The House on Black Lake (20 page)

“Who are you to lecture me about perfect worlds? If you were true to yourself, you’d be living in hell, or at the least in a cave instead of this castle.”

He stops his pacing and moves to where I sit perched at the edge of his bed. He grazes his hands along the heavy leather belt holding up his jeans and begins to unfasten the buckle.

“I could tie you up and torture you with love first, but you don’t deserve it.”

“You’ve tortured me long enough.”

“Well then, let’s get to it.”

“How does beating someone free them, for God’s sake?” I avert my eyes from what is impossible to explain, ignore, or understand; for that matter, the male thing, the strength of not understanding, wanting to know, what lies beneath.

“It’s a method used by tribes and many civilizations throughout history. When used in initiation, it helps the initiate ascend to a higher level of spiritual awakening. The experience is powerful for both the giver and the receiver.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve experienced it.”

I struggle to gather my thoughts. I’m unable to express my feelings, so I let something deeper take over and speak for me. “You may be a sorcerer, but you are neither my master nor my priest. My body and soul are not for your taking. That privilege is earned through trust and commitment. You are correct. I am not yet free. But when I am, I will only supplicate myself to a man who worships me as much as I worship him.”

I shift my focus to gaze at a picture in a gilded frame, set on the nightstand next to a crystal bowl of fragrant potpourri. It is a photograph of Ruth and Ramey wrapped in each others arms, surrounded by their five young children, in front of a Christmas tree trimmed in colorful balls and ribbons, brimming with dozens of gaily wrapped packages.

“We’ve been conjoined by fate, and there’s no turning back,” he says, and a strangled thread of emotion seeps into these words, a mixture of sorrow and regret that makes me shudder.

There is a long and terrible silence, a silence like no other. It is the stillness after an upheaval, after the squeal of the tires and the sound of catastrophe. It is the hush when you know your life will never be the same. It is the dead calm when you have crossed the line of time into a new existence. Something has changed. This interlude of sadism has changed me forever.

“Look at me... look into the pupils of my eyes, Alexandra. They are the only place where you can look inside the mind and discover what it is thinking and feeling.”

I straighten myself on the silk comforter, wipe the tears from my lashes and gaze directly into Ramey’s eyes. Beyond the fading anger, I see other emotions flicker. There are nuances of more vulnerable feelings, and something else, more profound and meaningful than the vain and shallow substances floating on the surface. A shadow lurks there; a glint of the unspeakable hides beneath the wreckage of his heart. He holds a terrible secret in the unfathomable depths. It is wild, crazy, unbelievable, and imminent, yet I have no idea what it is.

“You’re moving away from me, Baby. It’s like you’ve fallen into the bottom of a well. You’re crouched down there, but I can’t get to you. I can’t save you.”

“Forgive me, but you are mistaken. I didn’t ask you to save me.” I stand up from the bed and move across the room.

“I believe it’s
you
who’s looking to be saved. You need to save yourself, Ramey,” I say, then turn and walk out the door.

“G
OOD
M
ORNING
. Y
OU MUST HAVE HAD A LATE NIGHT
. I
T’S NEARLY
noon.” Ruth wears floral oven mitts and carries a pan of cake that fills the room with the scents of vanilla and cinnamon. She looks elegant and well rested, in a cream cardigan and shell, with pearls strung around her neck and her mane pulled into a sleek chignon.

“I lay awake until nearly dawn. An animal was trapped in the fireplace. It sounded like a hyena, but Sammy slept through the ruckus. I blocked the screen with my suitcase to keep it from escaping. When I finally fell asleep I had a horrible nightmare that a wolf-like creature leaped through the window of my house and buried its teeth in my neck.”

“We’re not living in the Serengeti, dear. It was probably a squirrel. I’ll have the gardener remove the carcass.

“How was your day in St. Agathe?” she asks, with a curious backward glance.

“Wonderful. In fact, I met someone. Perhaps you might know him.”

“Do tell.”

“André Labat.”

“He’s young, isn’t he, maybe twenty-five?”

“He didn’t say.”

She turns around to face me, tilts her head, and places her hands on hips.

“Did you sleep with him?”

I note a hint of disapproval in the downward tug at the edges of her mouth.

“I had to break the spell.”

“You don’t mean...” She raises her eyebrows in disbelief. “No wonder you’ve been so uptight, dear. I’m envious.”

“Why? You’ve got Ramey.”

“Did André tell you about the cult?” she asks, turning away to cut into the fragrant cake.

“He didn’t say a word; sounds mysterious.”

“I heard he’s a member of the Solar Temple. His parents were worried when his fellow members took a ride to a planet that circles the star Sirius. Their method of travel was incineration. I think they tranquilized themselves before they burned themselves alive. They took their kids, too.”

“Ruth...” I say with a playful lilt, waiting for her to reveal it is all a joke.

“It’s true. It was all over the newspapers a while back. Didn’t you hear about it in the U.S.?”

I shake my head.

“The leader was a good-looking doctor, who started the cult with a guy named...” she lifts her hand to her forehead, as though the gesture will unlock the memory. “I forget his name; anyway, he used to be a member of the men’s club. I read in the paper they believe life on Earth is a dream so they burn their bodies to return to their home planet. I know it sounds crazy, but they still have a large group of followers. The deaths occurred about ten miles from here. I don’t know if André is still a member. They lost quite a few when the leader’s son divulged the rituals were contrived, a big fake,” she says, handing me a plate heaping with a piece of coffee cake.

“I think he invented the cult as an excuse to engage in orgies. Oh, dear, I hope André didn’t seduce you to lure you into the cult. You can never be too careful, Alexandra,” she says in a condescending tone, while looking at me with a motherly pity that makes me feel foolish and ashamed.

“He told me his grandfather was an Iroquois, and he follows many of the beliefs of the Native Americans.”

“Well, that part is true. He
is
part Indian. Was he good?”

“We had a very powerful connection.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You sound like a young girl.”

“He’s very intense and passionate, nothing like Matt or any other man I’ve known, for that matter.”

“I’m sure it was a nice distraction from your problems at home,” she says with a hint of sarcasm, followed by a sniff and haughty flare of her nostrils, and turns away as though to signal the subject is no longer on the table for discussion.

“We need to round up the kids and drive into St. Agathe to get supplies for the celebration tomorrow,” she says, and begins to pack a cardboard box with paper goods.

“Where’s Ramey?” I ask, while lifting a forkful of the warm slice to my lips.

“He drove out to the countryside to get fireworks for the solstice celebration. A local farmer has a stash in his barn. He also makes a killer brew.”

“Sammy will be excited; he loves fireworks.”

“And now for the surprise! There’s a birthday celebration for Georgie in Old Montreal after his concert tonight. He wants you to attend the show and be his date for the party. But don’t tell my husband.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“I’ll have the girls drive you to the concert and you can stay overnight at the house in Montreal. We’ll tell Ramey you wanted to see the city nightlife. Don’t worry about Sammy. We’d be happy to babysit.”

Ruth seals the box she’s packed with provisions and turns to look at me with an enchanted grin.

“Dress sexy, Alexandra. Tonight you are to be escorted by one of the most famous and desirable men in Canada.”

“I know exactly what I’ll wear—my new emerald camisole from Mimi’s. It’s the color of the pants he wore the day we met.”

“A perfect choice, darling, green is Georgie’s favorite—it’s the color of his eyes.”

T
HE AMPHITHEATER PERCHED ON THE EDGE OF
M
ONT
T
REMBLANT
looks like an extraterrestrial launching pad. An enormous steel grid pulsates with neon lights and flashing images of universal creation and destruction. The title of the concert,
The Nature of Life
, throbs across the canopy of the edifice. A massive heaven’s gate backdrop at the left perimeter supports a spiraling staircase, outlined in phosphorescent bubbling matter, that leads to a stage swirling in luminescent fog.

“I can’t believe Georgie asked
you
to be his date for the party tonight,” Amanda says. My quizzical side-glance sparks a flurry of coy blinks. “Most of the girls I’ve seen him with have been young.”

“I guess he appreciates women of all ages,” I say, while looking down into the lights of Montreal flickering below us, like reflections in a dark pool.

“These seats are incredible. It feels like we’re part of the show,” Amanda says, then points into the sky. “Look at all the small planes flying overhead.”

“Wow!” Gabrielle yells out.

Fire erupts from the winged backdrop and strobes shoot into the air, splitting and multiplying as they fan through the sky. A powerful resonance emanates, and a domed cage rises from the center of the stage. Georgie sits inside, on a jewel encrusted throne. The sun-bronzed god wears tight leather pants, a sleeveless T-shirt emblazoned with a bleeding cross, and bleached hair groomed into a crown of spikes. A Celtic symbol is tattooed on one bulging tricep and a braided warrior band encircles the other. His thighs are straddled by identical girls with sheets of raven hair, dressed in bustiers and laced boots. They hold torches aloft that throw out wicked flames. The girls stand and Georgie rises from his throne to stride boldly downstage, where he sings a French song in a rich baritone.