Chapter 7

G oddammit , Nathan thought . I’m in Seattle, probably feet from my immortal mate and I am stuck in another traffic jam.

His chest welled with frustration and he gnawed the inside of his cheek to keep from growling.

He dumped a pile of bills over the seat, leaped from the cab and into a cloud of exhaust fumes. The day was dim and dreary, the traffic screaming. He shot between vehicles, running. He passed shops overflowing with outdoor equipment, bookstores, flower stands and clothing boutiques. As he ran, he allowed the music of the city to fill his head. Deep in his soul, he felt the throb of Lillian’s heart.

A great cloud of blue smoke roiled from the tailpipe of a van and Nathan bounded through it like a boy in a puddle. He bumped into a woman, steadied her with a hasty apology and kept running. Dogs barked and a saxophone sobbed. His muscles burned with the release of running.

Running toward Lillian felt good. Running toward her felt right.

He followed her footsteps to the restaurant where she had sat across from John LeClair, smiled into his eyes, toasted with wine.

Had the wine sucked from her fingertip.

Nathan braced his hands on the table, wanting to flip it over. A quiver that had nothing to do with his need to bind himself to Lillian gripped him. When he got his hands on fucking John LeClair, he would break his jaw.

Breathing heavily, he turned on his heel and stomped through the maze of tables. Outside, he was deluged by images of Lillian. Her hand in the crook of John LeClair’s arm, high heels splashing through the streets, the sway of her hips, hair floating loose about her torso. Nathan stumbled along in her wake, unable to move fast enough through the crowd.

He caught her womanly, lavender scent and nearly came to a dead stop. His body reacted instantly, his cock hardening, pushing against the zipper of his jeans. His hands clenched.

Push on, Halbrook. She’s near. And no matter what, she is yours.

He trailed the invisible length of ribbon created by her step, leading up the stone steps of a cathedral. He placed his palm against the smooth, old wood of the door, pushing it inward. His heart thumped his chest wall, a feeling of dread washing over him.

The vestibule was still and the silence sharp. Here, John LeClair had touched the sweet curve of Lillian’s lower back, fingers kneading the bottommost flower of her immortal tattoo.

Nathan moved farther into the space. The room closed in on him, suddenly confining and dark. He touched the back of the pew where she had sat with John LeClair. He didn’t want to be here, but he had to follow her.

Possess her.

Or die trying.

When he sank to the gleaming wood seat, he sprung up as if doused by hot tar. At the close of the Revolutionary War he had seen men tarred and would never forget the bodies writhing beneath the boiling liquid. This was infinitely worse. This was anguish of the soul.

John LeClair’s hands skimmed Lillian’s smooth abdomen, up her ribcage like keys on a piano. His mouth was open upon hers, devouring her gasps. Her golden flesh shimmered in the shadows and quiet pressed around them, enclosing them in a lover’s embrace. Her slender fingers tangled in his dark hair, trapping his face against her bare breast.

Enough-fucking-nough.

Nathan stumbled from the pew and into the aisle, breathing like he’d outrun the British troops. He trudged toward the doors, his throat closed around a bellow. His brain was searing agony. He wished he could find that vat of tar and burn out the images.

“Goddammit, Lillian!” He launched himself down the steps…running, running, running away this time.

* * *

Nathan walked blindly because he would not allow himself to see. If he did, the sick, twisted sense he’d developed would follow her. I should go home, back to my tools and granite, away from this God-awful pain .

Yet he didn’t want that at all.

For decades, the chisel and rasp had been at his service, but now he must employ fortitude and strength. Many years had passed since he’d called upon such character traits. Had they been lost or simply lay dormant?

In a way, he felt like a great sleeping bear, a wild thing. Lillian’s Call had awakened him, ready to be tamed and answer to love.

He paused at the sight of a low wall of dry-stacked stone. He smoothed his palms over the gritty material for the sheer familiarity of touching stone.

Darkness had descended. The North Star winked against a rich midnight sky, urging him to follow it through the gates of Lake View Cemetery. His heart was in his mouth.

She had strolled through these grounds with John LeClair, snuggled warmly against his side, her breast brushing his arm.

Nathan jammed his fingers into his hair, fighting away the images. He hunched his shoulders against the pain gnawing at his heart and wove through the paths of sleeping monuments— crosses and small square stones, spires and arches. The wind quickened, adding its voice to the drum of his heart. He tried not to think of Lillian with John LeClair, of his mouth dropping to hers. He searched upward for the North Star and inhaled sharply.

His own work stood beneath that blinking beacon, and Lillian’s steps led to it. The granite goddess stood in the sea of night, bobbing among other rock vessels.

He closed his eyes and let the Visions seduce him. Flipping her, exposing her curving spine, the flowering vine tattoo dipping into the hollow of her lower back. A single bead of sweat breaking free from her hairline, cutting a path through the inky lines.

His fingertips grazed the draperies of the monument he had created. A shock shot straight to his core, like touching the church pew.

He saw Lillian leaning against the stone figure, her face obscured by darkness, tears streaking her cheeks as she had Visions of him and the feather mattress. His mind spun with darkness, the rough chafe of tweed, sodden steps and the softest weeping.

Resting his forehead against the cool stone memorial, he drank in huge gulps of lavender-scented air. Her quiet sobs were balm to his sore heart, because now he knew she felt as torn by the Visions as he did.