Читать книгу Sin - Sharron Burnett - Страница 8

Chapter 2

She looked like none who came to worship at his altar. She was as natural as rain; her long dark hair fell in a multitude of silken whorls to a lean and slender waist. She wore loose fitting jeans and a T-shirt several sizes too large.

Her hands were soft, her nails even and trimmed. They were not idle, those hands. She was forever creating, even the blank canvas of her shoes was not left untouched. They had been skillfully penned with delicate paisleys.

He drew back, watching her through a veil of dark lashes.

“Wake up, Maggie,” he intoned. His voice reaching her through the vast distance of an unnatural sleep.

Her eyes opened slowly, cautiously, looking at him with a widening expression of horror. She wanted to look away but couldn’t.

His eyes were changing, their color darkening, swirling, merging, from blue to green and finally to grey. His stunning gaze traveled from the top of her head to the tip of her toes, his unhurried perusal causing her inexpressible agonies.

He was dressed completely in black, from the spider web of material that shrouded his lean chest, to the indecently low cut of his leather pants.

He sat beside her, close. She was in a bed. His bed? She opened her mouth, yet no words would come. Her eyes darted away.

“Oh,” she whispered. Her voice rusty.

She seemed to diminish in size. All but her eyes. They stood out, large, and shining. “Hello,” he said gently.

“Hi.” She could feel the heat of his stare. “I’m Sorry.”

“For what?” he said softly.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, breathless. “Probably something—” she said, below her breath.

He caught her hand in his, holding it captive when she would have pulled away. He turned it over, bringing the delicate wrist to his mouth.

“Nothing has happened.” His hand was cold, his fingers long, nails painted black.

“You are safe.”

“Please…” she pulled free, searching wildly for a way to escape this particular moment. She stopped, stunned by the image she saw, hanging just above her head. Her eyes flew to the bottom right hand corner.

Magdalene Paine.

She couldn’t believe it; one of her paintings hung in his house?

“It’s actually rather good,” he said with a hint of pride. “It was your first if I’m not mistaken.”

Her eyes were fixed on the likeness of Jesus. It was a disturbing image, not the usual subjugated reflection of his suffering on the cross but an accurate depiction of the violence and torture he’d endured.

He rose with a languid stretch, covering his eyes with the same small black shades that he’d worn during the concert.

“We have company,” he said, turning his face away from the brilliant radiance enveloping the space right beside him.

A figure appeared, indistinguishable. A shadowy silhouette backlit by a brilliant sphere of light. It had imprinted itself across her vision, blinding her momentarily.

“Brother.” His voice was mild, friendly.

“What do you want, Lucien?”

He was unbelievably handsome, with long flaxen hair and almost colorless blue eyes. He turned to her, splintering her with those distinctive orbs.

“Perhaps a moment alone,” he said gently, giving the impression that he spoke to her.

He sighed, glancing at her briefly before leading the way through the room’s heavy wooden door. She was alone and abruptly so. She looked around taking in the rich furnishings.

“Rebekah!” Maggie whispered aloud.

“Where the hell are you?”

She looked at herself; she was wrinkled but fully clothed, so nothing bad happened, hopefully.

She had on several occasions, awoken to find herself in unfamiliar surroundings, but this took the cake. The sheer size of the place was outrageous. Her whole apartment could fit into this one room. If that is what you would call it.

She looked around. A huge chest of drawers drew her attention, its mirror hung suspended between two gracefully arched wings. It looked old, possibly even very old.

The cold floor drew what little heat remained in her as she crept toward it. She opened the top drawer, finding an array of women’s underclothing.

She touched the sheer fabric, withdrew a pair of panties. They were black. Created for seduction. She opened the next drawer—jeans, cut low and very expensive.

“See something you like?”

She laughed, unsure.

He drew closer; his hand reaching up to fondle a strand of her wildly curling hair.

“They’re my sister’s,” he said, a seductive smile curling his lips.

“The two of you are about the same size. His eyes lowered, perceptively.

She flashed a quick glance behind her. “My sister…” she began.

“She’ll be looking for me.”

“Not for some time yet,” he said, enigmatically.

Confusion registered in her eyes.

“Come.” He encouraged.

She followed, keeping a wary eye on his back.

“I’ve taken the liberty of drawing you a bath.”

“Honestly, I’d rather not.” She looked on the verge of panic.

“Maggie.” He sighed pushing her gently back until she was pressed firmly against the huge wooden door. He reached behind her.

“Wait!”

He stopped, looking at her through black lenses.

“You are my guest, Magdalene. Please, have no fear.” He opened the door, watching her stumble backward into the most opulent bathroom she’d ever seen.

Tub and shower were separate. Both were made of a coal black marble, inlaid with golden filigree. The showering area was encased in glass. A stripper’s pole had been installed at some point, making her feel even more out of place.

She turned back, finding him watching her, a slight smile softening his full, sensual lips. He turned, prepared to give her the privacy she obviously required. Walking away silently, he sat down at a desk across the room. He picked up a pen which he put to paper; his guest seemingly forgotten for the time being.

She closed the door quietly. No lock. No way to keep him out where he in the mind to barge in. She looked around uneasily. She was alone. Where had the light haired one gone? He had come in this same door or had he? Oh god. What was happening to her?

She was going too.

Maggie!

Her hand went to the button at the base of her throat as the voice echoed throughout her mind.

Suddenly the fear drained out of her, had she heard something? She wanted only to sink into the heated bath. It was oversized, deep; she would be submerged all the way to her neck. She pulled the shirt over her head. Her pants were next. She folded them up in a bundle, heaping them up together with her shirt and underwear.

She eased in. The water was hot, but it felt good after the chill of the porcelain tile. Her hair was in need of washing, so she let it float about her; she dunked her head, shaking out her hair under water.

“Awe.” She sighed as she submerged.

She used the cake of what appeared to be homemade soap. She lathered herself, finding the scent to her liking. The water was softened with conditioners that held the same aroma. The scent seemed slightly familiar.

She felt good. The heat was relaxing her.

Missing time. It was phenomena she was all too familiar with. It was a byproduct of the mental chaos that all but defined her early adolescence. She had been diagnosed, paranoid schizophrenia. And sometimes, someone else took over, completely. Basically, she was a freak, worse; she was a psychotic freak.

But that was before. She had a life now, a career…meds.

She laughed. She had her sanity, and it was not going to slip away just because she had another episode.

Was that what this was? The gap in her memory was the same or rather normal. But that is where the similarities ended. She should be terrified; she should be worried sick actually. Why wasn’t she? It was almost like she was under a spell.

She heard laughter.

She bolted, splashing water out of the tub. She instantly sank down low.

She heard a distant chuckle, somewhere inside her head. A moment later, she knew no more.

*****

Liquid moonlight glittered like diamonds under the full moon. Silent and cold, the waves crashed violently outside the picture window, breaking with a flash of white against the jagged cliffs below.

“Oh my god.” She stopped, staring at the scene. “This must be a dream,” she said quietly.

“Not this time,” he rumbled, shooting her a glance through the shades that were forever close at hand.

The world tilted, drawing her forward, toward him. He put a steadying hand on her back when her hands came in contact with his chest.

He pulled away, leaving her with vulnerable eyes that pierced into his soul.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely.

“There is no need for apologies,” he said in that distinctive voice.

“It is your company which I desire the most.”

“Me?”

“You are Maggie?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then yes, I am in good company.” He said, reaching out to capture one long braid.

Her hair was divided, straight down from the crown of her head, plaited and still slightly damp. The water had held conditioners that perfumed her skin with an essence of some exotic muskiness. She swallowed hard hoping to find her voice.

“I should find m-my…”

“You will see her again.” He returned.

He led her down a spiral staircase; it was made of stone. The steps shallow and wide. It seemed as though they went on forever, circling the interior wall of a gigantic tower. She had navigated them gracefully up until now.

They arrived at what turned out into the strongholds entrance. It was boldly arched, dramatically carved wooden door of unbelievable size.

She was enthralled as it opened with a resonant creak.

“Come,” he said as he led her outside, into the night.

Blood red roses flanked either side of the entrance, continuing a labyrinth within the surrounding gardens. A foot path meandered through the grounds, illuminated by moonlight and torch fire.

A vast collection of religious statuary graced the gardens. Demons and imps cavorted together like children around the virgin mother. Her beloved son draped across her lap; her face masked in sorrow.

“The leader of men.” He derided. “An icon for all mind-numbing, irreverent bigots. His story has been revised throughout history by the corrupt and inept, until it no longer resembles the truth.”

“Do you know the truth?”

“I am the truth,” he whispered. His smile hidden behind long coal black hair.

The path ended in a circular alcove where an ancient rowan tree sunk roots deep into the earth. Another stone angel knelt at her base. She was chained to the earth, naked, fallen. Her wings had been severed; her body scourged and a crown of thorns circled her brow. Blood spilled from her eyes, crimson tears that fell across a face, despoiled by pain and horror.

She turned away, turning her back on the monstrosity.

“You don’t like it?” he asked. His smile crooked.

She faltered; his question taking her by surprise.

“Its…” she felt bile rushing up to her throat.

“I’m sorry…” she broke away, quickening her steps before another wave had her rushing for the closest bush.

He laughed, catching up with slow unhurried steps.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, feeling a profound embarrassment.

“Don’t be,” he said, seizing her arm, his luminous eyes, brilliantly intense.

“Art is meant to take one by surprise, to create a stirring even if it’s in the stomach.” He looked amused.

“I find myself pleased by your response.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” His eyes were black, intense, clinging to every curve and hollow of her familiar face. He sighed, taking her hand in his. He brought it to his mouth, pressing his lips to the erratic pulse.

“Hmmm…this could be harder than I’d imagined.”

“Did you sculpt that?”

“Guilty.” He smiled, looking altogether blameworthy.

“She looks like me,” she said tightly.

“Your painting, the one hanging above the bed. His face was once similar to my own,” he said, as if it were an afterthought.

“I guess we both connected on some artistic level.” Maggie laughed, a nervous little sound, her eyes darting toward his. His words made no sense to her, although she would never say so.

He grinned; his eyes, a deep aquatic green now. She looked away, bewildered.

His sexuality was palpable, making her feel a terrible yearning. She wanted to be touched by him. She couldn’t control it, this need.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” he asked, a slow and steady softening changing his eyes yet again.

“God, yes.” She breathed, a slight smile curving her lips.

She was holding her breath; her arms crossed in front of her.

“I can help with that.” He promised.

“The first kiss is always the most anticipated.” He took a step closer.

“I’m not going to downplay the second or the third, but this one in particular can be worrisome.”

He reached up, threading his fingers into her hair. She began to tremble as he pulled her closer.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered, feeling her stiffen.

He kissed the hollow beneath her ear; his lips gentle as a sigh against her skin. Her jaw line followed and finally her lips. His tongue invaded her mouth, mating with hers in an age-old battle. She felt an overwhelming need spiraling toward obsession as she clung to him, kissing him back.

He pulled away first; his mouth set in a tender grimace, as though he was in pain. He retrieved her arms from around his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

She didn’t know what to say. Her eyes fell, heat infusing her cheeks.

“I’m…” she began. “I’m no good at this,” she whispered softly.

“You’re wrong…”

She glanced up at him. Heavy lids covered eyes that were strangely radiant in the darkness around them. She tried to pull away, but his grasp became visceral, unbreakable. He pulled her wrist up to his mouth.

“From the moment I first saw you, I’ve thought of nothing but this.” His tongue brushed against the steadily beating conduit beneath her delicate skin.

“Your scent is so…”

His bite, when it came was intense. She groaned, her eyes closing tightly. He tore his mouth away, readjusting his hold. His mouth covered the vulnerable flesh at the crook of her neck. Blood shot into his mouth, flooding him with an alarming rush of heat.

He moaned, pulling her closer. He picked her up, molding her to him.

“Isn’t this an inviting sight.”

Caine pulled away from her violently, turning with a vicious growl, seeing his brother standing there as still as one of his stone effigies.

“Do, save some for me,” he asked in a fashionable manner although his eyes shone bright with the scent of her blood.

Caine looked down at her. “Shit.” He growled, lifting his wrist to his mouth.

Lucien inhaled deeply.

“Innocence? Not your usual poison.” A vague smile crossed his stunning face.

“She tastes as good as she looks?” Lucien’s voice was a monumental distraction.

Her blood weighed heavily in his stomach, finding its way into his head. Taking over there like a drug, awakening something ancient in him, something familiar.

“Don’t let her die,” he said tightly, falling to his knees.

“She’ll be dead by morning,” Lucien said, strangely intent. He took a step closer, his mouth open, tasting the air around them.

“But then again…perhaps not,” he said, mystified, as he approached his fallen brother and his remarkably innocent meal.

“I’m not certain this is going to work, but let’s give it a go, anyhow.”

He straddled her hips, bringing his forearm to his sharp, double incisors. He then bit; opening up the vein, filling up his own mouth with the hellish liquid. His lips descended, moving over hers, filling her mouth with his blood. He forced her lips shut, pinching off her airflow until she had no choice but to swallow.He repeated the process a couple more times, taking pleasure at the novelty of it all.

“I think that should about do it, little sister.” He cooed, silkily.