State of Grace (Resurrection) (9 page)

Heat flared through me, and I blushed with chagrin. I certainly didn’t want
, or need ,to feel desire right now. I forced myself not to look up at him and instead stared straight ahead. This was rather unfortunate as I discovered a certain part of his anatomy was at my eye level. I drew a quick breath in surprise. It looked like I wasn’t the only one to feel something right now. He was definitely, unmistakeably, aroused. His tunic skimmed the top of his thighs and had risen up in the front, a significant bulge poking out of his breeches, and I resisted a mad urge to touch him.

He chuckled, a deep, thrilling, sexy sound, that sent my heart rate soaring. My pulse throbbed in my throat and a tingling heat spread thr
ough my stomach. I hoped he couldn’t read my mind. He leaned over me and I scuttled away from him, sprawling inelegantly on to my back. He lowered his body down until he rested beside me, propped up on one arm, and then reached out to touch my tattoo.

‘Eryr
es.’ Soft, like liquid velvet, his voice bathed me in heat, and desire drenched every cell of my body. The scent of him was intoxicating, filling my head with incense. His eyes held mine, the pupils huge with his need, and utterly black. I drowned in them, sucked into their depths, losing all coherent thought. I was in pain from the longing of the feel of his skin on mine. I wanted all of him, every hard inch of him. I had no idea what was happening to me and at that moment I didn’t care. All that mattered was the craving I felt for him. All thought had fled and I was left with pure animal lust and the fear. Always the fear. The thought I might have been slipped Rhohipnol nudged me, as far away and insubstantial as a lone cloud high in a summer sky, and if I had been drugged I found I didn’t care. He was all that mattered; him and the need that scoured me, pushing anything else aside…

I
waited, passive and compliant, desperate for his kiss as he bent his head to mine, His breath danced over my mouth and down my neck and as his head moved I saw his teeth. Canines, I realised, with a shudder of terror and a wild rush of intense lust: he has teeth like the leopard, and before I could make sense of that extraordinary thought, I felt the weight of him, his hands gripping my shoulders, pinning me to the bed, the fur falling away from me, his knee thrust between my legs, his crotch hard and urgent against mine. I heard his deep intake of breath, drawn out as if he were scenting me, and he growled low in his chest, an animal sound that made the hairs on my arms stand up in dread and anticipation.

He nuzzled my neck, and, slowly, cat-like, he licked the spot immediately below my left ear. It was so sensual that I
felt a sudden moisture between my legs. I was sure he could smell my excitement. It was possible he could smell my fear.

‘Mmmm,’ he murmured, licking me again. My neck was on delicious fire. He kissed it lightly,
and then he bit. The pain was needle sharp and exquisite. I wanted to scream and push him away, but then pleasure kicked in: intense and all-encompassing. I wanted him inside me. I couldn’t move. I was totally paralysed. Wave after wave of heat coursed through me. I could feel every part of him, his mouth suckling at my neck, his hands reaching down to my thighs, finding the sweet spot, his hardness throbbing against me. I could even feel his lashes against my cheek. He languidly undid his breeches and I felt his penis spring free. Oh, yes, I thought, oh, yes… please…

   I knew I was on the brink of orgasm.

‘Grace? Grace?’

The pleasure drained from me before it had a chance to coalesce and I whimpered in desolation as slowly my mind came back to the here and now.

‘What?’ I muttered, incoherently.

‘You ok?’

I had a horrible feeling of déjà vu.

‘Yeah. Fine,’ I mumbled, my voice thick with unsatisfied lust.

‘What happened? Gavin asked, his features swimming into focus.

‘Hoping you could tell me,’ I replied, somewhat indistinctly. A vicious headache exploded into existence in my forehead.

‘Huh?’

‘It’s ok.’ I glanced down to check that I was still fully clothed. I was. ‘I’m fine,’ I added. ‘Migraine.’

He looked relieved and then concerned in quick succession. I took a slow steady breath, fighting the pain, and tried to gain some control. I was still in Gavin’s living room, and it appeared that things had not progressed any further than I remembered.
‘Bring Me To Life’ was still playing, the music flooding the room with sound. My pulse throbbed in my skull in time to the beat, urgent and painful.

‘You’re bleeding,’ he said
, unexpectedly.

‘Where?’ I
glanced down at myself but couldn’t see any obvious signs.

‘Your neck.’ He paused. ‘How did that happen?’ He was confused. He wasn’t the only one. ‘Did you cut yourself on something?’ He searched around for the culprit.

I touched the spot he indicated, and then stared at my fingers. There was a smear of blood on them. Oh! I blundered to my feet and staggered in to the hall.

‘First on the left,’ Gavin called.

I barged into the bathroom and checked my neck in the mirror. There were two small puncture wounds. Shit! I stalked back into the living room and stood near the doorway indignantly, hands on my hips.

‘You bit me,’ I said, accusingly, trying to ignore the thumping in my head and the throbbing from my neck.

‘Eh?’

‘You heard. You bit me.’

‘No, I never!’ It was Gavin’s turn to be indignant. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘I don’t know, and I don’t think I want to know.
But you must have!’

‘When?’ he demanded. ‘Exactly when did I bite you? You’re mad, you are.’

I shrugged. ‘When I was, um, when I was…’ I trailed off.

‘When you were what?’

I didn’t want to have to explain to a total stranger what had just happened to me, but the irony that I would have been happy to have slept with him, yet not to tell him about the hallucination did not go unnoticed. His biting me may have intruded into my dream in the same way that you think you are falling from a high building when in reality you have only fallen out of bed. I interpreted it as the man in my hallucination attacking me. Or perhaps the two tiny wounds were psychosomatic: I thought I had been injured therefore my body showed the physical signs of it, like a bitch experiencing a phantom pregnancy. This was the more likely explanation I realised, as I took in Gavin’s disbelief and indignation. Defeated, I walked over to the sofa and sat back down.

‘You didn’t, did you?’

‘No!’ He was understandably outraged
and moved as far away from me as the sofa allowed. He obviously thought I was mad. I tended to agree with his assessment of the situation. ‘Anyway, believe me, bite marks don’t look like that,’ he continued angrily.

‘Oh?’

‘No, they’re semi circles.’

‘And you know that how?’

‘I have a nephew. He’s three,’ he sighed, ‘and he likes to bite.’

‘Oh,’ I replied, disconsolately.
We sat in silence for a few moments. I was lost in my misery, the headache hammering at the inside of my skull, so it was left to Gavin to make the small talk, and when he spoke I was relieved to hear the anger had left his voice and he was trying to be polite and concerned, even if he did think he had invited a mad woman back to his apartment.

‘So what happened, exactly?’
he asked, his curiosity overcoming his obvious desire to ask me to leave and I think he might have been too well brought up to simply throw me out of the door.

‘Exactly?’

He nodded.

‘I don’t know.’ It was my turn to sigh. ‘I’ve been having these, sort of, blackouts. At least, that’s what I
think they are. Have you got any painkillers? I have a bitch of a headache.’

He got up with relief but
continued talking as he wandered into the kitchen in search of medication. At least he was still talking to me: another man might have reacted very differently. I vowed never to be so stupid again. I was with a total stranger, no-one knew where I was and I was definitely in a vulnerable state. I was just lucky Gavin seemed to be a decent bloke.

‘You weren’t unconscious
or anything like that,’ he was saying. ’You had your eyes open, as if you were day dreaming. You know, staring off into space.’

He came back with a glass of water and two t
ablets. I took them, gratefully and swallowed them in one gulp.

‘How long was I ‘out’ for?’
I asked.

‘I dunno. About thirty seconds, maybe.’

‘It felt much longer than that,’ I said, worriedly.

‘And then, when you snapped out of it and started talking to me, I noticed the blood on your neck.’ He stepped closer to me and bent closed to have a better look before he retreated a safe distance. I didn’t blame him one bit. ‘They remind me of something…’ he paused. ‘I know! We had a kitten once, and she used to sink her teeth into my hand every now and again. Vicious little so and so, she was. Only your marks are bigger. At least they’ve stopped bleeding. What could have caused them?’

I felt a chill ripple through me as
I remembered the feel of dagger-sharp teeth. I also remembered thinking my imaginary friend, Roman, had reminded me of a leopard, and I couldn’t forget the sight of long, white canines in a handsome face.

I shivered. I wanted to be home. I wanted to forget this night had eve
r happened. I wanted my mother.

C
hapter 4

The next two days passed uneventfully. Gavin had very graciously, considering my state of mind and his desire to get me out of his life and out of his flat, driven me back to my hotel. I felt really bad about what had happened, or rather, what hadn’t happened. The poor guy had been anticipating some no-strings sex and look what he had got instead. He had been quite sweet and had even given me his phone number. I knew I would never call him and I suspected the number he gave me was a false one.

I tried to put the whole unfortunate episode behind me and made a conscious effort not to think about Gavin or my hallucination. I kept busy,
spending the days helping my mother around the house, and my dad and Ianto around the farm. My parents were reluctant to let me do too much, worrying that I would make my health worse if I overdid things. Their concern was wonderful and annoying at the same time. Ianto was a different kettle of fish. He simply let me be. I wasn’t sure if he didn’t care enough, or didn’t know enough, about my condition to worry, or he just knew me. Whatever it was, I was grateful for him not fussing over me, and letting me live my life as best I could.

The days passed smoothly enough. The nights were another creature altogether. I couldn’t reconcile my sensible self
to these hallucinations. I was mortified to lose control in public, even if I hadn’t done anything stupid: yet. Shame coloured my thoughts, too. I was humiliated I had come so close to a one night stand. Don’t get me wrong, I like to party as much as the next girl but I was not loose sexually. I’d only had a couple of partners, and those had been the result of long-term relationships with men I had cared about at the time. My job probably had given me more opportunity than most to have casual sex: many, many nights away in hotel rooms in different cities, many, many proposition from would-be partners (and not all of them men, either), one to two of which tempted me, but I had never felt the urge to jump into the sack with random men. Ok, I
had
felt the urge on occasion, but I had never acted upon it. Until last night. And look where that had gotten me. I vowed that however horny I felt, I was not going to do something like that again. It wasn’t my scene. I would simply have to buy a Rampant Rabbit.

I smiled ruefully as I
forced apart a bale of hay and proceeded to spread it along the floor of the stall. I was thinking about the look on my mother’s face if she happened to come across a dildo in my room. I think I would pay good money to see that. Then I remembered the conversation with Monica, the beautician, and I wondered if my mother would be as shocked as I thought she would. I worked harder with the fork.

After dinner that evening I decided to fire up my laptop and check my emails. Whilst I was waiting for it to boot up, I picked up my mobile and dialled an all-too familiar number.

‘Margaret
? It’s Grace Llewellyn.’

‘Hello Grace. Nice to hear from you.’ Margaret
was in her late fifties and the calmest and most professional woman I had ever met. Her voice portrayed a hint of pleasant surprise and nothing more: she had long ago learnt not to ask how patients were. She was secretary to Mr Cunningham, my consultant, and she knew that some of his patients were terminal. I had no need to remind her who I was – her memory was phenomenal. I wondered if she needed to remind Mr Cunningham of his wife’s birthday or their wedding anniversary.

‘Nice to
speak to you again,’ I replied politely. ‘Is Mr Cunningham free?’ I knew he ran a late clinic one evening a week.

‘I’ll just check.’

After couple of clicks on the line Mr Cunningham’s polished voice said, ‘Grace, how are you? I was only thinking about you yesterday.’ It was expected for him to ask about his patients’ health, that was his job and he was much better equipped to deal with the replies he received than Margaret.

‘Hi, Mr Cunningham, I’m fine,’ I said automatically. Then I revised my statement. After all, that’s why I was calling, wasn’t it? So I needed to tell him the truth. ‘Actually I wanted
to talk to you.’

‘Do you want to make an appointment?’

‘No, not really. Can I ask you a couple of questions over the phone?’

‘Certainly. I’ve got a few minutes.’

‘Ok, thanks.’ I took a deep breath and explained my hallucinations, visions, dreams, or whatever they could be called. I didn’t go into too much detail, just gave him the bare bones. Mr Cunningham was silent for a while after I had finished. I had just wondered whether we had been cut off, when he spoke.

‘Were you feeling particular strain at the time of these attacks?’

Now, that was a good word for them. ‘No,’ I replied, I wasn’t about to mention that the last one had been preceded by my attempting a one night stand and it certainly wasn’t strain I had been feeling.

‘Let me book you in for some tests,’ he said briskly. I refused.

I’d had more tests than a pre-launch rocket and I didn’t need to know how far the tumour had progressed. Knowing wouldn’t make it go away. I just needed understand what was happening to me. Mr Cunningham was silent for a few more seconds while he thought.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned about,’ he said eventually. ‘And, although
I can’t totally rule it out, I don’t think it’s a symptom of your disease. Let me look into it,’ he continued, ‘and I’ll be in touch.’

The conversation ended after a couple of queries from the doctor regarding other changes to my well-being
since the last time he saw me, then I thumbed the disconnect button on my mobile and dropped it next to me on the bed. I was none the wiser. Great: I was now baffling the medical profession, and for all his assurances I guessed from the undertone in his voice that my consultant had not come across this particular manifestation of a tumour before.

I turned my attention to the laptop, clicked onto my email account
and deleted the hundreds of emails trying to sell me stuff, until I was left with a handful I thought were important. I replied to those, the few of my friends that kept in touch, then flopped back onto the bed, thinking. Laura had phoned yesterday to check that I had gotten home ok, and she had excitedly filled me in on the details of her meeting with Callum, the air traffic controller. Looked like they were going on a proper date. She had been a little coy on how her evening in Cardiff had ended, so I guessed she had been more successful than I had. I wished her well. I had spoken to Sarah and we had arranged to meet up next weekend for some retail therapy. A girl could never have too many shoes, even if I didn’t go anywhere to wear four inch heels anymore and probably never would.

I wondered whether it was worth a shot
at Googling my attacks, but soon gave up on the idea after half an hour of searching. Most of the results suggested I had mental health problems and should be sectioned immediately. It occurred to me they might be right.

It was getting late a
nd my parents had gone to bed and Ianto was out, burning the candle at both ends, as usual: he knew he would have to be up early in the morning but it made no difference. I was at a loose end and was totally wide awake. Years of odd working hours had messed with my internal clock, and I often found I couldn’t sleep when it was expected of me. Like now, for instance, twelve thirty at night and fresh as a daisy. I thought about reading and although I had never taken to books the way my mother did (when she found the time to sit down she always had a book in her hand), I had been known to read the occasional novel, and a good book often served to fill in the waiting times between short haul flights. I wondered whether there was any science fiction on the shelves in the den and wandered downstairs to have a look. I came back to my room clutching an old favourite, ‘Dune’. I enjoyed sci-fi more than other novels, probably for the pure escapism and the idea that today’s science fiction so often proved to be tomorrow’s reality, although I didn’t think the writings of Frank Herbert would fit into this theory: bit too much fiction and not enough science. I settled down to read, propping my pillows up against the headboard and resting the book on my tented knees.

I was a good hundred or so pages in and thoroughly immersed in this alternate universe
when I became aware that something wasn’t quite right in my own internal universe. This time, when I felt the insidious tugging in my mind, I wasn’t quite so worried. At least I was at home, alone in my own bed, as safe as I could be. Instead of trying to fight it, because I knew from my previous experiences no amount of mental struggling was going to stop this from happening, I relaxed into it and tried to analyse the experience, and I let the sensation of ‘otherness’ take me away. My last thought before I found myself somewhere else, was that I was like Mr Ben and his adventures in the fancy dress shop.

I wasn’t prepared for this. I was back in the same room as before. I had expected to be somewhere else, anywhere else, maybe even some
when
else.

Roman was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to
me, facing the fire, his head in his hands. I was standing on the other side of the room, by the narrow slit of a window. The fire was burning, it was dark, and, of course, I had no clothes on.

I studied this man of my dreams, a rare chance to examine
him without him being aware he was being watched. He was fully clothed, but I could see the muscles in his back rippling underneath his white shirt as he ran his fingers through his long, sleek hair. My fingers itched to do the same thing. He groaned, a quiet sound of despair almost too low for me to hear

I was unsure how much time had
elapsed since my last visit, but I was certain it wasn’t long. I guessed it was the same night, but for all I knew, though, it could be days, weeks or even months later. Or perhaps the neck biting thing was still in the future. I reached up to touch the half-healed puncture wounds, and my fingers came away wet with blood. How strange that they should begin to bleed again.

That small movement
must have alerted him because one moment he was on the bed, and the next he was standing in front of me. I hadn’t seen him move, I hadn’t even heard him. It was as if Star Trek’s Scottie had beamed him up and beamed him back down again.

‘Grace!’ he exclaimed. I had forgotten how beautiful his voice was; deep and masculine, smooth, like the gurgle of wine from the bottle
. He sounded surprised to see me. I was inordinately pleased that he remembered my name.

‘Roman.
’ I acknowledged him cautiously. After all, the last time we had met he had sunk his teeth into me. Again, he seemed to know what I was thinking, and the light slowly faded from his expression as he stared at my neck. Pain flitted briefly across his face and he turned away sharply.

I shivered, t
he draft from the tiny unshuttered window behind me playing across my bare skin. This small movement of mine drew his attention to me once more and when he looked back at me his face was clear of any emotion. He scanned down the length of my body, pausing at all the appropriate places. I made no move to cover myself: after all, he had seen this before, more than once. I let him stare even though it made me so self-conscious the blush stained my cheeks with heat and another sort of heat entirely resonated south of my belly button. I held still and thought about what he would look like naked. Broad shoulders, lean hips, muscular chest, and I knew that everything under his well-fitted breeches was all in proportion.

‘Yoren kald?’ he asked. I frowned at him, concentrating on the words. It sounded like he had asked me if I was cold
.

I nodded
tentatively, hoping I hadn’t agreed to anything outrageous. He dipped his head once, in acknowledgement, a tiny smile playing at his mouth.

‘G
ut.’ Good? Ok, so what was good: the fact I had understood his question, or I hadn’t and he thought I had, and I had just agreed to dance naked in front of the men downstairs, or to be fed to his dogs, or something equally as distasteful.