HE WOKE IN A COLD SWEAT WITH LAYLA SAYING his name over and over. The urgency in her voice, the solid grip of her hands on his shoulders pulled him out of the dream and back to the now.
But the terror came with him, riding on the raw and wrenching grief. He locked himself around her, the shape of her, the scent, the rapid beat of her heart. Alive. He hadn't been too late, not for her. She was alive. She was here.
"Just hold on." A shudder ripped through him, an echo of that stupefying fear. "Just hold on."
"I am. I will. You had a nightmare." While she murmured to him, her hands soothed at the knotted muscles of his back. "You're awake now. It's all right."
Was it? he wondered. Would it ever be?
"You're so cold. Fox, you're so cold. Let me get the blanket. I'm right here, just let me get the blanket. You're shaking."
She pulled back, yanked up the blanket, then positioned herself so she could rub the warmth back into his arms. In the dim light, her eyes never left his face. "Better? Is that better? I'm going to get you some water."
"Yeah, okay. Yeah, thanks."
She scrambled out of bed, darted out of the room. And Fox put his head in his hands. He needed a minute to pull himself together, to push the rest away. The dream had him twisted up, mixing his memories, tying in his fears, his loss.
He'd been too late on that ugly summer night, too busy being the hero. He'd screwed it up, and Carly died. He should have kept her safe. He should've made sure of it, should have protected her, above all else. She'd been his, and he hadn't helped her.
Layla hurried back, knelt on the bed as she pressed the water into his hand. "Are you warm enough now? Do you want another blanket?"
"No. No, I'm good. Sorry about that."
"You were like ice, and you were calling out." Gently, she brushed the hair back from his face. "I couldn't wake you up, not at first. What was it, Fox? What did you dream?"
"I don't-" He started to tell her he didn't remember, but the lie stuck bitterly in the back of his throat. He'd lied to Carly, and Carly was dead. "I can't talk about it." That wasn't quite the truth either. "I don't want to talk about it now."
He felt her hesitation, her need to press. And ignored it. Saying nothing, she took the empty glass from him, set it on the nightstand. Then she drew him back, cradling his head on her breast. "It's all right now." Her murmur was as soft as the hand that stroked his hair. "It's all right. Sleep awhile longer."
And her comfort chased his demons away so he could.
IN THE MORNING, SHE EASED OUT OF BED LIKE A thief out of a second-story window. He looked exhausted, she thought, and still very pale. All she could hope was some of the sorrow she'd felt from him in the night had softened with sleep. She could find its source; he couldn't block her now. If she knew the root, she might help him dig it out, help heal whatever hurt his heart.
And while that was true enough, it was only part of what tempted her. The rest was selfish, even petty. He'd called out her name in the grip of the nightmare, called in terror and despair. But not only hers, Layla remembered. He'd called out another's.
Carly.
No, looking into his mind and heart while he slept, whether the motive was selfless or selfish, was a violation. The worst kind. A breach of trust and intimacy.
She'd let him sleep, and if she had to breach something, she'd breach his kitchen and find something reasonably sane to fix him for breakfast.
She slipped on his discarded shirt and out of the room.
In the kitchen, she got a quick jolt. Not from piles of dirty dishes and scattered newspaper. The room was what she thought of as man-clean. A few dishes in the sink, some unopened mail on the table, counters hastily wiped around countertop appliances.
The jolt came from the addition of a shiny new countertop coffeemaker.
Everything in her went soft toward the point of gooey. He never drank coffee, but he'd gone out and bought a coffeemaker for her-one that had a fresh bean grinder. And when she opened the cupboard overhead, she found the bag of beans.
Could he be sweeter?
She was holding the brown bag, smiling at the appliance when Fox walked in. "You bought a coffeemaker."
"Yeah. I figured you ought to be able to get your morning fix."
When she turned, his head was already in the fridge. "Thank you. And just for that I'm going to cook you breakfast. You must have something in here I can morph into actual food."
She came around the refrigerator door to poke her own head in. When he straightened, stepped back, she saw his face.
"Oh, Fox." Instinctively she lifted a hand to his cheek. "You don't look well. You should go back to bed. You've got a light schedule today anyway. I can cancel-"
"I'm fine. We don't get sick, remember?"
Not in body, she thought, but heart and mind were different matters. "You get tired. You're tired now, and you need a day off."
"What I need is a shower. Look, I appreciate the breakfast offer, but I don't have much of an appetite this morning. Go ahead and make your coffee, if you can figure that thing out."
Whose voice was that? Layla asked herself as he walked away. That cool and distant voice? With careful movements, she put the beans away, quietly closed the cupboard door. Walking back to the bedroom, she began to dress while the sound of the water striking tile in the bathroom drummed in her ears.
A woman knew when a man wanted her gone, and a woman with any pride obliged him. She'd shower at home, dress for the workday at home, have her coffee at home. The man wanted space, she'd damn well give him space.
When the phone rang, she ignored it. Then, cursing, gave in. It could be important, she thought, an emergency. Then she winced when Fox's mother gave her a cheery good morning and addressed her by name.
In the shower, Fox let the hot water pound over him while he gulped down his cold caffeine. The combination dulled some of the sharp edges, but there were plenty more where they came from. He felt hungover, headachy, queasy. It would pass. It always passed. But a nightmare could give him a rougher morning-after than any drunken spree.
He'd probably chased Layla off, snapping at her that way. Which, he admitted, had been the purpose. He didn't want her hovering, stroking, and soothing, watching him with that worry in her eyes. He wanted to be alone so he could wallow and brood.
As was his damn right.
He turned off the shower, whipped a towel around his waist. When he walked into the bedroom, trailing drips, there she was.
"I was just leaving," she began in the frosty tone that told him he'd done his job very well. "But your mother called."
"Oh. Okay, I'll get back to her."
"Actually, I'm to tell you that since Sage and Paula have to be in D.C. on Monday, and may have to head back to Seattle from there, she's having everyone over for dinner tomorrow."
He pressed his fingers to his eyes. Probably no way out of that one. "Okay."
"She expects me to come. Me-all of us. I'm supposed to help you spread the word. You probably know she's impossible to say no to, but you can make excuses for me tomorrow."
"Why would I do that? Why wouldn't you go? Why should you get out of eating stuffed artichokes?" Since she didn't smile, he shoved at his dripping hair. "Look, I'm feeling a little rugged this morning. Maybe you could cut me a very narrow break."
"Believe me, I already have. I'm trying to cut it even wider by convincing myself you're being moody and secretive because you're an ass, not because you don't trust me. But it's tricky because while you may be an ass, you're not a big enough one to hold back the details of a major trauma like the one you went through last night just to be stupid. So I circle right back to the matter of trust. I let you inside me, I took you inside me in that bed, but you won't let me inside you. You won't tell me what hurt and scared you."
"You need to back off, Layla. This just isn't the time."
"You get to choose the time? Well, that's fine. Just let me know when it's convenient for you, and I'll pencil me in."
She started out, and he did nothing to stop her. Then she stopped, looked dead into his eyes. "Who's Carly?"
When he said nothing, when his eyes went blank, she walked away and left him alone.
HE DIDN'T EXPECT HER TO COME INTO THE OFfice, actively hoped she wouldn't. But while he was in his law library trying to concentrate on research, he heard her come in. There was no mistaking it for anyone else. Fox knew the way she moved, even her morning routine.
Open the door of the foyer closet, hang up coat, close the door. Cross to the desk, open the bottom right-hand drawer, stow purse. Boot up the computer.
He heard all the busy little sounds. They made him feel guilty, and the guilt annoyed him. They'd ignore each other for a few hours, he decided. Until she calmed down and he settled down.
Then, they'd just move past it.
Ignoring and avoidance worked well enough for most of the morning. Every time the phone rang, he braced for her voice to come snipping over the intercom. But she never buzzed him.
He told himself he didn't sneak from the library to his office. He simply walked very, very quietly.
When he heard her go out to lunch, he strolled out to reception, took a casual scan of her desk. He noted the short stack of while-you-were-outs for him. So she wasn't passing the calls through, he mused. No problem, that worked. He'd do the callbacks later, he decided. Because if he took the messages into his office, it would become obvious he'd been out there poking around her desk.
Now he felt stupid. Stupid, tired, beleaguered, and a little pissed off. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he started back to his office and jolted when the door opened. Relief came when he saw Shelley walk in rather than Layla.
"Hi. I was hoping I could talk to you for a minute. I just saw Layla outside, and she said you were in, probably not real busy."
"Sure. You want to come back?"
"No." She walked to him, and just put her arms around him. "Thanks. I just wanted to say thanks."
"You're welcome. What for?"
"Block and I had our first counseling session last night." She gave a sigh, stepped back. "It was kind of intense and it got pretty emotional, I guess. I don't know how it's all going to end up, but I think it helped. I think it's better to try, to talk, even if we're yelling, than to just say screw you, you bastard. If I end up saying that, at least I'll know I gave it a good shot first. I don't know if I would have if you hadn't been looking out for me."
"I want you to get what you want, whatever that is. And to be happy when you get it."
She nodded, dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. "I know Block went after you, and you didn't press charges. He's feeling, I guess the word's chastised. I wanted to thank you for that, too, for not pressing charges."
"It wasn't all his fault."
"Oh, it was, too." But she laughed a little. "He's got some making up to do, but he knows it. He's got a black eye. I don't give a rat's ass if it's small of me, but I appreciate that, too."
"No charge."
She laughed a little. "Anyway. We're going to keep going, see what happens. I get to go alone next, and I am so unloading." Now she grinned. "Already feels good. I gotta get back to work."
He went back to his office, worked and brooded. He heard Layla come back in. Closet, coat, desk, drawer, purse. He went out the kitchen door, making just enough noise to let her know he'd headed out.
The sun was brilliant in a ripe blue sky. Though the air was warm enough to keep him comfortable in his light jacket, the chill shot up his spine.
The afternoon mirrored his dream.
He forced himself to round the building to Main. Pansies rioted in the tub in front of the flower shop. People strolled, some in shirtsleeves, as if sucking down this taste of spring after the last gulp of winter. He curled his hands into fists, and followed the steps.
He waited for a break in traffic, crossed the street.
Amy came out of the back of the flower shop. "Hey, Fox. How you doing? Fabulous day, isn't it? About time, too."
Close enough, he thought, keeping his eyes on her face. "Yeah. How've you been?"
"No complaints. Are you looking for something for the office? Mrs. Hawbaker usually picked out an arrangement on Mondays. You don't want to buy office flowers on a Friday, Fox."
"No." Though some of the knots in his belly loosened- not the same-they tightened again when he glanced over and saw the daffodils. "It's personal. Those are what I'm after."
"Aren't they sweet? All cheerful and hopeful." She turned, and he stared at the faint reflection of her face in the glass. She smiled, but it was Amy's smile, as cheerful as the flowers.
She chattered as she prepared them, wrapped them, but the words slipped in and out of his mind as he searched the air for the scent of something rotting. And found nothing but fresh and floral.
"Are they for your girl?"
He gave her a quick, sharp look. "Yeah. Yeah, they're for my girl."
Her smile only went brighter as they exchanged money for blooms. "She'll love them. If you want something for the office, I'll have a nice arrangement for you Monday."
"Okay, thanks." He turned to go.
"Say hi to Layla for me."
He closed his eyes, relief, guilt, gratitude rushing through him. "I will. See you later."
Maybe he was a little dizzy when he stepped outside, a little shaky in the knees, but when he made himself look, the door of the old library was closed. His gaze traveled up, up, but no one he loved stood poised for death on the narrow ledge of the turret.
He crossed the street again. She was at her desk when he came in the front door. She flicked him a glance, then looked deliberately away.
"There are messages on your desk. Your two o'clock called to reschedule for next week."
He walked to her, held out the flowers. "I'm sorry."
"They're very nice. I'll go put them in water."
"I'm sorry," he repeated when she rose and made to brush by him.
She paused, just two beats. "All right." And taking the flowers, walked away.
He wanted to let it go. What was the point in dredging it all up? What could possibly be the point? It wasn't about trust, it was about pain. Wasn't he entitled to his own pain? Hurting, he strode back to the kitchen where she filled a vase with water.
"Listen, are we supposed to turn ourselves inside out, show off our guts? Is that what it takes?"
"No."
"We don't have to know every damn detail about each other."
"No, we don't." She began to slip the tender green stems into the water, one by one.
"I had a nightmare. I've had nightmares almost as long as I can remember. We've all had them now."
"I know."
"Is that your way of dragging it out of me? To agree with everything I say?"
"It's my way of controlling myself so I don't kick your ass and step over it on my way out."
"I don't want to fight."
"Yes, you do. That's exactly what you want, and I'm not going to give you what you want. You don't deserve it."
"Jesus Christ." He stormed around the little room and in a rare show of violence kicked at the cabinets. "She's dead. Carly's dead. I didn't save her, and she died."
Layla turned away from the sunbeams in the bright blue vase. "I'm so sorry, Fox."
"Don't." He pressed his fingers to his eyes. "Just don't."
"Don't be sorry because you lost someone who must have mattered a great deal to you? Don't be sorry because you're hurting? What do you expect from me?"
"Right now, I don't have the first clue." He dropped his hands. "We met the spring before my twenty-third birthday, when I was in New York, in law school. She was a medical student. She wanted to work in emergency medicine. We met at a party. We started seeing each other. Casually. Casually at first, for a while. We were both studying, crazy schedules. She stayed in New York during the summer break, and I came home. But I went up a few times because things were getting more serious."
When he sat at the kitchen table, Layla opened the refrigerator. Instead of his usual Coke, she brought him a bottle of water, and one for herself.
"We moved in together that fall. Crappy place, the kind of crappy place you expect a couple of students to be able to afford in New York. We loved it. She loved it," he corrected. "I was always a little out of step in New York, a little on edge. But she loved it, so I did because I loved her. I loved her, Layla."
"I know. I can hear it in your voice."
"We made plans. Long-range, colorful plans, the way you do. I never told her about the Hollow, not what was under it. I told myself we'd stopped it, during the last Seven. We'd ended it, so I didn't need to tell her. I knew it was a lie. I was sure it was a lie when the dreams came back. Cal called. I still had weeks to go in the semester, my job as a law clerk. I had Carly. But I had to come back. So I lied to her, made excuses that were lies. Family emergency."
Not really a lie, he told himself now, as he'd told himself then. The Hollow was his family.
"I went back and forth, back and forth, for those weeks between New York and the Hollow. And I piled lie on top of lie. And I used my gift to read her so I could tell what sort of lie would work best."
"Why didn't you tell her, Fox?"
"She'd never have believed me. There wasn't a fanciful bone in her body. Carly was all about science. Maybe that was part of the attraction. None of this would or could be real for her, I told myself. But that was only part of the reason, maybe that was just another lie."
He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve tension. "I wanted something that wasn't part of this. I wanted the reality of her, of what we had away from here. So when summer came and I knew I had to be here, I made more excuses, told more lies. I picked fights with her. It was better if she was pissed at me than that any part of this touch her. I told her we needed to take a break, that I was going home for a few weeks. Needed some space. I hurt her, and justified it as protecting her."
He took a long, slow drink of water. "Things got ugly before the seventh day of the seventh month. Fights and fires, vandalism. We were busy, me and Cal and Gage. I called her. I shouldn't have called her, but I did, to tell her I missed her, that I'd be back in a couple of weeks. If I hadn't wanted to hear her voice..."
"She came," Layla said. "She came to Hawkins Hollow."
"The day before our birthday, she drove down from New York. She got directions to the farm, and showed up on the doorstep. I wasn't there. Cal had an apartment in town back then, and we were staying there. Carly called from the kitchen of the farmhouse. Didn't think she'd miss my birthday, did I?
"I was terrified. She didn't belong here, wasn't supposed to come here. When I got to the farm, nothing I said would budge her. We were going to have this out, that was her stand. Whatever was wrong, we were going to have it out. What could I tell her?"
"What did you tell her?"
"Too much, not enough. She didn't believe me. Why would she? She thought I was overstressed. She wanted me to come back to New York for tests. I walked over, turned on the burner on the stove, and stuck my hand on it."
He did the same now, in the little office kitchen, but stopped short of holding his hand to the burner. What would be the point now? "She had the expected reaction, human and medical," he added, switching the burner off. "Then she saw my hand healing. She was full of questions then, more insistent that I go in for tests. I agreed to everything, anything, on the condition that she go back to New York. She wouldn't, not unless I went with her, so we compromised. She promised she'd stay at the farm, day and night, until I could go with her.
"She stayed that night, the next day, the next night. But the night after..."
He walked to the sink, leaned against it as he looked out the window to the neighboring houses and lawns beyond. "Things were insane in town, and in the middle of it, my mother called. She woke up when a car started outside, and she'd gone running. Carly was gone. She'd driven off in the car she'd borrowed from a friend to drive down from New York. I was frantic, more frantic when Mom told me she'd been gone twenty minutes, maybe a little more. She hadn't been able to reach me, just got static when she tried."
When he broke off, when he came back to sit, Layla simply reached across the table to take his hand.
"There was a house on fire over on Mill. Cal got burned pretty bad when we got the kids out. Three kids. Jack Proctor, he ran the hardware store, had a shotgun. He was just walking along, shooting at anything that moved. One barrel, second barrel, reload. A couple of teenagers were raping a woman right on Main Street, right in front of the Methodist Church. There was more. No point going into it. I couldn't find her. I tried to find her thoughts, but there was so much interference. Like the static on the line. Then I heard her calling for me."
He didn't see the houses and lawns now. He saw the fire and the blood. "I ran, and Napper was there, blocking the sidewalk. He had his car pulled across it. Had a ball bat, and came at me with it, swinging. I wouldn't have gotten past him if Gage hadn't taken him down, and Cal right behind with his burns still healing. I climbed over the car and kept running, because I heard her calling me. The door to the library, the old library, was open. I could feel her now, how afraid she was. I went up the steps, yelling for her, so she'd know I was coming. Carts hurtling at me, books flying."
Because it was as real as yesterday, he squeezed his eyes shut, scrubbed his hands over his face. "I went down a couple of times, maybe more. I don't know, it's a blur. I got out on the roof. It was like a hurricane out there. Carly was on the ledge above, standing on that spit of stone. Her hands were bleeding; the stone was stained with it. I told her not to move. Don't move. Oh God, don't move. I'm coming up to get you. She looked at me, and she was in there, for an instant it let her come all the way out so she could look at me with all that fear. She said, 'Help me. Please, God, help me.' Then she went off."
Layla moved her chair beside his, and as she had the night before, drew his head down to her breast.
"I didn't get there in time."
"Not your fault."
"Every choice I made with her was the wrong one. All those wrong choices killed her."
"No. It killed her."
"She wasn't part of this. She'd never have been part of this except for me." He drew back, drew away so he could finish. "Last night, I dreamed," he began, and told her.
"I don't know what to say to you," Layla told him. "I don't know what I should say to you. But..." She took his hand, pressed it between her breasts. "My heart aches. I can't imagine what you feel if my heart aches. Others who know what happened, who know you, have told you it wasn't your fault. You'll accept that or you won't. If Carly loved you, she'd want you to accept it. I don't know if you were wrong to lie to her. And I don't know if I could accept as truth everything I know if I hadn't seen and experienced it myself. You wanted to keep her separate from this, to keep what you had, who you were, who she was apart from what you have, who you are here. I know what that's like, the wanting to keep everything in its proper place. But your worlds collided, Fox, and it was out of your control."
"If I'd made different choices."
"You might have changed it," she agreed. "Or it all would have taken a different route to the same end. How can you know? I'm not Carly, Fox. And like it or not, we share what's happening in the Hollow. They aren't all your choices now."
"I've seen too much death, Layla. Too much blood and pain. I know more's coming, and I know we'll all do whatever we can, whatever we have to do. But I don't know if I can survive if I lose you."
It was his sadness that lay on her heart now. The unbearable weight of his sorrow. "We'll find a way. You've always believed that. You've made me believe it. Come on. You're going upstairs to lie down. No arguments."
She cajoled, bullied, and nagged him upstairs. By the time she got him into bed, he was too exhausted to argue, or make suggestive jokes when she undressed him and tucked him in. When she was sure he was asleep, she ran down to close the office, then back up again to call Cal and ask him to come.
Layla put her finger to her lips when he came in the back way. "He's sleeping. He had a rough night, and a rough day. A nightmare," she added, gesturing him into the kitchen. "One that blurred me and Carly together."
"Oh. Shit."
She poured coffee without asking if he wanted it. "He told me about her, not without considerable struggle, and considerable pain. He's worn out now."
"Better he told you though. Fox doesn't do well holding stuff in." He started to drink, lowered the mug and frowned. "How did coffee get in here?"
"He bought me a coffeemaker."
Cal let out a half laugh. "He'll be all right, Layla. It hits him sometimes. Not often, but when it does, it hits hard."
"He blames himself, and that's stupid," she said so briskly, Cal lifted his brows. "But he loved her so he can't do anything else. He told me as soon as he knew she'd left the farm, he tried to find her. You were burned getting people out of a house-kids out-some guy was shooting up the town, that son of a bitch Napper came at him with a baseball bat, and he's sick because he couldn't stop her from jumping."
"Here's what he probably didn't tell you, stop me if I'm wrong. He was burned, too, not as bad as I was, that time, but bad enough. When the call came through, he took off ahead of me and Gage. On the way he kicked Proctor- that was the guy with the shotgun-square in the nuts, tossed Gage the gun, and kept going. He punched out one of two boys tearing into a woman on the sidewalk. I got the other one, but it slowed me down. And there was Napper. He got a good swing in with that bat. Broke Fox's arm."
"My God."
"Gage went in like a battering ram, and Fox took off again. It took both of us to take Napper out. Fox was already running up the stairs when we got inside the old library. And it was hell in there. We were too late, too. She was jumping, hell, she was diving off that ledge when we ran out on the roof. I thought he was going to go over after her. He was bloody from fights, from being rammed by books that flew around like missiles, and God knew what else. There was nothing he could do. He knows it. But once in a while it takes ahold of him and gives him a good, hard squeeze."
"If she'd believed him, believed in him and done what he asked-what she promised him-she'd be alive."
Cal kept his calm gray eyes even with hers. "That's right. Exactly right."
"But he won't blame her."
"It's harder to blame the dead."
"Not for me, not at the moment. If she'd loved him enough, believed in him enough to keep her promise- only that, to keep her promise-he wouldn't have had to risk his life to try to save her. I didn't say that to him, and I'm going to try very hard not to. But I feel better now that I've said it out loud."
"I've said it out loud, and to his face. I felt better, too, but it didn't seem to do the same for him."
Layla nodded. "There's something else. Why Carly? She wasn't part of the town, but she was infected, apparently, in minutes. So strongly that she committed suicide."
"It's happened before. It's mostly people who live in the Hollow, but outsiders can get caught up."
"I bet most of them get caught up as victims of someone who's infected. But here she is, the woman one of you loves, and she's caught up immediately. I wonder about that, Cal, and I wonder how it was he heard her calling, that she was able to call him, that she was able to wait until he ran out on the roof so he had to watch her jump."
"Where are you going with this?"
"I'm not sure. But it might be worthwhile to have Cybil do a search on her, a genealogy. What if she's connected? What if Carly was on one of our twisted family trees?"
"And Fox just happened to fall in love with her?"
"That's the point. I don't think any of this just happened. Cal, have you ever been in love-really in love- with anyone before Quinn?"
"No." He answered without hesitation, then took another contemplative sip of coffee. "I can tell you Gage hasn't either."
"It uses emotions," she pointed out. "What better way to cause pain than to use love against one of you? To twist it like a knife in the heart? I don't think she was just infected, Cal. I think she was chosen."