Trefoil (8 page)

Nathan made a hasty stop at the post office and barely caught the Amtrak bound for San Diego before it pulled away. He tunneled through car after car, feeling the thunder of tracks beneath his feet. He had managed to secure the exact car where Lillian had ridden.

His chest burned with anticipation. What would he find here? He had just come from the beach, where Lillian’s physical footprints had still been fixed in the sand. He had dropped to his knees and traced the small, elegant shape, shocked at the physical manifestation of her at last. For days he had kissed her immortal tattoo and caressed her golden skin in his Visions, even touched the objects she touched in her travels, but finding those footprints made her real in a way she hadn’t been before.

When he opened the door of the private train car, he inhaled sharply. The mood here was hard to interpret—a mix of fear and pain. In the corner of one bench, he could see the trace of Lillian, head buried in her hands.

But there was also a reckoning with John LeClair. They hadn’t shared their bodies here, but comforted one another and spoken soft words. Nathan saw John LeClair’s mouth pressed to the place where her hair curved away from her temple. His thumb had stroked the corner of her mouth. And she had curled on his lap like a small cat.

Nathan continued into the car. Something else was here. He felt it. She had left behind an item and it propelled him forward like a magnet. No strand of hair or lost pearl had this pull.

Using two fingers, he retrieved the wedge of paper shoved between the crack of the seat and the wall of windows. Withdrawing it with shaking hands, he sank to the seat and simply stared at the folded paper. He rubbed it, caressing her fingerprints, feeling the ridges beneath his own.

With a gulp, he unfolded it. Please don’t let this be a Dear Nathan letter, he thought. The words loomed before him, written in an elegant script with her left hand. It was written in such a precise way, he suddenly realized it was a poem—a haiku.

Beneath the North Star

I watched you weeping alone,

and it shattered me.

Nathan read it five times, six times, before his mind registered what his heart knew. This poem sealed her promise to him. She was aware that her actions had hurt him, and she would try to keep from doing so again.

Again, he heard Maria’s advice. Talk to her from your soul, but speak her name. He drew a deep, shuddering breath, his heart beats tripping over each other.

Lillian.
The force of the saying was a concussion. The heat of her presence struck him in the breastbone, and he was pinned to the seat. Her gasp of shock rippled through his mind, filling him with her sweet breath. Her arms crisscrossed her chest, squeezing. Nathan was inside her.

Speechless, he watched her, smoothing the poem upon his knee. Her fingers twisted the rope of pearls at her throat. They had been restrung.

Nathan.
When she said his name, her voice echoed in his soul, bringing with it the itch he had experienced before. Her voice was seraphic and desire broke over him, leaving a sheen of sweat.

Can you see me?
He felt unreal. He felt unsure of his lucidity. He felt he may black out.

Yes.

His eyes rested upon the poem.
Thank you.

I had to.
A presence was with her, itchy and disturbing. Fucking John LeClair.

Are you alone?

No. Please go away.

If she said those words a thousand times, Nathan would never heed them. He knew her need.
Never,
he vowed.
I’m coming.

Don’t. You can’t.
A mixture of fear and joy. He clung to the joy.

His heart swelled.
I’ll follow my star,
he said and let her go.

He surfaced a new man, resurrected as immortal mate. She is mine, he told himself over and over. He hadn’t truly believed it until now. He wanted to run through the train, screaming his news to the world. He touched his jacket pocket, thinking to call Dante, then decided against it.

He gazed out the same window Lillian had stared from hours before and relived every sensation of their interaction—the cadence of her breathing, her heat, the pulsing life of her soul. I will follow my star until I find you, Lillian. And nothing will stop me. Not miles of train track. Not an entire country. Not John LeClair.

* * * * *

The small collection of trinkets in Nathan’s pocket was growing, but Lillian’s was as well. He had visited the art gallery, and seen her reaction to the rose. She carried it in her handbag, but when she looked upon it, her heart had truly unfurled to him. Her words revolved in his head.

Nathan Halbrook. Nathan. Nate. Mine.

She was in the air again, on a red-eye to Chicago. Nathan dreaded setting foot upon another jet, but what choice was there?

He could go directly to her Virginia home and wait for her there. After all, he had sent a postcard to that address to greet her. But he was closing the gap. He was hours behind her, where he had once been a day. If John LeClair would stop moving her—

Thinking of the man raised that bone-deep itch again. Nathan squirmed. The tremors from the Calling were irritating, but this itch was fucking maddening. He threaded his fingers into his hair, wishing he could stop it.

What happened when he caught up to her? I’ll tear her from John LeClair. He will look at me and see her mark on my soul. I will kill him if he tries to stop me from taking her.

Another Vision trickled over him. Tendrils of mahogany hair dancing on the wind, a white lily tucked behind her ear. He inhaled, smelling her on the breeze. Twisting hands. Silver bracelets. What color were her eyes? Not knowing that small detail was nearly as aggravating as the itch.

He cradled the slip of creased paper on his palm, gazing at her writing with as much tenderness as he would look upon the woman herself. “I’m coming, Lillian,” he said to the dark blot over the “i,” to the long tail on the “g.” Sometime soon he would look into her eyes. What would he say then?

Lillian paused in the entry of the modern art exhibit, sudden fear at the sight of John’s retreating back gripping her. When he’d asked if she would be all right on her own while he looked up an old friend and curator of the Chicago art museum, she hadn’t anticipated this crushing alarm.

She wrung her hands and rocked a little on her high heels.
You’re being stupid, Lillian. You’ve wanted to be alone since Oahu.

She forced her hands to unclench and moved forward. The space bustled with a tour of Boy Scouts and couples vacationing and elderly ladies. Lillian stopped before a large canvas and forgot her nervousness. She stared at the shapes and colors until her eyes blurred, allowing the piece to sink into her. But no art spoke to her like Nathan’s sculpture. She shifted her handbag beneath her arm, feeling the weight of the rose.

“Hello.”

She looked up into a pair of warm brown eyes, gold-flecked and similar to Robert Albright’s. Heat blossomed in her chest.

She smiled. “Hi.”

“Interesting choice of media isn’t it?” he asked.

Lillian tilted her head to study what appeared to be a slice of deli ham affixed to the bottom right corner of the piece. “Um, sure. Is that—?”

“I don’t think so,” he answered with a smile. “Looks like it, though.” They stood silently contemplating whether someone had glued his lunch to a canvas. Suddenly, he turned to her.

“I’m Will. Will Cochran.”

She extended a hand. He clasped her hand in gentle fingers and surprised her by raising it to his lips. “I’m Lillian.”

One auburn eyebrow elevated. “Just Lillian?” He boldly grabbed her left hand, checking for a ring. “Okay, Just Lillian. Shall we move on to the next piece?”

Together they drifted to the next artwork. He stood very close to her, but she wasn’t uncomfortable. For the first time since John had walked away, she felt her tension ebb.

She studied Will from the corner of her eye. He was mid-height, lean and wiry, but with the broader shoulders of a professional athlete. Auburn hair flopped into his liquid eyes. He stood slouching with hands jammed into the front of his ragged jeans.

“Are you an artist?” she asked, shocking herself a little. She rarely spoke with strangers.

He grinned again. “No. But I know many artists.” He seemed to understand what she meant and shrugged. “I guess they wore off on me.”

“What kind of artists do you know?”

“All kinds—mostly painters in New York. I’m from Vermont, so it’s nothing for me to shoot down to the city for an opening. I also know one sculptor.”

Lillian’s eyes flew to his. “I recently acquired a small sculpture in San Luis Obispo,” she heard herself say, unclipping her handbag. She reached inside and retrieved the rose sculpture.

“Ah.” It was a soft groan. He rocked back on his heels. “That’s Nathan’s.”

The stone pulsed on her palm. “N. . . Nathan’s?”

Will’s hand lashed out to steady her when she swayed, his eyebrows drawing together in concern. Gripping her by the upper arm, he led her a short distance away to a stone bench. His footfalls wiped clean the slate of her mind.  A group of Boy Scouts moved into the area, and their voices were high and biting. Where was John?

As she sat, her breath came in little squeaking gasps and knew she was really losing it. She leaned forward, dizzily dipping her head into her hands. Blackness was moving toward her in a great cloud like a swarm of locusts on a crop.

Will gently rested a hand on her spine, and she flinched as the electrical shock ripped through her. He jerked back. “An immortal,” she heard him murmur and laughed low in her throat. Seventy years of never crossing the path of another immortal, and now Lillian knew two in the span of a week.

“I felt that, Lillian,” he whispered. “That shock we both felt—that’s what happens when another immortal touches your immortal tattoo.”

She laughed with true mirth. “I know, Will Cochran.”

He studied her a long time, judging her sanity, she thought. “Have you ever met another immortal before?”

“Yes.” She clasped his hand and thrust the rose into it. “What do you know about this?” she asked, willing him to spill it, and fast. Her pores were slowly opening like buds to the sun. John was coming for her.

Will shook himself at her subject change. “Nathan Halbrook is the sculptor.”

“And you know him?”

He examined her closely. “Yes, Lillian. He’s the sculptor friend of mine. He lives in Vermont, not far from me. We have mutual friends. “ Abruptly, he stood and dragged her in his wake, his voice insistent at her ear. “What’s going on? I’ve never run across another immortal in my wanderings.”

“Maybe it’s destiny,” she said.

“What link do you have to Nathan?”

She was shaking her head, but Will stopped her. “Don’t give me that. I see his mark on you.” His words fell like knives, pointed and cutting, dropping one at a time.
I see his mark on you.

The blood rushed in her ears again. Will shook her by the shoulders. “Lillian. God, you look as though you’re about to faint, but that’s impossible. You need to answer me. Are you Nathan’s?”

She wrenched from his hold and stumbled away, extending a hand to hold him off. “Will, I can’t do this now. He’s coming.”

He shook his head. He reached for her.

“I can’t talk,” she cried.

And then John was there, encircling her waist with an arm. “Have you been enjoying yourself?” he asked.

She managed a weak reply and allowed John to sweep her off to another room of the museum. The canvases blurred past her vision. She saw only the points of Will Cochran’s words.
I see his mark on you
.

She threw a desperate glance over her shoulder to where Will stood frozen. As she rounded the corner, she saw him whip out a cell phone.

Oh, my God. Oh no. Oh no. Oh God.

Her heart tripped and fluttered crazily. Will was making a call to Nathan. She knew it. As John towed her along, she prayed for something—anything—to distract him and allow her to return to that modern art exhibit.

“Ah,” he said suddenly. “Lily, there is that gallery owner we met last visit. Do you remember?”

She nodded, knees weak, heart hammering. “Do you mind if I—?”

She flapped him away with a wobbly smile, then spun and nearly sprinted back to Will, who was flipping shut his phone with a stunned expression. He grabbed her up again, pacing her off.

“Who was that man with you?”

“John.”

“Your mate?”

“Yes.”

“But how—?” He broke off and looked over his shoulder. “Will he follow you?”

“No. He met an old friend. What’s going on?” She plastered her hands to her face.

He stopped before the ham art. His big, gentle hands covered hers. “I have no idea. I was about to ask you.” He removed her hands and gazed deeply into her. It made her skin crawl, a toxic itch. “Yes,” he said quietly at last. “It is there.”

“What is there?”

“His mark. Nathan’s mark is clearly on you—the beginnings of it. Do you know Nathan?”

She began to deny it, to say she’d never set eyes on him, but that wasn’t exactly true. “I only know his name and his sculpture.”

“Do you see him? Visions?”

She nodded miserably.

“And you can hear him?”

Another nod. She didn’t understand why she felt compelled to confide this to a stranger, but somehow knew Will could help her understand. “You spoke with him,” she whispered.

He grinned. “Yes. He’s elated. He’s coming.”

“Here?” she burst.

He nodded. “Coming for you.”

The space became a great vacuum, sucking all breath from Lillian. Her lungs hardened and the fragile sacs deflated as a cancer of understanding grew in her breast. Her mind swam with images of Nathan at a ticket counter. Brief flash of wristwatch, leather, exchanged paper. His chest burned too, but with frustration.

“Lillian?” Will’s voice reached her from a distance. “What about this man you’re with? What is he to you? Is he really your mate?”

The scope of her vision clamped shut and blackness fell. Will Cochran’s arms caught her, and a great roar of rage sounded. It vibrated her organs.

“Get your hands off my wife!”

“Sorry, man, she’s just fainted,” Will said.

John’s arms came around her, crushing her to his chest. He strode away with her, calling her name.

By degrees the full sound returned to her ears. The autumn air was cool on her cheeks, entered her nostrils and parted lips. John held her too tightly.

If I open my eyes, I’ll see Will Cochran and his damned cell phone, she thought.

John spoke senseless words to her. “My love, you’re safe and I’m here and I’ll help you.”

“What the hell do you want?” John snapped. Lillian opened her eyes to see his black expression.

“To make sure everything is okay. She doesn’t need an ambulance?” Will asked, knowing damn well she didn’t. He was not letting her out of his sight.

“We’re fine. She’s fine.”

Lillian attempted to disentangle herself from John’s hold and he suddenly noticed she had roused. “Lillian, my God. What happened? Was it something you remembered from your past?”

She shook her head, but she was so tired and weak, it flopped back on her neck. She stared at the azure sky. “Yes.” From a distance she could nearly hear the hum of Nathan’s voice, low on Will’s cell phone.

She was revolving like a moon to its planet. She was lying to her mate of almost seventy years. And Nathan’s mark was on her.

* * * * *

Nathan rushed through a tunnel of vision, sped along like a streaking bullet to emerge in a dim space, where his woman lay sleeping. A curl had fallen into her eyes. Her fingers were flexed inward, the palm pink and vulnerable. At the hollow of her throat, her skin pulsed with each beat of her heart. And lower still, a lavender bra strap slipped from one bare shoulder.

He wanted to take that strap between his teeth, slide it down and taste her. But suddenly, her mouth formed his name, sounding as a quiet moan, and all thoughts flew from his mind. He gripped the arms of the airport seat.

His cell phone shrilled and he leaped. The image dissolved. “Will?” he said with surprise when he saw the caller. Will and Nathan rarely spoke by phone—they preferred one another’s company when Nathan visited Dante and Maria. Will Cochran was the fourth immortal in their quartet.

“Greetings, Nathan,” he said exuberantly in the manner of Dante. “I have something you’ll be interested to hear.”

Expecting this to be about art, Nathan waited. Will was forever trying to coax Nathan into society and onto the current art scene. When he didn’t respond, Will continued.

“I’m in Chicago at the art museum. I’ve found someone you’ve been looking for.”

His heart thundered. “Chicago?”

“Yes. By coincidence, I’ve run into Lillian. Fascinating the way fate works at times,” he said, voice oozing amusement.

“Tell me.”

Will began talking, his words gaining speed until they tripped over each other. He’d spotted Lillian in the modern art exhibit and they exchanged names and a few words about the art. She asked about Will’s artist friends, and then she reached into her handbag and delivered the rose into the light. Just brought it from her bag. But When Will told her it was Nathan’s work, she grew so upset that he had to seat her on a bench. And then the most extraordinary thing happened. He placed a hand on her spine—

“The immortal tattoo,” Nathan breathed. All at once, a Vision captured him, and he was tumbling into the feather mattress with his mouth on that inky vine.

When he came back to the conversation, he was frothing that Will had touched it and he had not.

Will continued. He had demanded to know her connection to Nathan, and she began to deny it. But Will put a stop to it. “Nathan. She has your mark on her. I saw it on her soul.”

Nathan’s heart pulsed heavily beneath his rib cage. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. And then burst with joy. He grabbed the chair arms to steady himself. He’d known it. Of course he had. But to hear it from another immortal that Lillian bore his mark...

“I’ve gotta go,” he croaked into the phone. He wandered away from the seating area, stunned. Lovestruck. He stumbled against the wall, where he pressed his forehead to the cool glass and allowed himself to be drowned in Visions.

When the cell phone rang for a second time, it flashed to Nathan’s ear without pause.

“Nathan. She’s going. He’s taking her away,” said Will, panic in his voice.

“Where? Can you follow them? Can you shadow them?”

“I don’t know. He got pretty upset when I touched her. I know he’d recognize me if I followed.”

“You. . . touched her?” Nathan’s flat tone came from far away.

He could almost hear Will’s mental eye roll. “Of course, Nate. She fainted.”

“Fainted?” A searing knife twisted in his chest, and he bent in half, breathing heavily for a full minute. No immortal fainted. Fainting was a mortal frailty.
Talk faster, Will, so I can call Dante,
he thought.