Falling Light Part 16

The sight of the door was jarring. It seemed starkly out of place with the rest of the house. After eyeing it with a frown, she moved on.

Another door was closed, only this one looked as simple and ordinary as the rest. She could sense Michael's presence on the other side, and she bit her lip, sorely tempted to either knock or crack the door open and peek inside. If he wasn't asleep, perhaps they could talk.

But if he were asleep, her knock would wake him up. He needed to rest as desperately as she, and he had still been working when she had fallen into bed. It wasn't fair to disturb him. She didn't even want to try cracking open the door.

She moved to one of the windows to look out. Astra worked in a large vegetable garden. Her small, thin figure made a compact bundle as she knelt between rows. She pulled weeds from between young, green shoots while a light breeze stirred her white hair.

The ch.o.r.e looked so ordinary, yet Mary could sense a density of spirit activity swirling around the old woman. Astra was doing much more than it appeared at first glance.

Something inside of Mary relaxed. With both Michael and Astra occupied, there was nothing for her to do but rest. She stretched out on the couch and, with a sense of deep relief, let herself doze in the quiet of the afternoon.

A noise brought her awake. As she sat up, she realized that she had heard quiet movement from behind Michael's closed door.

She rose and moved toward his room to pause just outside the door. What if he had just been tossing and turning in his sleep? She hadn't heard any further movement, but she grew convinced that either he was awake, or he was close to it. Something about his energy had s.h.i.+fted and grown sharper.

If he was close to waking, he had rested enough. This time, she didn't back away. She eased the door open a crack to peer inside.

Heavy curtains had been pulled shut at the window, but even though the room lay in deep shadow, she could still see details.

The bedroom's furnis.h.i.+ngs were minimal. Michael sprawled facedown on the covers of a king-sized bed. He still wore the black cotton pants he had been wearing earlier. His torso and feet were bare, and his dark head was buried in a pillow.

She glanced from his broad, muscular back to the bedside table. It held a lamp, along with the first clock that she had seen in the house, and a gun. The clock's luminous digital face read 2:23 P.M.

She regarded the gun wryly and with a pang of sadness. He wouldn't or couldn't fully relax even here.

She had expected him to roll for his gun as the door opened, or at the very least sit up, but he did neither of those things. Some deep, buried part of him must realize that she wasn't a threat. She wanted to believe that he knew she was present, and that he welcomed her, but cold reason said that more likely his defenses weren't quite as heightened on the island because he knew they were relatively safe for the time being.

She inched across the room to squat by the bed. He was still in a light sleep. He had showered, although he hadn't bothered to shave. She caught the faint, familiar scent of Astra's soap.

In spite of the shadow of beard that darkened his jaw, he seemed younger in repose, his harsh features softened. She felt guilty about studying him without his knowledge and almost turned to go, but then she stopped.

By his own admission, he was a pragmatic man. Astra struck her the same way. Ruthlessness was one of the traits they shared. Mary had a gut feeling that when he got up, she might find herself at the mercy of his and Astra's agendas.

That was okay. She respected it. Michael and Astra had been preparing for a long time for the danger they faced. They were much more knowledgeable than she, and they had been preparing for a confrontation that had been building over centuries.

But she had her own agenda. If she didn't manage ruthlessness, she certainly achieved stubbornness. Remembering how Michael had connected with her when she had been locked inside her own mind, she laid a hand on his arm and sank her awareness into him. This time she focused on his presence, the ephemeral part of him rather than his physical body.

She had been prepared to fumble her way through something she hadn't yet attempted in this lifetime, but in a fast, catlike swipe, Michael's presence connected with hers.

She lost her physical point of reference, except for a distant awareness of her hand as it rested on his muscled bicep.

What do you need, Mary?

Sorry to wake you.

I'm not awake yet, he said. My body is still resting.

That was a neat trick, and something else for her to learn.

She floated in nothingness, with no sight or sound other than his disembodied, measured voice. His telepathic voice sounded controlled and self-contained, like an impersonal voice on an answering machine. Mr. Enigmatic had survived the trip and was doing just fine.

I don't like this, she said. I feel like I'm floating in an isolation tank. When you connected with me in my head, we had a cave and a floor and light so that we could see each other. How did you do that?

She could almost hear him sigh. I'll teach you later, he said. You did most of the work. You were trapped in your memories, and the image of the cave was yours. I simply entered the scene. What do you need?

She said, I heard you stirring, and I wanted to talk to you in private.

What did you want to talk about?

The guarded neutrality in his mental voice hurt more than she had expected.

In a flash of intuition, she knew that his disembodied voice was a deliberate ploy to keep their conversation at a distance. She almost told him, Never mind, I'm sorry. She almost broke the connection, but then she didn't.

She had been following her gut instinct all her life. When she did, for the most part things had turned out. Whenever she tried to make decisions based on more rational criteria, the results were less than successful. Witness her foolish fiasco of a marriage to Justin. She had pa.r.s.ed that decision down to a cold-blooded nicety, when her gut had known better.

And as Astra had asked earlier, why do things always have to make sense or operate on human logic?

So she followed her gut. She said, I had a dream. I wanted to show you an image so you could help me identify it. Do you mind?

A long, undefined moment pa.s.sed, and a sick feeling began to bloom in the pit of her stomach. He wouldn't reject her. Not her, of all people. Not after looking for her all this time. He wouldn't stay closed off. Would he?

He said, Reconstruct the image and put yourself in it. Visualize all the details around you like it was in your dream. Do you remember it well enough?

Yes.

She did as he said. It was remarkably easy. Within a few moments, the complete image settled around her like a tent. She looked around with satisfaction at the old ruins of the chapel. Everything was as clear and immediate, and as rich with sensual detail as it had been the first time.

She told him, Okay, I'm ready.

She moved to her altar and sat on it cross-legged. The noon sun poured down like fiery gold rain. Earthy, dark power welled from the altar, and the light and dark energies met again inside of her.

This time she wasn't taken by surprise and knocked out of the image. She found that she could hold her position, although the intensity of the power made the construct of her body s.h.i.+mmer like the mirage that it was.

Michael appeared in the chapel. He was dressed in a black T-s.h.i.+rt, black combat pants and boots.

They were clothes made for fighting. Even now he s.h.i.+elded himself. The realization caused another pang.

He spun on one heel as he cast a swift glance around. Then he looked at her. His expression was grim, unreadable, and his eyes sword sharp.

She kept her voice soft and easy. "What do you think of it?"

His gaze narrowed. "How can you be here and not know what this place is?"

He could have said, How could you be in this place and not know yourself?

"I know what this place is." She ran her fingers along the cool, uneven surface of the altar. "I wanted you to see it."

Astra had said she had needed to connect with some place inside of her. Understanding had blossomed only after she had awakened from her dream.

The chapel didn't exist anywhere in physical form. Although her mind had chosen the scenery, the details of the image didn't matter. They were cosmetic. They provided definition to the eye, symbols of that which was invisible.

This was a place past guards and barriers, cynicism and shortcomings, a place of pure spirit. It was purely private, purely Mary. She would have to be quite broken before she would fail to recognize her own heart. And she was no longer broken.

He jerked away and strode to the opposite side of the chapel, pacing like a caged animal. Unlike a caged beast, he was free to leave whenever he wanted. She was relieved that he did not, at least not yet.

"I don't understand," he said in a clipped voice.

He kept pacing, back and forth, and the force of emotion that emanated from him was blistering.

"What don't you understand?" she asked. She still spoke as gently as she could, for she realized that they had reached this point in other lives. Sometimes they had failed to resolve the fundamental differences in their natures. Those lives had been filled with great hurt.

"You looked at me with such horror this morning," he said between his teeth. His pain was palpable, and it echoed back through time. Back and back, to their beginning.

"You misunderstood me earlier. I didn't look at you in horror," Mary told him. "I think you're beautiful."

Michael stopped pacing but he still stood poised for action. The doubt in his expression said more than any words could.

She kept a stern grip on her own emotions and reached for patience. "This morning I had a flashback. I looked down the guns of those two men who shot me, and then I shot at two people. I could have killed two men who were innocent of the Deceiver's crimes. They might have had families and friends, and they thought they were only doing their job-"

"You've got to be kidding," he said. "You're torturing yourself over them?"

Her back stiffened. "I'm disturbed by what happened, yes."

The first sharp edge of his pain had eased, but he still felt volatile, unpredictable. "Let me put your mind forever to rest," he told her. "You didn't shoot those men. You might have managed to hit the boats once or twice, but that's about all. I shot those men while I was running to get to you."

She paused. "That's not the point."

He tilted his head and prowled close. "You just said it was."

"No." She put up both hands. "Please listen to me. The actual fact that I did not shoot those men is not the point. What I experienced-what I believed-is that I shot those men. That's the point. I picked up a gun, something that I said I would never do, and I pointed it at two human beings. I pulled the trigger, and not once. I didn't stop shooting until the gun was empty."

He spun away. "Now we're back to where we started."

She slid off the altar and walked over to him. "You know as well as I do how much has happened over the last few days. The dragon healed me, but I have still sometimes felt like I've lost my center. This experience was one of those times, and it was wrapped up in the memory of the bullets. .h.i.tting my body. I was so scared, and I was so sure that I was going to die."

He looked over his shoulder at her, and the lines of his face had tightened again.

She put a hand on his back. "This morning had nothing to do with you. It had everything to do with me. Then Astra gave me this dream, and I went on a journey. I reached my center again, and I know who I am. I'm not talking about discovering new memories." She gestured at the scene around them. "I'm talking about this. That's what this place is all about, and that's what I wanted to show you."

He turned to face her, and he took her hands. Somehow, even though it was the first time he had reached out to her since they had parted early that morning, he felt more distant than he had before.

"That's where I think you're wrong," he said. The gentleness in his voice was even worse than his touch. "Everything that you described-taking the gun, emptying the clip at two other people. That's what I do. That's who I am, and I don't have a problem with that. You have a fundamental problem with it. That means you have a fundamental problem with me."

This conversation had slipped out of her control. She tightened her fingers on his. "No," she said. "I didn't mean that. You're twisting things around."

"Healer and warrior," he said. He touched her face lightly with the tips of his fingers. "We may need each other, but we do not always see eye to eye. We do not always come together."

"What are you trying to say?" She tried to smile but it came out all twisted. "You sound like you're trying to break up with me."

"I could never do that," he said, very low. "After all, we're bound together, aren't we?"

She sucked in a breath. The cadence of his words was both tender and bitter at once, and after everything that they had been through in the last few days, that was what hurt the most. "Maybe this was a mistake," she managed to say. "I was trying to show you that I was doing better and that I got my balance back."

"I'm glad you told me," he said. All his emotion retreated until it was locked behind a fortress again, and Mr. Enigmatic looked down at her.

She shook her head. Suddenly she was furious with him. She didn't think. She just flung words at him.

"How convenient for you that you figured me out so completely, despite everything that I'm trying to say to the contrary. It makes it so much easier for you to erect your walls and live behind them, just like you always have."

The fortress cracked. His eyes flashed, and she saw that she had scored a hit.

He opened his mouth to reply.

A blast of fury and terror hit Mary. It knocked her out of her mental image. In Michael's bedroom, she fell back on her heels, disoriented, while Michael surged out of his bed and slapped the light on.

Nicholas's presence raged in the room. Mary rose to her feet as Michael asked, "What is it?"

The ghost said, The Dark One is in my father's house.

Chapter Nineteen.

MICHAEL'S EYES FLASHED, and he swore. "Has he taken them yet?"

They are getting close to the mainland. They have no radio, or any way to reach them on the boat. My father cannot hear me unless he is asleep. Nicholas rampaged the room like a cyclone. I don't know why I ranged ahead of them. Instinct. Habit. I backed away as soon as I sensed the Dark One's presence in the direction of my father's house.

"Oh, my G.o.d," Mary said. "Oh no."

The news. .h.i.t her like a punch in the gut. That wonderful, stubborn old man, and that sweet, s.e.xy boy. If he took them, he could torture them for information. He could use them the way he had used her ex-husband Justin. The thought made her feel physically ill.

"Is there any way to make phone calls from here?" she asked. "Do they have cell phones with them?"

"We have a couple of satellite phones," Michael said. He reached for a black T-s.h.i.+rt and dragged it over his head. "But they would need one too, and they don't have one. They won't get cell reception out on the water."

He strode out of the bedroom toward the outer door, but before he reached it, Astra walked in. Her face had turned sharp and drawn. "What's happened?"

"The Deceiver is at Jerry's house," Michael told her. "And Jerry and Jamie are getting close to the mainland."

Astra sucked in a breath. "They both know the coordinates for how to reach this island. We're not ready for a confrontation. We've only just reunited. Both of you have been seriously injured in the last few days. You're barely rested, and you haven't gained back all your strength. We have to pack and leave."

"No, wait," Mary said. "We have to find some way to help them. Nicholas said they haven't reached sh.o.r.e yet."