When she’d left the broch shaking and pale, she’d seized one last moment of glory. She’d made love to the Hawk with all the passion in her soul. Saying goodbye, and dying inside. She’d known it would be horrible to lie to him, but she hadn’t anticipated just how deeply it would cut her.
Adam had been unyielding on that point. He’d made it clear that she must fully convince the Hawk she desired Adam. After the incredible intimacy she and Hawk had shared, she’d known she would have to say hateful, horrid things to convince him.
She shivered violently as Adam’s thumb brushed her lower lip. She slapped his hand away in spite of her fear. “Don’t touch me.”
“If I thought for a moment you had tried to tell him something more, I would go back and kill him even as we speak, Beauty.”
“I gave you what you wanted, you bastard!” Adrienne cried. “All of Dalkeith is safe from you now.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Adam shrugged indolently. “He’s dead anyway.” Adam tugged at her reins and resumed their slow passage beneath the rustling limbs.
“What?” Adrienne hissed.
Adam smiled puckishly. “I thought you might enjoy the scenic route back. This trail is a timeline and we just passed the year 1857. It’s that misty bend back there between the … trees … for lack of a better word. He’s been dead for over three hundred years.
A silent scream began to build inside her. “Who are you?”
“They used to call us gods,” he said dispassionately. “You would do well to worship me.”
“I’ll see you in hell, first,” she breathed.
“Not possible, Beauty. We don’t die.”
CHAPTER 31
SEATTLE
NOVEMBER 1997
ADRIENNE DREW HER ARM BACK AND WINGED THE BOOK like a Frisbee. It was supposed to fly across the room and crash with a resounding thump against the wall. Instead, it dropped limply, landing on the floor at the foot of her bed.
She glanced at the volume in disgust and noticed that it had fallen open to a page. She squinted to read it from her perch at the footrail.
Dreams about stopped-up commodes can symbolize many things: the dreamer is emotionally repressed. Emotional and/or physical purging is recommended. A recurring dream of this nature signifies the dreamer has endured a traumatic experience from which he/she must find some kind of release or serious psychological damage may occur.
So much for a sign from heaven.
Adrienne swallowed a choked laugh that turned into a sob. Who writes this stuff?
She dangled her bare foot over the bed and poked the book shut with her toe. 1001 Little Dreams. How bizarre. She hadn’t even realized she had that book in her library. Even more bizarre that she’d been dreaming about toilets for ten nights in a row. Nothing else. Just backed-up, overflowing commodes.
Lovely.
But she didn’t have to be hit over the head with a dream guide. She knew what was wrong with her. Fifteen days ago she had materialized in her sprawling Victorian house at 93 Coattail Lane, Seattle, U.S. of A.
And she hadn’t spoken to a single soul since then. Every scrap of energy she had went toward maintaining her composure—her tight skin. Tight dry eyes. Tight little death going on inside. She understood perfectly well that if she let even one tiny tear sneak out of the dry corner of her eye, she couldn’t be held responsible for the flooding that could cause mass evacuations throughout the state.
She scratched her tight scalp with a tight little hand as she tightly petted Moonie’s silky back. She touched Moonie’s pink nose in a tight, economical motion. No stopped-up commodes in a cat’s world, Adrienne mused as Moonie curled her paws into her hair and began a thrumming little purr.
It was Moonie’s hungry mews that roused her from the bed. Adrienne eased her aching body from the down coverlets and padded slowly to the kitchen.
God, but she felt five hundred years old herself, in pain from head to toe from a heartache she knew would never heal.
Adrienne woodenly opened a can of tuna. White alba-core. Only the best for Moonie. She slumped down on the floor and brushed irritably at the hand that shoved a book in front of her. “Go away, Marie, I need to be alone.” Adrienne marveled at the pale swirls of lime in the jade tile of the kitchen floor, and wondered why she’d never noticed them before. She rubbed lightly at one of the swirls. Slate tile could be so interesting. Riveting, in fact.
“Eees book you dropped,” Marie said in her thick accent.
Adrienne didn’t move. The book brushed her cheek. Heavens, but the woman was insistent. The book’s sharp corner poked the soft underside of her neck. Probably another stupid dream book. Well, she just wouldn’t look at it.