Chapter 3

N athan 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 bumped Nathan’s elbow as he cradled his computer tablet, read a snippet of the daily news aloud or sought his opinion on the latest political scandal.

Nathan couldn’t 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 among immortals as the Calling had him in its grip, and he was drowning 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. A fine tremor, like a hissing teapot, had begun in his core.

With their souls bound, glimpses of her slammed 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 groaned loudly and went off on another rant. Nathan’s fists clenched against the urge to smash the tablet on the floor.

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.

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. His seat partner 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 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 was 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 around 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 had been with her. He needed a ride to the hotel.

“No luggage?”

“Lost in transit.” He followed 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, 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 open, 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.

“Suite 107. Can you tell me who occupied it last?”

Before he completed the sentence, the employee was shaking his head. “I’m sorry. We can’t disclose any information about guests.” He pointed to a small plaque stating the privacy policy.

“Please.” Nathan leaned across the counter. “I need to know, and you can help me.” He slid a bill toward him.

His eyes lingered on it before he covered it with a palm. “It was a couple, Mr. and Mrs. LeClair. They checked out around 8:00.”

“Mr. and Mrs. LeClair?” he choked. “Do you have first names?”

He flipped open a large, red leather-bound book and riffled through the pages. “Ah…John and Lillian.”

Nathan’s heart convulsed. Lillian. His mind raced, matching her name with her image. “The woman, what did she look like?”

The employee screwed up his face. “A small woman about this tall.” He held a hand about eye level, about mid-chest to Nathan. “She had long reddish-brown hair.”

Nathan’s heart soared. She’d been here. She—Lillian. Lillian LeClair…

And John. His heart stuttered. “The man,” he heard himself say through a loud buzzing that took up residence in his ears. “How old was he?”

“Um, about her age, dark hair, very ritzy. You know, expensive.”

“And she was definitely his wife?”

“Well, I wasn’t a bridesmaid or anything, man, but he did wear a wedding ring.”

Five heartbeats. Okay. Wedding rings. Five more and Nathan could speak. “Where did they go?”

The desk clerk didn’t know. The LeClairs hadn’t used the hotel shuttle. Nathan straightened and tapped the counter with a hand.

“Thank you. Thanks.”

He lurched past hotel guests and into the blazing sun. The heat blasted his face and ruffled his hair. As he crossed the sand to a bench at the water’s edge, he swiped the sweat from his upper lip, feeling the rasp of several days” beard growth.

In a remote way, he understood that the acute pain in his chest was the cause of his dazedness. He had not felt such wrenching pain since Turner’s loss.

Lillian. He had learned her name.

And that she was somebody else’s wife.

* * *

The miniature buttons of the cell phone felt foreign beneath Nathan’s finger. Dante’s husky voice resounded in his ear. For a moment, Nathan thought he wouldn’t be able to speak.

“I need advice.” His voice grated.

“Anything. You know I’m here for you, old friend.”

Nathan drew a searing breath into his lungs and finally focused upon his surroundings. The sky touching the water. The dazzling sun and half-clad people. How had he come to this place in his life?

“I’ve heard her. My mate. But my search is futile.”

There was a beat of silence. “Tell me.”

“She’s married.”

Dante’s breath trickled into Nathan’s ear. “Are you absolutely certain the image you saw was of an immortal woman, Nate?”

“Without a doubt.” No way was that tattoo executed by a human hand.

“Is she with another immortal?”

“I don’t know. Why would she Call to me if she’s spoken for?” He crushed the words between his teeth.

“Nate, there must be a reason. Do not get discouraged. Your information is incomplete. She would not have Called to you if she didn’t need you.”

Nathan pressed his fist to his forehead, weak. He needed to hear this.

“Push onward, my friend. It is worth it in the end. I promise.” He drew a deep breath, knowing his course once more.

Minutes later he paced the perimeter of the USS Arizona Memorial, feeling Lillian everywhere. He caressed a name on a marble tablet, felt her fingertips. Her slender hand curled around the back of her neck where her hair frizzed damply. A tiny droplet of sweat beaded on her skin and Nathan licked his lips.

Within a fraction of a second, he realized the image he was being awarded was that of Lillian’s left hand, and that it was bare. No wedding ring circled her finger. The hand was devoid of all jewelry.

He hung his head, letting the emotions rip through him like the crash of waves against the shore. His legs were wobbly and tears stung his closed eyelids. The hair on his body stood erect.

A quick prayer of thanksgiving burst from him and he opened his eyes to the name beneath his finger.

Robert Albright. A clue.

Nathan stowed this information away and continued to follow Lillian LeClair’s footprints. At an outdoor café, he sank into the chair where she had sat. He felt the warmth of her thighs beneath his own, and a shiver of fresh need ripped through him.

She had tipped her face up to the misting rain and used a spoon to eat her meal, though he was unable to see what she ate through the keyhole of vision. And she had laughed and talked with her partner. His hand had clamped around hers, and he leaned in and kissed the full lower lip of Nathan’s dreams.

Raw fury flooded his veins, escalating his need to find her. He stood abruptly and pushed in the chair. His entire being focused on a single strand of long, mahogany hair. Time ceased to move. The world silenced. The sun was blotted by its existence. Nathan plucked it from the chair and he drew it across his lips, stunned by the tingling sensation it caused. He saw again her moist lip and hungered for its feel.

He raced through the streets, aware of his leaping pulse. Had he ever been so alive?

Rushing past houses, he viewed them through Lillian’s eyes, but always through a narrowed perspective. Blue, yellow, pink houses, flags and flowers, flowers everywhere and trees with huge leaves dripping with the latest rain, arching from rough trunks. He climbed the steps of one bungalow and knocked.

A young boy answered his call, about the age and gawkiness of Turner when he had gone to war, except he had the flawless latte skin of a Hawaiian and lacked the starving appearance. Nathan asked if he had seen a woman about this tall, with long, reddish brown hair? Yes, she had been here yesterday. She was lost and walked that way.

Nathan followed the line of the boy’s finger, thanked him and tripped down the steps to the sidewalk.

As Nathan’s footsteps fell precisely atop hers, his heart throbbed heavily. He spun on the pavement, sensing her confusion and rising panic. Her fingers flew to her throat, clawing for air.

She sank screaming to the ground.

Oh, my God.

He folded in half, pierced by images of her struggle and the largest, keenest anger he had ever known. If John LeClair was hurting her, he would make him pay. He would make him pay anyway for possessing Lillian.

Mine .

He opened his eyes.

A lone pearl from the strand of his Visions rested in the crack of the sidewalk. Lillian had broken it in her distress.

Panting as if he’d outrun the British forces, Nathan straightened to face the great glowing sun across the water. The wind gusted at his face, blowing his hair off his forehead. He knew Lillian was no longer in Hawaii, but he would take away tiny pieces of her in his search.

A hair, a pearl…a name.