Chapter 4
“How did you find me?” The blacksmith’s
gaze roved her face. Firelight cast a flickering band across his
features, but Layla could make out slightly tilted black eyes,
tensed with strong emotion. Her heart stumbled in reaction; the
intensity of his gaze was painfully familiar and cut straight to
her core. A sudden fierce burn rushed along her nerves, so when he
shifted to stroke her hair, her shock allowed the
intimacy.
“I don’t know what you’re talking
about. I didn’t mean to—” She was shaking with confusion. The
attack on the street must have been worse than she’d thought,
because the rattling gate, the strange blacksmith, the impenetrable
dark . . . She was used to her visions, fighting them,
compartmentalizing the real world from the aberrations she saw from
time to time. This was different.
“Kathleen. Tell me you remember.” His
voice was husky.
She felt his fingers lightly stroke the
side of her cheek. Where he touched, sensation spread, sensuous and
enticing. Her blood sang as heat flooded her, humming through her
system in a gorgeous awakening of want and need. This was too much,
way too much, so she turned her head away.
The gate behind her breathed against
her body, a living thing. Throw me wide. The
voice hurt her head. I was made for you.
This wasn’t right; gates did not speak, did not simmer with life.
She understood that now and gritted her teeth against the
compulsion to obey.
“Be at ease, Kathleen,” the man said.
“You’ve nothing to fear. I’ll take care of
everything.”
She gave a tight shake of her head.
This, at least, she knew, and it was a start at getting things
straight. “I’m not Kathleen. You must have me mistaken for someone
else.”
And she could take care of herself; she
had since she was a kid. She found her spine and slapped his hand
away from her face to prove it. What had gotten into her? She
didn’t know this man, and he certainly didn’t know her. Why did his
open arms seem like a haven of safety and comfort?
“I am not mistaken.” His lips curved
into a slight smile. A smile. Here. In this black hole, with this .
. . this thing burning at her
back.
The man was out of his mind, and so was
she to respond. She had to be very clear. “Get the hell away from
me.”
The smile grew fierce. “Same
spirit.”
Drugs. It had to be. Something in the
air was causing her to hallucinate. That’s why she felt this way.
She needed to get out of this smoke, breathe clean, industrial smog
and rancid river, and then maybe her head would clear. She peered
into the darkness beyond him. The exit, she hoped, was that
way.
kat-a-kat: You’ll be
alone forever. Throw me wide.
“No!” Though she didn’t know whom she
answered. If she could just get out. Find her car. Then
maybe—
“Shhh. Be still.” The man raised his
hand again, but hesitated, holding it in the air over her heart. Or
maybe he wanted to cop a feel. What was it with men
today?
She gripped her flashlight, but found
she held the iron flower instead. Fat lot of good that would do her
unless she could knock him out with it, then . . .
. . . then throw me
wide.
Yes, then open the gate
wide.
A sudden bright light caught her
attention, a door opening in the dark. So white-bright it made her
eyes tear. What now?
“Damn fool angel,” the blacksmith
growled under his breath.
Angel? He was absolutely, unequivocally
stark raving—
Layla didn’t have time to dodge the
swift caress of his fingers to her forehead. “Sleep,” he
commanded.
Even as her mind sparked with anger
against his touch, her legs gave in a watery whoosh and she fell
into darkness.
Shadowman caught Kathleen’s fluid drop
and lifted her against his chest. Elation had him humming,
trembling with excitement. He had to check himself so he wouldn’t
crush her body.
“That her?” Custo asked as he
approached. His gaze quickly flicked to the gate, hardened, then
returned to Shadowman.
“Yes,” Death breathed.
Custo’s doubt and impatience infused
the crowded Shadows. “Then why is she mortal? And why is she out
cold?”
“I cast her into sleep so the gate
wouldn’t plague her while I dealt with you. And she wasn’t in Hell
after all.” Shadowman drew deep to inhale her scent; under the
cloying perfumes of modernity was tangy, feminine sweat, turned
slightly with fear. “She came to me.”
Custo’s doubt redoubled and his brow
lifted. “If you build it, she will come?”
Shadowman frowned. The boy was laughing
at him.
“Talia is twenty-eight.” Custo jutted
his chin toward Kathleen. “Shouldn’t she be in her
fifties?”
The woman in his arms was indeed young,
fresh, new to the world. “She was reborn.”
“Reincarnated? That’s very rare. Damn
near unheard of. Are you certain it’s her?”
Shadowman did not deign to answer a
second time. As if he wouldn’t recognize the woman who’d changed
everything for him. Kathleen.
“Okay, it’s her. Bully for you.”
Custo’s gaze moved to the gate. “So that thing wasn’t necessary
after all?”
“The gate drew her, did it
not?”
“Next time make a compass. Leave Hell
and its devils alone, please.”
A sear on his senses told Shadowman
there were more of Custo’s kind massing outside the warehouse. The
jumble of heartbeats confirmed it. They had come for the gate, but
somehow he knew they’d refuse him Kathleen as well. They could not
have her. He’d fight them if they tried to take her.
“They’re coming,” Custo said. “You’d
better get her out of here.”
“The gate?”
“We’ll take care of it. No way it’s
staying here, vulnerable.” His gaze dropped to Kathleen. “And I
think your attention is going to be elsewhere.”
The boy was ever naive. To transfer the
keeping of something so drenched in power could never be that easy;
such creations were bound to their maker. The gate would have to be
unmade, which was a great deal more
difficult than merely dismantling the metal.
But the angel would have to learn that
the hard way. Shadowman would take his reprieve to be with
Kathleen. To help her remember. She had to remember.
Shadowman reached into the darkness,
parting the veil. “The hammer is on the anvil.”
He watched as Custo strode over and
gripped the hateful tool.
Now only the devil remained, but
Shadowman could deal with it on his own. The devil would wreak
havoc with any it encountered, and so needed to be put down
immediately. Otherwise, Kathleen would blame herself for the lives
it took.
But Custo need not know about that
either. Knowledge of the devil would prolong the angels’
stay.
Death stepped into darkness, his woman
clutched at his chest.
“Wait,” Custo called.
Shadowman paused but didn’t
turn.
“Where can I find you?”
As if he would ever let that happen
before he was ready. “I’ll be in Shadow.”
How to begin? How to help her
remember?
Shadowman laid Kathleen on the soft
earth under the glittering boughs of the dark trees. Fae voices
murmured on the rise and gust of the wind.
This incarnation of Kathleen would have
her own idea of Death, created by this life’s experiences, fears,
hopes for her future. Of all that, he knew nothing, and so could
not chance revealing himself.
At least in Twilight, Shadow sustained
him. His form would be easier to hold. He filled his essence with
the dark stuff. He’d need every bit until she remembered him and
what they were to each other. Please.
Her sickroom? Kathleen had loathed
it.
Then where? What could possibly reach
her? He’d have to work quickly. Too long in Shadow and a mortal
would go mad.
He cast his gaze down. Kathleen’s head
was tilted to the side, her lips were slightly parted, and her
eyelids fluttered as she dreamed. The wavy swath of her hair
gleamed gold in Twilight. Her hips were turned, narrowing her waist
and accentuating the swell of her breasts. She was Sleeping Beauty
all over again.
And then he knew. Kathleen’s fantasy
when she was a girl. He’d start there, where he’d been her
hero.
Layla woke in fairyland. She raised a
hand to her groggy head but stopped short when she saw the princess
sleeve with pointed cuff of the—her gaze examined the rest of her
attire—gaudy yellow princess dress she wore. There was a slight
weight on the crown of her head, and she knew, given the atrocity
of her getup, that it had to be a tiara. Or, hell, worse—one of
those satin cones they sold at the Renaissance Fair, ribbons coming
out of the tip.
Obviously she was asleep and in the
middle of a nightmare.
Fact of the matter was she’d been
working too hard. The signs had been there for a while. The events
of the last few days only confirmed it. Her recent breakup hadn’t
helped either. If she didn’t let up soon, she was going to have a
nervous breakdown. Considering all the things she’d been seeing
lately, maybe this was it.
She struggled against the billows of
fabric to stand on two feet. She didn’t know, but could guess, that
she was wearing some sort of slippers completely unsuited to a dark
and dense forest. Her waist was cinched tight with a wide ribbon,
the bow blooming from her backside.
Maybe when she was three she’d have
enjoyed a dress like this, all princess and fairy tales. But not
for long. Weak damsels in distress that lay around waiting to be
saved made her want to scream. She hated feeling weak.
Helpless.
“Okay, Layla, wake up,” she said aloud
to herself.
She scanned the area but saw only
crowding trees and darkness. The trees were weirdly familiar, as if
she’d seen them all her life, but couldn’t place where. Among them,
like an ashen vampire, tall, narrow, and wrapped in a cloak, was
the blacksmith from the warehouse. At least, the tortured gaze was
the same, resting heavy and soulful on her. Shadows still concealed
the rest, but somehow she could guess that his body would be
dreamworthy. All that physical labor at the fire, pounding metal
day in, day out. Yes, very nice.
She ached with a beat of need, as if
part of her were already leaning toward him, but she held herself
back. She didn’t have that easy, warm-comfy feeling of bed. She
couldn’t recall making it home from the warehouse, much less
outside the building to her car. The dream, like the dress, felt
like a trap. She’d learned a long time ago to trust her
instincts.
“Wakey, wakey,” she sang, eyeing the
blacksmith while denying the coil winding tight in her
pelvis.
“You don’t remember.” The man sounded
like he was in pain.
No, so tell me.
“Remember what?”
“Anything. Your life as
Kathleen.”
Kathleen again. This was a nightmare. “For the last time, I’m not Kathleen.
I’m Layla Mathews. Lay-la.” She exaggerated
that last bit with her mouth. How could she want a man who didn’t
even know her name?
“Lay-la.” His rough, wounded delivery
made her wonder about this Kathleen chick. The woman had obviously
broken his heart.
“Listen—”
“No.” He swiped the air with his hand.
“I was mistaken. This is not the way to reach you.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Layla
sighed relief.
“We will just have to begin again,” he
said, and darkness inundated her vision.
Shadowman patted Layla’s cheek to wake
her. Layla, not Kathleen. Layla. The name
was made of tip-of-the-tongue sounds, rather than the throat pull
of his beloved. So different. How could she be
different?
He closed his eyes and drew what
strength he could from the earthbound shadows. The gate had cost
him much. Reforming his body had cost him more. Holding it for any
length of time would be very, very difficult.
“Come now,” he said. “Wake.” He’d
crouched near Layla’s fallen form and gently lifted her shirt to
bare her skin and the white undergarment that snugged her breasts,
though he knew doing so would embarrass her later. He should have
sent the human vermin who’d attacked her deep into the river and
let the ghosts within the flows grasp at the rapists’ limbs until
the men drowned. Too bad it wasn’t their time.
Layla turned her head in the alley
dirt.
“You’re all right,” he said to counter
the confusion billowing out of her. The woman had a strong mind and
a stronger will. He could not blot out the memory of the hellgate
or Kathleen’s fairy tale, however brief, but he could make her
doubt they had ever really happened. They would seem like dreams to
her. Would she succumb to this adjustment in her
reality?
“Mother of—” she groaned, her lids
lifting as her face contracted in a wince.
“They’re gone now,” he said. Long
gone.
She laboriously shifted up onto an
elbow, then must have perceived her partial nakedness, because she
scuttled back toward the concrete wall pulling her shirt down.
Expression tight with shame and anger, she said, “Who are
you?”
Simple question, yet he had no answer
to give. Kathleen’s “Shadowman” would sound absurd to Layla’s ear.
Instead, he asked, “Can you stand? My place is just there.” He
lifted a hand toward the warehouse. “You would be comfortable, and
we could call”—this was a gamble, for he had no modern contrivances
to make good on the offer—“for aid.”
She lifted herself along the wall to
standing and held up the palm of a scraped hand. “Just stay
back.”
“I will not harm you.” He allowed her a
very small distance between them. “We can summon the”—what did they
call them in this age?—“police.”
“Police.” She nodded agreement, visibly
swallowing. “Police would be good. Those guys can’t have gone
far.”
He gestured to the
building.
“Right.” Layla lurched into a walk,
glancing once furtively over her shoulder and murmuring, “Had the
weirdest nightmares.”
“You hit your head.” He felt her
internal denial, then a surge of determination as she attempted to
collect her confused impressions into some other order. The gate,
her moments in Kathleen’s fairy-tale fantasy—yes, with a spark of
desire that made him fight a grin. Then her frustration. The only
reasonable answer was the one he was giving her, and Layla, he’d
discovered, preferred reason whereas Kathleen lived for
dreams.
She stopped at the door, gaze dropped
on the knob. What had been broken, he’d used Shadow to make whole
again, though only in appearance. He had no lasting hold in the
mortal world. Now he was using everything he had to hold his
body.
She stepped back, shaking her head.
Disquiet and confusion infused the air. “I don’t want to go in
there.”
Of course she didn’t. The last time she
had, she’d faced a gate to Hell. Touched it and released something
evil. But the gate was gone, now in the angels’
keeping.
“You need to sit down,” he said,
reaching around her and twisting the knob. He pushed the door open
to let her view the changed interior.
She startled, swayed, and grabbed for
the door frame. He would never let her fall.
“You had better go
inside.”
Still she hesitated. This was the
moment she would have to decide what was real and what was false.
Would she hold to the memory of the bare, dirty space and the
hellish gate, or would she take this more reasonable illusion, made
from a glossy image in a moldered magazine scrap: “Bachelor Pad
Goes Old World.”
“Who did you say you
were?”
“I’m an artist,” he answered. That’s
what Kathleen had been.
“I meant your name.”
He had none to give but Shadowman and
variations of Death, neither acceptable. He needed something else,
and fortunately he had a great catalogue from which to choose—the
names of the souls he’d taken into his keeping, however briefly, as
they crossed from the mortal world, through faery Twilight, to the
Hereafter. One stood out: a fighter, a leader, a gambler, and
cunning enough to challenge Death.
“Khan.”
Layla snorted. “As in
Genghis?”
Yes. But instead
he lied. The fae were excellent deceivers. “It is common enough
where I come from.”
And so he became Khan, artist. It was
much better than the alternative, Death. If he could not control
his Shadows, that’s exactly who he would be.
Layla stepped over the threshold,
looking around to take in the trappings of his residence. He had to
admit, the style, drenched in the memory of the old world, suited
him. The furniture was framed in thick, scrolled wood. The fabrics
were rich with deep color: burgundy, royal blues, and burnt golds.
A large medieval tapestry hung on the wall, its roaring lions and
crest faded with time. Candlesticks littered a nearby table, upon
which a map was unfurled, the unknown expanses of sea and land
marked by monsters. Holding the corners down were a stack of books
and the sculpted head of Buddha, the “awakened one.”
Layla wrapped her arms around herself.
“How can you live here? Eventually someone’s going to rob you.
Aren’t you afraid you’ll be murdered in your sleep?”
Khan smiled. “I am in no danger. For
the most part”—you being the exception—“I’ve
been left alone. May I ask why you ventured into such a dangerous
area?”
“Insanity.” She fidgeted in place,
worrying the frayed neckline of her shirt. “You didn’t happen to
see my coat or bag outside, did you?”
He had, and he’d put them aside.
“No.”
“Well, can I use your phone?” She
looked around again, as if searching for it.
She’d chosen reality, and now he had to
produce it. Khan reached for Shadow and mentally exhaled, and the
object materialized in his palm. He lifted the phone, as if from a
pocket, and held it out, saying, “Really, why are you here?” He
needed her to acknowledge some small part of their connection, the
pull that had drawn her to him.
She took the phone, concentrating on
its face. “Wraiths. I’m doing a story on them.”
“I don’t understand.” The gate hadn’t
called her?
“I’m a journalist. I got a lead that
the source of the wraiths might be here, so I decided to check it
out.” She hit the buttons with growing frustration. “How do you
power this thing on?”
Wraiths. The cursed empty husks of
used-to-be people. They plagued his daughter and her family but
would not venture near Death. They’d given their souls for
immortality, but he could still cast them out of the world. This
warehouse was likely the safest structure on Earth from
wraiths.
“I think it’s dead,” she concluded. Of
course it was; the phone was a good facsimile, but he could not
simulate the energy it required, nor the signals she needed it to
send. “Do you have a landline?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.” If indeed she
came for information on the wraiths, another great power had to
have directed her his way. Because he could not believe, not for a
moment, that she was here by chance. Not his Kathleen.
“Well, is there a pay phone nearby?
Without my keys, I’ll need to call a locksmith or tow truck for my
car.”
“What car?” The source that had brought
her here had to be a formidable power, the same that had cut her
lifeline, even as she was delivered, once again, to him.
Moira.
Layla half turned toward the door.
“It’s just up the block.”
He gave a little shake of his head. The
vehicle was there, but his Shadow concealed it.
“Oh no,” she said, whirling to the door
and out to the sidewalk, staring down its length. Her hands went
into her hair, disbelief and anger radiating out of her. “Stole my
piece-of-crap car. My camera was in there. Damn it!”
Fate was meddling in Kathleen’s life
again. And thus their story would begin anew: Kathleen, no,
Layla, on the brink of death, and he,
powerless to stop it. But this time, Layla had no idea who or what
he was.
“I think I can help,” Khan said. This
Layla was a resourceful woman. Sooner or later, she would find a
way out of her predicament. Probably sooner.
“Not if you don’t have a phone, you
can’t.” Her smile was at odds with the irritation that sparked
around her.
“I meant the wraiths,” he clarified. If
information would hold her here, so be it. “I know who made them,
and why.”
Layla took a few steps back inside the
warehouse. “Excuse me?”
Her gut told her that Khan was just
saying what he thought she wanted to hear. He’d have to offer
something solid before she’d believe a word he said. Something was
off about him, about the room, about her memory. She didn’t always
trust her senses, which occasionally produced some odd spectacles,
especially lately, but her instincts were usually
dead-on.
Khan stripped off his slim-fitting
black leather jacket and tossed it across a fat chair. The
long-sleeve gray shirt beneath was molded to his body, while the
cut of his slacks skimmed over his admirable physique. His build
was long and tall, thickening just enough for bulk and tone. His
features were foreign, almost Asian, uncanny eyes glinting, but
with Western dimensions and sculpting. And in this light, his skin
had the faint teak of some other nationality.
Again she was aggravated by a sense of
displaced familiarity. He was beyond hot—he was lust-cious—so if
she’d seen this man before, she was sure she’d remember him. She’d
sure remember the curl of want in her belly and the finger tingles
that urged her to stroke his ridiculously long hair. He wasn’t even
her type.
“You don’t believe me?” He raised a
brow. The tilt of his head sent that black hair sliding over his
shoulder, and she had to admit it suited him. Some women might like
it. Some men, probably, too.
She shrugged. “I’m
listening.”
He hesitated, as if choosing his words
carefully. “I can’t tell you much, as most of what occurred must
remain secret, but I will say that the spread of the wraiths halted
two years ago because Talia Kathleen Thorne killed their
maker.”
Layla’s mind briefly flashed blank in
shock, then worked furiously to assimilate and judge his statement.
The wraith spread did seem to halt about two years ago. But the
rest? Talia had killed someone? Could it be true? Was that the
reason Adam Thorne kept her hidden from the public?
“You know Talia Thorne?”
“Certainly.” He smiled a bit. Drew out
the moment as if to prick her interest.
“How?” Her interest was pricked
already.
“I’m her father.”
Rose Petty dug her nails into a rotting
wood post, slipped on the slimy wet mud, and buried splinters in
her hands and bare feet as she climbed from the river. She crawled
onto a ratty dock on her elbows, her hands too bloody to hold her
weight, and collapsed into a fetal position. Her naked body
quivered in the chilly air and her teeth chattered kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat.
Stupid, stupid. She never should have
made for the river. The burn of her reformation had been
excruciating, but no water could possibly douse it. She’d only
drown herself and die forever. That’s what
you risked when you came back. Soul dead. Even Hell was better, not
that she’d ever belonged there. If she’d screamed it once, she’d
screamed it a thousand times: There’d been a mistake. She had to do
those things. It was self-defense. She didn’t belong in
Hell.
Never mind. She was out now. No rivers.
Lesson learned.
Her new body shook with the
cold—kat-a-kat-a-kat-a-kat. Her muscles
cramped in contraction. Gooseflesh swept viciously across her
skin.
Warm. She had to get warm.
Trembling, she pulled her feet beneath
her, pushed herself up a bit by her wrists, and careened to
standing.
Docks. An empty gray expanse lay before
her, dotted with orange and blue cargo containers piled up among
rotting pallets, decaying in the cold, wet air.
She needed clothes. Shelter.
Food.
She wiped her running nose on the back
of her damp arm and stumbled forward. Across the lot she could make
out a door. An office.
Okay, knock on that
door, get help. Get warm, she told herself.
Sheeeiiiiit, nice
little piece of ass.
Rose turned, belly clutching, and put
an arm across her breasts and a shaking hand splayed at her crotch
as she looked for the voice. Saw no one.
Pretty titties, too.
Gots to get me some o’that.
What the—? She stopped herself before
she swore; a lady didn’t swear, no matter how pressed. But this was
too strange: The voice was in her head, though not hers. Like maybe
her mind got wired wrong when her body reformed itself. Or maybe
she just came back different.
Her gaze flicked from glinting window
to dull doorway, but she found the source sitting in a car,
lighting up a cigarette. A paunchy old man, skin going yellow.
Tsk. Tsk. Probably too much drink. Had to be
him, what with the way his beady eyes stared at her. Maybe this
mind-reading trick was okay. Might just be useful. It revealed what
she already knew. That he was no gentleman. He was sick and low to
think of her like that.
Girl’s got all the
right parts.
How dare he? Anger ran hot through her
veins, warming her just enough to loosen her stride. A woman drags
herself naked and bleeding out of the river and the man can’t get
off his lazy behind to help? Maybe lend his coat? She could get
sick and die (forever).
His clothes would do. He certainly
didn’t deserve them. The car meant shelter and transportation, too.
Get her out of this awful place. She limped toward him, dropped her
covering arm and hand when she got near the car so he could get one
last good look.
Gonna get lucky, lucky,
lucky.
The man mopped his reddening face.
Licked his lips. Rolled down the window.
Come to
papa.
It was self-defense all over again. He
screamed a little, which was only human. Even with all the dark
acts she’d seen in the fires Beyond, she really couldn’t blame
him.