Dark Journey (4 page)

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.

H
e 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.

H
e felt her embrace in every cell of his body. It shook him, more than he'd thought he could be shaken. She'd smiled, backed away, looking neither shocked nor dead. She'd simply kept that calm, tranquil expression on her face, and then she was gone.

She'd left the door open behind her, and he could hear her footsteps as she moved quickly back down the hallway. She'd put her arms around him and nothing had happened.

He moved to the French doors, opening the curtains she'd pulled against the violence of the night, and he watched the lightning flash through the sky, illuminating the mountains. The distant rumble of thunder was an angry counterpoint, but it wouldn't rain. He knew that, as surely as he knew that no one would die. Everything was on hold for the next two days. The weather would threaten, the wind would blow, but nothing would happen. The narrow road up the canyon would be blocked by fallen trees, and no one would risk coming out in such a storm to clear the way. No one would even know about it, with all outside communication severed. He had two days at his command, and no one would interfere.

He heard the sound of her breathing, smelled the heavy scent of her perfume. By the time he turned around, Cynthia was already in the room. She was carrying a down comforter, and there was a predatory expression in her shallow blue eyes.

She was scheduled to die in four years, in a drunk-driving accident with a married lover, though now that future seemed a bit uncertain, cloudy. Nothing was ever carved in stone; life had a habit of changing, and her fate was by no means definite. If he took her earlier, it would surely do the world no great disservice. He watched her through the mirrored sunglasses, curious.

"You must have caught a chill," she said in her deliberately husky voice. "I've never felt anyone so cold in my entire life. I brought you the heaviest down comforter we have, and later I'll see if I can find you some sweaters. What do you sleep in?"

"I beg your pardon?" He kept his voice perfectly polite, simply because he knew it irritated her.

She dumped the cover on the bed, then moved closer, attempting a sexy glide. She came up close to him, so close he could almost taste the whiskey on her breath. "I said, what do you sleep in? You seem the silk-pajama type. Or maybe you wear nothing at all."