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"This collection started with 'Wise Men,'" says O'Mary. "It was a story from my childhood about a poor kid from my old neighborhood and the lesson I learned when we were both cast as wise men in the school play." That story was published in newspapers across the nation and broadcast on National Public Radio's "Morning Edition" program, and so began a tradition of holiday essays from Mike O'Mary.
Over the years, the essays in this collection were read as part of "Morning Edition" on Northern Illinois Public Radio, and published in the Sunday magazines of the Chicago Tribune, Denver Post, Rocky Mountain News, Baltimore Sun, Cleveland Plain Dealer, Detroit Free Press and elsewhere. Along the way, O'Mary developed a cult following for his holiday stories.
Mike O'Mary is author of two books:
"Wise Men and Other Stories: Lessons from the Holidays on Santa, God, Heaven, Death and Other Fun Stuff from Someone Who Still Has a Lot to Learn," a collection of holiday-related essays, and
"The Note," a book about the power of appreciation that was named Best Gift Book of 2011 in the Living Now Book Awards.
Mike is also series editor for Dream of Things anthologies, including "Be There Now," an anthology of travel stories from around the world, and "Saying Goodbye," a collection of true stories about how we say goodbye to the people, places, and things in our lives.
In his career, Mike has written essays, fiction, drama and sketch comedy. He has published stories and essays in the Sunday magazines of the Chicago Tribune, Denver Post, Rocky Mountain News, Baltimore Sun, Cleveland Plain Dealer and Detroit Free Press. He has also written and produced sketch comedy in Chicago, and he was a commentator on WNIJ - Northern Illinois Public Radio, doing weekly commentaries as part of the local segment of National Public Radio's "Morning Edition" program.
Mike is a graduate of Knox College (BA in Economics and English-Writing), the University of Montana (MFA in Creative Writing, MA in English Literature), and the Second City Comedy Writing Program.Wise Men and Other Stories
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The Gilded Mirror: Corfe Castle (Volume 1)
by Jocelyn Murray
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The Grimm Chronicles, Vol. 1
by Isabella Fontaine, Ken Brosky
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The Alpha Choice (The Te’an Trilogy)
by M.D. Hall
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The Ginge Club (Tales of Dimchurch Spire 1)
by George Collingwood
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Succubus Lost – Novella 1 of The Unholy Trinity
by Daniel Gage
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Paula Liebe is a successful Dutch businesswoman who escapes her boring corporate career and boldly moves to the Mexican Riviera Maya to study the Mayan prophesies, become a yoga teacher and start a spiritual center. Paula also escapes the pain from her childhood abuse in continued battles with her addictions.
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A man she’d die for, a world she was born to defend… Only one can survive.
Dark Souls, Book 3
For twenty-five years, Adrian has mourned the loss of his soul mate, Angie. He’s content to live as an outcast…until a series of abductions forces him out of seclusion and into the arms of the very woman he loved and lost. Angie’s reincarnation, Emma.
Emma is on the run, hunted by soulless creatures whose one goal is to possess her soul. They have taken everything: her home, her identity, her mother. Left with no other choice, she must trust her fate to Adrian, the enigmatic stranger who comes to her rescue. An immortal being whose illicit touch makes her blood burn and awakens an inexplicable desire in her heart.
Emma follows Adrian to his isolated community in Arizona, where she is assailed by visions of a past life. As passion ignites and her enemies close in, Emma is drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems and where love could prove the greatest weakness of all.
Warning: Contains a dark, tortured hero, a hunted woman who can’t remember loving him, a nasty villain hell-bent on destroying the world, and a timeless love story you won’t soon forget.
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Chapter One
Emma wasn’t going to die tonight, or any other night, if she could help it. She’d spent her entire life expecting this moment, dreading it. The moment her destiny would finally catch up to her.
Someone shattered the living room window with a bare fist.
“Run, Emma!” Her mother hastened to the small desk by the door and retrieved one of the weapons she’d hidden throughout the apartment, a butcher knife carefully coated with blood. “I’ll handle this.”
“No, I’m not leaving you.”
The man-beast squeezed through the window, followed closely by two others.
To the untrained eye, they looked human, but Emma recognized the darkness within them, knew at a glance what they truly were. There was no humanity in them, no light. They were an empty imitation of life, ruled only by greed and the sick need to consume the one thing they lacked—a soul.
And at the moment, the soul they craved was Emma’s.
Her mom firmly planted herself between Emma and the intruders. “You have to go.”
One of the creatures closed in on them, and her mom swung her blade at him, cutting him across the middle. With an agonized howl, he fell to his knees. The other two stopped their dogged advance, their eyes rounding with shock.
“She’s armed.”
Emma wasn’t sure which of the creatures had spoken, and she didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was the hint of hesitation she caught behind the words.
Her mom lifted the butcher knife, swept down and rammed the blade in the kneeling man’s chest. Black smoke instantly spilled from his body, and the heavy scent of candle wax rose to saturate the air. The remaining two intruders stood momentarily frozen by the broken window. Using their distraction against them, her mom lunged forward and ran them both through with efficient, violent thrusts.
At seventy-one, Christina Russo was still a force to be reckoned with. Something had happened to harden her, something that had turned a pampered housewife into the fierce warrior who now stood between Emma and those determined to possess her.
Christina aimed a worried glance out the window. “You need to leave. More are coming.”
Reluctantly, Emma edged toward the door. They’d gone over the escape plan so many times, it should’ve been second nature by now. Grab the backpack in the closet—which was filled with stacks of money, fake IDs, a switchblade and several vials of lethal blood—and run for your life.
Simple, right? Wrong.
“Come with me.” Even as she said the words, Emma knew her mother would put up a fight.
Christina shook her head. “No time. I’ll distract them, give you a head start.”
Emma’s heart died a small death at the thought of leaving her mother at the mercy of these creatures. Maybe if she sprinted, she could make it to the bedroom where they kept the gun… She hesitated, then took a step in the opposite direction from the exit.
Her mother gave a sharp shake of her head. “Don’t even think about it.”
Tears rose in Emma’s throat, as thick and bitter as bile. “I can’t just leave you here.”
“You don’t have a choice. You have to survive. You’re the world’s only hope.”
As her mother had predicted, more creatures began pouring in through the narrow window, blocking access to the bedroom. Her mom’s gaze briefly connected with Emma’s, full of quiet despair. Time had run out. “Hurry. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”
No chance of getting to the gun now. Emma had no choice. She had to flee. If she didn’t, all would be lost.
“Do it,” her mom urged. “Go, now. If I get out of this alive, I’ll find you. I swear it.”
The creatures attacked, and her mother grew silent, too busy fighting them off. Emma retrieved the backpack and made a run for the door. Laboring to breathe past the knot clogging her windpipe, she fled the small, rundown apartment.
All that kept her legs moving was the hope that she’d see her mother again soon, that she wouldn’t perish in that rat hole. She clung to that thought as she sprinted out the back door into a darkened alley, her feet striking the blacktop, the heavy backpack digging into her shoulders, weighing her down. A sob expanded in her chest, but she tamped it down. She wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t admit defeat. Not yet, when the frail wings of hope still beat within her.
When fate took everything from you, hope was all you had left.
Adrian circled the perimeter of his new townhouse development, ensuring no one stalked the darkened streets or lurked in the concealing woods surrounding his place. Ever since the Watchers had raided his location in Spokane a year and a half ago, he’d lived with the constant fear that Cal and his troops would invade his community again. He wasn’t sure if his tenuous truce with Cal was still in effect, especially after Adrian had killed a Watcher in self-defense.
That was the problem with peace. The damn thing never lasted.
One by one, he inspected the homes he’d had built with the money he’d earned from the sale of his previous development. Only a fraction of the townhouses were inhabited at the moment. He’d lost too many members of his community in the attack, knew it was time to start recruiting again.
But he kept putting it off. It was Angie who’d convinced him to create this place, Angie who’d insisted he had the power to make a difference and change lives. Now that she was gone, there was nothing left to drive him anymore. Nothing left to inspire him and compel him to be the man she’d fallen in love with.
So he’d become a recluse, hiding away in a remote corner of Arizona, where clear blue skies met lush meadows and the distant peaks of snow-capped mountains. The days were hot, the nights cool and best of all, it rarely rained.
He’d bought the forty-two acre ranch eighteen months ago and transformed it into a mirror image of his townhouse development in Spokane, but as ideal as this new location was, the place still didn’t feel like home. The house he now occupied was just an empty structure, void of warmth or memories, as soulless as he was.
In Spokane, he had only to look toward one of the numerous windows that spanned the outer walls of his home and he’d see Angie standing in a pool of light, gazing outside. He had only to walk into the living room, and he’d picture her curled on the couch she’d handpicked herself, a blanket wrapped around her thin shoulders. At night, he had only to stretch out in his empty bed, and he’d feel her beside him.
Now, even the comfort of those distant memories had been taken from him.
That old familiar clutch of grief gripped his abdomen again. He would’ve expected the pain to dull by now, but it was as sharp and fresh as ever. Not that he would have it any other way. He cherished his pain like a dear friend. It kept the loneliness from consuming him.
The rev of a motor drew Adrian’s attention to the townhouse across the street, where a car was pulling into the driveway. Eddie stepped out of the unmarked police cruiser, dressed in a pair of jeans and a plaid shirt, his badge still clipped to his belt.
Adrian crossed the gravel road, narrowing the distance between them. “Working late again?”
Eddie had been a homicide detective in Spokane. Now he was chief of police in Flagstaff. “I prefer to work at night when the precinct is deserted. Helps me focus better.”
Adrian understood exactly what the man meant. Interacting with humans could be exhausting for their kind. No matter how good a Hybrid was at subduing the dark energy inside him—and Eddie was better than most—there was always the risk of corrupting those around him.
“Good thing I did, too,” Eddie tagged on, “or I wouldn’t have heard the dispatch.” His dark gaze connected with Adrian’s. “There’s been another attack, practically in our backyard this time.”
Adrian’s back hardened to steel. “Where?”
“Phoenix, a few hours ago. Someone broke into an apartment complex. Witnesses claim they saw a bunch of men leaving the scene with an elderly woman. She looked like she was in distress.”
For the past eighteen months, scores of humans had been abducted throughout North America. At first glance, the victims had nothing in common. The abductees consisted of an equal blend of males and females of varying ages and ethnicities. Upon closer examination, however, Eddie had uncovered the one thing they all shared—a birthmark shaped like a heart.
The cop was convinced their enemies, the Kleptopsychs, were behind the kidnappings.
Normally, Adrian wouldn’t have intervened, leaving the case to the Watchers. His crime-fighting days were long behind him. He had no desire to prowl the streets again, in search of corrupt souls. He was no longer driven by the obsessive need to save humanity from itself, let alone from his own kind. But this particular case had hit close to home.
On the right side of his chest, a mere two inches beneath his collarbone, a heart-shaped birthmark discolored his skin. Granted, only humans had been taken so far, but he couldn’t help but feel this case concerned him somehow.
“Does she bear the mark?”
A frown drew Eddie’s thick brows together. “No, but her daughter does. I spoke to the landlord, asked him if either of the women living in the unit had any distinguishing marks. He said the younger one, Emma, has a birthmark on the side of her neck. I’ll give you one guess what it looks like.”
“A heart.” Adrian closed his eyes and sighed. What was the meaning of that mark, and why was it so important to the person instigating these abductions?
“There’s more,” Eddie informed him. “Several weapons were found on the scene, all coated in blood. They were bagged and sent to the lab for a DNA analysis. The results haven’t come in yet, but I’ve got a feeling they’ll be inconclusive.”
An uneasy prickle sprouted in Adrian’s gut. “You think it’s angel’s blood?” His grip tightened around the porch railing, until the uneven wood dug into his flesh.
Eddie shrugged. “It’s just a hunch, but it makes sense. If the Kleptopsychs are really behind this, the daughter would never have gotten away without a weapon of some sort.”
No ordinary blade could cut their kind, not unless it was first dipped in angel’s blood. But the stuff was extremely rare. Only the Watchers had access to it.
“How would a human get her hands on angel’s blood?”
Another shrug, followed by a frown. “Haven’t got a clue.”
Silence swelled between them, until Adrian felt compelled to break it. “Where’s the daughter now?”
“No one knows. She was seen fleeing the premises a few minutes before her mother was taken. After that, she vanished.”
“A person doesn’t just disappear.” A brisk breeze blew, making the trees shiver. It was early October, and the air was crisp and smelled faintly of juniper.
“No, but the cops have squat.” Eddie’s voice echoed his frustration. “I get the feeling these two have been on the run for a while. They rented the place in Phoenix three months ago. Before that, there’s absolutely no record of them.” He exhaled long and hard. “I highly doubt the police will be able to track this woman down.”
The hunter within him stirred, then slowly awakened, infusing his blood with renewed purpose. Eddie was right. The police wouldn’t be able to track her, but Adrian could. Perhaps the time had come for him to leave the safety of his isolation and venture out into the world again.
If he didn’t, and if the Kleptopsychs truly were after her, this woman was as good as dead.
Gazing at the impenetrable woods surrounding him, he made the decision before he could talk himself out of it. “I’m going to Phoenix. Tonight.”
Chapter Two
Another seedy motel room with a stained yellow ceiling and a greasy carpet. Another night lying on a lumpy mattress listening to the wind hiss through a loose windowpane.
Emma sighed, struggling to stay awake. Fatigue pulled at her lids, but she knew the moment sleep claimed her she’d see the monsters’ faces in her dreams. She’d see them squeezing through the ravaged window, rounding on her mother…
Her tears had dried hours ago, but the painful throb in her chest had yet to relent. She doubted it ever would. A lethal blend of guilt and regret poisoned her blood.
She’d run. Run, like a goddamn coward. How could she have left her mom behind? Sure, they’d agreed years ago as to the right course of action should the creatures ever back them into a corner, but this was different. This was real. What kind of person left her mother at the mercy of soul-thieving demons?
Because there was no doubt in Emma’s mind that these things were demons, an evil unleashed upon the world to suck the light from humanity the way a dark cloud sucks the light from the day. They were everywhere, walking among humans, and no one could see them for what they were.
No one but Emma.
She felt the black energy they gave out, saw how it stole the joy and hope from people’s souls and replaced it with anger and despair. Only she seemed immune to the dark power they emitted. For some reason, her soul could not be manipulated or controlled, and the demons knew that, which was why they kept coming after her.
The wind howled, and a branch whipped at the window. Emma shot up in bed, wrapping her arms around her legs. She flung a reassuring glance at the switchblade by her bed. A blade she’d coated with blood and placed on her nightstand, within easy reach should she need it.
Holding her breath, she waited for the familiar sound of glass shattering. But all she heard was the sigh of the wind and the gentle rasp of shoes scraping the pavement. It was probably one of the other motel guests, but Emma had been on the run long enough not to discount a potential threat. All her instincts went on red alert.
She grabbed the switchblade, flipped it open and slid across the wall toward the door. It was nearly dawn, and fog drenched the budding day. Drab gray light trickled through the window, peeling back the shadows.
There were only two points of entry to the room she occupied—the window and the door. Emma stood between the two, gripping the pitiful blade, trying to calm her racing heart. She couldn’t move, couldn’t so much as breathe. If she did, they’d hear her.
She closed her eyes, mauled her lower lip and waited. Branches tapped at the window again, and her stomach folded.
Just the wind.
A bird serenaded the imminent break of day, then grew suspiciously silent. Nature had a way of going mute whenever a predator drew near. Emma’s fingers tightened around the switchblade. Her lungs began to burn, and she had no choice but to inhale.
She hated this. Hated the clench of fear that gripped her, the dreadful anticipation coursing through her veins, the sense of helplessness that inevitably followed each attack.
What would it feel like to know peace, if only for a day?
The doorknob jiggled, and her muscles turned to stone.
Here we go again.
There was a time when weeks—even months—had elapsed between incidents. In the past year, however, the attacks had escalated.
The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Emma’s palms grew damp around the handle of the knife.
Come on. What are you waiting for? Show yourself, you bastard.
Just as she was about to burst out of her skin, a man’s elongated shadow spilled through the open doorway. Then he was standing in her motel room, his wide back turned to her, his dark head angled in concentration. Hatred saturated her bloodstream, fueled by pain and anger.
He was one of them.
She sensed the darkness inside him, the emptiness. No soul beat in his chest. Emma was sure of it.
With a sharp intake of breath, she gave in to the fury and pounced. The man sensed her and turned, skillfully deflecting her blow and sending her stumbling backward. Raising the switchblade, she launched herself at him again.
She wanted to hurt him, badly. She wanted him to pay for all the years his kind had stolen from her, for all the sleepless nights she’d endured, for all the worry and pain she’d suffered these past few hours. But above all, she wanted to punish him for being the inhuman creature he was.
His iron grip closed around her wrist, prying the blade from her fingers as he immobilized her against the wall. His hard body pressed into hers, a living barrier boxing her in, knocking the very air from her lungs.
Emma struggled, striking his broad chest with her fists, knowing she was no match for him but unwilling to surrender yet. She growled like a cornered animal, raising her leg and attempting to knee him in the groin. Anticipating her move, he took a step back, and Emma missed her target.
“Take it easy.” He wedged his forearm over her sternum, nailing her to the wall again. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Don’t lie to me.” She exhaled in short, quick puffs. “I know what you are.”
Her assertion surprised him, and his hold on her slackened. Taking advantage of the opportunity, she dropped to her knees and scrambled to retrieve the switchblade he’d wrestled from her grasp. Her fingers brushed metal just as he flung her around on her back and flattened her wrists against the grimy carpet.
“If you didn’t come here to hurt me,” she challenged, “what the hell do you want?”
“To help you.”
Dawn slowly swept in, and soft, pink light spilled from the window to illuminate his face. Emma’s lungs squeezed in surprise. He looked like an angel—a dark angel, with an angular jaw, sharp, chiseled features and eyes as blue as the midnight sea. Tousled black hair brushed his forehead and curtained one of his brows. His sensual lips hovered a few inches above hers, and she could feel the heat emanating from them…from him.
For a moment she lost the ability to form a coherent thought. He was beautiful, hard and defined, a Greek sculpture pinning her to the ground. His muscular leg was slung across hers, his fingers encircling her wrists like a pair of steel shackles.
She couldn’t stand feeling trapped, even if a dark angel was doing the trapping. “If you want to help me, let me go.”
He hesitated, his gaze capturing hers. Confusion pinched his brows as he studied her face. Then he did something so unexpected, so tender and intimate, Emma’s next breath snagged in her throat.
He reached up and caressed her cheek. Shock and affection gleamed in his navy-blue eyes, roughening his voice. “Angie?”
Chapter Three
Adrian had sensed something familiar about her energy at the apartment complex where he’d picked up her trail, but he’d never suspected the woman he’d find would be the woman he’d lost. The woman he’d mourned for over a quarter of a century.
He explored the curve of her cheek, rejoiced at the soft fullness of her mouth, buried his fingers in her thick mane of hair, trounced by feelings and sensations he hadn’t experienced in ages.
God he’d missed her. Missed her shy smile, the way she mauled her bottom lip when she was nervous, the warmth of her touch.
His gut clenched as he gazed into her multi-flecked eyes. Eyes that held no recognition of him at all.
He could see well enough in the dim light to make out her features. Her chin was sharper, her cheekbones higher, her complexion more olive-toned than rosy. Her hair, which now fanned across the carpet in silky waves, was darker, a deep mahogany rather than the honey brown he remembered. But those eyes were exactly the same.
“It’s Emma,” she spat through gritted teeth, then surprised him by raising a jackknife to his throat. He could smell the angel’s blood on the blade, and it froze him solid.
She was fast for a human. He hadn’t even felt her reach for it. Now he had to make damn sure she didn’t cut him. If the blade so much as grazed his skin it would burn straight to the bone and incapacitate him.
“Why are you here?” Wariness flattened her heart-shaped mouth.
“I told you, to help you.” He had to keep his cool. He couldn’t reveal the extent of his feelings for her or he’d scare her away. She wasn’t the woman he’d once known. She wasn’t his Angie. She was Emma now.
Reincarnation was a concept he understood well, being what he was. He’d lived for nearly two centuries and had seen countless souls reborn, including his own. But Emma was human, and the human mind wasn’t always open to notions that pushed the boundaries of its limited reality.
Still, long-buried emotions smoldered to life inside him, heating his blood, making his fingers burn with the forbidden urge to touch, to brand and possess. She felt so good trapped under him. After all these years of living without her, feeling her delicate form strain beneath his body was the sweetest of tortures.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t passion that clouded her gaze but mistrust. “You’re one of them. I can tell.”
I know what you are. That was what she’d said to him when he’d first entered her motel room. Did she see the darkness within him, the emptiness? How? As far as he knew, no human possessed that ability.
But he could tell at a glance Emma’s soul was different, similar to Angie’s but brighter, more powerful. If he was a betting man, he’d say twin essences dwelled within her. He’d only come across a life-force this radiant once before—Ben’s, the young boy his father, Marcus, had brought to his doorstep eighteen months ago. The boy who’d mysteriously disappeared under his watch.
“We’re not all the same.” How could he make her understand that not all members of his race were evil? He ached to have her look at him the way Angie once had, needed her to see the man and not the monster.
“Get off me.”
The blade aimed at his jugular should’ve warned him to retreat, but part of him refused to believe Angie would harm him, whatever name she went by now.
A wave of black energy swept through the motel room, and Adrian stiffened, tension coiling through his body. The Kleptopsychs were here. He felt them. They’d probably followed Emma’s signature the same way he had.
He stood abruptly, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her to her feet. He had so much to tell her, but the time for small talk had passed. He needed to get her out of there. Now.
Emma struggled to escape his grasp, unaware that a much greater threat closed in on her. Desperate to break free, she sliced him across the hand with her bloody blade.
Adrian muttered a curse, releasing her. Red-hot agony speared through him. Weakness crawled through his veins, and his senses swam in and out of focus.
The muted thud of her footsteps as she raced to the door pounded in his head. “Don’t—” He reached for her again, but dizziness swept over him, and he dropped to his knees.
She directed an apologetic look his way, then grabbed the backpack by the door.
“You can’t go out that way. They’ll see you.”
She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Who?”
“The guys from the apartment. They’re here.”
The color leached from her face. “You’re lying.”
“I wish I were.”
A slash of pain cleaved her features, and for a second he feared she’d bolt from the motel room, right into the Kleptopsychs’ waiting arms. “Is my mother with them?”
His senses were dulled thanks to the angel’s blood contaminating his own, but not so dull that he couldn’t feel exactly who approached. “No. There are six of them. And they’re headed this way. If you walk out that door, you’ll expose yourself to them.”
She ventured a glance out the window, closed her eyes and muttered under breath, “Holy goddamn hell.”
Sweat sprang from his brow, but he forced himself to his feet. The room wobbled and spun, then settled down. “Get behind me,” he told her.
She did as he commanded, and he couldn’t help but feel he’d taken his first step toward winning her trust. Concentrating, he scanned the motel room, x-raying the walls, cursing each time his vision blurred. He hated angel’s blood with a passion.
There had to be another way out of here. The door and window were out of the question, and the place didn’t seem to have an emergency exit. The ceiling snagged his attention. A network of vents snaked overhead, linking all the rooms together. The vents were made of copper, which meant the Kleptopsychs wouldn’t be able to see through them, nor would they attempt to search them. His kind was severely allergic to copper. It sapped them of their strength almost as effectively as angel’s blood did.
Adrian climbed up on the bed. Using his fingers, he pried the grate off the wall, tossing it aside and gesturing for Emma to join him. She eyed him warily, directed a glance at the door again, then decided to trust him. Clambering onto the double bed, she came to stand beside him. Only a breath of air separated their bodies.
Adrian briefly lost his train of thought. It was disconcerting, having her here beside him again, her upturned face watching him expectantly, her pulse racing to the beat of his. Before he could stop himself, he brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. Touching her strengthened him, chased the weakness from his limbs and heightened his determination. “I won’t let them hurt you. I promise.”
Something passed behind her eyes. Was it gratitude or a flicker of recognition? Maybe it was a bit of both. The mind sometimes forgot, but the soul always remembered.
He dug into his pocket and pulled out his keys, handing them to her. “There’s a dark-blue Tahoe in the parking lot. Take it and get as far away from this place as you can.” He gripped her by the waist. “Ready?”
“Wait.” She peeled his palm from her body and placed the folded switchblade within it, closing his fingers around it. “Something tells me you’re going to need this.”
Adrian’s windpipe constricted at the gesture of trust.
She bit her lower lip, nearly undoing him. “Now I’m ready.”
With whatever strength he had left, he propelled her toward the opening. Emma reached her arms up and hoisted herself inside, quickly disappearing within the ventilation system.
The second he secured the grate in place and climbed down from the bed, the door burst open. Kleptopsychs streamed into the small room, blocking the exit.
There were six of them and only one of him. If that wasn’t bad enough, he was weakened by angel’s blood and had no weapon beyond this meager blade. But he couldn’t fail, couldn’t let Emma down.
He’d sworn to protect her, and he would keep that promise.
Even if it killed him.
Emma tamped down her mounting panic and crept through the blackened vent as quietly as she could. The sound of a scuffle rose from the room she’d fled—glass shattering, furniture breaking, the thud of bodies hitting the floor.
She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed. Prayed for salvation, for her mother, for the compelling stranger who’d come to her rescue.
Her dark angel.
She didn’t know what to make of him, couldn’t explain why his touch made her skin thrum or the sound of his voice elicited a slow glide of heat deep within her. But even more perplexing was the devotion she’d noted in his eyes.
Why would he risk himself to help her? And why did he look at her like he knew her, when she’d never met him before in her life?
The vent shook from the impact of the battle that raged below, and her blood ran cold. What if the creatures killed him? What if he died defending her? Hadn’t enough people suffered because of her? What made her so damn special anyway?
She hadn’t asked to be different, hadn’t asked to be the savior her mother insisted she was. All she’d ever wanted was to live a normal life, to put down roots, to fall in love. She didn’t want to change the world. She just wanted to belong to it.
A thunderous crash resounded through the vents, and swirls of dust rose to enfold her. Emma fought to stay on course.
Don’t look back. Keep going. That was the mantra Christina Russo had taught her to live by.
She flung a glance behind her despite herself, then forced her gaze forward again. A few feet ahead, light pierced the darkness. She was almost home free. All she had to do was kick open the grille, drop into the room opposite hers and escape. The creatures were too distracted to notice or follow her. She could make it.
Why then did she hesitate? Why did some primal instinct urge her to return to the man she’d left behind? As much as she tried to silence the voice in her head, it kept nagging at her, telling her he needed her.
But what could she do to help him? For all she knew, he was already dead.
She halted, her insides blistering at the thought, her fingers tightening around the keys he’d given her.
Shit. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t run again, couldn’t let someone else fight her battle for her, even if the fate of the world depended on it.
It wasn’t easy to turn around, given the tight confines of the vent, but she managed. Urgency gnawed at her as she crawled back to the room she’d vacated. The clang of battle ceased abruptly. Silence rose to swallow her, broken only by the annoying buzz of the phone.
Holding her breath, afraid of what she’d find, she peeked through the opening at the scene below. The place was a mess. Furniture had been overturned, the television set shattered, the curtain rods torn from the windows. The phone lay on the floor, the receiver complaining that it had been left off the hook.
Several bodies littered the faded brown carpet. Her gaze scanned each one, looking for the man who’d come to her aid. She found him, trapped beneath a massive corpse, his dark head partially hidden by the bed.
Wasting no time, she kicked off the grate, squeezed through the tight opening, and dropped into the room. She scrambled over the bodies and went to squat beside her rescuer. He lay as still as death, his eyes closed, his fingers still clutching the switchblade. With a surprising surge of strength, she hauled the corpse off him, then felt for a pulse.
His eyelids twitched, and she breathed a sigh of relief. He was alive. Mangled and beaten up, but alive.
She stroked his face, her flesh tingling each time she touched him. “Wake up. We need to get out of here.” She didn’t even know what to call him.
He moaned. “I thought I told you to leave.” His eyes sprang open, and a sea of blue engulfed her. “Guess some things never change.”
She had no idea what he was talking about. “Can you walk?”
He propped himself on his elbows. “I don’t have a choice. There may be more of them on the way.”
That was the last thing Emma wanted to hear. “What the hell are they?” Exasperation stretched her voice thin. “And who are you?”
“Adrian.”
The name delivered a well-aimed blow below the ribs. She’d heard it before, in her dreams. How many times had she awakened with a sharp ache in her heart and that name dangling from her lips?
Just a coincidence. It had to be. “And these things?” She poked at one of the carcasses with an equal blend of curiosity and disgust.
He stumbled to his feet, swaying a little as he stood. “They’re called Kleptopsychs.”
“As in soul thieves?” Emma raised two dubious brows. “Is that the best they could come up with?”
A wry grin tugged at his sensual mouth, making his left cheek dimple. A swarm of butterflies invaded Emma’s chest. It wasn’t fair. Demons weren’t supposed to have dimples. They were supposed to be ugly, with sharp teeth, red, mottled skin and pointy horns on their heads.
“Actually, my grandfather came up with it, right after the Great Flood.”
She quirked her lips. “Of course he did.”
His fingers closed around her arm, and he urged her to the door. “I can’t explain now. We’ve got to go.”
For a second she felt cornered, and that deeply ingrained flight instinct reared within her. “Where are you taking me?”
He released her arm and raised his hand to the nape of her neck. His fingers slid beneath her hair, caressing her head, cradling it. Emma stiffened, even as her heart betrayed her with a loud thud. Why did he keep touching her this way, with intimacy and affection? And why did some hidden part of her respond to it?
“Somewhere safe.” He flung a glance over his shoulder at the carnage, then propelled her out the door, his fingers still massaging her scalp. “Trust me.”
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Dark Souls (Dark Souls Series)
by Ketley Allison
19-year-old Emily desperately wants a name for what she is. For what is consuming and torturing her. For what is changing her.
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Chapter One
Kate Bennett quickly crossed the inner quadrangle of Trinity College Dublin, her high heels clicking sharply on the grimy old cobblestones. The expression on her face was grim and her eyes were blank, her thoughts far away. After yet another uninspired lecture –during which few of her students had bothered to hide their boredom- it was becoming painfully clear to her that teaching was not her forte. She bit her lower lip as she walked and frowned down at the cobbles; she was not used to failure and it rankled. Failure in professional matters, that is; spectacular failures in her personal life were her forte, and always had been. Which was why she had returned to Dublin from England in the first place, some months before. But she was used to relationship breakdowns and could handle them, more or less; failing in her work was a new and unpleasant experience. On paper it had seemed the ideal solution to her troubles; being a part-time lecturer would give her time to work on her latest book, as well as giving her generally chaotic life a little much-needed structure.
In practice things had not run so smoothly. In spite of her deep knowledge of psychology, both the theoretical side and the practical experience she had picked up working in the field, her career as a teacher was in danger of foundering after just a few short weeks. She just couldn’t understand why it was all going so badly wrong; even aside from her expertise she loved psychology, loved the unending search into how the human psyche worked. And yet she was unable to convey any of her enthusiasm to her students. Information, yes; passion, no. Her lectures were so dry she wondered how much of them her students actually absorbed; certainly none of them ever seemed to be listening. Yet the harder she tried to make her discourses interesting the more she floundered on a sea of verbosity.
She shook her head dismissively, putting the problem to one side; she would worry about it later. Pushing problems aside for later resolution could also be considered her forte.
Kate was slightly above medium height, but her weakness for ultra-high heels made her appear taller, as did her slender build. Her appetite naturally inclined her towards plumpness but an unrelenting program of diet and exercise, both of which she loathed, kept her slim and even elegant in the slightly severe, tailored suits she favored. Her hair was dark brown with a hint of natural red in its depths and, with her pale, narrow face set off by big hazel eyes and full lips, she made a striking figure, and one which turned heads everywhere she went.
She attracted attention now in the form of the head of the History Department, Dr. Julian Symons, who hurried across the quad to catch up with her before she reached the door that led up to her second floor office. Symons was an aging, would-be rake who delighted in his dubious reputation as a ladies’ man and who gave Kate the creeps, not least because she suspected that he started the rumors about his amorous adventures himself. He was a short man and rather stout, given to wearing pink bow ties and silk shirts with his tweed suits, and just looking at him generally made Kate want to laugh aloud. Not that she ever would; the funny little man really seemed to believe that he was a born lady-killer, and although she could never like him she hadn’t the heart to disabuse him of his delusions.
‘Katherine, my dear,’ he began in his high, nasal voice, offering her a wide, patronising smile, ‘How delightful to see you! For a change. You’re becoming something of a recluse around here. Why, I go days sometimes without spotting your pretty face. Not the way to win friends and influence people, my dear. To say nothing of winning tenure.’
Kate’s lips tightened and she pulled her jacket closed; he did appear delighted to see her, but she didn’t much care for the parts he was so pleased to see. She nodded and, wishing that he would raise his gaze to eye-level just once in their conversations, said in a neutral tone, ‘Julian.’
He did eventually look up from her breasts, which were in fact quite small and hardly demanded such close attention, and smiled at her slyly before saying, ‘I’m having a little soiree tonight and I was hoping you might grace it with your presence. Badinage aside, we really don’t see enough of you, you know.’ His gaze dropped again and he said suggestively, ‘And I really would like to see more of you, my dear.’
‘The feeling is far from mutual,’ replied Kate dryly, partly irritated and partly amused by his elephantine attempt at flirtation; he was like a reject from an old Carry-on movie, and impossible to take seriously. In fact, so labored was his act that she occasionally wondered if he were secretly gay. ‘College social life leaves me cold, I’m afraid, and although I’m new to teaching I’ve been here long enough for the idea of tenure to fill me with horror.’
Symons raised his brows and cocked his head to one side, reminding her irresistibly of a sparrow looking for breadcrumbs, and looked at her in a pitying fashion. College life –and particularly tenure- loomed so large in his own mind, in his own life, that he clearly didn’t believe her. Couldn’t believe her; the college was the center of his universe. His artificial and rather yellow smile never wavered as he said, ‘Well, come or not, just as you please. Don’t let my importance on the faculty board influence you at all.’
‘I won’t,’ said Kate even more dryly, and with complete honesty; she wouldn’t, though many would. She flashed him a brief, perfunctory farewell smile and turned to go, whereupon he said archly, ‘Well, play hard to get if you must. But remember; the faster the quarry runs, the harder the pursuers chase.’
In fairness Symons had meant it in a purely social sense but Kate’s past had left her highly sensitive to any hint of women being viewed as prey, or aggression toward them, and her smile vanished as she said in a tight, angry voice, ‘If you try pursuing me you’ll regret it, I promise you. Stick to chasing the girls you teach who are desperate for grades. And I do mean desperate.’
Symons’ smile vanished and this time he did not stop Kate as she entered the old building but stood staring after her, a savage look on his face. He was not used to such treatment, was indeed used to being courted by very new, very junior staff like Kate, and he had come to view his invitations as tantamount to royal commands. Although she did not realize it, Kate’s utter lack of interest in the college social scene gave her a certain cache among the other lecturers, resulting in her receiving invitations that similarly junior members of staff would have killed for but never received; Symons had not been kidding when he said that the more she ran, the harder she was pursued.
Kate marched angrily up to her office, not relaxing until she was seated behind her ancient, leather-topped desk, as much annoyed at herself for losing her temper as she was at the silly little man for provoking her. Then she thought; Well, I guess I’m no longer invited to his party. Sorry, SOIREE. She slammed down her briefcase, her lips a tight white line, but then she giggled, unable to help herself, at the thought of Symons’ expression if she now actually turned up at his party. Somehow she doubted he’d be quite so effusive, or that future invitations would be forthcoming. Oh well, it was no loss; to her Trinity was simply the place where she happened to be working just then, and she had no wish to involve herself in its hidden depths. Nor had she any interest in tenure; her lack of the teaching gift was becoming so painfully obvious that she was in fact sorry that her one-year contract would hold her there until the following summer.
Besides, even apart from lacking the teaching bug she didn’t much like the place; Trinity, like all Universities, contained two very separate personas. One was the crowded and hectic but still beautiful old center of education which everyone in the outside world perceived. The other, murkier facets of college life that only insiders saw were the rigid cliques, the petty jealousies, the bitter feuds and hatreds that lasted for years on end, and the tight, even claustrophobic social life. If one did not mix with the right people one simply did not exist. An elitist and somewhat childish view, but one which most of the faculty did not just subscribe to but regulated their lives by.
She was packing her notes into her case when she saw the Post-it stuck to her lamp, no doubt left there by Sally, the secretary she shared with another junior lecturer, before she had left for her lunch. It read; The Director of Deacon House rang, would like to see you out there at 3pm if you can make it.
Kate raised her thin, shaped eyebrows; why would the head of Deacon House want to talk to her? She had heard of the place, of course, as had everyone even peripherally involved in the mental health field in Ireland; it had long been famous for its progressive approach to treating the mentally ill. And for being the most luxurious and expensive private asylum in Europe. It was the kind of place where she and her fellow students had dreamed of working, back when they were permanently broke and generally hungry, still struggling towards their degrees. But as she had only been back in Dublin a couple of months, after an eight-year absence, she had no idea who the current director was, or what he could want with her. Her books, of course, had brought her a modest amount of fame in her own little circle, as well as less modest royalties; perhaps the current director had heard she was back in Ireland and wished to offer her a job?
It seemed the only possible scenario, and the prospect of being back in private practice immediately excited as well as frightened her. She hadn’t had a patient since… well, since the Incident. That was the way she always thought of it; as The Incident. And generally in capital letters. She closed her eyes to help shut the sudden crowd of hurtful memories out of her mind; perhaps a new patient was exactly what she needed. After the Incident she had gone into retreat, living on her then meager savings and Peter’s far from meager earnings whilst she wrote her first book on psychology. Not a textbook; she had wanted to de-mystify the workings of the human mind and make the whole subject more accessible to the average person, while at the same time avoiding the kind of trite psycho-babble filling the self-help shelves in every book shop. She had wanted to show why people become the way they are, how a human personality develops, and how and why people react to different situations. And she had succeeded. How she had succeeded. Her book had been a hit, particularly in the USA, and had led to her being offered her present post in Trinity. It had also filled her coffers; she was not rich but in these recessionary times she was also well clear of the poverty line.
Her second book, showing how childhood events shape the adult, had not scaled the same heights as the first, receiving fair critical acclaim but only modest sales. And her third book, on criminal psychology, had pleased no one, it seemed; as well as being ignored by the critics it had not sold well, in the end barely covering the publishing costs. Her planned fourth book, on the development of aberrant sexuality and how sex offenders are formed, had stalled some time ago on only the third chapter and showed no signs of moving again in spite of the wealth of potential subject matter at her disposal. Perhaps the topic struck her a little too close to the bone for comfort.
So where was she? Washed up at thirty-four? Unmarried, childless, and with her writing career dead in the water? Was she destined to become a frustrated old spinster teacher? She sat back in her old-fashioned wooden swivel chair and laughed aloud at the thought, her gloom dispelling as suddenly as it had arisen; a spinster she was not. She had never considered herself anything special in the looks department but she had never had any trouble attracting men either, and had no fears of being left on the shelf. And time was not her enemy as she had never been particularly broody. She had never had more than fleeting urges to have children, urges she had not encouraged and which had just as quickly disappeared. And if she was honest she had quite enough personal problems of her own to deal with without trying to raise kids as well. The thought of children brought one of these problems, Peter, crowding back into her mind but she pushed it firmly away; she would not think about him now. He was back in England with all the rest of her old life and there he would remain.
That’s the past! she reminded herself firmly, think of the present, and the future, but never look back. A future which might well include having patients again, if she really were about to be offered a job in Deacon House. Dealing with the mentally ill, with life’s casualties, had been her first love, and her later, varying careers as a police consultant, an author, and now as a lecturer had perhaps obscured but never quite destroyed that love. Maybe it was time to get back in harness. After all, what was the alternative, to sit here desultorily reading barely literate essays churned out by lazy slobs with no interests in life beyond sex and partying? She relaxed back in her seat, laughing at herself; no doubt all lecturers –including her own, back in the day- had been saying the same thing about their students since education began. God only knows what Aristotle had made of the young Alexander. But it said much about what her life had become that she would gladly leap into the unknown rather than go home to face an empty flat and yet another night in alone.
Kate got to her feet suddenly and made for the door; Deacon House was a good ten miles away and if she was to be there by three she would have to get moving. And as she went she pushed any thoughts of how empty her life must have become for her to be so desperate to seek change. Any change. She also repressed the thought that running away from problems was becoming a way of life for her; she could worry about that later.
Chapter Two
The sleek red TVR crawled down the winding country road, annoying those held up behind while Kate searched for a sign that would reveal her destination. There were many driveways and rutted lanes leading off the main road, and the thick, encroaching greenery and overhanging trees meant that at anything above twenty miles an hour she would miss the turn.
At last Kate spotted a sign proclaiming Deacon House to the world in large black letters and quickly swung her powerful but twitchy sports car into the entrance. Waving an apologetic hand to acknowledge the beeps from the irate motorists streaming past behind her she stopped in front of the massive, wrought iron gates that separated the mental hospital from the outside world. She paused, a frisson of excitement running through her; all her professional life she had heard stories about this place and now, about to see it in person at last, her curiosity knew no bounds. However, between the huge black gates and the massive granite walls Kate could see little beyond a glimpse of white gravel driveway and overhanging tree branches. Her initial impression was of isolation and unfriendliness, even secrecy, and overall was not encouraging. She had been invited there, however, and now rolled down her window and pressed the intercom button mounted on a low post set at a distance from the old gates.
A crackling, metallic but unmistakably female voice immediately responded, ‘Deacon House, how can I help you?’
No mention of its full title, thought Kate with a touch of amusement, nor its present function. The sign outside was the same; just the name, no description. ‘My name is Kate Bennett. I have a three o’clock appointment with…er, the director.’
She was hoping for a clue as to who her mysterious host was but was destined to be disappointed as, after a moment’s hesitation, the voice replied, ‘Yes, you’re expected, Dr. Bennett. Please wait until the gates are fully open, then follow the driveway up to the house.’
It was on the tip of Kate’s tongue to say, it’s Ms. Bennett, not Doctor, but before she could speak the heavy gates shuddered and began to swing open, making a suitably eerie creaking noise as they did so. Wondering what effect this would have on the more nervous night-time visitors, Kate put her car in gear and rolled forward, crunching slowly onto the spotless gravel drive. Behind the high stone wall the grounds were extensive and well tended, though the immense chestnut trees lining the driveway created a slightly gloomy atmosphere in the dull autumnal light. The driveway itself was almost long enough to be considered a private road, causing her to wonder just how large the place was; these were not just grounds, this was a park. Large as it was, however, as she rounded the very next bend she was afforded her first glimpse of the old house through a gap in the trees. She slowed almost to a halt as she drank it in, suitably impressed.
Deacon House Rest Home –far better than Insane Asylum!– had in the past been the country seat of a famous Irish nobleman, and although now reduced from its former glory it still retained something of its old air of grandeur. It was solidly built of large gray granite blocks but in the current watery sunshine the old stone looked warm and inviting rather than forbidding. And the broad flight of stone steps that led up to the immense double-doors, flanked on either side by high, fluted pillars, lent the mansion a graceful air in spite of its massive dimensions. The house was at pleasant variance with the rather forbidding outer wall and gate, and all in all was a far cry from the grim Bedlam of public fancy. Some of the many glittering windows were encased by iron bars, it was true, but nonetheless Kate could almost see the graceful carriages rolling up in front of those broad steps, and the pink of society alighting in their finery for yet another grand ball. Almost see it. In another century. Beautiful though it was, and imposing, Deacon House was now an insane asylum, and no coy phrases like Rest Home could alter that cold fact.
As she rounded the final curve of the long driveway her heart was pounding with excitement at the possibility of entering private practice again. That bastard Straub had soured her joy in connecting with other damaged souls, but before him she had always had a gift for therapy, had been able to establish an instant rapport with most of her patients. Her own past suffering and emotional frailty had given her an empathy and insight that helped her to win their trust and get them talking openly and freely, which in turn helped them to eventually reach the source of their problems. In fact, thinking about it now she wondered why she had ever given it up for the fascinating but darker, more sordid world of forensic psychology, which in turn had led to a career as a police profiler. Which she had also given up, post Straub. She bit her lip, not wanting to think about him at all, much less all he had cost her.
Of course, in recent years treatment of the mentally ill had come full circle again, had switched back from seeking the cause of problems to simply treating the symptoms with drugs, wherewith the patient could be returned to at least a semi-functional state but never actually cured. Kate was not a psychiatrist and this approach was anathema to her, and she preferred to concentrate on trauma-related problems that generally could be cured. Searching for the often hidden causes of emotional problems was what she had always done best, and she believed that for trauma afflicted patients at least the only way to real recovery was through self-exploration, which would eventually lead first to understanding, and then to acceptance. Which in turn would lead to healing.
She parked in front of the sweeping entrance and slid out of the low-slung car before trotting up the worn granite steps; a trim, slender figure in her black woolen suit and white blouse, with the red scarf around her neck adding a spark of life to her otherwise dark, even drab outfit. This touch of color, allied to the shortness of the skirt, which revealed quite a lot of leg, saved her outfit from being too severe by imparting to it a touch of femininity. And although she only wore the faintest traces of make-up two orderlies exiting the building looked at her appreciatively as she passed, and followed her with their eyes into the building.
Kate noticed their gazes but only on a superficial level; her mind was focused on the meeting ahead, and on trying to ignore the butterflies clamoring in her stomach. She went in through the wide-flung oaken doors and paused on the marble-flagged floor of the vestibule, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim light inside. There was a long wooden counter to her left which ran the length of the high-ceilinged entrance hall, and behind this counter sat the neat figure of a young woman dressed in crisp nurse’s whites.
Kate smiled and moved forward through the gloom, her heels echoing loudly on the old flagstones, ‘Good afternoon, I’m Kate Bennett.’
The receptionist, a young and pretty blonde, smiled back, revealing annoyingly perfect white teeth, ‘Of course, Dr. Bennett; Dr. Jordan is expecting you. If you take a seat in the waiting room I’ll let him know you’re here.’
Dr. Jordan? The name rang no immediate bells, was not on her mental list of the dignitaries of the psychiatric world, but she simply said, ‘Fine. But in fact it’s not Doctor, it’s just plain Ms. Bennett. Or better yet, Kate.’
The receptionist hesitated, though her professional smile never faltered, and Kate said, with a smile, ‘I have a Ph.D., not a medical degree, and I hate Ph.D.’s who call themselves doctor. I despise that petty pretentiousness, don’t you?’
The receptionist smiled back, with less professionalism and more warmth and replied, ‘Of course, Ms. Bennett. Please take a seat while I ring Dr. Jordan’s office.’ Her smile broadened, ‘Or perhaps I should say Mr. Jordan’s office?’
‘You bloody well better not if you want to keep your job!’ boomed a deep voice from behind Kate’s back, ‘I’m a psychiatrist, not one of these damned quack psychologists, and I earned my medical degree.’
That voice was almost as familiar to her as her own, and with a warm glow of joy suddenly suffusing her Kate turned and smiled at her old friend and college mate before saying sweetly, ‘No, you didn’t, Trevor; you cheated on your finals, remember?’
Chapter Three
Trevor Jordan strode across the great, vaulted hallway with his long, gangly arms outstretched in welcome and a broad grin splitting his face. He was a tall, thin, red-haired man, slightly balding on top, with a lust for life and an unquenchable optimism that few could resist. In college he had been about as unlike the rest of his classmates as it was possible to be; loud, open and warmly human where most of his fellow students had been pallid, intense introverts. He was interested in people rather than subjects, and his humor and bright outlook on life had cheered and encouraged Kate through some difficult times even after their brief affair had ended. Or rather, after she had ended it and left him for another man, a minor betrayal for which he had never reproached her and which he had quickly forgiven. Indeed, in hindsight it had soon become clear to him that they worked better as friends than as lovers.
Now, looking at the genuine pleasure in his sparkling blue eyes and on his contentedly ugly, freckled face, Kate was glad she had come, though still astonished that the penniless student she had once dated now held perhaps the most coveted position in Irish psychiatric circles. But then so many of her contemporaries now held positions of authority; a sign of approaching middle age, no doubt, like the fact that most of her old girlfriends now had children.
It was obvious from the expression on Trevor’s face that he was delighted to see her, and obvious too that if they had not been in full view of some of his staff -and if he had not been the Director of the Institute with a position to consider- he would have hugged her. Kate just had time to think this and extend a hand in greeting before she was scooped into his vast embrace and had all her breath emphatically hugged out of her body.
I should have known! she thought, fighting to breathe, a little dazed but also amused. Trevor practically made a career out of doing the unexpected, and cared little for the opinion of anyone save his closest friends. Having thoroughly hugged her, he kissed her cheek and said softly in her ear, ‘Welcome home, Kitty-cat!’
Kitty-cat! She had all but forgotten his private name for her, and it conjured up a host of happy memories, along with just a tinge of guilt. Although she had been home for some time now she had not yet hooked up with any of her old friends and seeing him now, and so unexpectedly, made her feel pleasantly nostalgic. And emotional. She felt the prickle of tears in her eyes at the warmth of his greeting and hugged him back fiercely, surprised by the depth of her emotions at this unwonted human contact. And with a start she realized again just how lonely she had become, and how starved of any real human contact since returning to her native city. She blinked away the nascent tears gathering in her eyes and covered her raw feelings by gasping, ‘Welcome home, my arse! I’ve been home for months! Now let me go before I suffocate, you big oaf!’
He released her, still grinning, and over his shoulder Kate saw the beam on the receptionist’s face and the shine in her eyes as she looked at Jordan. It was always the same; ugly or not, women liked Trevor, and more often than not were attracted to him too. As indeed she had been, once upon a time. Until he got too close, became too demanding. Or, more accurately, until her own fears had made her flee in panic at the prospect of someone getting inside her carefully constructed defenses.
He stepped back and looked her up and down before saying appreciatively, ‘You look incredible, Kate. A scruffy schoolgirl wearing too much eye make-up went to England; a beautiful woman returned. Their loss, our gain.’
She couldn’t help smiling even as she protested, ‘I was not a scruffy schoolgirl! I was twenty-six when I left! And I’m hardly beautiful now. But thank you anyway.’
His smile faded and a faint frown knitted his heavy, reddish eyebrows, ‘I hate to spring this on you but there’s someone here you have to meet. I didn’t plan it; he just turned up out of the blue. But since he’s here I think I have to introduce you to him. Reluctantly.’
He turned away and Kate stood still in confusion, ruefully thinking that life was always like that when Trevor was around; nothing was ever straightforward, and surprises lurked around every corner. Maybe it was this unpredictability that had made her leave him all those years ago; because of her disrupted childhood she had always prized peace and stability. But even as she thought this she knew that she was lying to herself; it was her fear of commitment that had made her run. In the end it always triumphed over her need to be loved.
A man almost as tall as Trevor but heavier in build had just left the conference room and was walking slowly towards them, his features obscured by the dim light and many shadows of that vast, dark hallway.
‘Ms. Kate Bennett,’ said Trevor formally, his face and tone expressionless, as the stranger approached, his footsteps echoing on the stone flags, ‘This is…’
‘Michael Riordan,’ she finished for him as the man drew close enough to be recognised, ‘The Minister for Trade and Industry.’ She smiled and held out her hand, ‘A pleasure to meet you, Minister.’ Then she added, in a slightly mocking tone, ‘Or should I say, messiah? It’s not often one meets a miracle worker, the hope of an entire nation.’
‘Delighted to meet you, Ms. Bennett. Call me Michael, please,’ replied the Minister in a well-modulated voice, ‘And I’m hardly a messiah, or a miracle worker. You have to allow for election exaggeration, as well as media hype. But I’m confident, now that the world-wide recession is ending, that Ireland’s economy will rise again too. I’d like to think that any recovery will be at least partly due to my efforts, but so long as the recovery occurs I don’t much care who gets the credit.’
He took her hand and she felt a light thrill run up her arm at his touch, even as she was dismissing his words as being too pat to be genuine, as being too much like a media sound bite. Although in his late forties Riordan was still an attractive man; tall and well built with light brown hair and very pale blue eyes. Apart from his even-featured good looks -which his graying hair if anything intensified, lending him an air of distinction- he had an instantly appealing magnetism that she could feel as an almost physical pull drawing her towards him. He smiled warmly into her eyes and the light thrill spread until her whole body seemed to be covered with tiny goose bumps. And he said lightly, ‘Though I must admit I’m happy to have a beautiful woman consider me a miracle worker. Or to consider me at all.’
He’s flirting with me, Kate thought in surprise, amused but a little flattered too, and aware of a certain attraction of her own towards him. In fact, she was more attracted to him than to any man since she first met Peter.
Riordan finally let go of her hand but did not step back as he continued, ‘But in your case I’m doubly glad I have your approval, since I understand that Dr. Jordan has just hired you as a consultant in my daughter’s case.’
‘You understood wrong,’ interrupted Trevor shortly, before Kate could reply, ‘I told you I invited Kate today here in the hope of persuading her to conduct therapy sessions with Grainne, but I have not yet discussed the case with her, or made any formal offer.’
He spoke coldly, for him, and with a start Kate realized that he did not like his patient’s father. Or perhaps he simply did not like being pre-empted like that. After all, he hadn’t yet had time to work his magic on her and convince her to work for him. Convince! If only he knew how desperate I am for a change in my life! ANY change.
Riordan blinked and then smiled apologetically, ‘Pardon me, Kate…may I call you Kate? I misunderstood, but I hope that won’t cause you to refuse to treat Grainne. She desperately needs your help.’
Before she could reply Trevor again interrupted, saying irritably, ‘I am Grainne’s psychiatrist, Mr. Riordan, and if you don’t mind I’d rather acquaint Kate with your daughter’s case history myself. And not in a hallway but in my office, where we have at least a modicum of privacy.’
Once more addressing himself solely to Kate -and it might have been just a politician’s trick but when he looked at her with those pale eyes she suddenly felt as if she were the only person in the entire world- Riordan said gravely, ‘Of course. I apologize again. Please don’t let my precipitance offend you into refusing to treat my daughter. She means the world to me and it would break my heart to think that I had spoiled her best chance of becoming well again.’
Kate warmed to him in spite of herself, in spite of an inward voice warning her that it was his job to appear sincere and caring, and she replied, ‘You can be sure you haven’t alienated me. But I’m afraid I’m no miracle worker either, and even if I agree to treat -er, Grainne?- there’s no guarantee of success.’
He smiled again, ‘I understand.’ He might have spoken further but Trevor made an impatient noise and looked at his watch, whereupon Riordan stepped back, ‘I won’t intrude any longer, but I do hope to meet you again, Kate.’
Before she could reply Trevor took her by the arm and ushered her across the hall to his book-lined, wood paneled office. Once inside she detached herself from his grip and said angrily, ‘For God’s sake, Trevor, let me go. I’m not a sheep and you’re not a bloody sheepdog!’
He looked startled for a moment before smiling sheepishly and releasing her. Putting his hands in his trouser pockets he said, ‘Sorry about that, Kitty, but that man just rubs me up the wrong way. He’s constantly in my ear, looking for progress reports and details of each phase of Grainne’s treatment. He was grilling me again today about her progress, or lack of it, which is the only reason I mentioned that I was trying to hire you as a therapist. Besides, he shouldn’t have butted in like that before I’d made my pitch and convinced you to work with me.’
Kate’s fleeting irritation had passed and now she smiled and said, ‘Well, you didn’t have to be so rude to him. Or are you so secure here that you can afford to insult government Ministers?’
He grinned imperturbably, ‘Well, yes, I am, actually! And I don’t like or trust politicians, you know that. I never did. Especially handsome, would-be miracle workers. Remember old Archie’s lecture on the “Pursuit of Power”?’
Kate smiled at the recollection and said, ‘Of course I remember! How could I forget?’ Her voice deepened to a pompous bass, ‘The desire for power should disqualify from power.’ She laughed and continued in her normal; voice, ‘Poor old Professor Archibald, mad as a hatter and twice as paranoid! And he was supposed to be a psychiatrist! Talk about the blind leading the blind.’
Trevor smiled back and said, ‘Sure the reason he gave up private practice in the first place was that he was more disturbed than most of his patients, and never cured any of them! So what did they do? Made him a lecturer, of course!’ He seated himself behind his huge, leather topped desk and waved her toward a chair, shaking his head in amusement as he said, ‘Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.’
He recollected Kate’s current position and coughed to cover his embarrassment before saying hurriedly, ‘Er, I wasn’t including you in that…’
Dimples appeared on Kate’s face, taking years off her age, as she smiled to herself in secret amusement; in spite of the passage of years he was still the same awkward, often annoying, yet strangely endearing Trevor. She made a dismissive gesture and said, ‘Obviously you weren’t including me in that bracket, or you wouldn’t have invited me out here today, would you?’
‘Er, no, I suppose not. Sit down, please. Would you like some coffee?’
Kate shook her head as she sat down, ‘Not right now, thanks.’ She smiled again, with growing warmth, ‘You’re still the bossiest, most irritating man in the world, Trev, and I’m so glad to see you again.’
He smiled, ‘The same words could be applied to you, my dear. Well, not the man part, obviously but definitely the irr…’ Before he could continue a faint sound caught both their attention and he froze. Muffled and distant though it was, the sound was undoubtedly that of a woman screaming.
‘Excuse me a minute,’ said Trevor expressionlessly, picking up his phone. He spoke briefly into the receiver before getting to his feet and heading for the door, his face inscrutable, ‘I won’t be long, I just have to attend to something.’ He opened the door but then paused to say, ‘It’s your new, or should I say, prospective patient. She seems to be having an…episode.’
And with that he was gone, but through the open door Kate could more clearly than ever the desperate, terror-filled screams of Grainne Riordan.
Continued….
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