Goddess of the Rose (10 page)

Perhaps he would dream of touching her skin again. Perhaps . . .

Then her blood had spattered against the cold stone that entombed him, and the pain that jolted him shattered the past two centuries like ice cast against marble.

He hadn't believed he had been freed. He'd thought it was just a cruel delusion. It might have taken a decade for him to attempt even a small movement of one of his massive muscles if her scent hadn't begun to wane.

She was leaving him. Escaping from him.

No! Not again!

Embracing the pain, he flexed his great muscles and broke the barrier of shrouding darkness.

He scented the air. Yes, there, layered within night smells of roses and blood, was the anointing oil. He commanded his stiff body to move, and he followed the fragrance he knew too well through the dark, unfamiliar garden. With an enormous effort of will, he did not crash through the few rosebushes that separated them and seize her. He forced himself to wait until he was able to more carefully control the beast within him. The creature had been penned too long . . . his needs were too raw . . . too brutal. It would not do to rend her flesh with his claws. That would solve nothing. He must capture her gently, as he would a delicate bird, and then return her to the destiny she had thought to escape.

Controlling the ferocity within him, he stalked her. He could not see her well, but he did not need to. The anointing oil drew him; she drew him. And she was aware of him. He could feel her panic. But there was something else—something unfamiliar that radiated from her. He frowned. Something was wrong. He picked up his pace as she left the rose gardens and burst into a small pool of light. He stopped abruptly.

This was not the priestess he sought. Disappointed and confused, he stood frozen, watching as she struggled with the opening of the leather satchel she carried, clearly looking for something. A weapon? Her eyes frantically searched the dense shadows behind her—the shadows in which he stood.

 

 

 

“Come on! Where is that damn cell phone?”

He heard her unfamiliar voice and saw that she was trembling as she searched through the satchel—trembling so badly that the slick leather of the bag slipped out of her hands and fell to the stone path with a sickening crunch.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” the stranger said.

She dropped to her knees and slid her hand into the purse, and he heard her breath rush from her lips, as if in response to a sudden sharp pain. She jerked her hand back. He could see that her fingers were sticky with blood.

The scent hit him hard in his gut—blood mixed with the anointing oil of a High Priestess. She was not the betrayer, but she had clearly been marked by the goddess. And he must obey the goddess's will. He began moving toward her again, this time using his newly freed powers to call the darkness to thicken about him so his body would remain cloaked with night. Still, her head jerked up and she stared wide-eyed in his direction.

“Do not fear,” he murmured, attempting to gentle his powerful voice.

She gasped. “Who are you? What do you want?”

He could feel her terror, and for a moment he regretted what he must do. But only for a moment. He knew his duty. This time he would fulfill it. Before she could dart away from him, he used his inhuman speed to reach her where she still crouched on the leafy ground. She stared up at him, unable to see through his mantle of darkness.

She was so small . . . so very human . . .

With a gruff command, he ordered the darkness to cover both of them, and for a single breath he wrapped his great arms around her, engulfing her in a tide of vertigo. The cool breeze that earlier had been friendly and inviting suddenly beat against them in a frenzy of scent and sound. They were caught in a vortex of confusion. The ground seemed to open to swallow them. It trembled . . . shifted . . . rocked. The world around them faded and then disappeared altogether, and the shimmering air was rent by a tremendous roar.

Like a snake slithering into its hole, darkness and the beast retreated, carrying Mikado Empousai with it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

S
OFTNESS ... she was surrounded by softness. Curled on her side, her face rested against a pillow. Mikki rubbed her cheek against its sleek surface. Silk. It had to be silk. She snuggled more deeply into the thick comforter, breathing in the rich scent of expensive, down-filled bedding.

While she lay there, someone combed through her hair with a wide, soft-bristled brush. Mikki sighed happily and rolled over on her stomach so the someone could have better access to more of her hair. Dreaming . . . she had to be dreaming.

And, she told her sleeping self, her dreams had certainly been wonderful lately. She should just relax and enjoy.

The person hummed a wordless tune while she brushed Mikki's hair. Her voice was a gentle waterfall of notes that blended with the soft strokes of the brush lulling Mikki into an almost hypnotically relaxed state.

Mikki sighed with perfect contentedness.

Somewhere in the lullaby-like humming, the whispered words
Welcome, Priestess
echoed in her sleep-heavy mind.

Mikki breathed another dreamy sigh; she was definitely going to have to do more sleeping.

Another pair of hands touched her. These new hands focused on rubbing her feet. With the confidence of a master masseuse, the hands drew firm, soothing circles across her insteps.

Mikki felt like she was liquefying. Well, she certainly deserved an excellent dream, especially after the night she'd had. Her mind traveled languidly back. The crappy blind date . . . humiliating herself by screwing up the lines of that play . . . then being stalked by some terrible imaginary beast through the rose gardens . . . cutting her fingers on the broken perfume bottle . . . the deafening roar and the horrible sense of suffocation . . .

Memory tried to break through the dam of contentment her dream had built. She had to be dreaming, but how had she gotten home? Just what exactly happened before the weird dizzy spell that had overwhelmed her in Woodward Park? A sliver of unease skittered spiderlike through her body. She needed to wake up.

Mikki opened her eyes.

A flutter of activity sounded behind her. Mikki spun around. Two women stood next to her bed.

No—it wasn't
her
bed.

Mikki snapped her eyes shut.

No. No. No. This wasn't right. It was the bed from her dreams. The
huge
canopy bed in the
enormous
bedroom, to be precise. Mikki pressed the palms of her hands against her closed eyes. Then she rubbed her face vigorously. She could feel her body, too damn well. The feeling was distinct, not like the sweet, erotic fog that filled her dreams. With her eyes still closed, she slapped her own cheek. Hard.

“Ow, shit.” Mikki flinched. It definitely hurt. She was certain she was awake now.

She opened her eyes.

Sticky tendrils of fear laced their way through her stomach. Nothing had changed. The bed was still there, as was the bedroom and the two women. They were wearing long shimmering robes that wrapped toga-like around their bodies and brushed the lushly carpeted floor. They were young and beautiful, especially silhouetted against the wall of mullioned windows behind them.

“Shit on a shingle!” Mikki automatically used her favorite curse as her breath left her body and her heart slammed against her chest. “Who the hell are you?” she squeaked. Fear clenched her. Had she been attacked in the park and killed? “Am I dead? Are you ghosts?” she blurted.

The women's eyes widened, and the brunette held out a delicate hand in a gesture that was probably meant to have been reassuring, but the fact that she was there at all, and that she could respond to Mikki's question, was definitely not comforting. Mikki immediately shot backward, crablike, over the bed until she was pressed firmly against the headboard.

“My Lady! We are of the living. You have nothing to fear.” Her voice was soft and melodic, and Mikki recognized it instantly as the one that had recently been humming the lullaby to her. “We are here to welcome and to serve you, Priestess.”

The other woman, the one with the lion's mane of wheat-colored hair, nodded in agreement. “Yes, Priestess. We are all very much alive.”

Clutching the comforter to her chest, Mikki tried to control the shaking in her voice. “Wh-where am I?”

“You are home, Priestess!” The brunette smiled magnanimously.

“And just exactly where is ‘home'?” Mikki asked, feeling numb around her mouth, like she'd eaten a Popsicle too fast and was having a hard time making her lips work.

“You are in the Realm of the Rose,” the blonde assured her.

“I have finally done it,” Mikki moaned. “I have finally gone stark raving, totally fucking crazy.” She buried her face in her hands.

Instantly, the two women rushed to her, patting her shoulders and stroking her hair. Mikki jerked back from them.

“Don't touch me!” she yelled. “You're only making it worse. I can damn sure feel you when you touch me, even though I should be sleeping and this should all be a dream, and . . .” She broke off her babble. Breathing hard, she just shook her head at the women. “No. Stay back. You're just giving me more proof of how kooky I am!”

The women took nervous little half-steps away from her.

Obviously the leader, the brunette spoke quickly. “Let me assure you, Priestess, you are of your right mind. We are not imaginings, nor are we deranged fantasies.” Her smile was hesitant but sweet. “I know this must seem very odd to you”—she glanced at her partner, who mirrored her smile—“but you truly are in the Realm of the Rose, and we are your handmaidens.”

The blonde nodded her head, the waves of her hair bouncing in perky agreement.

Mikki felt her right eye begin to twitch.

“Maybe I'm drunk,” she muttered, trying to remember how much she'd had to drink before she'd dumped her date. Three, or had it been four glasses of that fabulous chianti? Oh, Lord . . .

“We would be happy to bring you wine, Priestess,” the blonde chirped.

“Oh, be quiet and let me think,” Mikki snapped. “And stop calling me priestess. It's not my name, nor is it my job title.” Then she rolled her eyes at herself. What a totally moronic thing to say. Not her job title? Being a kook was bad enough. Being a stupid kook would be completely humiliating.

But the handmaidens seemed oblivious to her idiocy. They were busy exchanging startled glances.

“But,” the brunette began hesitantly, “you must be our priestess. You awoke the Guardian.”

Mikki made an exasperated sound in her throat. “The only thing I
must be
right now is crazy.”

The women went on talking to each other as if she had not spoken.

“She is beautiful,” the blonde said. Studying her carefully, she sniffed in Mikki's direction. “And she has been properly anointed.”

The brunette squinted at Mikki. “But she is not as young as the other priestesses who were Chosen.”

Her partner nodded silently, her brow wrinkling in concern. “Perhaps that is for the best.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and Mikki had to strain to catch her words. “You know how badly the last one turned out.”

“Silence!” the brunette snapped.

The blonde paled and clamped her lips together.

“You are a maiden, are you not?” the brunette asked Mikki matter-of-factly.

“That's it!” Mikki swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up so abruptly that the two women each took a startled step back. “It's bad enough that I'm having some kind of psychotic break with reality, but I really have to draw the line when my delusions begin talking about my age and questioning my sexual history.” Mikki made little shooing motions at them. “Go on. I prefer to sink into psychosis by myself.”

“We did not mean to offend, Priestess,” the brunette said, instantly contrite.

The blonde nodded again—vigorously.

“You didn't offend me. My mind, or more accurately, my lack of it, offended me.” The women blinked at her like Kewpie dolls. “Oh, just leave me alone for a while. I have a lot of thinking to do.”

“You have only to call for us if there is anything you desire,” said the brunette. “Of course, Priestess, we will return when the sun has set to prepare you for the goddess's evening ritual. We all hope that once again—”

Mikki's raised hand cut off her gushing words. “No! Nothing else right now. To quote an idiot accountant I once had the misfortune to date, ‘My bucket is too damn full right now to deal with anything else.' Just leave.” At their hurt looks she added, “Please.” They were fabrications of her mind, but (as she was sure her mother would have reminded her) there was really no reason to hurt their feelings and be impolite. They couldn't help her kookiness.

Reluctantly, they walked gracefully across the room. Mikki expected them to pass through the wall like proper figments of imaginations, but the blonde opened the large, ornately carved door, which clicked closed softly behind them. Even her hallucinations didn't behave properly.

“Insane,” Mikki said firmly. “You are completely insane.”

Her legs felt weak, and abruptly Mikki sat back down on the bed. The thick down comforters billowed around her like clouds of hand-spun gold. Unable to help herself, she ran her hand over the rich, silk surface of the duvet.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered. The bedding was sumptuous and incredibly beautiful, richer than even the linens from The Blue Dolphin, the expensive boutique she liked to browse through at Utica Square. And
browse
was the key word—she could never have afforded to buy her bedding there. Now she was surrounded by material that made The Blue Dolphin look like K-Mart.