She stared into his pale eyes, the color of storm
clouds. A scream welled up in her throat. He pushed her against the wall and
shook his head in a warning.
“Do not scream.”
His voice was low and soothing. She nodded quickly with every
intention of screaming her lungs out as soon as he removed his hand.
“Do
not scream,” he repeated.
Gwynneth
could hear her breath heavy against his hand. He wore finely made black leather
gloves. Why would he be wearing gloves inside? She thought frantically. It’s not
cold enough to wear gloves. Dressed in black from top to bottom, except for
a white, high-collared dress shirt, he looked archaic. She tried to match him
with a time period. Mid-eighteenth century? Even his demeanor was
aristocratic and proud. Small silver buttons
ran the length of his jacket. They pressed sharply against her thin
hospital gown.
“Do you trust me?” He studied her intently and removed
his hand.
“You
were there when I got hit,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Why
didn’t you bring me to the hospital? You left me at the funeral home.”
“I
had no transportation. I left you where you would be found.”
“Why
didn’t you stay with me?”
“I
have my reasons. I am here now.”
Gwynneth
paused. “Thank you for saving me.”
“I
wish something in return.”
“I-I
don’t have anything.” She flinched as she felt a small tug from deep inside. It
was as if probing fingers were searching for something. Fear bloomed within
her. The probing stopped.
“Are
you saying no?” His voice held an edge.
“I
don’t understand.”
“Are…you…
saying…no?”
Confused,
she nodded slightly. Suddenly, Julian grabbed her around the shoulders, and they fell into blackness. Something
powerful swirled around them. Something
malevolent. She panicked and clung to him. There was pressure on all sides of
her, as if the air was folding and becoming heavier and heavier. And then,
everything stopped.
“Open
your eyes, Gwynneth,” he whispered.
They
were in a Victorian house. A fire burned in the fireplace. The scent from the
burning wood filled the air. Muted light reflected off elaborate, but worn, wallpaper and furniture. A half-eaten biscuit
lay on a delicate-looking plate next to an empty teacup resting on its side.
Julian
took her by the hand and led her up a winding staircase. She studied him from
behind. Tall and lean, though quite broad-shouldered, long white hair draped
his back like silk. His form-fitting, tailored jacket hit mid-thigh. Matching
black pants were tucked into knee-high leather boots. He walked with catlike
grace, his boots making light sounds on the stairs.
Otherworldly, her thoughts
whispered. Still in her hospital gown, Gwynneth felt vulnerable and
naked. Her bare feet pressed against the wooden floor. Grit stuck to her toes.
He
led her down a hallway lit by fluted glass light fixtures. At the end of the
hallway was a door.
Never
taking his eyes off hers, Julian opened it.
Dark
figures scattered like exploding glass. Red…so much red. There was blood
everywhere. Blood-soaked sheets, pillows; blood pooled onto the wooden floor
and soaked into an ornate carpet.
A
woman lay across the bed. She wore an old-fashioned white nightgown, which was
plastered to her body. Her long dark hair spilled across the sheets. Gaping
wounds covered her chest. A knife lay on the
floor. The windows were open, and white curtains fluttered in the
evening breeze.
The
creatures writhed in the corners as light from the hallway shattered their
darkness.
A
strangled sound escaped Gwynneth’s throat. Julian wrapped his arms around her
and urged her forward. The figures that had fled into the corners seeped into
the scene once more.
“They
come for her. I want you to watch.”
Gwynneth
shook violently. He gripped her tighter.
The
figures swarmed over the dead woman’s body. They snaked up her torso, across
her face, and into her hair. Gwynneth felt their need, burning and relentless.
“Oh
my God, she’s not dead,” she moaned. Her
vision went black.
