Black (22 page)

Her eyes shifted to meet his. They held for a moment.

“Are you going to stare at me or take on the bats?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

Tom jumped out ambitiously and cocked his arms to take on the phantom enemy with a few spectacular chops and kicks.

“They are coming in hoards. Don't worry, I can take them all. Ha, ya!” He sprang into the air, kicked with his right foot, then twirled through a full three-sixty before striking out again.

He'd gone for it impulsively, pushed by an inordinate desire to show his strength and skill. But the fact that he'd actually twisted through a full revolution in the air stopped him cold. Where had he learned that?

Just now he'd learned that.

In his self-admiration he lost track of his movements and crashed to the forest floor with a mighty thump.

“Ugh!”

Tom clawed his way to his knees, breath knocked clean out of his lungs. Rachelle ran up and dipped to one knee.

“Are you okay?” Her hand touched his shoulder.

He gasped. “Yeah.”

“Yes?”

“Sure.”

She quickly pulled him to his feet. A smile slowly twisted her lips. “I can see that You've forgotten some of your . . . mighty moves,” she said. She glanced around. “The next time it might look something like this.”

She leaped in the direction
of the invisible Shataiki. “Ha!” She kicked. Not a simple forward kick, but a perfectly executed roundhouse that dropped her back to earth in the ideal position for a second move.

She looked back, winked. “Tanis taught me.”

Then she went after the enemy in a long series of spectacular moves that stopped Tom's breath for a second time. He counted one, two, three backflips in the mix. At least a dozen combination moves, most of them in the air.

And she did it all with the grace of a dancer, careful to accommodate her dress as she flew.

This chick was good. Very good.

She landed on her toes, facing Tom at twenty feet, all business.

“Ha!” she said and winked again.

“Ha. Wow.”

“Wow.”

He swallowed.

She quickly lowered her guard and assumed a more feminine stance. “Don't worry, we'll just pretend you did that. I won't tell a soul.”

He cleared his throat. “Okay.”

She studied him for a moment. Her eyes twinkled. The game wasn't over. Of course not. It was probably just starting.

Or so he was beginning to hope.

Choose, pursue, protect, woo. The words echoed in his mind.

“You are very . . . strong,” he said. “I mean graceful.”

She started to walk toward him. “I know what you mean. And I like both strong and graceful.”

“Well, you're also very kind.”

“Am I?”

“Yes, I think so.”

He wanted to tell her that she was beautiful. That she was intriguing and full of life and compelling. But suddenly he found the words too much. It was all too much, too fast. For a man with all of his senses properly engaged, this might be the natural way to romance a woman, but for him, having lost his memory . . .

Rachelle stopped at arm's length. Searched his eyes.

“I think it was a wonderful game. You are a mysterious man. I like that. Maybe we can pick this up later. Good-bye, Thomas Hunter.”

She turned and walked away.

Just like that? She couldn't just walk away, not now.

“Wait!” He ran up to her. “Where are you going?”

“To the village.”

Her interest seemed to have evaporated. Maybe this choosing and wooing business was more involved than he'd thought.

“Can I walk with you?”

“Sure. Maybe I can help you remember a few things along the way. Your memory certainly needs some prodding.”

Before he could respond to her obvious needling, a large white beast stepped out of the trees toward them. A tiger, pure white with green eyes. Tom stopped abruptly.

Rachelle looked at him, then at the tiger. “That, for example, is a white tiger.”

“A tiger. I remember that.”

“Good.”

She walked to the animal, hugged it around the neck, and ruffled its ears. The tiger licked her cheek with a large tongue and she nuzzled its nose. Apparently all in the course of a day. Then she insisted that he come over and scratch the tiger's neck with her. It would be easier for him to remember if he engaged the world actively.

Tom wasn't sure how to read her comments. She said them all with a smile and with apparent sincerity, but he couldn't help thinking that she was edging him on or chiding him for his lackluster romancing.

Or she could be playing hard to get. Could that be part of the Great Romance?

On the other hand, she may have already decided he wasn't quite what she'd hoped for. Maybe the game was at its end. Could you unchoose, once having chosen?

They walked a few steps with tiger in tow. Rachelle plucked a yellow fruit from a small leafed tree.

“What is this?” she asked.

“I . . . I don't know.”

“A lemon.”

“A lemon, yes, of course, I remember that too.”

“And if you put the juice of this lemon on a cut, what happens?”

“It heals?”

She curtsied. “Very good.” They walked on and Rachelle picked a cherry-sized purple fruit from a low tree with wide branches. “And this one?”

“I don't think I know that one.”

She circled him as she held up the fruit. “Try to remember. I'll give you a hint. Its flesh is sour. No one likes them much.”

He grinned and shook his head. “No. Doesn't ring any bells.”

“If you eat it” —she imitated a small bite with perfectly formed white teeth—“your mind reacts.”

“No, no. Still nothing.”

“Rhambutan,” she said. “It puts you to sleep. You don't even dream.” She tossed it back to the tiger, but the beast ignored it.

They'd come to the edge of the forest. The village sat peacefully in the valley, glimmering with the brightly colored homes leading concentrically to the great Thrall.

Rachelle gazed down the hill and spoke without looking at him. “You are even more mysterious and wonderful than I imagined when I chose you.”

“I am?”

“You are.”

He should respond in kind, but the words weren't coming.

“You might want to work on your memory, of course,” she said.

“Actually, my memory works well in some areas.”

She faced him. “Is that so? What areas are those?”

“In my dreams. I'm having vivid dreams that I live in the histories. And all of that I remember. It's almost as real as this place.”

She searched his eyes. “And do you remember how to romance in these dreams?”

“Romance? Well, I don't have a girlfriend or anything, if that's what you mean, no. But maybe I do know some things.” Kara's advice on romance came back to him. Now would be a good time to turn up the wooing quotient. “But nothing like this. Nothing so wonderful and beautiful as you. No one who captures my heart so completely with a single touch or a passing smile.”

The corner of her mouth tugged into a faint smile. “My, you are remembering. You may dream all you like, my dear.”

“Only if I can dream about you,” he said.

She reached up and touched his cheek. “Good-bye, Thomas Hunter. I will see you soon.”

He swallowed. “Good-bye.”

Then she was walking down the hill.

Tom walked back from the crest so that he wouldn't be visible from the valley. The last thing he wanted at the moment was for Tanis or Palus to come flying up for a report.

He knew he wouldn't be dreaming of Rachelle, despite his sentiments to do so. He'd be dreaming of Bangkok, where he was expected to deliver some critical information on the Raison Strain.

He stopped by a large green tree and looked east. The black forest was about an hour's walk. The answers to a dozen questions could be there. Questions about what
had happened to him in the black forest. Where he'd come from. Questions about the histories. The Raison Strain.

What if he were to go? Just one quick visit, to satisfy himself. The others might not even know he was missing. Michal might. But he couldn't continue on with these impossible dreams or without knowing exactly how he'd come to be in the black forest in the first place. One way or the other, he had to know precisely what had happened, was happening, to him. He might find those answers only in the black forest, just as Tanis might find his satisfaction only in an expedition there.

But not now.

He leaned against the green trunk and crossed his arms. His legs had a rubbery feel to them, like noodles. He hadn't realized that romancing required so much energy.

17

O
f course she likes me,” Tom said. He'd slept half the night, but felt as though he was running on fumes here.

Kara looked at him across the wrought-iron table. “I think wishful thinking is rearing its beautiful head, dear brother. For all you know, winking means, ‘Take a hike.'”

They were seated in the caféadjacent to the atrium where Raison Pharmaceutical would make its grand announcement as soon as the entourage arrived. The main courtyard milled with dozens of reporters and local officials awaiting this momentous occasion. You'd think they were receiving the president. In Southeast Asia—any excuse for a ceremony. Tom was surprised they didn't have a ribbon to cut. Any excuse to cut a ribbon.

Tom scanned the crowd for the hundredth time, considering yet again his options. Getting to Monique de Raison shouldn't be a problem. Convincing her to order additional testing of the drug didn't seem unreasonable either. The real challenge would be the timing. Getting to Monique before the announcement if possible; convincing her to do more testing
before
shipping.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he said. He felt like a worn leather sole. His eyes hurt and his temples throbbed.

“You sure you're okay?” Kara asked. “I know You've been insisting you're peachy all morning, but you really do look horrible.”

“I'm tired is all. Soon as we deal with this thing, I'll sleep for a week.”

“Maybe not.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning the dreams. They're real, remember? Maybe the reason you're not getting any rest is because you're
not
.”

“Because when I'm asleep there, I'm awake here and vice versa.”

“Think about it,” Kara said. “You're tired in both places. You just fell asleep on the hill overlooking the valley while contemplating the Great Romance.”

“No, I was contemplating returning to the black forest at the urging of my sister.”

Tom heard a commotion by the front doors. A guest's baggage had toppled from a cart, and several bellhops were frantically throwing it back on.

“You're right that I'm just as tired there. I keep falling asleep. It's one of the only things that's similar. Everything else is different. I wear different clothes; I talk differently—”

“How do you talk?”

“More like them. You know, eloquent and romantic. Like a hundred years ago.”

She grinned. “Charming.”

“You'd be surprised.”

“Oh, brother.”

Tom felt the first of a blush warm his face. “I know it sounds sappy, but things are just different there.”

“Clearly. The point is, you can't keep going like this. You're exhausted, you're nervous, you're sweating, and you're chewing on your fingernail. You have to get some rest.”

Tom pulled his finger from his mouth. “Of course I'm sweating. It's hot.”

“Not in here it's not.”

For the first time Tom seriously considered his physical condition. What if she was right and he wasn't getting any real sleep at all? He instinctively ran his fingers through his dark curls in an attempt to put them in order. It helped that his hairstyle was a tad avant-garde, or “messy,” as Kara put it. He wore a pair of Lucky jeans, featherweight black boots, and a black T-shirt, tucked in at Kara's insistence given the occasion. The shirt had an inscription in white schizoid letters:

I've gone to find myself.
If I get back before I return, please keep me here.

“Maybe I'm sleeping, but my mind's so active that I'm not getting good rest,” he said.

The loitering crowd suddenly surged toward the atrium.

Tom jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. “She's here!”

“Did I mention edgy?” Kara asked. “Calm and collected, Thomas. Calm and collected.”

He righted the chair and then strode toward the entrance with Kara hurrying to keep pace.

“Slow down.”

He didn't slow down.

The door opened and two husky men dressed in black stepped into the reception area. Thai
sak
tattoos marked their forearms. There were basically two varieties of tattoos in Thailand:
khawm
designs meant to invoke the power to love, and
sak
designs meant to invoke the power against death. These were the latter, worn by men in dangerous lines of work. Clearly security. Not that Tom cared—he wasn't planning on jumping the woman. Their eyes made quick work of the room.

Two red cords draped through golden posts formed a temporary path toward the atrium. The men blocked the space between the last post and the entrance, pushed the doors open, and swept their arms to guide their employer.

The strong, confident face of the woman who stepped into the lobby of the Sheraton Grande Sukhumvit commanded attention. She wore expensive-looking navy heels without nylons. Sculpted calves. Navy blue skirt and blazer with a white silk blouse. Gold necklace with a nondescript gold pendant that looked vaguely like a dolphin. Flashing blue eyes. Dark, shoulder-length hair.

Monique de Raison.

“My, my,” Kara said.

Flashbulbs popped. Most of the guests waited in the atrium, where a podium had been set up amid a virtual jungle of exotic flowering plants. Monique gave the room one glance and then walked briskly toward the atrium.