Keepers of the Lost Garden (The Lost Garden Trilogy Book 2) (4 page)

She didn’t think so, but through the eyes of a mortal, she could see his point of view. How did he know she could bring him back from death? He hadn’t until she’d told him. Healing a wound was one thing, which he had witnessed, but bringing back the dead would be something he had to take entirely on faith.

He had trusted her, or so she thought.

True, he had put up a minor debate with her back at the house, but ultimately, she had seen in his face that he had believed her, although he might not have agreed with her bargaining tactics.

But he had trusted her.

His belief touched her.

Powerfully.

She suddenly felt responsible for this mortal. This man who she was beginning to believe more and more was the Chosen One. This man who knew so little of the ways of the Sisterhood and Eden. This man she was sent to find. This man who had been waiting for her his whole life.

The door to the bathroom opened.

He looked like the living dead. Face pale, cheeks slightly sunk in. In fact, he looked like one of the Fallen they had just met up with. He was wearing his same clothes, as they had not had time for him to gather a change of clothing when they had bolted from his home. His pants were unbuttoned, with the belt hanging loosely. His silk shirt was unbuttoned as well. He was making a haphazard attempt to stop the bleeding. He was leaving pink puddles of water on the tile.

He went straight to his cordovan loafers, which were by one of the suite chairs. He sat and moaned as he started pulling on his socks with one hand. The other was trying to keep the bloodied washcloth in place.

He cursed. His feet were still wet. The sock wasn’t going on easily.

“Where are you going, Evan Knight?”

“I need stitches.”

He looked pitiful and yet prideful. She had help waiting for him hanging around her neck, but the very source of the help—the oil—had earlier been the source of their confrontation. He was being stubborn and if he wasn’t nearly faint from loss of blood, she would have laughed at his comical attempts to pull on his socks with one hand, while adjusting the cloth with the other. The cloth periodically slipped, causing more blood to dribble free and more curses uttered from his lips.

She reached inside her robe and gathered up the leather thong and extracted the amber vial. She moved toward him.

He had sat back, regrouping, the sock only partially on his foot. He was unaware of her movements. Jess knew she could move as stealthily as a panther.

She opened the corked top. The scent of the oil was sharp and earthy. It always reminded her of a damp forest, pine needles and grass. In fact, she secretly suspected that the scents that emanated from all of the world’s rainforests, woods, jungles, glens, copses, meadows, and fields could be found in the Oil of Life. If one tried hard enough, the damp of a Scottish glen could be discerned, or the vivid miasma of a tropical rainforest. It was all there. In each drop.

She slid behind him.

He was breathing slowly. He reached again for his sock.

She stopped him, placing her left hand softly at the back of his injured shoulder. He didn’t flinch. In fact, he didn’t move at all. She had suspected that he would resist her, perhaps holding onto his grudge like a child.

She was wrong.

She bent over him. With her right hand, she reached around his chest. His partially buttoned shirt was already beginning to stain with blood.

Her lips were very near his ear. She gently pushed aside the silk shirt, revealing his wound. The skin around it was flaming red and blood was pumping out with each beat of his heart. Most, who were not warriors, would find it hard to believe the amount of blood that could be lost from a narrow stab wound. It was often too deep for blood to coagulate.

His flesh was hot. She figured it was a result of his soaking in the tub and not the result of a fever.

She tilted the vial over the wound and as designed, a single drop of yellow light oil issued and spilled over the serrated skin.

He chose not to watch the healing. Instead, he turned his head and looked at her. “Two times in one night,” he said. “Some hero I am. You ladies sure you got the right guy?”

The wound was healing as he spoke. The skin fused together. A last drop of blood spilled out before the skin itself sealed shut. She carefully—always carefully—put the top back on the vial of oil and set it on the room’s only table. She kept one hand on his shoulder.

“Whether or not we have the right man is for the Creator to decide.”

“Well, when you see him, let me know.”

He had unusually full lips that most women would be envious of. His eyes were hazel, but at the moment, they seemed to shine with the blue of a gemstone. She was sure he was flirting with her. His eyes were sparkling mischievously, as if daring her to kiss those lips. Then again, she could be wrong. He could still be delirious with loss of blood. Although she had lived many lifetimes, she was hardly an expert on flirting. Serious relationships with mortals were strictly banned. The times she had mated were strictly perfunctory and almost scientific. She had decided long ago that such sporting, which was how she referred to it, was a waste of her time and energy. The experiences did nothing except compromise her body, mind, and even her personal security.

As quickly as it was there, the flirting was gone from Knight’s eyes, and replaced with something else. An intense hunger.

An intense need.

For her.

This look wasn’t daring her to kiss him. In this transitory gaze, he wanted desperately to kiss her.

Not a look of lust, which she was familiar with. Mortal men very rarely held back their lust for her, which was why she often chose to wear the long robes. Her body was perfectly honed for combat and was apparently very desirable to most men.

No, Knight’s desire went deeper. It was an emotion that gripped him completely and she had the sensation that she had been involved in a love affair with this man. A love affair of which she had no memory. It was a disconcerting feeling.

But now, the hunger was gone. The longing in his eyes disappeared, replaced by his impish grin, which he did often and easily. She liked his grin.

But the desire
had
been there. She had seen it. And she wasn’t about to forget it.

* * *

Being in such close proximity to her was driving him nuts.

Never in his wildest expectations did he ever truly believe he would meet his dream woman. Now, here she was leaning over him, intimately doctoring his wounds. It was surreal. It was more than surreal.

It was unimaginable.

It was all he could do not reach out and pull her down on top of him. She probably would skewer him like a shish kabob with some hidden implement. He forced himself to look away, to focus on something else.

He thought of the images of her he had painted. The black hair with the streak of white.

Now, she was standing next to him. She was real.

Not a dream.

He was losing his mind. That was the only explanation. The Fallen? Immortals? The real Garden of Eden? The Chosen One?

He needed to be medicated.

Okay, he told himself, you’re supposed to be thinking of something else.
Anything but her.
His heart continued hammering in his chest. He was reacting to her nearness in other ways. Ways that reminded him of a hormone-crazed teenager.

He tried his damnedest to think of...anything else.

She reached out and gently touched his chin. He was suddenly conscious that he needed a shave. He looked up at her and was shocked by what he saw. Shocked and thrilled. She wanted him. He could see it in her eyes. He had seen the look before in other women, but coming from her was much more fulfilling, gratifying, and exciting.

* * *

She was surprised by her sudden need to taste his full lips. “Evan Knight,” she said, reaching out and touching his chin, “may I kiss you?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

She cupped his face gently in her hands and leaned down, hovering slightly over his lips. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly open. She pressed her lips against his.

So soft and warm. She cradled his head and then pressed her lips much harder against his. Never had a mortal inspired such a hunger within her.

Then again, he was the Chosen One.

Wasn’t he?

* * *

It had been a long night.

He had been exhausted after his lecture alone. Thrown on top of that was a fight with a wild hellion named Jessima IL Eve, a battle with a legion of undead, and then escaping the police along the beach. He had every right to collapse into sleep and yet, when their lips met, he felt more alive than ever.

An unexpected energy surged through him. Never had he ever expected to meet his dream woman, let alone kiss her.

Now, here she was, leaning over him tenderly rubbing his recently healed shoulder. Her lips moved slowly over his, tasting him carefully.

It was more than he could bear.

He groaned.

She pulled back, startled. “Are you hurt?”

“Quite the opposite. I’ve never felt better.”

He stood swiftly, knocking over the chair. In one smooth movement, he swept her up neatly in his arms.

She gasped. He thought she was about to flip out of his grasp, then he realized that she had probably never in her entire existence been swept up into someone’s arms, let alone a lover’s.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I have you.”

She relaxed, and draped her arms around his neck, then found his lips with her own. As he carried her over to the bed, perhaps just a dozen feet away, he tried to hide the fact that his arms were already shaking.

She was a big girl!

* * *

Never had she been hoisted in a man’s arms. Her first instinct was to attack, to rip off the offending man’s ears and then dig her fingers into his skull, but this man was not offensive in any sense of the word. He was enticing. When she allowed herself to be swept away, she had felt a thrill rush through her that was equivalent to the thrill of battle.

He was breathing hard. Perhaps with passion. They kissed as he headed toward the bed. He occasionally stole air from the side of his mouth.

He set her gently on the bed. Although he did his best to disguise it, he knuckled his lower back before he slid in next to her.

Evan Knight reached over and switched off the bedside lamp.

Chapter Four

Myora IL Eve, the Mother Daughter, gasped and bolted upright in her bed. The small, private chamber was pitch-black. She was alone.

The dream had been so vivid, so real. In it, there had been that final, blinding explosion that had jolted her to lucidity. Sweat rolled from her brow and her hands were shaking. Her dreams lately were always the same. In them, she saw the imminent destruction of the Sisterhood, exploding bombs and the carnage of her dear Daughters. She was among the dead and she viewed the destruction from above, from a bird’s eye view.

There was no one left behind to administer the healing oil.

The bodies left unattended quickly decomposed into nothing more than grinning skeletons.

This day was coming.

She was sure of it.

It was coming soon, based on the frequency and vividness of these dreams. She had learned long ago that she had been given the gift of prophecy, along with the herculean task to protect all life on Earth. When this day came, Eden would be exposed. The Tree of Life would be at the mercy of those who did not understand it. Or worse, it would be at the mercy of those who sought to use it for nefarious means.

She had lost two Daughters. One was dead. She was sure of it. Her dream had been clear on that account. Her death was the catalyst of the coming destruction.
The other.
Well, the hope of Earth rested with her and the young man. That left fifteen to defend all of life on Earth.

According to her dreams, they would fail.

And they would all die trying.

She hadn’t told her Daughters. She couldn’t. Not yet.

Time. That’s what they needed. She needed to give Jessima and the man known as Evan Knight (as it had been revealed to her in her dreams), time to return. Time to do whatever it was that he was put on this Earth to do. She didn’t know what it was and she especially did not know what made Knight so special and yet, there he was in her dreams. Centuries earlier, he had been just a vague image. A face indiscernible in her dreams, but the name was then unknown. He had appeared rarely, but often enough for her to know that the dream was prophetic. Admittedly, she often had trouble discerning the prophetic dreams from those that were not. As the years wore on, he appeared with more regularity. She had named him the Chosen One and she had shared this knowledge with her Daughters.

He was to be the savior of Eden.

The Daughters had balked at this notion. Were they not the protectors of life on Earth? She didn’t blame them. After all, they were a prideful and powerful bunch. So learned and experienced in some ways and simple in others. Ultimately, they were shielded from the plight of the real world. Exposed to it only in small increments at a time. Not really enough to know the harsh realities of what mortals faced, the fears that could grip them, some warranted and some not. The Chosen One challenged their very purpose. Jealousy aside, he was coming and he was going to do the job that the Daughters themselves could not do.

She swung her feet now to the cold, flagstone floor. She allowed the cold to seep into her bare skin, scattering the weight of sleep from her body.

It had been thirty years ago, perhaps, that she knew the Chosen One had finally been born. For the vague image in her dreams, the man with no name and no face suddenly had both. He was known as Knight and he was a hell of a good-looking man. She knew, thirty years ago, that a countdown had begun. An unknown timer in the sky had been set and the fate of Earth was in the hands of this simple mortal. Then again, perhaps he wasn’t so simple.

She stood and dressed, feeling a sickness in the pit of her stomach. She was too old for this shit.

* * *

She flicked on the lamp switch next to her bed. The light illuminated a small room, comprised only of a desk, a computer, a small sofa and an original painting from Michelangelo.
A dear man.

She sighed, thinking about him and their whirlwind affair one summer in Venice.

She slid her feet into slippers and padded over to the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom was barely large enough for her tall frame. The bedrooms and bathrooms were all small for a number of reasons. First, they were carved out of solid stone, so space, time, and manpower were a factor. Second, she never wanted herself or her Daughters to ever become too comfortable. They were here to protect and to serve, whether the world knew it or not. Each of them had to be ready to defend at a moment’s notice.

This latest nightmare had her still shaking. As she reached for the shower lever, her quivering hand slid off twice before she was able to grasp it and give it a turn.

The winds of change were upon them. There was nothing else to do but weather the storm. Or die trying.

Dying.
It was a word that was rarely uttered by the Daughters. An irrelevant word to any immortal, but now, she tasted it, tried it on for size, and realized that she was ready to die. She had lived long enough. She had been, for many centuries now, in a deep fatigue that even the healing oil could not erase.

As steam clouded the small room, she stripped down to her bare skin. The image in the mirror, ghost-like and hazy from the steam, was still trim and taut. Her daily workouts never ended. She should be the most fit person on Earth, if she counted all the workouts this body of hers had suffered through.

She stepped into the pleasant hot jet of water.

This was not a convent. Her Daughters did not sleep on wooden slats and did not shower in cold water. They were allowed some accouterments.

She stood there for quite some time and tried to let the heat of the water reach and soothe her tired muscles. It was a relief that would never come, no matter how hot the water was, or how long she stood under its penetrating spray.

Equipping their mountain fortress with modern plumbing had been a nightmare. It was a project that had started hundreds of years ago and only came to fruition during the last century. In fact, the fortress was in an almost constant state of construction and renovation, as progress swept through the twentieth century. The Daughters, who were trained and skilled in all manner of advancements, could only do so much. Although the Daughters had extensive training, they had brought in truckloads of workers, all blindfolded and drugged for secrecy, to build this modern fortress deep within the Mountain of God. They were paid well and suffered through the months of near darkness and isolation from the rest of world.

The mountain itself was riddled with caves and natural tunnels, which the Daughters had hewn and sculpted throughout the centuries. The workers ranged from construction workers, to computer engineers, to architects, all devoted to building and equipping the mountain fortress with modern technology and weaponry.

The end result was perhaps the eighth wonder of the world. An amazing entity existed within a stone mountain. The entire fortress was four stories high, with many tunnel offshoots leading to a myriad of rooms and workstations. It took an army of computers to keep the place afloat. The walls of the bathroom were pure basalt, carved straight from the mountain.

Now dressed in a long white robe, black hair streaked with gray and pulled back away from her face, Myora IL Eve left her small sleeping chamber.

Although she moved quickly, with unnatural youthful energy, she had the look of an elder. She had allowed herself to age into her early fifties before partaking of the oil. Myora had felt it necessary to set herself apart from her Daughters, to give them a proper mother figure. Now the gray in her hair and the fine lines around her eyes and mouth gave her the necessary maternal look. Myora insisted that all of her Daughters, and they were all
her
Daughters, begin ingesting the oil in their late twenties, after allowing their bodies to properly mature and strengthen on their own.

She swept down the stone corridor that was lined with heavy wooden doors. These were the sleeping quarters within their mountain fortress, where each Daughter shared a room with a sister.

Much of the fortress was built upon the foundation of the natural tunnel system, which was complex on its own. Many of their newer rooms—the computer control room, for instance—had to be hewn from the solid rock.

Long ago, they had simply lived in the natural caves, like ants in a colony.

Now the system was quite complex. Although many of the original tunnels were still in use, new tunnels and new rooms had been carefully hewed from the rock over the years. All levels connected to other levels through stone staircases, carved from the very mountain itself.

Myora IL Eve swept along the corridor and passed the recessed doorways of the living quarters of her Daughters, some of whom would still be sleeping, having spent the night on high alert. The oil, for all the good it did, did not erase the need for sleep. The Daughters of Eve tended to need more sleep than mortals. She suspected that the rebuilding of cells happened in their sleep and it was a much deeper, dreamless sleep. Almost catatonic. She still had vague, wispy memories of her mortal days and the haphazard randomness of her dreams. Not now, though. She either fell into a dreamless sleep or had visions.

She preferred the dreamless sleep.

The central tunnel had been worn smooth over countless centuries of use. Her footfalls echoed and her breathing amplified. The walls were lined with electrical sconces, which replaced the torches from the days of yore, and cast a soft, yellow glow.

Stone fortress or not, this was her home.

The tunnel ended. Next, she wound down a stone stairway, her hand gliding lightly on the smooth wall for balance. More sconces lit the way. The stairway opened into another tunnel. This one was on the third and largest level of the fortress.

The tunnel itself was a wide, natural artery that cut through the heart of the mountain. She passed a doorway that led to a massive natural cavern. Here, the Daughters practiced the art of hand-to-hand combat, using all manner of weaponry. Adjacent to the combat room was a thoroughly modern gym. Even now, she could hear one of them pounding the weights. The voice grunted and wafted out into the main hallway, along with the clang of the machinery.

Myora smiled to herself and continued forward.

Her Daughters were dedicated and loyal. Fierce warriors, they had given up their entire existence to protect Earth’s one resource that needed protecting above all others. They did so in obscurity and at great sacrifice to themselves, in ways that mortals would never understand. No one thanked them.

Except her.

The Mother Daughter.

* * *

She continued down the corridor, moving past the massive cafeteria. Already she could smell bacon and coffee, as her stomach grumbled. The immortals were ravenous eaters, with the appetites of Sumo wrestlers. Much of their food was bought in bulk and brought out here by one of the Daughters, a month or so at a time. Each Daughter was assigned cooking duties, including herself. As the Mother Daughter, she allowed herself some perks, but avoiding cooking duties was not one of them.

She moved past the cafeteria and its inviting scents.

There would be time to eat later.

She hoped.

Don’t be so pessimistic. It was, after all, only a dream.

But it had been so vivid. So real. She had seen the faces of the dead and each face she recognized as one of her precious Daughters. She had lost many Daughters over the years and although she recognized them more as companions and fellow guardians, they were still her Daughters.

After all, she had given birth to each one.

Her body was eternally fertile. When she lost a daughter, usually through combat, although sometimes through accidents (and twice, her Daughters never came home from their visits into the world of the mortals—she assumed these Daughters had been murdered), she replaced them. She found a proper suitor, usually locally. Often they were big men, hearty men. Men with good genes. And a new generation of Daughters were raised.

Now, with the loss of Rama, she would need to seek another man. The idea of making love again appealed to her. It had been a while. In fact, there had not been a new daughter born into the family for well over two hundred years.

That had been a hell of a dry spell for her.

But first things first.

She descended another flight of stairs on a broad stone staircase that led down to the second level of the fortress. The Command Level.

Once on the Command Level, she followed a trail of thick cables that led from two humming generators that were stored at the back of the hall. The cables, placed off to the side, snaked along the passageway and into the Control Room.

She stepped inside, and the Daughter on duty, Shala, looked up at her in alarm. “Mother, we have a disturbance!”

* * *

Myora stepped into the massive room, hewed from a natural cavern within the porous mountain. Large video screens covered most of the wall space. Most screens depicted visuals from around the mountain, although one or two were real-time topographical satellite images of the immediate region. The room itself was filled with desks and personal computers and laptops, all of which not only ran the Fortress, but also kept surveillance of the Mountain of God.