stuart

Electronic Edition Copyright 2015 by Anne Stuart

http://anne-stuart.com

E-book and Cover Formatted by Jessica Lewis

http://authorslifesaver.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

About Anne Stuart

PROLOGUE

He could control it all. The power of the elements, the storms and the night, the wind and the bright sunlight. He could make people do his bidding, draw them to him with no more than a faint beckoning of his hand and that seductive brilliant white light that promised everything.

He could give them the answers they were seeking to all the questions that plagued them. He held the keys to the future for each and every soul.

But he couldn't answer his own questions. Couldn't give himself the peace and finality he offered others. He was doomed, as no one else was, to exist in a black-velvet ether of comfort and emptiness. Alone.

It was little wonder he looked out over all he surveyed and felt the need of centuries building up inside him. Little wonder that he rebelled against his destiny. Was it better to rule in hell than to serve in heaven? He wanted to find out.

In the end, it all came down to one of the frail souls he was called to take. One woman, who'd been his since childhood, one small, sweet soul who should have gone on to her destiny years ago.

He'd refused to take her. Because he'd known he wouldn't want to let her go.

He no longer had any choice. This time the voice calling to him was so loud that he had to answer.

But this time he would answer in his way.

"Two days," he said, his sepulchral voice echoing through the heavens. "Just allow me two days."

There was no answer, only the power of the wind that he'd called forth. All his thoughts were centered on one spot in the middle of a vast country, on one soul, and all the other shrieking spirits calling to him were ignored.

"Two days," he said again, and he didn't bother to hide the desperation in his voice. "You owe me that much."

Again nothing from the one power greater than he. Her voice was louder now, louder than all the others, crying for him, and he knew this time he couldn't leave her. This time he had no choice. He closed his eyes, drawing all his power around him like a black-winged cape, and a moment later he was on the side of a mountain in Colorado, looking at her as she lay in the pine needles, eyes closed, dying.

It was a sight he knew well.

Because he was Death. Come to take her.

CHAPTER ONE

Wednesday afternoon—late summer

 

Laura Fitzpatrick was running. Panic welled up inside her, a deep, nerve-shattering fear as she raced across the thickly wooded hillside, the branches of the evergreens slapping at her face. Her heart was pounding unmercifully, her breath was rasping in her chest, and she could feel the cold sweat prickling her body. She should slow down. She should walk, calmly, safely, back to the house. Someone else could find Justine.

But she couldn't stop. The fear that swept over her was all-encompassing. She couldn't rid herself of the notion that death was all around, just waiting to pounce. Back at the house, her father lay in his massive bedroom, drifting in and out of consciousness. Her older sister, Justine, had taken off into the woods, tears blinding her eyes, her voice taut with anguish as she said, "I just can't sit and watch him die."

Justine was the sensitive one; Laura knew and accepted that. She was somewhere deep in the piney forests that surrounded the family compound high up in Taylor, Colorado, no doubt close to hysterics. And if Laura had any sense, she would let her be.

But only a few moments after Justine ran out, William Fitzpatrick had taken a turn for the worse. He would be dead by nightfall—they all knew it—and there was no way that Justine would forgive herself if she wasn't there to help his passing, even if she was bound to accompany it with melodramatic sobs.

The others didn't know that Laura had gone. They had all huddled closer around the frail, dying figure of their father, and Laura had slipped out the back, certain she could find Justine before she got too far.

But she must have lost her way. Night was closing in around her, the wind had picked up, and in the distance she thought she could hear Justine's heartfelt sobs.

She should have sent Ricky after his wife, but Ricky was half-drunk already, and he would doubtless just have shrugged and poured himself a double. She should have sent their stepbrother, Jeremy, after her, but he was glued to William's bedside, and Cynthia, his wife, had never been known to exert herself for her in-laws.

There were servants, of course. There were people who watched her like a hawk, to make certain she didn't overexert herself. She didn't care. Justine needed her, and for once Laura had the chance to take care of her family, not just sit around and let them take care of her.

The first pain hit her like a hammer blow, directly between her breasts. She went down on her knees, landing on the springy, pine-scented earth, rigid with agony. This couldn't be a heart attack, she told herself. This couldn't be the end, so abruptly. Not when her father was dying, as well.

But the gathering dusk grew inky-black. Far above the towering evergreens she could see the faint glitter of stars, and the scent of pine danced on the wind as she collapsed on the forest floor. She could no longer hear Justine's cries. She could hear nothing but the noisy, painful beating of her own heart, slamming against her chest as she struggled for breath.

And then she heard it stop. Silence reigned in the night forest. No sound, no heartbeat, no gasping breath. Nothing at all. There was a bright white light ahead of her, like the outline of a door, and she could see a man silhouetted there. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but she couldn't move.

All she could do was close her eyes with a faint, inaudible sigh and let go.

He looked down at her for a moment, not moving. She lay utterly still, her tawny hair spread out around her pale face. Her eyes were closed, and he wanted her to open them again. He remembered the color—an exquisite warm brown that had entranced him when she was a mere child.

He squatted down next to her, careful not to touch her. It had been ten years since he'd last seen her. She'd been seventeen then, chafing against the restrictions her health had placed on her. It had been her last act of defiance, and it had nearly cost her her life.

She'd run away from home. Her overprotective family had concluded that she was too frail to handle college, that she should continue her schooling at home. And Laura had rebelled, taking off in the middle of the night with nothing more than a heavy back-pack that only put added strain on her already weak heart.

She'd hitchhiked, taking the first ride that was offered, and it had been sheer luck that she made it as far as she did. She'd ended up in the tiny town of Austinburg, Nevada, with no money and no prospects, accepting a ride from a very dangerous man.

Billy Joe Nelson had already killed five young women. Laura would have been his sixth, and they never would have found her body.

But Billy Joe had been the one to die, and Laura had never known how close she'd come. She'd never known he was there, watching over her. And that he got to Billy Joe before the killer could put his hands on her.

He should have taken her then. He'd already let her go too many times. When she was five years old, choking to death, and she'd looked up at him, quite fearlessly, something had made him hesitate.

Or when she was twelve, and she'd fallen off that horse she was forbidden to ride. She was always being protected by her family—the doctors hadn't expected her to live past her tenth birthday. If he hadn't been suddenly, inexplicably capricious, she wouldn't have.

But she'd climbed on a horse that was too big and too strong for her, and taken off. The horse had thrown her, her weak heart had erupted, and she'd lain as she lay now, turning a delicate shade of blue, dying.

He had reached out a hand to take her, and then drawn it back when she looked at him again. The same eyes. The same calm, unquestioning curiosity. And no fear.

Time meant nothing to him. There had been no need to take her then. Once he put his hand on her, she would be gone. Out of his reach forever. And for some strange reason, he hadn't wanted that to happen.

He hadn't expected to be called for her this time. He'd assumed her father would be next, the old man who'd cheated death too many times as it was. But fate had a nasty habit of playing tricks on him. Now Laura Fitzpatrick lay dying in the forest, and he would have to take her, as well.

He leaned over her. Her heart had stopped, time had stopped. The trees were motionless, as the breeze was frozen at twilight. He looked down at her, and a great rebellion rose inside him.

Not this time. Not this one. Not now.

He tilted his head back to glare at the darkening sky, waiting for the answer he'd sought. This time it came, silently. Two days.

He closed his eyes, summoning all the massive power that lay quiet within him, making it hum and grow. When he opened his eyes, the leaves were rustling in the breeze. An owl hooted.

And Laura Fitzpatrick opened her eyes.

She knew him. It seemed as if she'd known him all her life, and yet she couldn't place him. For long moments she stared up at him, disoriented, confused, trying to look past the mirrored dark glasses and remember where she'd seen him.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

His voice gave her no clue. It was husky, ageless, oddly sensual, with the faintest trace of an accent that might have been French and, then again, might not. His face was narrow, tanned beneath the mirrored glasses, and his dark hair was long.

She struggled to sit up. He didn't help her, didn't touch her, simply sat back on his heels and watched her. "Fine, I think," she said, amazed that her own voice sounded so shaky. "I must have passed out."

"You shouldn't be out here alone."

"I was looking for my sister."

"She's gone back to the house."

She stared at him. "Who are you?" she said, then flushed, realizing how rude she sounded. "I mean..."

"Alex," he said. "Alex Montmort. I'm afraid I must be trespassing. I was hiking when I thought I heard someone cry for help."

"My father owns this mountain."

A small, devastating smile curved his mouth. "Not so much of a mountain, is it? I'm used to the Alps."

"I've never seen the Alps."

"Ah, but you have the Rocky Mountains. They are as spectacular in their own way, even if this one seems a small specimen. Do you ski?"

The simple question shouldn't have bothered her. She had learned to live with her infirmity. With the restrictions her life and health had placed on her. With the restrictions her family had placed on her. "No," she said. "Do you?"

"That's why I'm here."

"It's a little early in the season."

"So it is. I can wait for the snow. I am infinitely patient."

She believed him. He seemed possessed of almost unnatural calm, willing to wait for anything. The entire conversation seemed bizarre, as she sat on the ground in the twilight, conversing with a stranger, the sudden, erupting pain in her chest long vanished.

"You could probably find work in town," she said, striving for a tone of normalcy as she pulled herself upright. He didn't touch her, didn't offer her a steadying hand, and despite the weakness in her legs, she was oddly glad of that. She wasn't ready to have this stranger touch her. "That's what most ski bums do while they're waiting for the first snow."

His smile broadened. "I am not certain I qualify as a ski bum." He rose, standing patiently as he looked down at her. He towered over her, but then, she wasn't a particularly tall woman. He really wasn't that massive, and yet he seemed to loom over her. The sensation was oddly soothing.

An owl hooted in the night wind, and a streak of unexpected lightning flashed in the sky. "We're going to have a storm," she said, surprised.

"Perhaps," he murmured. "Let me see you safely back to the house, Miss—"

She had the strange feeling that he knew her name, but she obediently supplied it anyway. "Laura," she said. "And I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble. I can find my way home, and you should get back to wherever you came from before the storm hits."

"I have endless time," he said. "Come." He held out his hand, making no effort to touch her, letting her make the first move. There was an expectant air about him, as if he were curious to see what would happen.

She stared at his outstretched hand. It was an elegant one, long-fingered, well shaped. All she had to do was take it, and life would be very simple.

She tucked her hands in her pockets, smiling up at him with unfeigned cheerfulness. "As a matter of fact, maybe you'd better come with me. This place is crawling with armed guards and attack dogs. Daddy—" Her voice caught for a moment, then strengthened again. "Daddy always worried about our safety."

"Why?" It was a simple question. She started down the path, and he fell into step beside her.

"Daddy is William Fitzpatrick."

"And?"

"That name doesn't mean anything to you? Oh, I forgot, you're not... that is, you aren't from around here, are you?" she asked naively.

"No."

"My father is a very powerful man. And when people have wealth and influence, they have enemies. Over the years there have been threats, extortion attempts. Someone once tried to kidnap my older sister, Justine."

"Did they succeed?"

"No. But she's always been a little high-strung since then. We all look after her." For a moment she wondered why she was telling this dark stranger such intimate details of her life, but it seemed a natural thing to do.

"Your family looks after each other," he observed in a neutral voice.

"A little too much at times." She couldn't disguise her own bitterness. "My stepbrother Jeremy is the worst, always hovering." She shook her head. "You'd be better off with me. I can't imagine how you got so far onto the land without running into some of the security precautions, but even so, I doubt your luck would hold. The dogs can be particularly savage."

"I'm very good with animals."

"Not these," she said. "They've been bred to kill."

She sensed rather than saw his smile. "You are good to be so concerned," he said. "They won't hurt me."

The calm arrogance of his words should have bothered her, but it didn't. She'd seen what her father's dogs could do to a rabbit that strayed into their path, and she had been assured they could wreak just that much havoc on an unwanted human. But somehow she believed that they wouldn't hurt this man.

Lightning crackled overhead, illuminating the dark, storm-ridden sky. "I've been away from the house too long," she said again. "My father's dying. He's probably gone by now." She was proud of the unemotional calm of her voice. She'd lived with the knowledge of death all her life—she refused to let the sudden, unpalatable fact of it destroy her.

Alex Montmort looked around him, considering. "I don't think anyone will die this night," he observed.

She bit back her instinctive answer. She believed him on this one, too, but it was probably just a case of wishful thinking. "I'd better get back," she said. "Are you coming with me?"

"Yes," he said. "I'm coming with you."

The Fitzpatrick compound at the top of Taylor Butte was fortified, determinedly rustic, and as comfortable and elegant as money could make it. And there was a very great deal of money—Laura had grown up with that knowledge, as well as the knowledge of her uncertain health. The compound consisted of the main house—a great, sprawling log structure with half a dozen porches and wings, a marvel of rambling charm. There was a spacious guest house as well, a stable, a building for the servants, a security outbuilding, and a five-car garage. All made of the same golden-hued pine logs that blended so beautifully with the towering evergreens.

Laura hadn't realized how chilly the night was until she stepped inside the big house with Alex just behind her. A huge fire was blazing in the fieldstone fireplace, sending waves of heat out into the room where her family was gathered.

"Is he gone?" she asked flatly.

Justine sat huddled in a chair, a glass of whiskey clutched in one shaking hand, a defiant expression on her tear-streaked face. "Where were you?" she demanded.

The stranger was directly behind her. She wasn't sure how she knew—she had no sense of his body heat, and he didn't touch her. But he was there, and she found herself grateful. "Looking for you, Justine," she replied, mildly enough. "Is he dead?"

"Morbid, aren't you?" Ricky said, his voice faintly slurred. "But as a matter of fact, my esteemed father-in-law is not dead. We thought he was about to bite the bullet, with both his precious daughters off communing with nature or whatever the hell the two of you were doing, but he suddenly seemed to take a turn for the better." Ricky rose, ignoring his wife, and swaggered toward Laura. "Though I guess I can see exactly what, or who, you were doing. Who would have thought it of sweet Saint Laura?"

"Please, Ricky..." Justine begged.

"Listen, guys, could we stop arguing?" Jeremy said from his stance by the fireplace. "Father's not dead yet, but he's living on borrowed time, and we certainly don't want his last memories to be of us squabbling with each other."

"Laura doesn't squabble," Cynthia murmured. Jeremy's pampered, undeniably gorgeous wife was curled up in the most comfortable chair. She, too, had noticed the shadowy figure behind Laura, and her expression had altered from one of sullen boredom to faint interest. "Who's your friend?"

"Alex Montmort," Laura answered politely, then dutifully made the introductions. "This is my family. My stepbrother, Jeremy, and his wife, Cynthia, and my younger sister, Justine and her husband, Ricky."

"Montmort?" Ricky said with a snort. "Mountain of death? That's a hell of a name, buddy. What do you do for a living, with a name like that?"

"I ski." The response was cool, faintly tinged with that odd, seductive accent.

"Extreme skiing, I suppose," Jeremy said, with an attempt at normalcy. "The kind of stuff where you ski over cliffs and hope you don't die?"

"Most people who ski over cliffs are fully prepared to die," he replied, closing the door behind him and moving deeper into the room. Once more Laura had the sense that he wanted to touch her, wanted to cup her arm. But he didn't.

"Gloomy subject," Ricky said carelessly. "We've got too much death around here as it is. Lemme get you a drink, Al. What are you having?"

"Alex," the stranger said calmly. "Cognac would be ... pleasant."

"Cognac it is," Ricky said, taking his own empty glass over to the bar tray. "Ginger ale for you, Laura."

"She will have cognac, as well," Alex said.

They all turned to look at him with a mixture of shock and speculation. "Laura doesn't drink," Jeremy said flatly. "It's not good for her health."

"It won't hurt her tonight," Alex said calmly.

"It could kill her!" Justine cried.

"Not tonight."

Laura broke into the argument, feeling oddly unsettled. "Alex has decreed that no one will die tonight, including Father," she said with a faint smile. "Personally, I can't imagine fate daring to disagree with him. I think I'll risk a small glass of cognac, Ricky."

"Most unwise, my dear," Jeremy murmured, clutching his own tall glass of whiskey.

A few moments later the cognac burned quite nicely as she sipped it. Alcohol was just one of the many normal pleasures in life that were denied her, and having seen its inroads on her family life, she'd never regretted that. But there was something undeniably pleasant about sitting on the overstuffed sofa with the dark stranger beside her, watching as he cradled a Waterford brandy snifter in his long, elegant hands.

"So tell me," Jeremy said, with a heavy-handed attempt at affability, "how did you happen to find your way up here? This is private property, and we do our best to keep it that way."

"Alex is an old friend." Laura didn't know where the words came from—they were instinctive.

"Where did you meet?" he demanded, pompous as ever. "Laura hasn't left this mountain since she was a teenager."

Alex glanced at her. She didn't know how she was certain, since he still wore those mirrored sunglasses that shielded his narrow, elegantly-boned face, but she felt as if she could read the expression in the eyes she'd never seen. "I've known her for years," he said easily.

For a bald-faced lie, it had the curious ring of truth. She didn't deny it, simply sat back, sipping at her cognac, for once comfortable among her battling siblings.

"Odd that she never mentioned you," Jeremy said, and the undercurrent of suspicion was obvious. "Excuse me for being rude, but why are you wearing sunglasses? It's nighttime, and the house is far from brightly lit."

"My eyes are very sensitive," he said. "I'm sorry if it bothers you."

"Ignore my husband, Alex," Cynthia said, in her most charming voice. "He has the manners of a lout, and he's very possessive of his little sister. You'll be staying, won't you?"

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Laura sat there, bathed in the heat of the fire, her family surrounding her, and yet she felt distant, apart, watching. Waiting for what Alex would say.

It mattered. She wasn't sure why, but it mattered terribly that he should stay. A matter of life and death, she thought oddly.

Please, she begged silently.

The moment passed, the voices returned, and Laura's damaged heart started beating again. "I will stay," Alex said.

And suddenly Laura knew that life had just changed, shifted, irrevocably. There would be no going back, and she wasn't certain whether she was frightened or glad.

Perhaps a little bit of both.

She stole a glance at the man sitting next to her. He was like no one she had ever seen, and yet he seemed so familiar, a part of her in some way she couldn't define.

It no longer mattered. The die was cast. He would stay. And life would change, forever.