Heaven and Earth (30 page)

“It’s over now.” He fumbled for the bedside lamp, but couldn’t find the switch. Instead he simply sat up with her, cuddled her, rocked. “It’s all over now. You’re okay. Wake up.” He kissed her damp cheeks, her forehead.

Her arms banded around him like steel. “Mac.”

“That’s right. I’m here. You had a nightmare. Do you want me to turn on the light, get you some water?”

“No, just . . . no. Hold on to me a minute, okay?”

“Absolutely.”

Not a nightmare, she thought as she let herself cling to him. But a vision, a blend of what had been and what would be. She’d recognized the face—the faces—of the man on the beach. One she had seen in other dreams. He’d died three centuries before. Cursed by the one called Earth.

Another she had first seen in the woods by the yellow cottage. When he’d held a knife to Nell’s throat.

And the third she had seen in the café, reading a newspaper and eating soup.

Three parts of one whole? Three steps in one fate? God! How was she to know?

She had killed them. In the end she’d seen herself standing in the storm, with her sword in her hand. She’d killed because she could, because the need had been so huge.

And the payment horribly dear.

It had been Mac she’d seen running through the storm. Mac who’d been struck down, because she couldn’t control what was inside her.

“I won’t let it happen,” she whispered. “I won’t.”

“Tell me. Tell me about the dream. It’ll help.”

“No. This will.” She lifted her mouth to his, poured herself into the kiss. “Touch me. God. Make love with me. I need to be with you.” Fresh tears spilled as she melted against him. “I need you.”

To comfort, to fill, to want. She would take this, and give it. This last time. All that might have been, all that she had let herself wish, would gather together and stream into this perfect act of love.

She could see him in the dark. Every feature, every line,
every plane was etched on mind and heart. How could she have fallen so deeply, so hopelessly in love?

She’d never believed herself capable of it, never wanted it. Yet here it was, aching inside her. He was the beginning and the end for her, and she had no words to tell him.

He needed none.

He tumbled into her, the yield and demand. There was a tenderness here, a depth to it that neither had explored before. Swamped by it, he murmured her name. He wanted to give her everything. Heart, mind, body. To warm her with his hands and mouth. To hold her safe forever.

She rose to him, drew him down. Met his sigh with her own. Love was like a feast, and each supped slowly.

A gentle caress, a melting of lips. A quiet need that stirred souls.

She opened, and he filled. Warmth enclosed in warmth. They moved together in the seamless dark, beat for sustained beat, while pleasure bloomed and ripened.

His lips brushed at her tears, and the taste of them was lovely. In the dark, his hands found hers, linked.

“You’re all there is.”

She heard him say it, tenderly. And as the wave rose to sweep them both, it was soft as silk.

In the dark, she slept away the rest of the night in his arms. Without dreams.

Morning had to
come. She was prepared for it. There were steps to be taken, and she would take them without hesitation and, she promised herself, without regret.

She slipped out of the house early. She took one last glance at Mac, how he looked sleeping peacefully in her
bed. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what might have been.

Then she closed the door and didn’t look back.

She could hear Nell, already up and singing in the kitchen, and knew her brother would be up and starting the day soon. She needed to get a jump on it.

She left by the front door, heading for the village and the station house at a brisk jog.

The wind and rain had died in the night. Under clear skies, the air had turned bitter again.

She could hear the pounding of the sea. The surf would still be high and wild, and the beach littered with whatever the water had cast out.

But there would be no long, freeing run for her that morning.

The village was as still as a painting, captured under a crystalline coating of ice. She imagined it waking, yawning, stretching, and cracking that thin sheath like an eggshell.

Determined that her home, and everyone on it, would wake safe, she unlocked the door of the station house.

It was chilly inside and warned her they were running on emergency power. Lost power during the night, and the generator kicked on. She imagined that she and Zack would be busy later, dealing with any of the residents who didn’t have backup power.

But that was later.

With a check of the time, she booted up the computer. She could run it off the battery long enough to get what she needed.

Jonathan Q. Harding. She rolled her shoulders and began her search.

The basic police work steadied her. It was routine, it was second nature. Her stop at the hotel had garnered her
his home address—or the address he’d given, she reminded herself.

Now, she would see just who the hell he was. And with that, begin to piece together the puzzle of what part he played in her personal drama.

She scanned the data as it scrolled on-screen. Harding, Jonathan Quincy. Age forty-eight. Divorced. No children. Los Angeles.

“L.A.,” she repeated, and felt the little quiver she’d experienced when she’d gotten his city of residence from the hotel registration.

Evan Remington was from Los Angeles. So were a lot of other people, she reminded herself, as she had the day before. But there wasn’t as much conviction in it this time around.

She read his employment information. A magazine writer. Reporter. Son of a bitch.

“Looking for a hot story, Harding? Well, it’s not going to happen. You just try getting through me to Nell and . . .”

She broke off, blew out a breath, and deliberately, consciously, tamped down on the instinctive anger.

There had been other reporters, she reminded herself. Gawkers, parasites, and the curious. They’d handled it without any real trouble. They would handle this one the same way.

She went back to the data, noting that Harding had no criminal record. Not even an outstanding parking violation. So he was, by all appearances, a law-abiding sort.

She sat back, considered.

If she were a reporter from L.A. looking for a story, where would she start? Remington’s family was a good bet. His sister, then some friends, some associates. Research the key players, who included Nell. From there?
Police reports, probably. Interviews with people who had known both Remington and Nell.

But that was all background, wasn’t it? You couldn’t get to the meat until you’d talked directly to the main characters.

She snatched up the phone, intending to contact the facility where Remington was being held. And heard the line crackle and die. First the power, she thought, now the phones. Muttering complaints, she yanked out her cell phone, hit Power. And ground her teeth when the display announced that her battery was dead.

“Damn it. Goddamn it!” Pushing herself out of the chair, she paced. There was an urgency in her now. Whether it was the cop, the woman, or the witch pushing didn’t seem to matter. She
had
to know if Harding had met with Remington.

“All right, then.” She steadied herself again. It was imperative to stay calm and controlled.

It had been a long time since she’d attempted a flight. She had no tools with her to help focus her energy. And though she wished, just once, for Mia, she accepted that in this she was on her own.

Struggling not to rush, she cast the circle, and in its center cleared her mind, and opened.

“I call to all who hold the power, unto me your help endower. Rise up the wind to aid my flight, open your eyes to aid my sight. My body remains, but my spirit flies free. As I will, so mote it be.”

It was like a drawing up, a tingling that flowed gently through the body. Then a lifting out of what she was from the shell that held it.

She glanced down at her own form—the Ripley who stood, head lifted, eyes closed, in the circle.

Knowing the risks of lingering, of becoming too
charmed by the sensation of flight, she centered her thoughts on her target. And let herself soar.

The stream of the wind, the sea beneath. There was such joy in it—and that, she knew, was a dangerous seduction. Before she could be lulled into the glorious silence and motion, she let sounds fill her head.

Voices humming—the thoughts and the speech of an entire city were alive within her. Worries, joys, tempers, passions mixed together in such a wonderfully human music.

As she traveled, sliding downward, she separated them and found what she needed.

“There was no change overnight.” One nurse handed a chart to another. Their thoughts sent up a mild interference.

Complaints, fatigue, a remembered fight with a spouse, and one gnawing desire for ice cream.

“Well, he’s less trouble in a coma. Strange, though, the way he dropped just a couple of hours after that reporter left. He’d been alert, stable, responsive for days, then this complete turnaround.”

As the nurses moved down the corridor, one of them shivered slightly as Ripley passed.

“Wow. Got a chill.”

She moved through the closed door and into the room where Remington lay. Machines monitored his vital signs, cameras watched him.

Ripley hovered, studying him. Comatose, restrained, behind lock and key. What harm could he do now?

Even as she thought it, his eyes opened and grinned into hers.

She felt a stab in the heart, the pain unbelievably sharp and completely real. The power in her, around her, wavered. And she felt herself falling.

His thoughts beat at her mind. Bloody, vicious fists that
spoke of vengeance, death, destruction. They pinched at her, greedy fingers that were somehow, hideously, arousing. Tempting her to surrender.

And more than surrender, tempting her to take.

No. You won’t have me, or mine.

She fought back, struggling to free herself. Little wings of panic fluttered at her throat as she realized the sheer strength of what had come alive in him.

She tore free with a cry of both fury and fear.

And found herself sprawled in the circle she’d cast on the simple wood floor of the station house.

Wincing in pain, she tore open her shirt and stared down in horror at the angry red welts between her breasts.

She struggled to her feet, found the control to close the circle. She was stumbling for the first-aid kit when the door burst open.

Mia flew in the door like a whirlwind. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Instinctively Ripley drew her shirt closed. “What’re you doing here?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t know?” All but shaking with anger, Mia closed the distance between them. “I wouldn’t feel? How dare you do such a thing on your own, without proper preparation? Do you know what you risked?”

“It was my risk, and you’ve got no business spying on me.”

“You risked everything, and you know it, just as you know I wasn’t spying. You woke me out of a lovely little dream.”

Ripley angled her head, took a good look. Mia’s hair was in wild disarray, her mouth unpainted and her cheeks pale. “Now that you mention it, you didn’t take time to put on your war paint. I don’t think I’ve seen you without makeup since we were fifteen.”

“Even without it, I’ll always look better than you—particularly now. You’re bone white. Sit down. Sit—” she repeated and solved the problem by pushing Ripley into a chair.

“Mind your own business.”

“You, unfortunately, are my business. If you wanted to check on Remington, why didn’t you just
look
?”

“Don’t lecture me, Mia. You know I have less luck with that area than you. Plus, I didn’t have a glass or a ball or—”

“A cup of water would do, as you’re perfectly aware. It’s foolishly dangerous to fly without a partner, someone who can call you back should it be necessary.”

“Well, it wasn’t necessary. I got back fine.”

“You could have asked me for help.” Sorrow pierced the frustration. “By the goddess, Ripley, do you hate me that much?”

Simple shock had Ripley dropping her hands, gaping. “I don’t hate you. I couldn’t—”

“What have you done to yourself?” Temper vanished as Mia saw the welts. Moving quickly, she pulled Ripley’s shirt aside. And her soul shuddered. “He did this. How is it possible? You were in the circle. He’s just a man. How could he break the protection and do this to your corporal body?”

“He’s not just a man,” Ripley said flatly. “Not anymore. There’s something in him, and it’s very strong, and very dark. Part of it’s here. There’s a man at the hotel.”

She told Mia what she knew, as she would tell Nell. They needed to be prepared.

“I need to study,” Mia said. “To think. We’ll find the answer. In the meantime, do you still have your amulet, any of your protective stones?”

“Mia—”

“Don’t be a fool, not now. Wear the amulet. Recharge it first. You have to stay away from this Harding until we know more.”