There were footsteps outside her locked door. A slow, measured pace. They lay in still, absolute silence, his body deep within hers, as the sound of those footsteps slowly died away.
He started to pull away from her, and she clutched at him, aware of a sudden, desperate panic. But he thrust again, deeper still, his pace slow, deliberate, and she tilted her hips up, to draw him in deeper. The rhythm was simply, easily caught with his hands on her hips, guiding her, and she drifted with pleasure, her hands sliding up his strong arm as he braced himself over her. It changed so slowly lulling her into a dreamy pleasure, and then she realized that everything had speeded up, and he was driving her farther, deeper, faster, until she felt a new trembling begin to take over, and she knew that nothing mattered but this.
He thrust deep, so deep, and she felt a shudder ripple through his body. It hit her then, with the force of a mindless eternity, a pulsing, throbbing explosion so deep and powerful she thought she might shake apart. She tried to scream, but he shoved his hand against her mouth to quiet her, and she bit down, hard, as her body went rigid, taking him with her.
Reality and time seemed to have vanished into the maelstrom. She lay beneath him, listening for the pounding of a heart that should have exploded five minutes ago, listening as her breath rasped to a more reasonable pace. She reached up and cupped his face, and his long hair fell around her fingers. His sun-glasses were gone, but it was too dark to see his eyes, his face. She could feel dampness on his cheeks, could feel the tentative movement of muscle that might have been a smile. She felt his love, strong, sure, unspoken. She didn't need the words.
"Did I hurt you?" he whispered, his mouth feathering hers.
"Only for a moment. Oh, God, I bit your hand," she said, memory flooding her.
She could feel the faint ripple of laughter. "I liked it," he said.
She sighed, settling beneath him, her hips cradling him, her arms tight around him. He was still hard, and growing harder, locked within her.
"I gather that was an orgasm?" she said, in what was supposed to be a casual tone of voice.
"It was. In France it's called la petite mort. The little death."
"Well," she said frankly, "if that's the little death, I hate to imagine what the big one is like."
The sudden silence in the room was absolute, as even the fire died.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The voices were louder now, calling to him, plaintive, crying, and he knew his time was fading. She lay in his arms, sound asleep, replete, her heart beating soundly, and he wanted to pull her closer against him.
He had to let her go. He'd known that for an eternity. Time had little meaning for him—she seemed to have existed in some part of his being for as long as he had had memory. She would continue there, a part of him, forever.
But it was time. He slid out of bed, careful not to disturb her. It would have been remarkable if he'd awakened her—she had to be exhausted.
She would wake, alone, uncomfortable. A caring lover would have held back, but he hadn't had that choice. Tonight was his only night, and he'd made love to her repeatedly, each time drawing forth a stronger and stronger reaction. He'd bound her to him, body and soul. But in the end, he knew, he would have neither.
The long night would have to suffice. The memory of it would last him. The memory of it would leave her. She would go on to a new life, a healthier one. Her next life would be strong, blessed and lengthy, and she deserved no less. Her encounter with death would be nothing more than an erotic dream that would haunt her, unsuspecting, on stormy nights.
The sleet had halted, but the wind still blew wildly through the huge pines, and in the distance he could see the faint light of another storm-ridden dawn. He would leave, and when her time came again, he would send someone else, someone impervious to her and the siren call of weakness. He had tasted life, but he was Death. He would not forget again.
He dressed in the darkness, out on the balcony, covering his eyes with his dark glasses for the last time. He wouldn't even say goodbye. She would mourn, and then she would grow angry, but she would never know the truth.
The voices were calling him. The old man, fading, well past his time. Another voice, louder still. A woman's voice, nearby. He recognized it with a start. The other voices were a rumble in the distance, but this one, he knew, couldn't wait.
He could feel the change coming over him, and he knew there was nothing he could do, no bargain he could make, to stop the inevitable. He'd had his respite, his brief glimpse of paradise. It was time to return to the dark place where he ruled supreme.
He would take up his role once more. He would take the soul that called to him, and in doing so, he would be gone. And there would be no turning back.
Laura woke with a start. Murky daylight was seeping in the French doors, and she was in his bed. Alone.
She lifted her head, looking around with the futile hope that he was still there, but she knew in every cell of her well-loved body that he was gone. She sat up, pulling the duvet around her, listening to the strong, steady beat of her heart. The breath that filled her lungs, the blood that pumped through her veins. The sheer sense of strength and physical well-being. And then she felt it begin to fade.
She slid out of bed quickly, wincing at the aches in her body. She took a quick shower, throwing on clean clothes and shoving her fingers through her still-wet tangle of hair before she started out into the hallway in search of him.
He would be drinking coffee, she knew it. He would be cool and noncommittal, and she would have to do her best to be equally sophisticated. To convince him that last night she hadn't died and gone to heaven.
There was no smell of coffee permeating the downstairs, her first signal that something was very wrong. It was after seven—Mrs. Hawkins was usually up by five and on her second batch of coffee by then. The dining room was cold and dark—the kerosene lamps had burned down, and no one had replenished them. The fireplace held nothing but coals, and the silence was ominous.
Her first thought was to check on her father. He lay in his bed, scarcely breathing. He was alive, but just barely. He was also alone, with no sign of Maria or any of Laura's siblings.
"Mrs. Hawkins! Maria?" she called as she ran down toward the kitchen. It was empty, as well, dark and cold. Far in the distance she thought she heard a faint pounding, voices calling to her, but before she could go in search of the source, lightning flashed again, illuminating the darkened kitchen.
She looked out toward the ravine below, and she could see them. Jeremy, dragging a woman who could only be Cynthia down the steep pathway that led to Nichols Ravine. And a tall, dark figure following behind them. Almost floating.
Somewhere along the way, she'd lost her strength. She slammed out the kitchen door, calling to them, but her voice was captured by the wind and whipped away. Yesterday she could run without pain—this morning her heart ached in her chest, and her breath rasped in her throat.