Blood Shadows (7 page)

A warm breeze wafted down the hall—the kind that masks a gentle summer’s day right before it unleashes a horrific storm that turns into a violent tornado—and Deanna spun around, feeling suddenly tense. Strolling directly toward her, with a poised and commanding gait that almost seemed unnatural, was the most exquisitely handsome, yet unquestioningly dangerous, man she had ever seen—perhaps with the exception of the man in her drawings.

Deanna’s breath caught in her throat as the man quickly closed the distance between them, still moving with a sleek confidence that bordered on predatory. Animalistic. His enchanting brown eyes were backlit with specks of silver that gleamed like distant stars in a midnight sky, and his rich, golden-brown hair outlined his strong masculine face like an antique picture frame, both elegant and timeless. His narrow hips supported a strong, muscular frame that practically screamed power—and dominance—even as it exuded sensuality. The entire picture was one of a man clearly accustomed to absolute control.

Deanna stepped back.

This wasn’t right.

This man wasn’t…normal.

Suddenly, she felt as if she were in grave danger.

“Ms. Dubois.” His voice was like silken fire, burning its way through her ears. “I understand you are here to take a look around my clinic.”

Deanna’s heart skipped a beat.

The door.

The front door.

It was five…maybe six…feet away.
Just get to the door, open it, and run.

Nothing else mattered.

“Um…I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Deanna murmured quickly. “I…I’ve changed my mind. Just…please…forget I was ever here.” She tried to take several calm steps backward, but the palpable sense of danger overwhelmed her, and she couldn’t maintain the ruse.

She turned around and ran.

“Stop.”
His voice was steady and controlled, yet it echoed through the hall like a distant crack of thunder. And it was as if her body simply slammed into a brick wall.

Deanna’s legs froze beneath her. Her feet stuck to the tile as if suddenly anchored in concrete, and her arms fell to her side, sending the attaché case flying to the floor, where her drawings spilled out in a random, desperate pile.

“You are neither looking for a job nor inspecting my clinic,” the terrifying man growled. He caught up to her then, grasped her by the right shoulder, spun her around, and stared into her eyes. “Who are you?”

His last three words hit her with such force that, if she didn’t know better, she would have sworn he had just struck her between the eyes with a pick-axe. She reached up to grab her throbbing forehead. “Stop!” she yelled, intuitively knowing he was somehow causing the pain. “Please, stop. I’m sorry I lied. I’ll go.”

He smiled a cruel, wolfish grin. “You’ll stay right where you are, and you will do whatever I tell you.” He absently glanced down at several of the drawings that had spilled onto the floor, and then slowly, frighteningly, tilted his head to the side. His eyes dimmed almost imperceptibly, and then he froze.

Deanna waited in suspended horror, unable to think or speak, just watching him…watching the drawings.

“What are these?” he whispered.

Deanna trembled with fear. “Nothing.” She swallowed hard. “They’re just…drawings.” Looking up into his eerily placid face, she followed the movement of his eyes as he took a closer look at the sketches, one by one, examining the morbid details. Blinking several times, he regarded her coolly, and then he finally squatted down to pick up a particularly disturbing sketch—the one of the beautiful man being sucked into the ground by a multitude of demon hands.

He lifted it and stared fixedly without appearing to breathe.

When at last he drew in air, he turned the sketch this way and that, considering every detail and nuance, and then he slowly licked his lips, not unlike a lion about to devour its prey. Standing back up, he thrust the drawing out in front of him, where she could clearly see it, too. Pitching his voice low and lethal, he whispered. “What’s your real name?”

“Deanna Dubois
is
my real name,” she whispered.

“Did you draw these?”

“Yes.”

He looked momentarily perplexed as he studied her face. “Are you human?”

She hesitated. What kind of question was that?

“Are you human?”
he repeated.

She nodded. “Yes…of course.”

“Who sent you?”

She shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t understand.”

He rolled the drawing up in his hand and, with a lightning quick flick of his wrist, smacked her sharply against the forehead with the curled paper. “Listen very carefully, little lady. I am not playing games with you, so do
not
make me repeat myself:
Who sent you?
”

Deanna cringed. Although she had never been the type of person to become easily rattled, let alone faint of heart, she suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to pass out. “No one…sent me. I swear. I came on my own.”

“Why?” he asked, his piercing eyes practically carving holes in her soul with their intensity.

She cleared her throat and bit back tears. “I don’t know.” He frowned, and she knew he was about to lose his patience. “I don’t know!” she repeated. “I swear…
I don’t know
.”

He paused, slowly unrolled the drawing, and then pointed to the tortured figure in the center. “Who is this man to you?”

Afraid of something she couldn’t name, Deanna tried to bite a hole in her tongue. For reasons beyond her comprehension, she desperately feared the man’s
question
. It was as if there was something hidden in the answer, something intrinsically life-changing and primal, and whatever it was, it posed a much greater threat to Deanna than the dangerous man in front of her. As she struggled inwardly to repel whatever purpose had brought her to this point in her life…to this place…to this terrifying man, she felt as if she wrestled with fate.

Fought with the truth.

Resisted an inevitable collision in time where all that had come before would be forever separated by this one defining moment.

Yet, in it all, she remained utterly powerless to do anything but obey her inquisitor’s demand: to answer the question. “He’s…he’s…someone,” she whispered the words, trying to find the least offensive way to say it, “who’s being tortured…in hell.”

The man jolted in surprise, and his face drew taut with anger. “What did you just say?” His voice was nearly inhuman with loathing.

Deanna winced, fully expecting him to strike her at any moment. She drew in a deep breath for courage and slowly repeated the words. “He’s a man who’s being tortured in hell.”

He nodded.

Simply nodded.

And then he dropped the drawing, snatched her by the arm, and dragged her down the hallway with dizzying speed.

Deanna flailed her free arm and shuffled her feet, trying to regain her bearings. They were moving so quickly…too quickly. Her surroundings whizzed by like a passing blur, and the breakfast she had eaten earlier threatened to come back up. As the vertigo promised to engulf her, she caught hold of the man’s shirt, grasped it with a tightly clenched fist, and struggled to maintain her equilibrium. “Stop!” she cried out, not sure if she was speaking in her mind or out loud.

Either he didn’t hear her—or he didn’t care.

When at last they stopped, it was in front of an exam-room door. The man let go of her, turned the knob, and thrust her inside the room, forcefully. “Enough of these games,” he bit out. “Tell me who he is to you. And what is the meaning of those drawings?”

Deanna struggled to focus. She needed to catch her balance, regulate her breathing, and make the room stop spinning—and quickly—before she provoked the angry man any further. Holding both arms out to the side, she stared at a fixed point on the wall until she was at last certain that the ground was securely beneath her. Slowly…carefully…she began to turn her head and look around the room, blinking repeatedly as the contents slowly came into focus.

Now then: What was it he had asked her to do?

Tell me who he is to you.
And what is the meaning of those drawings?

Deanna continued to look around the room, scanning the contents for any meaningful clues that might help her give the man what he wanted. She desperately wanted to answer his questions honestly, but she truly didn’t know how. Her eyes swept across a sterile countertop filled with miscellaneous medical supplies; they took in a wooden frame surrounding an open window, and then, they finally shifted to a slightly raised hospital bed…and a strikingly handsome man lying lifeless between two crisp white sheets.

Air shot through Deanna’s diaphragm like water escaping a swirling geyser, and a cry of inexplicable anguish escaped her throat. “Noooo!” Reaching up to cup her face in her hands, she stared wide-eyed and horrified at the ungodly handsome man sleeping in the bed.

It was him
.

The man from her drawings!

And he was
real
.

Tall, muscular, surreal…perfect.

She had found him.

Tears began to pour out of her eyes in rivers of anguish she could barely comprehend or contain. “No, no, no…” she whispered again and again, all at once gasping for air. “Oh God, no!” She rushed toward the bed. She needed to take his hand. Touch his face. Feel his flawless, smooth skin. She needed to know he was alive. “Is he okay?” she asked, turning to glare at the cruel doctor even as she made her way to the mysterious man’s bedside.

The doctor moved so quickly she never saw him stir.

“That’s far enough,” he cautioned, holding his arm out as a barrier between Deanna and the unresponsive man in the bed. “Don’t touch him.”

She stopped short. “But…” She hesitated, and then she shook her head to clear away the cobwebs, feeling unbelievably disjointed, almost as if she were no longer in control of her thoughts and emotions. “Please…I just need to know that he’s alive.”

The doctor continued to use his arm as a barricade, all the while pushing Deanna gently away from the bed. He looked almost as confused as Deanna felt. “Who are you?” He spoke softly now. “How do you know my brother?”

Deanna blinked rapidly. “Your brother?” She looked back and forth between the two men several times in quick succession. Of course they were brothers. The resemblance was so obvious now. And then, like the sudden gush of water breaking through a dam, the words began to spill out of her mouth as if of their own accord. “I see him in my mind…always.” She turned to face the doctor, gesturing furiously with her hands. “I have for months now…day and night…those pictures…my drawings…” The tears fell unbidden. “They haunt me like ghosts, and I don’t even know what they are…where they’re coming from…why I’m drawing them.” She rubbed her hands briskly up and down her arms to keep her chilled blood flowing. “I didn’t mean to lie to you, but I had to come here. I saw this place—this clinic—I guess in my imagination because I drew it.” She took a deep breath. “God, I know I sound crazy. Trust me, I do, but I can’t help it.” She sagged from the weight of her words. “I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I feel like I’m dying…with him.”

She stumbled back, and the doctor caught her by the arm before she could lose her balance. Any residual anger seemed to drain from his face like water through a sieve; and then, to her immense surprise, he pulled her gently into his arms and held her against his chest. “Shh,” he whispered, as if crooning to a child. “It’s okay. I believe you.
It’s okay
.” He ran one gentle hand through her hair and slowly rubbed circles on her back. “We’re going to figure this out, Deanna, all right? It’s going to be okay.”

Both stunned by his words and relieved to have finally spoken the truth, Deanna slowly nodded her head—someone had heard her bizarre story, and someone believed her—no, not just someone:
his
brother. Pulling away from the doctor’s arms, she looked into his haunting brown eyes, and for the first time, she recognized the true reflection of compassion. While his confusion persisted, there was no longer any anger etched into his brow.
Thank God
.

“Do you…do you understand any of this?” she ventured cautiously. “Do you know what’s happening to me?” She turned to regard the mysterious man in the bed. “Can you tell me what happened to…to your brother?”

The doctor nodded and slowly exhaled as if gathering his own courage. “His name is Nachari.” He spoke matter-of-factly.

“Nachari.” Deanna whispered the word with reverence. She tried it out on her tongue again: “
Nachari
.” She implanted it in her heart and buried it in her soul…
his name was Nachari.
“And what’s yours?” she asked tentatively, half expecting him to refuse to answer.

“Kagen,” he replied.

He was still wary. Perhaps even distrustful—maybe even dangerous—but there was something else there in those keen, predatory eyes now. Something that resembled hesitance mixed with…hope.

He wouldn’t hurt her.

Not now.

Not yet.

Not until he had the answers to his unspoken questions.

Deanna sighed, trying to slow her heart rate down. “What now?” she asked, knowing that however things proceeded, the brother—Kagen—would be in charge.

Kagen gestured toward the counter full of medical supplies. “First…before we do anything…I need to draw some of your blood.”

“My blood?” she asked, immediately concerned. “Why? What are you looking for?” Was mental illness detectable through a blood test? Was he going to drug her? Maybe even kill her after all? What in the hell was—

“Deanna, you will sleep for a time, while I run some tests, try to figure some things out.”

“Sleep?” Deanna echoed. “I don’t think—” He caught her just as she staggered forward, her head lolling to the side. “What did you do?” she whispered.

“Shh,” he responded. “You will sleep without dreams, and you will not awaken until I call your name.”

“But what…what…” Her words trailed off as the entire world began to fade into various shades of gray.

“Don’t be afraid,” he answered as if from a great distance. “I’m going to test your blood for traces of Celestial DNA.”