Trefoil (6 page)

“It’s nothing,” she said after the waiter had moved away. “He was looking at me so closely it embarrassed me.”

John’s full lips spread into a smile. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “He seems quite smitten.”

“And he’s what—nineteen?”

“Probably. But you don’t look anywhere near ninety.”

She rapped him smartly with her menu. “Thank you, but a gentleman never mentions a lady’s age.”

“Actually, you’re closer to his age than mine,” he said, staring at his fingernails. “You were frozen at twenty-two.”

“I like my men older,” she said, stretching across the candlelit table.

“How old?”

“Like centuries,” she said firmly, biting her lip.

And then the waiter appeared with a bottle of exquisite red wine, which he displayed for John’s approval. While their glasses were filled with the clear ruby liquid, John tapped the invisible keys of a piano.

Lillian felt the waiter’s eyes searching her face. John cleared his throat and the waiter moved away. Once they were alone, she placed her fingers over John’s.

“You haven’t played in too long.”

He tossed a glance across the restaurant to the parquet floor where two couples rotated in their tiny, modern circles. “And you haven’t danced in too long,” he said, offering her a hand. Just then, the quartet struck a familiar lively tune.

Lillian did an elaborate spin into John’s waiting arms. Excitement rushed through her veins. She’d forgotten the heady feeling that dancing gave her. How long had it been? Ten years? Twelve? Yet at one time, she and John had danced their way through every night.

The other couples abandoned their efforts and stood back to watch. As she and John utilized the entire dance floor, he grinned.

“It never ceases to amaze me, this,” he said. “You could be on Broadway.”

“What happens when people realize I don’t age?” she asked, doing some tricky, heel-toe tapping footwork.

He spun her out and watched her with gleaming eyes. A cheer rose from the restaurant.

“Besides,” Lillian said a little breathlessly, “it’s not my heart’s desire to perform onstage.”

He reeled her in and dipped her low, hovering over her with his lips inches away.

“What is your heart’s desire?” he asked and crushed his mouth against hers.

He tasted sweet and true—pure John. She forgot her uneasiness and reveled in his touch.

The music ended and they rose from their embrace to loud applause. The wine was kept flowing long into the night. As immortals, they enjoyed the delicious high of the wine and the loss of inhibitions without a trace of a hangover. And when John finally lifted her to her feet, the heat plummeted instantly between her thighs.

“What’s on tap for tomorrow?” she asked, her slurred voice unrecognizable to her own ears.

He gave her a dark look. “A secret. I told you that this portion of the journey will be to your liking. And I always keep my promises.” As she slipped into the coat he held for her, his knuckles brushed the sides of her breasts. She slumped against him, desire pulsing through her veins. But with it came the flicker of lightning bolt tattoos.

“Hurry, John,” she said, curling a hand about the back of his neck. “Find us a bed.”

Nathan collapsed into the seat of the new Ford F-150 rental truck.
What do I do? What? How do I get to her faster?

Lillian was speeding away from him, he was shaking like a crack addict needing a fix and the damned Visions wouldn’t offer him a look at her location, only her surroundings. He saw her against a pale car interior, fingering the long mahogany coil over one shoulder. He saw that she wore charcoal grey silk. He saw the point of her chin and the elegant column of her throat. The keyhole of sight had widened, but not enough. He couldn’t see a road sign or interstate number. He couldn’t see her eyes.

He jammed his fingers through his hair, the heat of that small glimpse surging through his body. It swelled within him, back-building like a fire out of control. The blood itch was unbearable and aggravating and beautiful.

His hand trembled on the keys in the ignition. The truck roared to life. Then he removed the iPod from his pocket and plugged it into the truck. Instantly, the heavy, pounding metal music drummed the windows. The vibration ricocheted up his arms like the shock of a hammer blow, and it calmed him.

Within minutes he was on the interstate, speeding toward Lillian. John LeClair could move her from place to place, but eventually Nathan would catch up. This idea brought another question to the fore. Did John LeClair know his woman had Called to another man and was purposefully running with her? If John LeClair was immortal, he would see the glow of The Calling upon her.

You can’t outrun The Calling, you bastard. When I find her, she will fall into my arms. Our blood is tied.

Nathan chanted this in his head in time to the beat. Soon the California coast was speeding darkly beside him. The scent of the sea was in his air, fresh and fecund. He had never been to California, but he didn’t miss it. He had eyes only for the braid and glowing skin of his Visions.

The low fuel sensor on the truck sounded and he cursed. He despised the smell of gasoline, and though he liked to drive modern vehicles, he did everything in his power to avoid filling the gas tank. Give him a barn full of horses and a pitchfork of hay to fuel them any day.

The truck bumped over the uneven pavement into the rest stop where Lillian had stopped before him. When he circled the truck to gas up, he caught it. Just there in the shadows—the flavor of their union.

Hold on, Halbrook, he thought, shock coiling inside him. This is gonna hurt like hell.

Debilitating dizziness washed over him, bringing with it drenching sweat. It beaded on his forehead and upper lip. He licked it off and tasted the salt. Sick, Nathan strode for the shadows, knowing if he caught them, he would be a murderer. There was no way to stop him from killing John LeClair.

When he reached the spot, no one was there. He felt the invisible outlines of the car they drove, and the window film did nothing to conceal the images of her locking John LeClair’s mouth beneath a hungry kiss or moving with him or gasping as he filled her.

“No!” roared Nathan, feet pounding back to his truck. The acid and bile taste of fury welled on his tongue. A berserk rage stole over him, numbing him from head to fingertips.

He struck the driver’s door. The metal crumpled beneath the hammer of his fist. As the first hit resounded through his body, he lost control. He smashed his fists into the truck again and again, the blows ringing in his ears as he pitted the metal, wishing it was John LeClair’s fucking face.

He imagined the bloodied destruction he could inflict on that face, but also he imagined shoving Lillian away and forever denying this connection she had wrought.

“Dammit, Lillian,” he screamed and then crashed into the ruined truck and moved it around the corner of the Quik-Mart. He cut the engine beside the dumpsters and stared at the sea of asphalt separating him from Lillian. He was seething, certain this was how murders were committed. They were committed by psychopath immortals who believed the mate they were bound to was inside a hotel room, binding herself to another immortal man.

Nathan shut his eyes to the slide show that threatened to start again. No more. Not tonight or ever. And with that—that denial of her—he broke. A hot sob rushed up his throat and he collapsed against the steering wheel, choking and gasping.

For many long and bleak hours he remained hunched over the steering wheel, battling the need for Lillian and his anger with her. When the first kiss of dawn touched his face, he knew without looking at the hotel that Lillian and John LeClair were gone.

He drew the cell phone from his coat pocket where it nestled against the mahogany hair he had removed from the café chair. He punched the number and said Dante’s name after the first ring. It wasn’t Dante, but Maria, his mate.

Her accented voice was not softened after centuries in America, but still held the notes of a long-dead language harking back to her Mayan heritage. “Dante’s gone out for the day.”

Nathan checked his watch and realized they were hours ahead of him on the east coast. He swore.

“You can talk to me, Nate,” she said in the gentle way that enabled him to picture her sweet face. “Dante told me about your immortal mate.”

Nathan crumpled once more, and a long moment passed before he could speak. “I think she’s imprinted with the man she’s traveling with, John LeClair.” The name was a burning ember on his tongue and he spat it out.

“Why do you believe this?”

“I saw them. In my mind,” he burst.

“Nathan. If you were able to see this, then you are still with her. She can’t bind herself to another immortal. When you find her at last, she will be yours.”

“How can you be sure?”

“There’s no way to stop The Calling. She cannot undo it. She cannot choose John LeClair.”

“How can I stand by, knowing she’s—she’s—sleeping with him? Giving her body to him.”

“Have you Called to her, Nate?” Maria asked.

He was puffing like a train and had to calm himself before replying. “Called to her?”

“Called her name? You know her name, don’t you?”

“It’s Lillian.”

“Talk to her from your soul, but speak her name. She’ll hear you.”

After a long silence, he said, “Maria. Thank you so much. I can never repay you for talking me down from this terrible ledge I’m on.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing back a fresh round of tears. They were not tears of rage, but a mixture of relief and gratitude for Maria’s friendship, and an unutterable tenderness at the thought of speaking to Lillian’s soul.

He slumped over the steering wheel, this time steeling himself for round two of this battle—or three. Who knew how many more he was in for? One thing was certain, though. The rental truck had lost the fight.

* * * * *

Nathan continued to drive down the coast in Lillian’s wake. His thoughts repeatedly returned to Maria’s advice to Call to her and use her name. He had used her name before—thought it and yelled it and even added blasphemies to it. Spoken from his soul? No, spoken in anger and frustration.

Use her name. Use her name.
If he spoke her name, he could speak with her, but was he ready for that? After all, the images invaded his head at every turn, which was bad enough. He didn’t think he was prepared to hear her voice. Or worse, her rejection.

Thinking of her tore a blindfold from his eyes. Her image swelled in his mind—driving, chewing her lip. As he watched through the tunnel of vision, she released her lower lip in that maddeningly slow fashion. A hot spring of desire bubbled in his core.

What Nathan was not prepared to see was the masculine forefinger sliding along the moisture on her lower lip.

Black spots of rage burst behind his eyes. His boot crushed the brake and the truck jerked to a stop in a fishtailing spray of gravel. He fell out the door and onto the road, stumbled to his feet and did the only thing he could think of doing. He sank his fists into the thick metal door. His knuckles were already bruised and sore, but he couldn’t stop. They made a satisfying explosion, yet did nothing to alleviate his rage. His breath sobbed in his lungs.

He’d made the wrong decision last night. He should have forced his way into Lillian and John LeClair’s hotel room, ripped him off her and pummeled his face rather than the truck. He should have annihilated him. What had stopped him?

The answer came to him swiftly. It was the idea of Lillian rising from John LeClair’s bed, damp with the sweat of their lovemaking. He would not have that be their first meeting—a disheveled bed between them, a sheet wrapped hastily about her nakedness and her eyes wide with horror as Nathan beat up her lover.

He shoved the image away.

Cars sped by, and as Nathan destroyed the rental truck’s door, they began to slow. A horn blared and the jeering voice of a driver cut through his frenzy.

With one final slam of his knuckles, he leaned his head against the cool window glass. His hands ached like hell, but it was nothing compared to the throb in his chest. He touched the inside pocket of his leather jacket. The coiled mahogany hair lived there—a talisman of his link to Lillian.

What had Maria said? When you find her at last, she will be yours. He embraced this thought. She has Called to you. She has wept for you. She is having Visions of the feather mattress. You’ll find her, he thought.

Straightening away from the truck, he swiped the perspiration from his forehead and climbed back inside.

With his music cranked, he felt a little lighter. As he drove, he tried not to 'see' and finally began to enjoy his surroundings. He hadn’t traveled in many years. The beauty of his farm sustained him. But the coast was gorgeous in an untamed way, and everything stimulated his senses. The ruffled feathers of a seabird and great, twisting trunks of olive trees inspiring him to carve.

His hands twitched to hold the pitching tools, to knock off huge chunks of stone. He could nearly taste the stone, the rock dust slightly burnt and bitter. He loved the grit of it in his teeth and occasionally slipped a sliver onto his tongue, holding it there while he carved. He was hungry for it now.

For him, the music always went hand in hand with the work. From a pile of rubble at the quarry where he selected his granite, he had plucked a small stone, and the Louis Armstrong song,
La Vie en Rose,
had wheeled through his mind. He’d never worked on such a small scale, but in that instant he had seen a graceful rose, petals unfurling to the morning sun. He had spent more time on those intricate petals than on some larger pieces of his career. All the while, the dulcet tones of Louis spun a web in his brain.

When he finished, the delicate creation was no bigger than the palm of a woman’s hand. Then Nathan had shipped it off to a gallery where it depressed him to think someone would buy it for a paperweight.

By mid-afternoon, he decided to stop and rest. He felt horribly brittle, as if the slightest upset would shatter him into a thousand shards of non-being. It had been ages since he felt a pillow under his head or a hot shower, and he hoped these creature comforts would toughen his shell.

And he planned to do an internet search for John LeClair.

He made a wide turn onto a long country lane leading toward a bed and breakfast. The dust was a plume behind the tires and miles of grape vines spread in every direction. The sun was a ripe orb low on the horizon, stretching its glow upon the crop like fingers resting on the heads of her children. Nathan hadn’t seen such beauty since nineteenth century Italy, where he had studied sculpture.

When he reached his rented room and drew back the draperies to the unfettered view of the vineyard, his cell phone rang. He fished in his pocket for it, and his finger brushed the hair, sending a shock through him.

Still reeling from this, he brought the phone to his ear and heard Dante’s rich voice.

“Hi, Dante. Thanks for calling me back.”

“I received a call from Maria, and she was quite distraught for you. How is that hole in your chest, Nate?”

Nathan’s fingers lifted to his chest, probing at the ragged edges only he could feel. A hole that had been punched through him when she’d Called to him. A hole only another who had been through it would understand, as only an immortal could detect another immortal’s glow. “How did you know?”

Dante chuckled in his melodious way. “It has not been so long that I’ve forgotten my own hole. Maria Called to me, punching a hole that only she could fill. I know the Visions are driving you wild.”

Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Seeing the lovemaking worsens the shaking.”

“I know. The lovemaking starts the bond. Starts it and finishes it. You must share your bodies and blood willingly.”

The image in Nathan’s head was so erotic that for a moment, he couldn’t speak.

“Keep searching, Nathan. No matter what obstacles John LeClair throws in your path, you must find Lillian. If you don’t, you’ll be destined to Walk the earth as Ricardo does.”

Nathan shivered. The immortal who lived as Dante and Maria’s companion was a shell of himself. After following his own Calling to Asia, he attempted to bind himself to his mate, and she had died because their blood wasn’t compatible.

The flayed hole in Ricardo’s chest was visible to any immortal, glowing with every beat of his heart. To mortal eyes, he appeared to be a downtrodden human. To immortals, he looked like he’d been ravaged by war, had taken a hit from a grenade and wore his sucking chest wound as proof. It was a chance immortals took, and there was no recourse. They had to follow The Calling.