Rest In Peace (22 page)

“I don't believe you.” Even though you look so much like Byron, even though you sound so much like Byron, even though I wish you were Byron because you've made my heart ache all over again. “Matt would have told me if he'd found you.”

“I don't know who you're talking about.” He hesitated briefly. “And nobody knows I'm here.”

“Then you'd better leave before I call the police.”

“That wouldn't be a very smart thing to do.” Backing away, Lucy drew herself to full height. “Are you threatening me?”

“No, I'm just saying—” He broke off, breath catching sharply in his throat, and Lucy watched as he braced himself against the wall and clamped his arm tighter to his side.

“I'm just saying,” he continued softly, “that I'm not particularly fond of authority figures, and I wish you wouldn't call them.”

Lucy kept her eyes on him. “Why not? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“That would be a very long story.”

“Go ahead. I've got time.”

“Not that much time, I'm afraid.” One corner of his mouth twisted, though whether from bitterness or amusement, it was hard to tell.

“You were close to Byron?”

The question caught Lucy offguard. As she fumbled for an answer, she saw those strange amber eyes glide smoothly down her body, then up again to her face, with an almost suggestive—and calculated—slowness.

“Close?” Cheeks flushing, Lucy did her best to recover. “I was . . . am . . . a friend.”

“You must have known him well.”

Again Lucy hesitated. “I didn't know him very long. Only a few days.”

“That's more than just friendship I see in your eyes.”

Startled, she glanced away. She remembered the secret Byron had shared with her—his ability to view people's souls through their eyes. Was this stranger referring to something that only Bryon's brother could have known? Lucy forced herself to look back at him, but his expression revealed nothing.

“You don't know anything about me,” she said angrily.

“You might be surprised.”

It was a quiet answer, and matter-of-fact, but one that sent a chill through Lucy's heart. It was all she could do to keep her voice level. “What's that supposed to mean?”

His right hand lifted to fend off her question. With growing dismay, Lucy watched a violent shudder work through him, gnawing deep into his muscles. He bent lower, lips tightening, skin like chalk. His eyes squeezed shut, then opened again, seeking her out as though she'd suddenly gone invisible.

“Is Byron really dead?” he murmured.

He was still shivering but trying not to show it, easing himself onto his knees, left arm still clutched to his side. For a panicked moment she wondered if he might be on drugs or out of his mind—maybe even dying. Whatever was wrong with him, he was definitely in no shape to chase her, she decided. Now was her chance to run away, drive off, call for help. He even seemed a little disoriented; with any luck, he might not even notice she'd gone.

But he was between her and the doorway, and Lucy had to get past him. And even though there was enough space to slip by, something held her back. Something about the way he just knelt there, shoulders slumped, head bowed, his dark profile in sharp relief among many, yet seeming so alone . . .

She made a run for it.

With lightning speed he caught her, right arm flinging out, fingers clamping tight around her wrist.

Lucy gasped at the shock. Not just the iciness of his skin or the alarming strength of his grip, but the images that exploded through her brain.

Sweet night—leaves, stars, moonlight patterns—shadows swift on silent feet—dark desires deep as open wounds—wind flowing like blood, streaming like blood, hot wild fountains and rivers of blood—screams from secret places, screams that no one hears, pleasure, pain, and begging screams of terror and surrender . . .

No! Lucy tried to pull free. No more visions! Make them stop!

But the stranger's hand squeezed tighter, sending a chaos of sensations to her very core.

Burning. . .

“Please—”

Burning lungs, burning skin, burning eyes . . .

“Let go!”

Burning like the moon, red just like the moon, burning eyes, burning lips, burning souls.

“Is he?” she heard him ask again. “Is Byron dead?”

Lucy felt the walls sway around her, the stones shift beneath her feet. For one brief second the young man's eyes actually seemed to change color, black and amber fusing together in a liquid, luminous glow—yet she convinced herself it was only a trick of her own unshed tears. She tried to answer him—wanted to answer him—but her thoughts were all muddled, and she was so hot, and he was holding her so tight . . . so tight . . .

“Yes.” Don't make me say it—I can't bear to say it! “Yes! He's dead!”

“You're sure?”

Memories stabbed through her head, pierced through her heart. “If you were really his brother, you wouldn't be asking me these questions! If you were really his brother, you'd already know—”

“How ... long?”

He could barely gasp out the words. There was sweat along his brow and upper lip, though his breath hung like frost in the air. Lucy felt sick with both sympathy and dread.

“What is it?” she begged him. “What's wrong?”

“How long ago?”

Her mind raced feverishly, trying to find the answer. How long had it been since Byron died? Already much too long. Forever. A heart-breaking eternity.

“Days?” Strength was draining from his fingers; he fumbled for a tighter grasp. “Weeks?”

“Weeks. A couple of weeks—”

“Was there a funeral?”

“Yes.”

“A service? A special service?”

“Some kind of service, yes—”

“A casket?”

As hard as she tried to prevent them, more unwanted memories flooded in. The gloomy day, the weeping crowd of mourners. The priest in black, the flowers and personal keepsakes arranged upon the coffin. She couldn't hold back tears any longer. They ran down her cheeks and dripped on the hand that held her.

“And there's no mistake?” he persisted. “There couldn't possibly be some mistake? You're absolutely sure he's dead?”

“I . . . ” Sobs rose into her throat, though she stubbornly fought them down. “I was with him when he died.”

His fingers slid from her arm. As Lucy stepped away and began rubbing circulation back into her wrist, she heard the hollow sound of his whisper.

“So . . . it's true, then.”

Free to escape now, Lucy realized she couldn't. Something about the tonelessness of his voice, the defeated sag of his shoulders, held her there in a conflict of emotions. She watched in silence as he eased himself back against the wall, legs splayed in front of him, head bent to his chest. His right hand lifted in slow motion, fingers gliding back through his tangled mane of hair.

“Bryon.” Had he choked just then? Laughed? Sobbed? His voice was so faint, Lucy could barely hear. “Damn you, Byron . . . ”

Her heart caught at the words. She didn't know what to do. What to say. What to think or even believe. Something inside her felt the need to comfort him; something inside her still sensed a threat. Finally, in spite of herself, she took a cautious step toward him and reached out for his shoulder.

“After all this time,” he murmured.

Lucy stopped, hand poised midair. “What?” she asked him gently.

He lifted his head and rested it back against the wall. He wasn't looking at her anymore. In truth, he didn't even seem to realize she was there.

“After all this time,” he murmured again. “And now I'm too late.”