The Lost Garden (The Lost Garden Trilogy Book 1) (8 page)

He smiled and leaned forward on his elbows. His eyes, those beautiful aquamarine eyes, fastened onto her own. She did not feel uncomfortable in the penetrating gaze or feel the need to look away. Instead, she could feel his intensity through his eyes and his need to understand.

“You were always standing in the Garden of Eden, although I never knew for sure, until now. Of course, I always suspected that it was an earthly paradise and I soon devoted my entire life to finding this paradise.” He paused, his eyes shining. “By the way, I haven’t found it yet.”

“What do I do in your dreams?” she asked. She was almost afraid to hear the answer.

He continued to stare into her eyes and she let him. Through his eyes, she could almost see him reliving each dream. “You always come to me with open arms, dressed for battle, although the weapons are archaic. I never see myself, just the image of you. We are standing on a rock shelf overlooking this utterly amazing land, full of the most vibrant plants on Earth. Everything is larger than it should be and so green it hurts your eyes. High above is a sun, but not the real sun. It’s somehow smaller and its light is not so overwhelming, but it is a perfect amount of light for the scene. I always had a sense that the whole scene was hidden, but I never knew for sure. In my dreams, I rarely explored. I was simply given snapshots.”

He stopped talking and she discovered she had been holding her breath. She could only think,
He is the Chosen One, and I almost cut his head off.

“Is there anything else you see?” she asked.

He did not answer immediately, but he broke his connection with her, tearing his eyes away. She wanted him to gaze at her again. Never in all her life had she ever felt a stronger connection to anyone, than to this mortal now, in his living room. The sensation was appealing, but frightening because it created within her a longing she was unaccustomed to feeling. A longing for a deeper connection that she knew she must never allow herself to feel if she was to stay an effective Guardian.

“Yes. I do see something else, but only sometimes.” He inhaled, looking away toward his kitchen and into the darkness that filled his home. “I see destruction. Everywhere. First, the light in the Garden is extinguished and then, there is a great pain that rips through me physically. I feel as if someone is extracting my heart through my chest. It is a profound sense of loss, of something torn away from me that was never meant to be torn away. And then, I see the destruction and the endless death, the tidal waves, the earthquakes, and the massive storms that rage against the earth. There is nothing I can do, but I sense there should have been. I feel I should have had an answer, but I fail to come up with it in time.”

He was sweating, large drops falling from his thick hairline. He didn’t notice and she felt that he was releasing himself from a great weight that had been on his heart for perhaps his entire life.

Tenderly and cautiously, she used her fingertips to wipe the sweat away. He looked at her and she saw the tears in his eyes. She knew he was holding an incredible burden with the fate of the world and he didn’t know who to turn to. Until now.

“You never spoke of this to anyone,” she said quietly, this time catching and holding his gaze with her own.

“No,” he said. “Who would believe me? I would have been locked up in a mental institution. No, I chose to live my life and look for my own answers.” He caught hold of her hand and held it. “But it appears my answer may have found me.”

His skin was scorching hot to the touch, or perhaps that was her imagination. She sensed again within him, his overwhelming relief at having found her.

“You are not crazy, Evan Knight,” she said softly. “You are simply the last hope for Earth. You are the Chosen One.”

The doorbell rang.

He blinked, breaking their intimate connection. “Pizza’s here.”

“But it hasn’t been forty minutes,” she said.

He stood and gave her a lopsided smile. “I told them the lady was hungry and if they hurried, I’d throw in a bigger tip. I could use a little myself. After all, if I’m the last hope of Earth, then I need to keep up my energy, huh?”

* * *

“This is nothing like the pizza pie I remember,” she said.

“Well, do you like it?”

“Yes. It appeals to me, but I sense its uselessness.”

“Wasted food?”

“Yes,” she said. “Very little nutritional value, although quite tasty.”

“That’s when you know it’s good.” He grabbed another piece from the box and closed the lid, adding some hot peppers to the slice with a tap of an open packet. “When was the last time you had pizza?”

Her mouth was full, cheeks puffed out. She swallowed hard and said, “Forty-two years ago.”

That would have been a perfectly normal statement if not for the fact she didn’t look a day over twenty-eight. She nibbled on the crust and finally tossed the remains on her paper plate. There was one slice left and he had ordered the extra-large. He had only eaten two slices and she had voraciously eaten the rest. Her appetite was unlike anything he had ever seen in his life. He discovered only later that he had unconsciously moved his fingers and toes from anywhere near her, lest they be eaten, too.

She sat back and rubbed her full belly. “Now, you may ask of me, mortal.”

“There’s still a slice left,” he said.

“I am content for now.”

“Okay, fine, but first things first. I prefer not to be called ‘mortal.’ My name is Evan to those who know me. You now qualify as someone who knows me.”

“Lucky me,” she said, licking her fingers.

Despite his confusion, he smiled. “So, let’s start there. Why do you keep calling me mortal?”

“You will live a normal life span and die a mortal’s death. Therefore I refer to you and everyone else, other than my fellow Daughters, as mortals.”

“And you Daughters don’t have a normal lifespan?” He reached over and picked a sausage off of the last piece of pizza.

“No.”

“How long do you live, then?”

“We don’t die.”

He was reaching for a pepperoni when his hand stopped halfway there. “You don’t die?”

“Rarely.”

“What does that mean? Rarely.”

“We can die in combat, if wounded beyond repair. Not even the oil can heal a severed head, of course.”

“Of course,” he said, and decided against the pepperoni after all. “And this oil that you just applied to me, is this the same oil you’re referring to?”

“Yes.”

“So, now that I’ve been exposed to it, will I live forever as well?”

She smiled patronizingly at him.. “Of course not, Evan Knight. The oil must be ingested at periodic intervals to sustain immortality.” As she spoke, she suddenly found interest in a Phoenician clay wine container he used as a centerpiece for his coffee table. It was over four thousand years old. She lifted it easily, flipping it over and examining the bottom. She nodded, impressed. He almost lunged for it, but she had already replaced it back in the center of the coffee table. She dusted off her hands. “Phoenician, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“Before my time,” she said.

“Let’s get back to the oil,” he said.

“Fine,” she seemed uncomfortable and jittery, as if imparting this information was more difficult than their recent bout in the studio. In fact, she would probably prefer knocking some heads together than this question-and-answer session. Quite possibly, he suspected, she had never dealt with such questions about her nature before. She continued. “The oil can be used to heal battle wounds and disease. Anything. It isn’t called the Oil of Life for nothing.”

“This Oil of Life comes from the Tree of Life?”

“Yes.”

“You tap the Tree of Life?”

“No. The oil seeps freely and we collect it.”

“Like tree sap?”

She thought about that, her mouth twisting up a little. Her lips were full and flushed red and she was not wearing makeup. She didn’t need any. She had amazing color and he suspected it was this Oil of Life that gave her vibrancy.

“Hard to say, but it is more like an oil.”

He watched her as she glanced around the room. Her inability to stay still was making him uncomfortable, but he pushed on, regardless. He needed answers and he needed them now. “How old are you, Jess?” he asked.

She inhaled sharply and suddenly stood and moved over to his bookshelf. She began perusing his collection of Greek histories written in their original Latin. She pulled a book written by Herodotus and began reading through it casually. He stood and moved behind her, watching her lips move slightly as she read the ancient Latin.

He touched her shoulder with his hand and she flinched, but did not move away. He kept his hand there. “Jess, how old are you?”

“I’m one of the younger Guardians,” she said, snapping the book shut and turning to face him. “I have never told a mortal my age. Our existence is a secret.”

He stepped closer and held her gaze. “I’m not your average mortal.”

“I’m twelve hundred and thirty-four years old.”

He whistled. “I’d hate to see what your birthday cake looks like. Probably see it blazing from space.”

“Do not poke fun at what you do not understand.”

“I understand that you Guardians have been ingesting oil from the Tree of Life to sustain your lives for all time.” He touched the faint white scar on his forehead. “I’ve seen the proof of the oil firsthand. Although you look like you’re in your mid-twenties, you fight like a grandmaster who has an unlimited number of black belts. You read ancient Latin word for word as if you’re skimming through the latest Robert Parker novel.” He paused. “And I’ve been dreaming of you since day one and yet, you’ve never changed since my earliest dreams. Although I’ve grown into a man of thirty-four years, you remain the same. Yes, Jessima, I believe I understand enough.”

She broke their connection and turned back to the books, scanning the titles with her finger. “You do not truly understand, Evan Knight. You couldn’t possibly.”

“Then help me understand.”

She shook her head and her long black hair flowed along her narrow and powerful back. “Someday, but not now. Now is not the time.”

He moved around her and leaned a shoulder against one of the overstuffed bookshelves, giving him a shot of her profile and of her narrow nose and full lips. Her heritage was unfathomable. She had dark hair with the streak of white that seemed more like a birthmark than a sign of age. Her skin was olive colored. There seemed to be the hint of an Asiatic fold to her eyelid, yet the irises were the bluest of the blue and she had the body of an Amazon warrior princess. She could have been any number of ethnicities. He concluded that trying to figure out her national origin was making his head hurt.

She looked over her shoulder. “Do you have any other questions?” she asked. If she was uncomfortable with him staring at her, she didn’t show it.

“Oh, I have one or two.”

“Then continue, Doctor.”

“Why do I keep dreaming of you, Jess? Why have you haunted my dreams ever since I could remember?”

“I do not know,” she said. He believed her, although he had hoped for more than that.

“Have you ever dreamed of me?” he asked. He couldn’t hide the hope from his voice.

She turned her head and looked at him closely, her blue eyes roving over the features of his face. Her eyes were wonderfully expressive. “No, Evan. I have never dreamed of you. I’m sorry.”

He exhaled. He had been unconsciously holding his breath. He had always hoped his dream woman was having the same dreams of him. It made sense to him and gave him balance. It suggested that someone out there had been searching for him as well. It was a romantic thought, but he realized how wrong he had been all of this time.

Still, though, she had sought him out.

“Do you know why I dream of the Garden of Eden? Why I dream of its beauty and why I see its destruction? Why I feel I should have done something, but I do not know what?”

“Now, that,” she said, “I may know. You are the Chosen One.”

“What does that mean?”

She stepped away from him lightly. Her strangely covered feet whispered over his polished floor. She continued to peruse the titles on his shelf and occasionally, slid one out to examine the cover, only to push it back in place stirring up the dust that had settled atop the books. She waved a hand through the swirling dust. “You ever read these dusty things?” she asked. He could sense the mirth in her voice. She was teasing him. He sensed teasing didn’t come very easy for her. At least, teasing a mortal male.

“Yes,” he said. “All of them.”

She whistled, her full lips forming a lush flower bud. “You must be pretty smart.” Her sarcasm was evident.

“Not as smart as someone who has spent the last twelve hundred years of her life reading every book imaginable, probably in their original languages, as well.”

“True,” she said, and continued over to his next bookshelf. “That person would be very smart indeed.”

“Then again,” he continued. “One could argue that there’s more to life than book learning. That life experience should account for a lot of one’s knowledge. Twelve hundred years of life experience is tough to beat.”