Trefoil (4 page)

Nathan strode into the men’s restroom at the shopping center. He plopped a new canvas duffle bag upon the counter and emptied several bags of clothing into it. He took a moment to yank his shirt over his head and replace it with a new Tee shirt, and then shrugged into a chocolate leather jacket that felt cool and buttery against his skin.

He faced the mirror for the first time in days. Time did not touch him, but beneath the yellow-green lighting, he looked mortal. Bruises lived under each green eye and his blond hair looked wild. He splashed his face with water and brought his hair to order. He had one more errand to complete before he could grab a coffee, and though he longed to taste the black brew, it was not a priority. He needed his Lillian fix. For the past hour, he had fought against Visions of her and was beginning to shake with strain.

Minutes later, he exited the electronics store with a top-of-the-line laptop and an iPod. His mind was humming, eager to get his hands on the keys and to get on the road to the airport.

He wove through a group of teenagers and outside into the heavy Hawaiian night. The salty wind rustled the plastic bag he carried. He hitched the new laptop bag over his shoulder, crossed the street and hailed a cab.

The instant he slid onto the cracked vinyl seat, he was bombarded by Visions. Hand brushing a lock of mahogany hair, flash of sun against silver jewelry. Dark sweep of lashes on a pale cheek. Her lavender scent was in his nose and her sweet, musky flavor was on his tongue.

With trembling hands, he snapped open the laptop, loaded with every feature he could possibly need or want to do research on the run. As the taxi crawled through traffic vying to reach the airport, Nathan located an unsecured network and punched a name into a search engine. Robert Albright.

A thick knot formed in his throat as he scanned the results. Finally he located an obituary in an Oklahoma newspaper. The world disappeared. The smelly taxi, the frigid air conditioning blasting in his face, the blare of rock music from the next car. He tuned everything out and began to read.

“Robert K. Albright, age 23, a naval officer aboard the USS Arizona, was one of the thousands of heroes to perish in the attack on December 7. Robert was born and raised in Oklahoma City and joined the Navy in spring of 1940. Shortly after, he married his sweetheart, Lillian Howard Burton. Albright’s bride went missing from their Hawaiian home in December 1940. The authorities found no trace of Mrs. Albright and still seek information in this unclosed case. Robert is survived by his parents, Flora and Kenneth Albright.”

The air was too close in the cab, the driver’s whistling too noisy, the whine of the road beneath the tires too loud. Nathan turned his face to the window and watched the scenery flash by, his mind awhirl. Lillian Howard Burton. Lillian Howard Burton Albright. Lillian Howard Burton Albright LeClair.

His fingers flew over the keys, finding another connection and entering that name as an image of her spiraled into view and obliterated all thought. Through the keyhole he glimpsed iridescent, immortal skin. He felt her waist crushed beneath his hands as they tumbled into the feather mattress—the same mattress which graced his antique walnut bed.

When he surfaced from this Vision, he was staring at an article outlining her disappearance.

“Lillian Burton Albright, wife of Navy Lieutenant Robert Albright, stationed aboard the USS Arizona was reported missing last evening by her husband. Lieutenant Albright grew concerned when he was unable to reach his wife this afternoon at the Village Laundry where she worked five afternoons a week. He searched their residence and notified authorities at once. No one saw Mrs. Albright leave her home and she never arrived for work. No possessions were removed from their residence. Foul play is suspected. If you have any information regarding Mrs. Lillian Albright’s whereabouts, please contact local authorities.”

With a snap, Nathan shut the laptop. Possibilities raced through his mind. No possessions, foul play suspected. What had happened to Lillian that long ago day in 1940? More than likely, she had been mortal while married to Lieutenant Robert Albright. After all, he had been mortal. He'd perished aboard the USS Arizona. He'd gone to his watery grave wifeless.

The morning of her disappearance, she had probably been made immortal. On the sidewalk before the narrow, blue bungalow Nathan had caught the flavor of her fear, confusion and loss. Emotions of Making, he knew. He walked the dusty paths of his mind, recalling his immortal birth. Confusion and loss were essential ingredients, mixed with dawn’s growing light and sprinkled with gunfire and birdsong.

He tapped on the window separating him from the taxi driver and asked if he could drive faster. A jet waited, and Nathan needed to board with all haste. I’m coming, Lillian, he thought, gnashing his teeth as the taxi rolled into another traffic jam.

In the surrounding air, he felt her trace. It burned a path to his heart. And no matter what names she had once possessed, he had only one for her: mine.

* * * * *

“Are you okay?” The passenger beside Nathan touched his sleeve.

Still breathing heavily from the image he’d seen, he swung his gaze into a pair of bright blue eyes. No, he thought, Lillian’s eyes are not blue. But the sweater she wore was. Nathan had seen a strong male hand on the small of her back, guiding her into a space flickering with candles. The sight of his fingers against her dark blue sweater injected a shot of adrenaline to Nathan’s system. When he reached Lillian, he would physically remove John LeClair from her life.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m fine.” He took a swig from the plastic cup, wincing at the taste of flat soda. He longed for a bottle of Grey Goose and a bucket of ice.

Maybe it would help him sleep. How many days had it been? Two? Three? Before he received The Calling, he had been on a carving bender. At times, he couldn’t put down the hammer and chisel, working through the night and into the morning, stopping only for coffee and to trade a dull tooth chisel, which he used to refine the form and smooth the gouges left by the steel chisels he roughed out the basic shape with. When the muse struck, he cranked on his favorite heavy metal music and worked.

His latest sculpture stood draped beneath a sheet in his workroom, and he still felt gritty with carving dust and the lack of a shower. His mental eye critiqued his completed work, recalling the twist and flow of granite made to look like cloth. The figure’s hands were upraised, cupping a puffy bird. Her head bowed over the creature, a long braid over one shoulder. He sucked in a sharp breath, mind racing over the granite carving. The stone mouth was full-lipped and slightly parted. He could nearly see that lower lip caught between square, white teeth. He had spent hours taking tiny, precise nicks out of the stone to create a pointed chin, high cheekbones and wide-set eyes. A broader forehead completed a heart-shaped face—the face of his heart.

I’ve carved Lillian
, he thought, dropping his head into his shaking hands. Through the keyhole of vision, he had never seen all of her features, but he knew in his gut that he had carved her likeness.

He also knew she was in Seattle, and his flight was half a day behind hers. He burned to catch up to her. He was maddened by the shaking caused by The Calling, by the idea of her in another man’s arms, by following her blindly. If only there was a way to contact her, make her wait for him to catch up.

He plugged his new earbuds into his ears, chose a playlist on his iPod and settled against the seat. The music brought to mind the weight of a one pound hammer in his grip—which he used to complete small details—and carving dust dancing in the air. Sometimes before sleep claimed him, Nathan sculpted in his mind. It was an artist’s way of counting sheep and a practice which calmed him. Here he could contemplate each cut and hammer blow. Often he would rise from his bed and go to his workroom, too inspired to rest.

If he had tools at hand right now, what would he create? His day held more torment than he cared to recall. It was deep night, and he knew Lillian was in a Seattle hotel, tucked against John LeClair’s side. He struggled against the seething rage, some of which was directed at Lillian. Why had she Called to him, binding them across space and time while she was attached to another man?

I’ll have her, he thought. After we’re bound, my blood will throb in her veins.The thought soothed him, and he forgot about John LeClair’s fingertips against Lillian’s spine and Robert Albright and the unsolved mystery of her disappearance. Even the mental carving stopped as Nathan gave himself up to sleep, content in the knowledge that he would be with his immortal mate within hours.

Seattle pulsed around Lillian. Sirens blared, a saxophone wailed and the streets crawled with people. She shrank into her thick sweater and stared at the mayhem. This adored city suddenly seemed too loud and raucous, leaving her raw all over.

The fistfight at the airport had left a pall over her and John. They circled each other like silent moons, afraid that a single touch would cause an explosion. She knew she was at fault. For the past two days she had been enthralled with another man—two men—the man who belonged to that blue bungalow in Oahu, and the man who lived in the quiet passion of twilight and a feather mattress.

The southern drawl and fallen cowboy hat did not compare to the dizzying need she experienced when thinking of the blond man of her dreams. Her desire for him struck her like a wave, raked her out flat, barely allowing her a gulp of air before slamming her once more.

She eyed John from beneath her lashes, admiring the width of his shoulders and trim waist and hips. Her dream man was rough with desperate passion. Her cowboy was playful and thorough. John could be all of these, but right now he was treating her tenderly.

Her nipples bunched into tight peaks and a whisper of sensation rippled over her, as if hot breath fanned her. She put her hand on his arm and he gazed down into her eyes. Torment lived in those black depths, and she swayed toward him, wanting to comfort him. He gripped her against him, pressing the back of her head into his chest. She inhaled deeply, loving the scent of powerful male and cologne.

“Let’s have some lunch, shall we?” he asked.

She nodded. He caught her hand and they splashed through the traffic to a restaurant with a striped awning over the entrance. He seated her with his usual flair and ordered her the seafood dish he knew she’d love. When his smoldering gaze met hers over the rim of his wineglass, it heated her like a coal. A trickle of warmth slipped downward, spread through her lower belly and captured her pussy.

She tapped their glasses together, brushing the backs of his knuckles with her own. “To Seattle and the night to come.”

With a flourish, he removed the fine crystal stem from her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. His unshaven scruff was as sharp as glass, sending another pulse of heat through her. She squirmed and crossed her legs.

John sent her a grin that meant he knew what he had done to her. After six decades together, he did.

The meal continued in a heightened state of awareness parallel to foreplay. Lillian delighted in John’s squeamishness when she picked up the squid in ink and bit into it with a groan of delight. He poured her a fourth glass of wine, dipped her fingertip into it and lapped it slowly off.

“Shall we move on?” he asked, holding her eyes.

Eager to end the meal and make their way to their hotel suite, she rose immediately. She looped her hand through his arm and followed him out into the muddy streets. They splashed along in silence, listening to the city.

She drew up short at the sight of the cathedral spire rising into the leaden sky, the cross glowing white at its pinnacle. The rain drummed their umbrella, enclosing them in a private world. Then John crushed her fingers and towed her toward the stone staircase.

“Come.”

They pushed through the rich wooden double doors where he had entered countless times as a priest in the late nineteenth century. Lillian paused in the vestibule, unsure, as haunting voices uplifted in prayer reached her. They were saying a mass for the dead.

With a hand on the small of her back, John urged her into the candlelit nave. The scent of spice and furniture wax, candles and musty damp reached her. At her side, he drew a deep lungful and she knew the images permeating his brain. Countless blessings. Water pouring over the round skulls of infants in baptism, small hands receiving the host, the warm confines of a dark cubicle and whispered confession,  groups of young adults accepting the gift of the Holy Spirit, the glowing eyes of couples joined in matrimony, the excitement of a newly ordained priest,the smell of chrism anointing the sick. The seven sacraments. John had lived, eaten and breathed them for many years.

Lillian sank her fingers into the bowl of holy water and touched them to her forehead, heart and each shoulder. They genuflected before sliding into the very back pew, and John kept her fingers entwined with his in prayer.

A dark coffin drenched in flowers stood before the altar. Lillian avoided the sight of this, feeling an inherent survivor’s guilt. This emotion kept her from growing close to mortals. With John, the pain of friends lost isolated him.

Lillian stared at the beauty of the cathedral. The altar was aglitter with treasure. A golden likeness of Christ was fixed upon a polished cross, and a bejeweled goblet refracted the light of the candles. To the left of the sacristy stood a statue of the Virgin Mary done in the manner of Raphael, with large, flat eyelids and wearing a blue cloth.

The mass finished and they continued to kneel as the space emptied. When the last mourner straggled out, John rose and approached the altar. His fingers trailed along the pews as he went. Lillian remained seated, gazing at the stained glass arching above her.

Silence abounded after the mourners left, and the pallbearers took the coffin to its final resting place. Time grew meaningless as John knelt before the altar he had helped to erect. Shadows shifted about the space. Lillian relaxed against the pew and let her eyes slip shut.

John’s arms encircled her and she gasped. “Did I—?”

He cut her off with his mouth, his need humming from her veins directly into hers. She yanked him onto the pew, and he cradled her head as he laid her upon the wooden seat.

“Thirty years spent denying man’s desires for the flesh leaves me wanting them,” he whispered against her ear, tongue flicking her sensitive lobe.

“I want you, John. Here. Now.” She deftly popped the buttons of his shirt with one hand, the other locating the long thick shaft bulging against the front of his pants.

He groaned at her touch, grinding against her. And then he captured her mouth and plunged his tongue deep. Her breasts were hot and swollen beneath his touch. He circled them with the flats of his palms, driving her into a frenzy. She needed his cock slipping between her thighs, stroking her inner secret spot. She needed to drive out playful thoroughness and desperate passion. Just John.

He had freed her breasts. She lay shivering in anticipation. The pew was smooth against her naked spine, and her immortal tattoo tingled to life as his mouth dipped to one straining bud. She watched his hot tongue lave the perimeter of it before sucking it between his lips.

A quiet cry escaped her, echoing in the still space. She shoved his shirt over his biceps and his pants down his hips, baring him to her attentions. Her fingers closed about the base of his rod. In return, he scraped her breast with his rough jaw and moved to the other hard nipple.

His fingers caressed a path down her ribs to her waist. Her pencil skirt slithered with a whisper to the floor. “My God, Lillian,” he said, “have you been bare all this time?”

Her tongue found his in answer, sucking it into her mouth as her thumb smoothed the drop of pre-come from the head of his cock. He gathered her to him, fingering her spine. Electricity shot between them and her head fell back. John’s mouth was at her throat, kissing and sucking and nibbling her flesh. One hand closed around her breast as he nudged her knees apart.

Her hand eased between their bodies, guiding him to her heat. A knot of need broke open inside her and moisture flowed freely between her thighs. She opened her eyes into his blurry-eyed gaze.

“John.”

With a hard thrust, he filled her. His length plunged deep, touching her core. They began to move at once, her knees bent and heels gripping his waist, her spine chaffing the hard wooden seat, the silence enveloping their lovers embrace. Her nails pressed into his muscled back, driving him harder, faster as her hips rose and fell against his.

The walls of her pussy clenched him, released, poised on the verge of release so great, she felt herself sinking into him, minds meshed, bodies one, hearts beating in time to each other’s.

“Baby, you’re so hot. I’ve gotta come,” he said, sending her over the edge. He fucked her hard as she split open, muscles pulsing around his assault. He spurted into her, bathing her with his love cream. He continued to pound her and she rocketed back up the incline for a second orgasm.

The burn grew until Lillian splintered. Her thin, slippery fluids shot over his cock, soaking them both. Her scream was swallowed by John’s kiss as he fell forward with a final grunt. His lips found hers at once, kissing her tenderly and slowly. She felt his chest heave and heard him swallow hard. She drew him closer, stroking the beautiful Celtic knot tattoos on his biceps, seeking to extend their pleasure through this intimate touch.

When he spoke, his voice was a breath against her temple. “Forgive me, sweet Lily. For I have sinned.”

* * * * *

Lillian huddled into John’s tweed sports coat. The grey light of dusk burned through the atmosphere, obliterating all colors except those which contained purple. Purple-blue shadows kissed the downcast faces of robed women guarding the graves of the dead. Tall, stately obelisks thrust their points into the sky, casting majestic purple shadows. And angels’ wings unfurled to embrace the loved ones gone, drenching the departed in opaque lavender devotion.

The smells of Lake View Cemetery were close and sodden and slightly fecund. A snatch of breeze brought the sweet smoke of burning wood.

She hunched her shoulders to warm her neck in the coat’s fragrant collar, her body stirring at the memory of John’s lovemaking. Her sex still throbbed and her mouth felt swollen from his kisses. If it was a sin to fulfill their passions in his former cathedral, she didn’t feel it. It felt completely right—as though he had come full circle and laid another ghost to rest.

Her feet grew chill and she stamped them. John stood a few paces off before the monument of his friend and mentor, Father Fontaine. It was too dark to read his expression, but when he spoke, she recognized his sadness.

“Thank you for coming here with me, Lillian.”

She jerked. She hadn’t left his side in years. Why wouldn’t she come?

“I’m sorry about this afternoon. I was selfish.”

“It was pretty amazing.”

His head lifted. “You mean you’re not angry with me?”

She laid a cool hand along his jaw, and he shivered. “Why would I be angry with you, John?”

“I—I should have stopped myself. I should have thought. I hate myself for my lack of control and for being careless with you. I can’t imagine what you must think of me.”

“You weren’t the only one caught in the moment. I’ve always found it incredibly sexy to be with an ex-priest, but to be there. . . like that. . . .” She shuddered with fresh desire.

He seized her upper arms like a man drowning. “Lillian. Lily.” His voice broke on her name and he worked to gain control. “You’ve never told me that you found it appealing. You never said.”

Their kiss was sweet, a connection of their souls. She stepped away and pointed to a row of monuments. “I’ll be there.”

As she concealed herself in the shadows, a frisson of unease traveled down her spine. John could see right through her, she knew it. Every time a new image of her blond man flashed through her mind, he detected her struggle. She needed a place to lock it all up, twist the key and toss it away.

Her favorite monument in Lake View Cemetery was a classical figure, soft and feminine in drapes of cloth. She gazed up at its shadowed face, silhouetted against the velvet sky. A solitary star blinked over her head. Lillian’s eyes trailed over the folds of granite, awed by the skill of the artist. The longer she stood there, the more convinced she became that she could become like this stone woman—coat herself in a protective layer which would keep John from probing too deep.

She sank to the foot of the goddess and took a moment to think of
him.
Her dream man. Glimpses of him came so swiftly, she gasped. Long fingers curled around a wooden handle, a ringing sound of hammer on rock. And dust. She concentrated harder, wanting more, and saw his skin glinting in the twilight, bare-chested. With tattoos.

She gulped for air. Immortal tattoos filled his chest, a lightning bolt pattern. Shivering from chill and emotion, she pressed her hands against the granite goddess to steady herself.

A shock of electricity jolted her.

She saw his house, a studio, tools neatly lining one wall. The blond man perched on a stool, eyes downcast as he stared at a tiny object on his palm. His lashes were dark, his hair pale in the winter sun. And then the images shifted and Lillian was tumbling into the feather mattress, his mouth at her throat, her name spoken in a rough voice.

“Lillian.”

Her head snapped up.

John gripped her. “What’s happened?”

She pulled her stone draperies about herself and firmly shoved her feelings inside.

“Lily, please talk to me.” He shook her shoulders, causing her teeth to chatter. She suddenly realized she was crying.

“N. . . nothing’s happened.”

“You’re frozen.” He tugged her into his arms and chaffed her hands. “Is it the memory from yesterday? About when you were Made?”