Dark Angel; The Chosen; Soulmate (18 page)

“And I don't think he'd be very cooperative. He wouldn't
like
it.”

“No. He could hurt you, Gillian.”

Gillian nodded. “It doesn't matter. It's what I've got to do.”

Melusine was watching her. “You're strong. I think you can do it, daughter of Hellewise.”

“I'm not strong. I'm
scared
.”

“I think it may be possible to be both,” Melusine said wryly. “But, Gillian? If you do get through it, please come back. I want to talk to you about some things. About the Night World—and about something called Circle Daybreak.”

The way she said it alarmed Gillian. “Is it important?”

“It could be very important to you, a witch with human ancestors and surrounded by humans.”

“Okay. I'll come back—if.” Gillian glanced once around the shop. Maybe there was some sort of talisman or something she should take….

But she knew she was just stalling. If there were anything helpful, Melusine would have already given it to her.

There was nothing left to do now but
go
.

“Good luck,” Melusine said, and Gillian marched to the door. Not that she had any particular idea where she was going.

She was almost at the creaky front door of the Five and Ten when she heard Melusine calling.

“I forgot to mention one thing. Whoever your ‘Angel' was, he was probably from this general area. Earthbound spirits usually hang around the place they died. Although that's probably not much help.”

Gillian stood still, blinking. “No… no, it
is
helpful. It's great. It's given me an idea.”

She turned and went through the door without really seeing it, stepped out into the square without really hearing the piped-in Christmas music.

At least I've got a place to go now, she thought.

She drove south, back toward Somerset, then took a winding road eastward into the hills. As she rounded a gentle curve she saw the cemetery spread out beneath her.

It was a very old graveyard, but still popular. Steeped in tradition, but with plenty of room. Grandpa Trevor was buried in the newer section, but there were ancient tombstones on the wooded hill.

If she had a chance of finding Angel, it might be here.

The only way to the older section was up a wooden staircase held in place by railway ties. Gillian climbed it cautiously, holding the handrail. Then she stood at the top and looked around, trying not to shiver.

She was among tall sycamores and oaks, which seemed to stretch black bony fingers in every direction. The sun was falling lower in the sky and long shadows tinged with lavender were reaching out from the trees.

Gillian braced herself. And then, as loudly as she could, she yelled.

“Come on, you! You know what I want!”

Silence.

Gillian refused to feel foolish. Gloved hands tucked under her arms, she shouted into the stillness.

“I know you can hear me! I know you're out there! The question is, are you in here?” She kicked a foot toward a snow-covered sandstone marker.

Because of course there was nothing she could do here on her own. The only way to get the information she needed, about who Angel had been in his earthly life and what he'd done or left undone, was from Angel himself.

Nobody else could tell her.

“Is this you?” Gillian scraped snow from a granite gravestone and read the words. “‘Thomas Ewing, 1775, Who bled and Dy'd for Liberty.' Were you Thomas Ewing?”

The ice-coated twigs of the tree above her clashed together in the rising wind. It made a sound like a crystal chandelier.

“No, he sounds too brave. And you're obviously just a coward.” She scraped some other stones. “Hey, maybe you were William Case. ‘Cut down in the flower of Youth by falling
from the Stagecoach.' That sounds more like you. Were you William Case?”

(Are you all finished singing?)

Gillian froze.

(Because I've got one for you.) The voice in her head began to sing raucously. Eerily.
(The Pha-a-antom of the Opera is here, inside your mind….)

“Oh, come on, Angel. You can do better than that. And why aren't you letting me see you? Too scared to meet me face to face?”

A light shimmered over the snow—a beautiful pale golden light that rippled like silk. It grew, it took on a shape.

And then Angel was standing there. Not floating. His feet actually seemed to touch the snow.

He looked—terrific. Haunting and beautiful in the gathering twilight. But his beauty was only frightening now. Gillian knew what was underneath it.

“Hi there,” she almost whispered. “I guess you know what I'm here to talk about.”

“Don't know and don't care. Should you be out here alone, anyway? Does anybody know where you are?”

Gillian positioned herself in front of him. She looked directly into eyes that were as violet and darkly luminous as the sky.

“I know what you are,” she said, holding those eyes, giving every word equal weight. “Not an angel. Not a devil. You're just a person. Just like me.”

“Wrong.”

“You've got the same feelings as any other person. And you
can't
be happy being where you are. Nobody could. You can't
want
to be stuck there. If I were dead, I'd
hate
it.”

The last words came out with a force that surprised even Gillian. Angel looked away.

An advantage. Gillian leapt in. “Hate it,” she repeated. “Just
hanging
around, getting stagnant, watching other people living their lives. Being
nothing
, doing
nothing
—unless it's to make a little trouble for people on earth. What kind of a life is tha—” She broke off, realizing her mistake.

He was grinning maliciously, recovering. “No life!”

“All right, what kind of existence, then,” Gillian said coldly. “You know what I mean. It stinks, Angel. It's putrid. It's disgusting.”

A spasm crossed Angel's face. He whirled away from her. And for the first time since Gillian had seen him, she
saw
agitation in him. He was actually pacing, moving like a caged animal. And his hair—it seemed to be ruffled by some unseen wind.

Gillian pressed her advantage. “It's about as good as being under
there
.” She kicked at the dead weeds over a grave.

He whirled back, and his eyes were unnaturally bright. “But I
am
under there, Gillian.”

For a moment, her skin prickled so that she couldn't speak. She had to force herself to say steadily, “Under that one?”

“No. But I'll show you where. Would you like that?” He
made a grand gesture, inviting her down the stairs. Gillian hesitated, then went, knowing he was behind her.

Her heart was pumping wildly. This was almost like a physical contest between them—a contest to see who could upset the other more.

But she had to do it. She had to make a
connection
with him. To reach into his anger and frustration and despair and somehow drag answers out of it.

And it
was
a contest. A contest of wills. Who could shout louder, who could be more merciless. Who could hold on.

The prize was Angel's soul.

She nearly tripped at the bottom of the stairs. It was too dark to see her footing. She noticed, almost absently, that it was getting very cold.

Something like an icy wind went past her—and there was light in front of her. Angel was walking there, not leaving any footprints in the snow. Gillian staggered after him.

They were heading for the newer section of the cemetery. Past it. Into the
very
new section.

“Here.” Angel said. He turned. His eyes were glittering. He was standing behind a gravestone and his own light illuminated it.

Chills washed over Gillian.

This was what she had asked for, it was exactly what she had asked for. But it still made the hair on her neck stand on end.

He was under here. Right here. Beneath the ground. The body of the person she'd loved and trusted… whose voice had been the last thing she'd heard at night and the first thing each morning.

He was under here in some kind of box, unless maybe that had rotted. And he wasn't smiling and golden-haired and handsome. And she was going to find out his name from a stone.

“I'm here, Gillian,” Angel said ghoulishly, leaning over the granite marker, resting his elbows on it. “Come up and say hello.” He was smiling, but his eyes looked as if he hated her. Wild and reckless and bitter. Capable of anything.

And somehow, the sick horror that had been sweeping through Gillian disappeared.

Her eyes were full, spilling over. The tears froze on her cheeks. She brushed at them absently and knelt beside the grave, not on it. She didn't look at Angel.

She put her hands together for just a moment and bent her head. It was a wordless prayer to whatever Power might be out there.

Then she took off her glove and gently scraped snow away from the marker with her bare hand.

It was a simple granite headstone with a scrolled top. It read “In loving memory. Our son. Gary Fargeon.”

“Gary Fargeon,” Gillian said softly. She looked up at the figure leaning over the stone. “Gary.”

He gave a mocking laugh, but it sounded forced. “Nice to
meet you. I was from Sterback; we were practically neighbors.”

Gillian looked back down. The date of birth was eighteen years ago. And the date of death was the previous year.

“You died last year. And you were only seventeen.”

“I had a little car crash,” he said. “I was extremely drunk.” He laughed again, wildly.

Gillian sat back on her heels. “Oh, really. Well, that was brilliant,” she whispered.

“What's life?” He bared his teeth. “‘Out, out, brief candle'—or something like that.”

Gillian refused to be distracted. “Is
that
what you did?” she asked quietly. “Got yourself killed? Is that unfinished business somehow?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” he said.

Okay, retreat. He wasn't ready yet. Maybe try some feminine wiles. “I just thought you trusted me—Angel. I thought we were supposed to be soulmates…”

“But by now you know we aren't, don't you? Because you found your real love—that jerk.” Gary turned up the brilliance of his smile. “But even if we're not soulmates, we
are
connected, you know. We're cousins. Distant, but the bond is there.”

Gillian's hands fell to her sides. She stared up at him. Lights were going on in her brain, but she wasn't quite sure what they illuminated yet.

The strangest thing was that she wasn't entirely surprised.

“Didn't you ever wonder why we both have the same color
eyes?” He stared down at her. Although everything was dark around him, his eyes were like violet flame. “I mean, it isn't exactly common. Your great-grandmother Elspeth had these eyes. So did her twin brother, Emmeth.”

Twins.

Of course. The lost Harman
babies
, Melusine had said. Elspeth and Emmeth. “And you're…”

He smirked. “I'm Emmeth's great-grandson.”

Now Gillian could see what her mind was trying to illuminate. Her thoughts were racing. “You're a witch, too. That was why you knew how to do the spells and things. But how did you figure out what you were?”

“Some idiots from Circle Daybreak came,” Gary said. “They were looking for lost witches. They'd managed to track Emmeth's descendants down. They told me enough that I understood what kind of powers I had. And then—I told them to get lost themselves.”

“Why?”

“They were jerks. All they care about is getting humans and Night People together. But I knew the Night World was the place for me. Humans deserve what they get.”

Gillian stood. Her fingers were getting red and swollen. She tried to pull her glove back on. “Gary, you
are
a human. At least part. Just like I am.”

“No. We're superior to them. We're special—”

“We are
not
special. We're no better than any one else!”

Gary was grinning unpleasantly, breathing quickly. “You're wrong there. The Night People are supposed to be
hunters
. There are even laws that say so.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the wind went through Gillian. “Oh, really?” Then she had another thought. “Is
that
why you made me go to that club? So they could hunt
me
?”

“No, you idiot!” Gary's eyes flashed. “I told you—you're one of them. I just wanted you to
realize
that. You could have stayed, been part of them—”

“But
why
?”

“So you would be like
me
!” The wind was gusting wildly again. Frozen tree branches creaked like creatures in pain.

“But why?”

“So you could come be
with
me. So we could be together. Forever. If you joined them, you wouldn't have gone on to the Other Side—”

“When I died! You wanted me dead.”

Gary looked confused. “That was just at first—”

Gillian was angry now. Yelling. “You planned the whole thing! You
lured
me. Didn't you? Didn't you? That crying I heard in the woods—that was you, wasn't it?”

“I—”

“Everything you did was designed to kill me! Just so you'd have company!”

“I was lonely!”
The words seemed to hang and echo. Then Gary's eyes darkened and he turned away.

“I was so lonely,” he said again, and there was something so hopeless in his voice that Gillian stepped toward him.

“Anyway, I didn't do it,” he said over his shoulder. “I changed my mind. I thought I could come live with you here—”

“By killing David and taking his body. Yeah. Great plan.”