Heaven and Earth
Page 71
“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.
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.
