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A thick knot formed in his throat as he scanned the results. Finally he located an obituary in an Oklahoma newspaper. The world disappeared. The smelly taxi, the frigid air conditioning blasting in his face, the blare of rock music from the next car. He tuned everything out and began to read.
“Robert Albright, age 23, a naval officer aboard the USS Arizona, was one of the thousands of heroes to perish in the attack on December 7. Robert was born and raised in Oklahoma City and joined the Navy in spring of 1940. Shortly after, he married his sweetheart, Lillian Howard Burton. Albright’s bride went missing from their Hawaiian home in December 1940. The authorities found no trace of Mrs. Albright and still seek information in this unclosed case. Robert is survived by his parents, Flora and Kenneth Albright.”
The air was too close in the cab, the driver’s whistling too noisy, the whine of the road beneath the tires too loud. Nathan turned his face to the window and watched the scenery flash by, his mind awhirl.
Lillian Howard Burton. Lillian Howard Burton Albright. Lillian Howard Burton Albright LeClair.
His fingers flew over the keys, finding another connection and entering that name as an image of her spiraled into view and obliterated all thought. Through the keyhole he glimpsed iridescent, immortal skin. He felt her waist crushed beneath his hands as they tumbled into the feather mattress—the same mattress which graced his antique walnut bed.
When he surfaced from this Vision, he was staring at an article outlining her disappearance.
“Lillian Burton Albright, wife of Navy Lieutenant Robert Albright, stationed aboard the USS Arizona was reported missing last evening by her husband. Lieutenant Albright grew concerned when he was unable to reach his wife this afternoon at the Village Laundry where she worked five afternoons a week. He searched their residence and notified authorities at once. No one saw Mrs. Albright leave her home and she never arrived for work. No possessions were removed from their residence. Foul play is suspected. If you have any information regarding Mrs. Lillian Albright’s whereabouts, please contact local authorities.”
With a snap, Nathan shut the laptop. Possibilities raced through his mind. No possessions…foul play suspected. What had happened to Lillian that long ago day in 1940? More than likely, she had been mortal while married to Lieutenant Robert Albright. After all, he had been mortal. He’d perished aboard the USS Arizona. He’d gone to his watery grave wifeless.
The morning of her disappearance, she had probably been made immortal. On the sidewalk before the narrow, blue bungalow Nathan had caught the flavor of her fear, confusion and loss. Emotions of Making, he knew.
He walked the dusty paths of his mind, recalling his immortal birth. Confusion and loss were essential ingredients, mixed with dawn’s growing light and sprinkled with gunfire and birdsong.
He tapped on the window separating him from the taxi driver and asked if he could drive faster. A jet waited, and Nathan needed to board.
I’m coming, Lillian. He gnashed his teeth as the taxi rolled into another traffic jam.
In the surrounding air, he felt her trace. It burned a path to his heart. And no matter what names she had once possessed, he had only one for her: mine.
* * *
“Are you okay?” The passenger beside Nathan touched his sleeve.
Still breathing heavily from the image he’d seen, he swung his gaze into a pair of bright blue eyes. No, he thought, Lillian’s eyes are not blue. But the sweater she wore was. Nathan had seen a strong male hand on the small of her back, guiding her into a space flickering with candles. The sight of his fingers against her dark blue sweater injected a shot of adrenaline to Nathan’s system.
When he reached Lillian, he would physically remove John LeClair from her life.
“Thank you.” His voice sounded hoarse. “I’m fine.” He took a swig from the plastic cup, wincing at the taste of flat soda. He longed for a bottle of Grey Goose and a bucket of ice.
Maybe it would help him sleep. How many days had it been? Two? Three? Before he received The Calling, he had been on a carving bender. At times, he couldn’t put down the hammer and chisel, working through the night and into the morning, stopping only for coffee and to trade a dull tooth chisel, which he used to refine the form and smooth the gouges left by the steel chisels he roughed out the basic shape with. When the muse struck, he cranked on his favorite heavy metal music and worked.
His latest sculpture stood draped beneath a sheet in his workroom, and he still felt gritty with carving dust and the lack of a shower. His mental eye critiqued his completed work, recalling the twist and flow of granite made to look like cloth. The figure’s hands were upraised, cupping a puffy bird. Her head bowed over the creature, a long braid over one shoulder.
He sucked in a sharp breath, mind racing over the granite carving. The stone mouth was full-lipped and slightly parted. He could nearly see that lower lip caught between square, white teeth. He had spent hours taking tiny, precise nicks out of the stone to create a pointed chin, high cheekbones and wide-set eyes. A broader forehead completed a heart-shaped face—the face of his heart.
I’ve carved Lillian. He dropped his head into his shaking hands. Through the keyhole of vision, he had never seen all of her features, but he knew in his gut that he had carved her likeness.
He also knew she was in Seattle, and his flight was half a day behind hers. He burned to catch up to her. He was maddened by the shaking caused by The Calling, by the idea of her in another man’s arms, by following her blindly. If only there was a way to contact her, make her wait for him to catch up.
He plugged his new earbuds into his ears, chose a playlist on his phone and settled against the seat. The music brought to mind the weight of a one-pound hammer in his grip—which he used to complete small details—and carving dust dancing in the air.
Sometimes before sleep claimed him, Nathan sculpted in his mind. It was an artist’s way of counting sheep and a practice which calmed him. Here he could contemplate each cut and hammer blow. Often he would rise from his bed and go to his workroom, too inspired to rest.
If he had tools at hand right now, what would he create? His day held more torment than he cared to recall. It was deep night, and he knew Lillian was in a Seattle hotel, tucked against John LeClair’s side.
He struggled against seething rage, some of which was directed at Lillian. Why had she Called to him, binding them across space and time while she was attached to another man?
I will have her. After we’re bound, my blood will throb in her veins.
The thought soothed him, and he forgot about John LeClair’s fingertips against Lillian’s spine and Robert Albright and the unsolved mystery of her disappearance. Even the mental carving stopped as Nathan gave himself up to sleep, content in the knowledge that he would be with his immortal mate within hours.
Seattle pulsed around Lillian. Sirens blared, a saxophone wailed and the streets crawled with people. She shrank into her thick sweater and stared at the mayhem. This adored city suddenly seemed too loud and rowdy, leaving her raw all over.
