Trefoil (2 page)

“I have the wrong house,” she said, stumbling down the stairs. John caught her against him, and she felt a desperation in his touch that hadn’t been there before. Grip too tight, eyes crazed.

“What is it, John?” she cried. She yanked free of his hold and turned slow circles on the paved street. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. “What is it?”

Images crashed in on her like the far off breakers, flipping through her mind rapid fire. Cowboy hat. Yellow kitchen. Jug of flowers. Feather mattress. Golden skin, golden hair.

Her lungs filled with a terrified scream, but before she let loose, darkness swam before her eyes, stifled her breathing.

He caught her before she hit the pavement.

Nathan scraped his fingers through his hair and glanced for the eighteenth time at the cluster of flight attendants near the open jet door. His throat clamped around a growl of frustration, and his thigh muscles coiled, prepared to leap up, stomp down the center aisle and demand to seal the hatch himself.

Modern man had evolved as far technology went, but when it came to old-fashioned common sense, they’d digressed. The door had been standing open for almost an hour. Was no one qualified to close it?

The man seated beside him alternately flapped his newspaper in Nathan’s face, read a snippet aloud or sought his opinion on the latest political scandal. Nathan could give a shit about politics. “Look,” he wanted to say. “I’ve seen Washington’s inauguration. One is as good as another.”

But he was too distraught to speak.

In theory, he knew what he was doing. The phenomenon known amongst immortals as the Calling had him in its grip, and he was overwhelmed with the need to find
her.
The woman in his dream had made a gasping sound and bound their souls. He was frantic to find her now. Today. A fine tremor, like a hissing teapot, had begun in his core.

With their souls bound, glimpses of her bombarded him, though he continued to see through the keyhole of his dream. He saw the sun glinting red on her mahogany hair and slender fingers twisting a rope of pearls at her throat.

The passenger beside him, who Nathan had dubbed James the Newspaper Flapping Idiot, groaned loudly and went off on another rant. Nathan’s fists clenched against the urge to crumple the newspaper and shove the wad down his throat.

He swallowed the anger, turned his face to the window and thought of her. She was out there and she was his future.

If not for his elite group of immortal friends, he would be floundering with the Calling. If not for them, he would be mad with the Visions and paralyzed with this damned shaking that accompanied them.

Yes, thank God he had friends. After admiring his artwork for a century, the group of immortals sought him, realizing he was immortal, too. He had never searched for others of his kind. After all, what would he look for? Tattoos? Many modern people had tattoos. What would he say? “Excuse me, but did you have that tattooed on your chest, or did it appear around the time you realized you can’t die?”

His new friends invited Nathan to join them, and he had for a time. But he couldn’t bear to be parted from his granite and chisels for long.

Dante was the unspoken leader of the group, and he was in Spain when Christopher Columbus asked King Ferdinand II and Queen Isabella for funding. He manned the helm of one of those ships, and his immortal tattoo of inky waves reflected his love of the sea.

Dante’s mate, Maria, an olive-skinned beauty and ancient Mayan, had tattoos of jaguars running down her arms. Each tattoo was unique to the immortal and in individual locations. Nathan’s filled his torso with a dark blue, zigzagging, lightning bolt pattern.

But Maria possessed one other tattoo on her left breast over her heart. This was a medallion of dark red. When Dante had explained it to Nathan, he had drawn aside the lace of her bodice to expose an imprint of his blood which ran in her veins, connecting them for eternity.

James the Newspaper Flapping Idiot had finally given up and fallen asleep—Nathan checked his wristwatch—about an hour and a half too late. Nathan should have been relieved the man had finally shut his trap, but the aircraft door still hung open and they were far from getting in the air.

He dropped his face into his hands and spent a quiet moment 'tracking' her. The sight of the shell of her ear stopped his breathing. The pale, slender column of her throat stopped his heart. The sight of her lower lip being crushed between her teeth and mesmerizingly released drowned him with desire. He stared from the miniature window at the sun slanting through the grey sky and wondered about her eyes. He longed to stare into the eyes of his woman and see her need for him.

Though his body ached from the constant rolling tremors, he had never known such elation. In over two hundred years of Walking the earth, he had never felt this alive. Not even his precious granite and carving tools gave him such satisfaction.

As the hatch of the jet sealed shut and the craft hummed to life, Nathan closed his eyes. One hundred and fifty sweaty, angry passengers faded. The pilot’s droning monologue faded. James the Sleeping Idiot faded. And there was only her.

* * * * *

Nathan moved through the airport, his long legs eating up the concourse. He had no luggage, no possessions except the wallet and cell phone which had been in his jeans when he awoke from the Calling.

He paused at a newsstand to purchase a book and some gum before boarding another flight. He wasn’t about to be stuck beside another James empty-handed. He would bury himself in a hardbound art book. Hundreds of them filled the shelves of the study in his Vermont home, centuries of accumulation.

He had spent his childhood in that home, returned to it after his rebirth to find his elderly parents dead and the caretakers run off. He had never left again. By embracing the idiosyncrasies of an artist and turning reclusive, he gave mortals the perception that he aged. No soul set eyes upon Nathan Halbrook, famous sculptor, and years had passed before Nathan would emerge as the son who had inherited the little country estate as well as the masterful talent.

The humble stone farmhouse backed up against the very mountains from which he had been born into immortality. He loved the dry creaking of the floorboards and the sun streaming through the tiny windows. He loved the fresh green scent of the farmland. And he loved walking.

To see another farmhouse in the distance and watch the smoke from the chimney crawling into the sky made him feel a part of society and life without being a participant.

And walking packed his head with ideas. Nature communicated with him, whispering for him to see the features of the monuments he carved—angels and serene women who stood guard over the dead—in the frost on a pane of glass. The tree branches inspired their hair, and the flow of their draperies reflected a rippling creek. Manipulating the rock until it appeared to be soft was an illusion which had made him famous.

The entire farm was a trick of the eye. Technology did not appear to touch it. The barn brimmed with old farm implements, the house bulged with antiques. For the first time, Nathan worried about bringing a woman into his world. How would she perceive his beloved home?

If she didn’t like it, he could find the will to leave. He would follow her anywhere. To the top of Mt. Fuji, to the sands of Egypt. Even into the dark unknown of the future. Imprinting was not foolproof, as Dante had shown him. A member of their group had attempted to imprint an immortal woman after receiving The Calling, and he had accidently killed her. Dante had witnessed this one other time on the sugar plantations. The immortal that had killed his mate had gone mad and begged for death.

Nathan’s palms grew damp at the thought. What would he do? But no, they had already begun the process, and he would not, could not, entertain the idea of another outcome.

He flipped the pages of the art book, avoiding the gaze of the woman seated next to him. She crowded him slightly with her long legs, her body angled toward him. Not only was he disinterested now, he had never been interested.

After watching so many of his mortal friends die, he had shrouded his heart. It became granite, too, and could admit no person, not at that level.

The years slipped by in solitude so quiet and earthen, it created a tickling in his ears that made him want to scream or laugh aloud just to part its heaviness. And it weighted him to a world he did not ask for.

Months passed without uttering a syllable. His jaw hurt from being locked. And then one day a boy walked up the stone drive to the farm, ragged and hungry, asking for work and food and shelter. The sight of his painful thinness and gawky adolescence inspired Nathan to try again.

“Of course,” he had attempted to say, but his voice was a croak. He tried again. “Please come in and share my dinner while we discuss the details.”

The boy, Turner, was an orphan, but had come of age and could perform most odd jobs. He’d worked his way up the east coast until work became too scanty to support his need for things like food and shoes. This was at the start of the Civil War.

Turner unhinged Nathan’s jaw and made him part of the living once again. He was the son he would never have. And then an army recruiter came and lured Turner away with promises of glory and fame, money and land. Nathan remembered that day like no other—Turner in his new regimental uniform, eyes glowing. The pair shook hands and Nathan gave him a small pouch full of coins.

“You must write when you can,” he told him.

“Of course I will, Nate. Thank you for all of this.” He waved a hand about himself, indicating his much improved state. He possessed thick new boots, a tall strong body and a head filled with all the sense Nathan could stuff into it.

Nathan embraced him and watched as he walked down the ridge and into the valley. Never had he set eyes on him again, but many years later he received a letter from his captain stating he had died early of illness. He had sickened and died. That’s all. If Nathan had been near, he would have made him a new life—a long life without disease or death. He would have made himself a real son.

He gazed from the airplane window at the white expanse of sky, wondering about these melancholy thoughts. He wished to offer the best life to the woman who had Called to him. To do so, he would need to climb out of his bohemian existence and rejoin the human race rather than hide behind his art. Yes, if he had to abandon his farm, he would do so. She had become his entire world. And he didn’t even know her name.

* * * * *

After the long, cramped hours on the airplane, Nathan’s feet were winged. His eyes locked on the exit. The interior of the airport was frigid with air conditioning, but he knew when he passed through the double doors, he’d be blasted by tropical heat.

Hawaiian greetings were exchanged and people were adorned with leis. Their perfume dizzied him.

His feet slowed. The air compressed. Hot and cold. Hard and soft. Tangible. A lump of salt welled in his throat as he realized he could sense her, as if she had left bold footprints to follow.

Excitement gripped him. He milled about the gate, touching things. A chair, soda machine. She’d chosen cola. He could see her fingertips, the nails short and oval. He broke into a sweat.

He launched himself toward the exit, where a native in hotel uniform asked if he could help him.

Nathan assessed him. “Yes,” he said. He had been with her. He needed a ride to the hotel.

“No luggage?”

“Lost in transit,” he said, following him to the burgundy minivan parked at the curb.

With a lurch, he paused. Could she be inside? Heart hammering the walls of his chest, he stuck his head through the door and searched the faces. An elderly couple sat in the back, a younger, fresh-faced couple in the center.

No, she must have used the shuttle earlier.

“I’ll ride shotgun,” he told the driver.

Her essence clouded the vehicle, penetrated Nathan’s pores. His eyes closed on the images of her directing a lock of hair behind one ear, her dark lashes against her cheek, the corner of her mouth tipping up. The tip of her tongue moistened her lower lip, and a pulse of heat shot to Nathan’s groin. His cock pressed against the length of his zipper.

The steps it took to bind them flickered through his head like a ticker tape. Join our bodies, share our blood. Join our bodies.

Traffic was horrendous, and by the time they reached the hotel, Nathan’s molars ached from grinding them. He rode the edge of his seat, and before the vehicle stopped, he dropped a bill into the driver’s lap and leapt from the rolling van. He hurled himself through the lobby doors, blasted by the feel of her again.

He began searching. Following her essence. Here and here. His feet were quiet on the carpeted corridor floors, but his heart thudded. He saw her mouth again, her sharp white tooth set into her lower lip.

He stumbled toward the door of the suite, guided by the view of her feet, elegant in strappy high heels. The door stood ajar, and he drew up, panting hard with the effort to control his joy.

Silently, the door swung inward. His eyes swept the room. She was not here, but she had been. She had slept here. Her head had rested upon this pillow. A tremble gripped him.

“Can I help you?”

Nathan whirled. The slight woman in the doorway wore a hotel uniform. He nodded jerkily. “The woman who stayed here—has she checked out?”

“Yes, those guests checked out by eleven o’clock.”

“Guests?” he repeated.

“A man and a woman. This is a honeymoon suite.”

Nathan’s fingers went cold. His face grew numb. “Honeymoon.” His voice sounded thick and far away. “Do you have their names?”

The maid replied that the front desk would have their names, but the hotel had strict privacy rules.

He staggered past her, pressing a wad of bills into her hand. He retraced his steps to the plant-filled lobby, his throat clogged with pain. He collapsed against the front desk.