AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Nathan’s fingers lifted to his chest, probing at the ragged edges only he could feel. A hole that had been punched through him when she’d Called to him. A hole only another who had been through it would understand, as only an immortal could detect another immortal’s glow. “How did you know?”
Dante chuckled in his melodious way. “It has not been so long that I’ve forgotten my own hole. Maria Called to me, punching a hole that only she could fill. I know the Visions are driving you wild.”
Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Seeing the lovemaking worsens the shaking.”
“I know. The lovemaking starts the bond. Starts it and finishes it. You must share your bodies and blood willingly.”
The image in Nathan’s head was so erotic that for a moment, he couldn’t speak.
“Keep searching, Nathan. No matter what obstacles John LeClair throws in your path, you must find Lillian. If you don’t, you’ll be destined to Walk the earth as Ricardo does.”
Nathan shivered. The immortal who lived as Dante and Maria’s companion was a shell of himself. After following his own Calling to Asia, he attempted to bind himself to his mate, and she had died because their blood wasn’t compatible.
The flayed hole in Ricardo’s chest was visible to any immortal, glowing with every beat of his heart. To mortal eyes, he appeared to be a downtrodden human. To immortals, he looked like he’d been ravaged by war, had taken a hit from a grenade and wore his sucking chest wound as proof. It was a chance immortals took, and there was no recourse. They had to follow The Calling.
When Nathan hung up with Dante, he went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. He was unkempt and dark smudges stained his under-eyes. He looked deeply, past the emerald irises and into the cavity of his soul, where Lillian’s light pulsed. She was in there, and if he desired, he could Call to her.
He whirled away from his reflection. No. Not yet.
He fell fully clothed onto the thick, soft mattress and was instantly asleep. He woke once in the deep hours of night, parched with thirst. He stumbled to the bathroom and drank two glasses of tap water before returning to bed. The last thing he saw before his eyes slammed with exhaustion was the North Star, winking through the open window.
His mind played with the images of his day, warping them into new ones. The seabird with the ruffled feathers burst from the chest of Ricardo, even as the long, spindly tree branches embraced that man. Nathan saw Maria trying to restrain him as he pummeled the fender of the rental truck.
And he saw Lillian’s braid. The thick rope slid through his palm like a living creature. He tugged it gently to tilt her head back, granting him better access to her mouth. Silver cuff bracelets dug into the back of his neck and raised a pore-deep itch. With a growl, Nathan ripped them from her.
The bedroom where he led her was awash in the blue of twilight. Holding her gaze, he lifted her wrist to his mouth, feasting upon the tender, bare flesh. He trailed his fingers up her arm to the crease of her elbow and felt her shudder at his touch. As he bent to her collarbone, tasting the golden skin—the finest vintage of wine, floral and sweet musk on his lips—he pressed her down into the feather mattress.
And located the blade.
The silver knife flashed in the dim light as he drew it across Lillian’s wrist. He felt her skin give, smelled her blood. She gasped sharply, a gasp of pain rather than the gasp of pleasure when Nathan kissed her immortal tattoo. But he forged ahead and sliced his own flesh. The hot blood dripped from the cut on his chest and Lillian put her wrist to it as he entered her body. His blood began to fill her veins.
Suddenly, the quiet was parted by a curdling scream. Blood spouted from her wrist, a gruesome fountain, and it spattered on the floor and wall with a sound like heavy rain. There was a downpour of blood-tears on her cheeks.
“Lillian, no!” He scrabbled to catch the blood and tried to press it back into her. Screaming, screaming, screaming.
Nathan bolted upright, smaller-scaled screams upon his lips. Oh, God. God, no. Please don’t let that happen to us.
He scrubbed his face with his hands and felt tears. Where the hell was he? He patted down the front of his body and found himself fully clothed and soaked with sweat.
It returned in a rush—the inn, falling asleep in his clothes and following Lillian down the California coast. He collapsed against his pillows with relief, his forearm slung over his eyes. She wasn’t here. She wasn’t bleeding out, dying. She was safe. He hadn’t killed her.
The horrific movie threatened to replay in his head and he held his eyes wide so he couldn’t see it. He counted to two hundred before his breathing slowed, pivoting his head to stare through the open draperies at the vineyards. Dawn sent long tendrils of light into the grey sky. Nathan watched it lighten by degrees, but couldn’t shake his Vision. Vision or dream?
He had been sleeping, and he didn’t need to sleep to have a Vision of Lillian. But he had been asleep when her soul Called to his. On his bed in Vermont he’d awakened from that Vision, thinking it a dream. But the Vision had continued to come.
He sat up now and shook his head to clear it. Just a dream, he thought…hoped.
Climbing off the bed, he went into the little bathroom.
Nathan had never been a vain man. He had been reared in a home where the single looking glass was a silver, hand-held object which lived next to his mother’s hog bristle hairbrush. And having no natural attraction to society, a simple shower with the hottest water in Christendom before tromping outside and into his workroom was enough for him. After all, his granite didn’t care if his hair was mussed.
But when he spied himself in the bathroom mirror, he was shocked. This was not the Nathan he knew. This Nathan’s eyes were bright with hysteria. His forehead was creased. With a heavy sigh, he set about putting himself to rights.
Ten minutes later, he reassessed himself. Was this man worthy of Lillian? John LeClair was a dark man, and being the opposite, Nathan’s insecurities rose to the fore. He recalled the Hawaiian hotel employee’s description of John LeClair. Ritzy. Expensive. When describing himself, Nathan thought the appropriate words would be crazed, berserk.
As he yanked a navy cashmere sweater over his head, his stomach rumbled. Great, he thought. I have turned into a teenage boy again. All cock and stomach.
He smoothed his jumbled hair and spun from the mirror. The antique carriage clock on the mantel showed him it was ten o’clock and that he had missed breakfast. Knowing his stomach could wait for a lot longer, he sat down and opened his laptop. He typed John LeClair into the search engine in two spellings before he nailed his address in Virginia. Hastily, Nathan scribbled it on a scrap of paper and slid it into his pocket next to the forgotten pearl and the coiled mahogany hair.
