Legacy: The Niteclif Evolutions, Book 1 (2 page)

“No, ma’am. I’m relatively certain this is correct as the gentleman who dropped it off earlier this evenin’ was
quite
adamant that you receive his missive upon your arrival.” He flushed, pulling at his collar. Either the guy had tipped the Manager well or he’d threatened him.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll, uh, just take it to my room.” I took the message and saw my name written on the front in an elegant black script—Madeleine D. Niteclif. The bellhop approached with my bags as I was about to comment on the red wax seal melted over the back flap and impressed with a serpent of some type. He tipped his cap at me in the same manner the valet had, friendly but formal. I decided that all of the ivory-papered messages in the world couldn’t be as intriguing to me as the number of pillows on the bed. I was exhausted. So I thanked the desk clerk and manager again and, with the bellhop hot on my heels, headed to my non-smoking hotel room and a good, quiet night’s sleep. Let’s hear it for willpower.

Ten. That was the number of pillows on the heavenly bed in my room. Done in the same marble and mahogany as the lobby, with still-impressive twelve-foot coffered ceilings, the room was lovely. The walls were a complementing soft gray, with the floor-length curtains done in a dark smoke. But it was the bed that had stolen my heart. There were Celtic designs carved into the headboard and climbing vines carved into each of the four posts. The duvet was a white and gray striped silk, and there were solid white and gray throw pillows artfully arranged against the headboard. One blood red pillow was the sole splash of color in the room. On the wall, at the foot of the bed, was a plasma screen TV. There was a small writing secretary under the window, with an antique-looking chair sitting in front of it. I was in love with the whole room. I’m generally not a mystical-whimsy-and-throw-in-some-vines kind of girl, but the bed was so romantic, and I was in England and it all fit together of a piece. I’ll admit, once, that I rolled around on the bed like a kid. Okay. Moving on.

I peeked into the bathroom, curious. If the bedroom screamed
I’m worth a fortune!
then this room quietly projected wealth; no screaming here. It was all Italian marble and polished chrome fixtures. Not modern, exactly, just elegant. The shower was a solid green-glass-walled enclosure with four fixtures and enough controls to launch a satellite into orbit. I would have to figure it out later. The bathtub was an old claw-foot tub made for soaking. There was even a telephone on the wall nearest the door.

The bellhop waited while I dug around in my backpack for my wallet and I tipped him what I hoped was a decent amount. Then the bellhop surprised me by counting off a few notes and handing the rest back to me.

“This is more’n sufficient, miss. Wouldn’ wanna cheacha or nuttin’,” he said, bobbing his head. “Have a good evenin’.” He gave me one last shy smile, and he was gone.

I clearly needed to learn my pounds from my silver or I was going to get screwed at some point. I’d have to worry about it tomorrow, though, because right now I needed a bath. I desperately wanted a shower but, like I said, the controls were going to take some non-sleep-deprived concentration. The tub? Simply run hot water. I could do that.

I made sure the security latch was thrown on the door, and I shed my clothes. Just being out of the grimy things made me feel better. I stood in the bathroom, waiting for the tub to fill up. The papers. I had forgotten all about the two pieces of paper—one from the car, one from the front desk—that I wanted to look at. But the tub was almost full.

They’ve waited all evening
.
They can wait a little longer.

I stepped into the hot water and sat slowly, leaning back and sinking almost to my chin. I could feel individual muscles begin to relax and I sighed, running my hands back and forth through the hot water, grateful for such a small pleasure. The water stung my broken nails a little, and I made a mental note to rub an antibacterial cream into the tips before bed. I could feel myself slipping off to sleep. As I didn’t want to drown, I sat up and began scrubbing the travel grit off myself. I washed my hair, dunking it to rinse it out. I’d cut it pixie short before the trip so maintenance would be an easy task. Finishing the bath, I got out and toweled off. I reveled in my bare skin and, catching a glance of myself in the mirror, turned to analyze what I saw. I held my arms out parallel to the floor and looked at myself from all sides. I was tall for a woman at an even six feet. My waist was slightly indented above insignificant hips, which only served as a place to join my legs to my torso. My arms and legs were toned due to kick-boxing lessons, but they were still soft enough to be feminine. My breasts? All woman. I’m tall but not large, and thin but not runway model anorexic chic. My hair was naturally a dark brown bordering on black, my eyes a light green. I had always been easy going and generous with my smiles, with an open and accepting personality. I had even once been considered quick-witted by friends and co-workers. Of course, none of that mattered much anymore. Grief was my new moniker, and I wore it and bore its weight well. I sank slowly to the floor and watched as I disappeared from the sink’s mirror. Disappeared. How appropriate. Curling my arms around my legs, I made myself as small and insignificant as I could there on the cold marble floor and I allowed myself to weep for my losses. Grief, rage, terror, longing, abandonment—they all poured out in an open cry of invocation to any deity who would hear me, but my spiritual phone didn’t ring.

I pulled myself up off the floor, emotionally as well as physically thrashed. I treated my fingertips and crawled up into the highboy bed, yielding to the pull of sleep before my head hit the pillows. I began to dream.

Standing in an empty ballroom, I was wearing the most amazing gown. It was a sheath dress, which suited my tall figure well. Simple but stunning, it was done in a deep garnet color—a haltered number that highlighted my long arms and pale complexion. The slit on the side of the dress ran nearly to my hip and gave no question as to my length of leg or the fact that I was built like a woman. The lack of a true neckline combined with the plunging back made my neck appear longer, and left no doubt about my lack of a bra. I wasn’t the type of woman who should, or really could, go without and I felt slightly self-conscious, even in sleep. My short, dark hair was tousled as if I’d just rolled out of bed. It was all sexy as hell, and I was talking about
me
. I’ve never thought of myself as beautiful, but in the dream I was. My only accessories were a large diamond pendant hung on a white gold chain and white gold wrist cuffs. I was barefoot.

I walked across the ballroom, the only person inside. Music played somewhere else, a waltz, and I wondered if I could learn to dance to it. I stopped and swayed for a moment then began to walk again, but this time my step was in time to the music.

“With only a little modification, my love, you’ve learned the steps,” said a deep male voice behind me. I knew I was dreaming because I didn’t spin around in fear. Instead I turned, focused on being graceful. Anyone who knew me would know that grace and I didn’t have a long and happy history. Anyone who knew me…for one moment I thought of my parents and the ache in my heart was like a mortal wound, my shoulders hunching to protect my heart. Time froze for a moment, and then the pain loosed its grip, and I stood straight again under the heavy burden of my grief.

Oh the beauty of dreams. The owner of the voice stood close to me, clothed in a light blue silk shirt over faded out jeans. He, too, was barefoot. Odd, I’d never had a foot fetish before. But I did have a thing for tall guys, and this guy fit the bill. He was easily 6’7”, with broad shoulders, lean but evidently well muscled as the shirt slithered across his shoulders and around his waist as he moved. It was almost like the shirt was a living thing, and my fingers twitched with the need to rub it between my forefinger and thumb. His hair was a dark brown, shot through with strands of gold and copper and it brushed the tops of his shoulders. He had a square jaw with firm, full lips, and gorgeous shaped eyebrows sitting on a perfectly proportioned face. But the eyes were what did me in. His eyes were an almost sapphire blue, dark with an even darker ring around the iris. How did I know? I’d drifted toward him as I took him in, almost as if he’d called me to him. I stopped.
Had
he called me?

“Only out of sleep, my love,” he said, his voice hinting at the potential for a deep Scottish brogue. Oh sweet hell, I could fall for the voice alone.

I closed my eyes. “Say something else,” I said in a cool, commanding voice.

He chuckled, an almost sinister sound that echoed in the ballroom. “Something else,” he parroted.

My eyes snapped open. “Very funny.” I glared at him. “This is
my
dream, so lose the pathetic humor and just stand there and look pretty.”

“‘Look pretty’?” he asked, incredulous. “Did you just tell me to look pretty?” His eyebrows rose, mocking my choice of words.

“I don’t read romance novels, so I refuse to use the words burgeoning, smoldering, blazing, heroic, manly, or turgid in any of my conversations—even in my dreams. So yeah, look pretty. Besides, this is
my
dream. You shouldn’t be provoking me.”

“Is it your dream?” he asked, moving even closer to me. He smelled like sunshine and night air combined right after a new rain. It was a mouthwatering smell. I leaned in to breathe him in since there are no codes of decorum in sleep.

He chuckled again.

“What?” I demanded.

“Already you’re drawn to me,” he said softly.

“Arrogant much?” I stepped back, agitated. He raised a hand to caress my cheek. In a move as natural as breathing, I laid my face in his hand and sighed, my irritation immediately forgotten.

The stranger’s head snapped up, and he let out a low string of creative curses, dropping his hand. “I got here first,” he growled, the sound reverberating in his chest.

“Ah, but the point is I
got
here.” I turned toward him and gasped. The newest voice belonged to a prime male specimen. He wore a black suit, with a black silk shirt and cool European-style black shoes. He was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome, topping out somewhere around 6’3” and built like the statue David. His hair was black, a true black that I knew would have hints of blue in the sunlight. Pushed back from his face it hung past his jaw to his jacket collar and it was almost hard to see where the hair ended and his jacket began. His face was absolutely gorgeous, with sculpted cheekbones, dark brows and lashes that I would have considered literally killing him to get. His eyes were a bright light green, like new grass, and they were intense, focused on me and Mystery Guy #1.

“Did you think that a mere dream walk would keep me out, Bahlin?” asked the dark-haired man. “I am more powerful than that and, like you, I have a strongly vested interest in Madeleine’s future.”

“Maddy.”

“Pardon?” tall, dark and yummy asked, turning his attention back to me.

“I go by Maddy. But if this is
my
dream, you should know that.” I fisted my hands at my sides, the irritation returning as I recognized the sheer number of idiosyncrasies in my dream. It was like I didn’t know myself very well at all, and it struck me that this whole dream sequence was, somehow, very wrong. “You know, I’ve never dreamed of two men arguing over me. That’s ridiculous. Men, plain men, don’t argue over me. You two Greek gods definitely wouldn’t. Argue, that is.”

“Greek gods?” Bahlin chuckled.

“But we’re not Greek gods,” said the other man. “We’re—”

“No,” roared Bahlin. “You will not reveal our true natures to her in a dream. Besides,” he said, his voice cooling, “it’s just a figure of speech. Right, Maddy?” With less than a thought he was standing at my side again, his chest nearly touching my right shoulder. I turned toward him slowly, like a flower turns toward the sun, because it must, when the other man approached me. He walked quickly but with the grace of a dancer. His approach stopped my turn to Bahlin, as I’m sure he intended.

“Then I shall introduce myself formally, at the very least.” He moved lightly for such a large man. He bowed a very courtly bow in front of me and said, “I am Tarrek, First Prince of Faerie.” He picked up my limp hand and kissed it, and the contact was electric, sending little jolts along my nervous system.

“Really? A faerie prince? That’s odd. I can’t figure out why I’d dream about the Tuatha de Dannan. I’m not into that supernatural, paranormal crap that seems to have taken over literature—okay, the world. Though I really do absolutely love Laurell K. Hamilton, and I did like Twilight, but…”

“Do you always talk this much?” asked Tarrek, curiosity evident in his voice, while still holding my hand.

“Hey! My dream, my altered reality.” I took my hand back more forcefully than absolutely necessary. Something stuck in my head—
my altered reality
.

Bahlin chuckled from somewhere behind me and said, “At least you had a better response than being told to look pretty.” He stalked around me with lethal, predatory grace and I was suddenly facing him too. He stood inches away from Tarrek and the tension between the two men nearly crackled, as if proximity made their dislike of each other even worse.

“Then I, too, shall formally introduce myself,” he said. “I am Bahlin Drago, but you may simply call me Bahlin.” He took my hand and bowed over it, but his bow was different, less deferential. “And the pleasure is all mine.” He turned my hand over in his so that my palm was facing up and he kissed it, lips slightly parted, slow and sensuous. A cool breeze blew through the room, ruffling the men’s hair slightly. The wind carried the scent of Bahlin, and I was momentarily speechless.

“A pleasure for me, as well,” I said, trying to recover some type of control over my behavior, but the harder I struggled to master myself, the less in control I felt. I began to shiver, disturbed even in sleep. I felt almost as if my thoughts were somehow being steered to influence me, though to what end I had no idea.

The three of us stood in silence, a tight living and breathing triangle. The tension between the two men continued to escalate until Tarrek said through clenched teeth, “We will not fight tonight.”