Текст книги "Dark Journey"

Автор книги: Anne Stuart

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CHAPTER TWO

He was afraid to touch her, he who wasn't afraid of anything. She sat close enough to him on that overstuffed sofa that he could smell the trace of her perfume, the scent of cognac on her mouth. It had been so long since he'd tasted brandy, tasted another mouth. He wanted to so badly he thought he might die of it.

He kept his sour amusement to himself. He knew better than anyone that one didn't die of lust, of longing, of loneliness. The acknowledged causes of death were far more pragmatic. But the real cause of death was that he chose to take someone.

Lightning crackled outside the thick pine walls of the house, and everyone jumped. Everyone but Alex. They were uneasy, this group of assorted siblings, and his presence wasn't making things any more comfortable. He considered leaving. But then, if he was to go, he would take Laura with him, the old man, as well, and the assembled Fitzpatricks would be a great deal unhappier.

"Did you see the news tonight?" Jeremy said, trying to inject a note of normalcy into the evening. He was a pleasant-looking, undistinguished middle-aged man who probably had a long life ahead of him. There was nothing the slightest bit remarkable about him, apart from his air of self-importance, and Alex barely paid attention to him. "Someone jumped off the Empire State Building."

"Why is that so remarkable?" Cynthia demanded in a captious voice. "People have been committing suicide since the dawn of mankind."

"But that's what makes it so interesting. The man who jumped didn't die. He fell God knows how many flights, and he didn't die." Jeremy took another swallow of his whiskey.

"Don't tell me he got up, brushed himself off and walked away?" Ricky demanded, his voice both belligerent and slurred.

"No. He broke every bone in his body. His internal organs were smashed to pieces. But he's not dead."

Silence reigned for a moment. "You choose the most morbid topics of conversation, Jeremy," Cynthia finally remarked. "Could we perhaps talk about something other than death? Considering your father is lying in his room, dying. Why don't we talk about the weather?"

"The weather's just as strange. There have been electrical storms almost everywhere. Apparently three people were struck by lightning near Monarch Pass."

"They must be toast," Ricky said unpleasantly.

"They're not dead, either."

“Would you stop with the gruesome stories!" Laura said, shuddering. "I don't want to hear any more."

"I don't think you'll have to worry about that," Jeremy said. "According to Mrs. Hawkins, the power's gone. We're making do on generators until it comes back on. The phones, the television, even the radio stations, are out. That news report I heard a while ago will probably be our last until the problem's solved."

"That's ridiculous. We can pick up radio stations from Mexico and Canada up here on the mountain," Cynthia protested. "Don't tell me none of them are coming in!"

"All right, I won't tell you," Jeremy said agreeably, his eyes unreadable. "But it's true. Beats me what could be causing it, though."

"The storms," Alex suggested. "Electrical storms can do very strange things in Europe – I imagine the same is true here. Once it calms down outside things will be back to normal."

It should have amused him, how easily they swallowed his reasoning. It fascinated him, instead– he'd always known how very gullible people were, how desperate to find comfortable explanations for the inexplicable. The Fitzpatricks, for all their wealth and power, were no different. Except, perhaps, for the woman sitting next to him.

"You're probably right," Jeremy said a bit grudgingly. "In the meantime, it's probably just as well you showed up when you did. We were worried when Justine returned and Laura didn't. We were afraid she might have gotten into trouble out there in the woods."

"What kind of trouble could I get into?" she demanded.

Alex recognized the faint note of defiance in Laura's voice. Life with her family was a battle she had long ago conceded, yet she still managed to rise to a skirmish or two.

"You ran into someone unexpected, didn't you?" Jeremy countered.

"It's a good thing I did," she snapped back.

Suddenly they were all attention. Cynthia moved closer, perching on the edge of the sofa next to him. Her black silk dress was cut low, and her scent was musky, sexual. "Did you come to the aid of my little sister-in-law?" she cooed.

He glanced up at her. She would be an easier one to experiment with. She called to him; her ripe, abundant flesh luring him, even as her soul seemed strangely absent. He could content himself with learning what he needed to learn from her and leave Laura alone until he no longer had a choice but to take her. He had no inexplicable feelings for Cynthia, no strange, haunting desires. He could use her and feel nothing.

He didn't smile at Cynthia—there was no need. Her eyes were deep and blue and knowing. "She'd fallen," he said in an offhand voice. "She'd tripped over a root and knocked the breath out of herself. She was more frightened than anything else."

"Laura doesn't usually get frightened. She lets the rest of us get terrified for her," Justine said from her spot in the corner.

"There's no reason for anyone to worry about me," Laura said firmly. "Alex is right. I tripped, I couldn't breathe, and I panicked. Fortunately, Alex was there."

"Fortunate is right," Jeremy said. "We're doubly grateful to you, then. We're at the point of losing our father. I don't think this family could stand it if anything happened to Laura at the same time. She's the baby of the family."

Alex turned to look at her, saw the flush of annoyance on her pale face. He'd had time to watch them all: Jeremy, with his shallow, friendly pomposity; Justine, with her fragile nerves and haunted eyes; drunken, bullying Ricky; and the voracious Cynthia. Not one of them had Laura's fine, tensile strength of character. She was clearly the grown-up of the family, despite the measurement of years.

He smiled faintly, wishing he could reach out and touch her clenched fist, which lay on the couch between them. He didn't dare. He knew too well just what his touch could do if he reached for her. She had to touch him first, and Laura wasn't a woman for casual touching.

Another crash of thunder shook the house; the lights dimmed and then brightened again. An elderly woman, clearly some kind of servant, appeared in the doorway. "I've sent the girls home, Miss Laura. If they don't leave now, there's no telling whether they'll be able to get down the mountain in this weather."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hawkins. Shouldn't you leave as well? We're more than capable of seeing to our own needs," Laura said in her soft voice.

"Speak for yourself, Laura," Cynthia said rudely, interrupting her. "Justine's too much of an emotional basket case, and I don't cook."

"I can take care of things," Laura said.

"Not our fragile little Laura." Cynthia's mocking voice was unpleasant, deliberately husky.

"Make m'wife do something," Ricky said, his voice getting even more slurred. "She might as well be good at something. She's lousy in bed, a lousy house-keeper, a lousy cook. She can't even get pregnant."

"Be quiet, Ricky," Laura said.

"If Justine's a lousy cook, that's hardly a recommendation," Cynthia added.

"Enough of this squabbling!" Mrs. Hawkins said. "I'm not going anywhere tonight. Not with Mr. Fitzpatrick in such rough shape. I don't know if the night nurse will make it up here, but Maria and I will take turns sitting with him,"

"We'll all take turns," Laura said, pushing herself up from the sofa. "Me first." She glanced back at Alex. "Do you want to come with me? You don't need to—some people are uncomfortable in the face of death."

His smile was so faint that most people wouldn't have noticed it. Laura did. "If you think your father wouldn't mind," he said as he rose.

Cynthia piped up, still perched on the sofa. "He's been in a coma for almost a week now. I doubt he'd notice if the Easter Bunny showed up."

"I'm not the Easter Bunny," Alex said. "And you'd be surprised what people notice, even at the moment of death."

Cynthia reached up and put her slender, manicured hand on his arm. He felt it like an electric shock, and she felt it, too, pulling her hand back in surprise.

"Static," she muttered.

She wasn't dead. She'd touched him, reached out to him, and she hadn't died. Interesting. But then, no one was dying. Not while he was otherwise occupied.

William Fitzpatrick lay motionless in the hospital bed that had obviously been brought in as his condition worsened. It looked odd in the midst of the huge southwestern-style master bedroom, amid the hand-carved furniture and rich Indian throws. William Fitzpatrick was beyond noticing, though.

"You can take a break now, Maria," Laura said in her soft voice.

The woman in the uniform lifted her head sharply, taking in the two of them before she concentrated on Laura. "You look like hell," she said frankly, setting down her paperback novel and moving toward them. "Did you run into a tree or something?"

"I'm fine."

Maria ignored the faint protest. "I think I should take a listen to your heart. I don't like your color. What have you been doing, racing around when you know you shouldn't?"

"Don't you pick on me, Maria!" Laura said, but there was friendly exasperation in her voice. "It's bad enough that the rest of them hover over me, expecting me to keel over at any minute."

"And who's to say you won't?" Maria said darkly.

"Listen, if people can plummet from the Empire State Building and survive, then I think my heart will make it through the next few days. It's brought me this far, hasn't it?"

"Amazingly enough. No thanks to the care you take of yourself."

"No, you can thank my overprotective family," Laura said, more in resignation than gratitude.

Maria rose, a sturdy, comforting soul, and put a reassuring hand on Laura's shoulder. "Sit with him awhile. I think he'd like it." She glanced past Laura, directly at Alex, and for a moment her placid expression clouded with concern. "Have we met?"

"I don't think so. My name is Alex."

"I'm sorry. I should have introduced you. He's a friend of mine," Laura said, sinking down into Maria's vacated chair with an almost imperceptible sigh. "He just arrived."

Maria looked him up and down, her dark brown eyes measuring. "I could swear I'd seen you before," she said, half to herself. "But then, I wouldn't forget that voice. Besides, I specialize in hospice work. I'm afraid most of the people I work with die."

Alex said nothing, merely smiled faintly. She knew him, all right, but her brain couldn't assimilate how or why. It was just as well. He had no intention of telling anyone, until he was ready to leave. He'd asked for two days. He wondered if he would really get them.

"Get some dinner, Maria," Laura said, reaching out and taking her father's motionless hand. "I'll keep him company."

The room was utterly silent after the nurse left, the stillness marred only by the distant sound of thunder and the faint hiss and pop of the breathing device. Alex watched the old man with silent interest. He could sense his spirit, floating, waiting, frustrated by the delay in the inevitable.

"He's been like this for more than a week," Laura said in a hushed voice, her slender, strong hand wrapped around the old man's. "I was certain he was going to die this afternoon. That's what made Justine run off—she couldn't deal with it. But he's still here. At least in body, if not in spirit."

Alex said nothing, waiting. As if on cue, the old man's crepey eyes opened, blinking at the bright light. The sound he made was indiscernible—barely more than a croak—but they both understood. "Laura," he whispered.

"Oh, my God!" she breathed. "You're awake! Let me go and tell the others—"

His hands were too feeble to stop her, and she ran from the room before either man could move. William Fitzpatrick, patriarch, millionaire, political kingmaker, raised his gaze to Alex's shaded stare, and froze.

"Take off your sunglasses." The words were barely spoken, but Alex heard them nonetheless. "Come here."

He didn't hesitate. He stepped up to the bedside, shoving the sunglasses up on his forehead, and met the old man's inimical gaze.

"Damn you," William Fitzpatrick wheezed. "You've come for me, haven't you?"

"Among other things," he replied, pitching his voice so low that most mortals couldn't hear him. Only those he chose.

Real fear crossed the old man's face for the first time. Not fear for himself, though. Another interesting facet of human behavior, Alex thought. They feared more for their loved ones than they feared for themselves. The number of people who had come to him, thrusting their children, their beloveds, out of his reach and making him take them instead, had been baffling and innumerable. Another question he needed the answer to.

"No," the old man gasped. But before he could say any more, his grown-up, contentious children pushed their way into the room, and Alex quickly slid the sunglasses down on the bridge of his nose and stepped back from the bedside.

All their fuss would have killed the old man if nothing else did. But for the time being, no one was dying. Not even a man so riddled with cancer that most of his organs had shut down. Not some poor smashed, mangled soul who'd tried to kill himself by jumping off a tall building. Not the three people in the car hit by lightning, not the three hundred people from the capsized ferry in Indonesia. Not the sniper's victims in Afghanistan, nor any of the poor souls ready to meet him. They would all have to wait.

Jeremy had pushed Laura aside, planting his sturdy frame at his stepfather's bedside. "We thought you'd left us for good, sir." His booming voice was loud enough to make the old man wince.

"Just a minor delay," he wheezed.

Laura slid next to Alex, a rueful expression on her face. "I might as well show you to your room," she murmured. "They're not going to let me anywhere near him for the time being."

Alex nodded, following her out of the room. But not before his ears caught the old man's fretful question. "Where did that fellow come from? Where's he going with Laura?"

He didn't wait for the answer, merely followed Laura's slight frame through the wide pine hallways of the rambling log house. "I'm sorry I can't put you in the guest house," she was saying, her voice light and slightly breathless as she started up the stairs, too quickly for her damaged heart. "But Jeremy and Cynthia took up residence there a couple of weeks ago, when it looked as if Father was about to die, and Justine and Ricky joined them a couple of days ago. But there are plenty of empty rooms here in the big house, so you should be comfortable."

I want to be near you, he thought. He didn't say the words out loud. He knew perfectly well he didn't need to.

They reached the top of the stairs, and she started to turn to the left. She stopped and abruptly turned the other way. "I'll put you next to my room, if you don't mind," she said easily. "There's a wide balcony overlooking the mountains, and it's the prettiest view in the place. Unless you'd rather..."

"I'd like the view," he said, pitching his voice low and soothing. She was growing more agitated around him, and he wasn't sure why. He'd been careful not to frighten her, not to make her suspect a thing. The old man had known him, recognized him. He'd been hovering near him for too long not to be recognized.

And the nurse had known him, as well, even though she didn't realize it. They'd shared the same vigil countless times, but Maria's attention had mostly been on the patient, not on whatever else was waiting with her.

As far as he knew, Laura was straightforward, pragmatic and not the slightest bit fey. She would never imagine who and what he might be, and if she did, she wouldn't believe it.

She led him to a door on the left, cut deep in the middle of the pine logs that made up the interior, as well as the exterior, walls of the house. There was a second door beside it, left closed, and he knew it was her room. She pushed his door open and flicked on the light, and from behind the sunglasses he winced. He was so used to living in darkness.

There was a bed, and a set of glass doors overlooking the night forest. There was an antique mirror set on one wall, and he glanced at it, the reflection drawing him.

Laura stood beside him. Frail, with her honey-streaked hair and warm brown eyes, her pale face and soft mouth, she looked curiously vulnerable and childlike. Until he looked past, to see the determination in her jaw, the calm of her high forehead, the strength in her hands. He stood behind her, a tall, shadowy figure, dressed entirely in black, the dark glasses shading his eyes. His hair was long, tied back from his narrow face, and his mouth was thin, almost cruel. He was lean-looking, and strong. He looked as he'd imagined he would.

She moved away from him, bustling about the room, turning on more lights, plumping up the pillows on the bed. It was a high bed, hand-carved of rough-hewn pine and covered with a beautiful flowered quilt atop the wide mattress. He looked at her, leaning over the bed, and a wave of longing washed over him, a wave so fierce he shuddered.

He wanted her lying on the bed. He wanted to taste every part of her. He wanted to know what drew him to her, what made her different from every soul he had ever come for.

Why did she make him come alive? He who was the very epitome of death.

If he solved that riddle, he would be at peace again. He would fade once more into a velvet nothingness, where order and calm and destiny prevailed.

But for the next two days there would be no such thing as order or destiny. The world might as well stop spinning. In the next two days no one would die. In the next two days he would find the answers to all the questions that had plagued his soul for years past counting.

And in the next two days he would take Laura Fitzpatrick. He would take her innocence, her virginity, her body—and her soul.

He would take her love, because he knew he could have it. She was ready to offer it to him, though she didn't know it, and nothing would make him turn down that precious gift.

And in the end, when he was ready to leave, he would take her life, as well.

He made her nervous. Laura hated to admit that fact, but she'd never been one to shy away from the truth, and there was no denying that his presence unnerved her in ways that weren't entirely unpleasant.

She couldn't see his eyes behind the mirrored sunglasses, but she suspected she was better off that way. She hadn't touched him, hadn't even come close enough to feel his body heat. And yet she felt alert, alive, aware of him in every cell of her body, and that knowledge made her restless and uneasy.

She forced a friendly smile to her face. She was imagining things, imagining the strange, taut feelings that seemed to stretch between them. He was a ski bum, someone who'd happened upon her at an opportune time, a charming, attractive man.

A man with a strong, elegant body, an elegant, clever face, and a mouth that seemed both sensuous and heartless at the same time.

She laughed, half to herself, and went to draw the curtains against the stormy night.

"What amuses you?" he murmured.

"I'm becoming fanciful in my old age," she admitted, hoping to defuse the strange feelings that were assaulting her. "I don't usually indulge myself."

"What kind of fantasies were you indulging in?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

In another man she might have thought it was a come-on, leading up to some smarmy sexual innuendo that she would have to parry. But not with Alex. For some reason, she knew he wasn't some hormone-laden male, looking to score. He was simply curious.

She looked up at him, and suddenly she wanted to touch him. She wasn't certain why—something told her it would be very dangerous indeed if she put her hands on him, and that very warning made her all the more determined to follow through.

"About you," she said flatly. "You're very mysterious, you know."

He seemed to freeze. It was an amazing feat for a man who always seemed unnaturally still. "Do you like that?"

It was a reasonable question. She shook her head, crossing the room, oddly aware of the big bed behind her, oddly aware of the big man in front of her. "Not particularly." She lifted her hand, and he didn't move, watching her, watching her outstretched hand, like a snake coiled and ready to strike. "Would you like me to see about dinner for you?"

"No."

"No, you're not hungry?"

"No, I don't want you to see about anything for me. I don't wish to be a bother."

She managed a faint smile. "Trust me, I enjoy being allowed to do things for other people. It's not often that I get the chance."

"No," he said again. "Are you going to touch me?"

It was a simple question, oddly phrased. She dropped her hand, embarrassed. "I wasn't planning to. I think I'll go downstairs and make sure my father's all right. That might have been his last lucid moment before he..."

"He won't die tonight."

She felt her mouth curve in a faint smile. "Is that a promise?"

"It is."

"I believe you." And before he knew what she was planning, she'd reached up and enveloped him in a brief, sexless hug.

A moment later she was gone without a backward glance.