Chapter 11

N athan made a hasty stop at the post office and barely caught the Amtrak bound for San Diego before it pulled away. He tunneled through car after car, feeling the thunder of tracks beneath his feet.

He had managed to secure the exact car where Lillian had ridden.

His chest burned with anticipation. What would he find here? He had just come from the beach, where Lillian’s physical footprints had still been fixed in the sand. He had dropped to his knees and traced the small, elegant shape, shocked at the physical manifestation of her at last.

For days he had kissed her immortal tattoo and caressed her golden skin in his Visions, even touched the objects she touched in her travels, but finding those footprints made her real in a way she hadn’t been before.

When he opened the door of the private train car, he inhaled sharply. The mood here was hard to interpret—a mix of fear and pain. In the corner of one bench, he could see the trace of Lillian, head buried in her hands.

But there was also a reckoning with John LeClair. They hadn’t shared their bodies here, but comforted one another and spoken soft words. Nathan saw John LeClair’s mouth pressed to the place where her hair curved away from her temple. His thumb had stroked the corner of her mouth. And she had curled on his lap like a small cat.

Nathan continued into the car. Something else was here. He felt it. She had left behind an item and it propelled him forward like a magnet.

No strand of hair or lost pearl had this pull.

Using two fingers, he retrieved the wedge of paper shoved between the crack of the seat and the wall of windows. Withdrawing it with shaking hands, he sank to the seat and simply stared at the folded paper. He rubbed it, caressing her fingerprints…

Feeling the ridges beneath his own.

With a gulp, he unfolded it. Please don’t let this be a Dear Nathan letter. The words loomed before him, written in an elegant script with her left hand. It was written in such a precise way, he suddenly realized it was a poem—a haiku.

Beneath the North Star I watched you weeping alone, and it shattered me.

Nathan read it five times, six times, before his mind registered what his heart knew. This poem sealed her promise to him. She was aware that her actions had hurt him, and she would try to keep from doing so again.

Again, he heard Maria’s advice. Talk to her from your soul, but speak her name.

He drew a deep, shuddering breath, his heart beats tripping over each other.

Lillian.

The force of the saying was a concussion. The heat of her presence struck him in the breastbone, and he was pinned to the seat. Her gasp of shock rippled through his mind, filling him with her sweet breath. Her arms crisscrossed her chest, squeezing.

Nathan was inside her.

Speechless, he watched her, smoothing the poem upon his knee. Her fingers twisted the rope of pearls at her throat. They had been restrung.

Nathan.

When she said his name, her voice echoed in his soul, bringing with it the itch he had experienced before. Her voice was seraphic and desire broke over him, leaving a sheen of sweat.

Can you see me?

He felt unreal. He felt unsure of his lucidity. He felt he may black out.

Yes.

His eyes rested upon the poem. Thank you.

I had to. A presence was with her, itchy and disturbing.

Fucking John LeClair.

Are you alone?

No. Please go away.

If she said those words a thousand times, Nathan would never heed them. He knew her need. Never , he vowed. I’m coming.

Don’t. You can’t. A mixture of fear and joy. He clung to the joy.

His heart swelled. I’ll follow my star , he said and let her go.

He surfaced a new man, resurrected as immortal mate.

She is mine , he told himself over and over. He hadn’t truly believed it until now. He wanted to run through the train, screaming his news to the world. He touched his jacket pocket, thinking to call Dante, then decided against it.

He gazed out the same window Lillian had stared from hours before and relived every sensation of their interaction—the cadence of her breathing, her heat, the pulsing life of her soul.

I will follow my star until I find you, Lillian. And nothing will stop me. Not miles of train track. Not an entire country.

Not John LeClair.

* * *

The small collection of trinkets in Nathan’s pocket was growing, but Lillian’s was as well. He had visited the art gallery, and seen her reaction to the rose. She carried it in her handbag, but when she looked upon it, her heart had truly unfurled to him. Her words revolved in his head.

Nathan Halbrook. Nathan. Nate. Mine.

She was in the air again, on a red-eye to Chicago. Nathan dreaded setting foot upon another jet, but what choice was there?

He could go directly to her Virginia home and wait for her there. After all, he had sent a postcard to that address to greet her.

But he was closing the gap. He was hours behind her, where he had once been a day. If John LeClair would stop moving her?—

Thinking of the man raised that bone-deep itch again.

Nathan squirmed. The tremors from the Calling were irritating, but this itch was fucking maddening . He threaded his fingers into his hair, wishing he could stop it.

What happened when he caught up to her? I’ll tear her from John LeClair. He will look at me and see her mark on my soul. I will kill him if he tries to stop me from taking her.

Another Vision trickled over him. Tendrils of mahogany hair dancing on the wind, a white lily tucked behind her ear. He inhaled, smelling her on the breeze. Twisting hands. Silver bracelets. What color were her eyes? Not knowing that small detail was nearly as aggravating as the itch.

He cradled the slip of creased paper on his palm, gazing at her writing with as much tenderness as he would look upon the woman herself. “I’m coming, Lillian,” he said to the dark blot over the “I,” to the long tail on the “g.”

Sometime soon he would look into her eyes. What would he say then?