I shook my head, not able to completely comprehend what he was saying. He’d watched me? Watched my comings and goings? Did that mean he’d seen me naked? Probably so—it was a question I didn’t want to ask. Either way, it now made sense as to why he was acting as if he knew me—because in a strange manner of speaking, he sort of did. “Okay, so we’ve gotten that question cleared up but what about my other one? How can you be real if you were alive in 1918?”
Drake smiled and arched a brow as he studied me, his gaze traveling from my head to my toes and then back up to my eyes again. “I did live long ago, but now my existence, though in the same space as yours, is different.”
I shook my head. “What does that mean?” Then it dawned on me, and my eyes grew wide. “You’re dead, aren’t you?”
He cocked his head to the side, never losing his devilish grin. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose so. Though I feel very much alive.” He focused on my cheek as he said the last words, stroking my skin as if to prove that not only could he feel me, but I could very definitely feel him also. “La mort ou la vie, death or life…to me they are one and the same.”
“Was it you?” I continued, starting to understand the situation, or at least hoping I was headed in the right direction. “The footsteps?”
He simply nodded. “I needed to make you aware of my presence.”
I exhaled and he immediately inhaled through his nose, deeply. He closed his eyes and opened them again, his pupils dilating as he focused on my eyes. “Your smell is intoxicating, ma minette.”
“Why do you keep calling me that? What does that mean?” I demanded, feeling suddenly rushed to press him for answers. I mean, who knew when I would wake up?
“My pussycat,” he answered slyly.
I chose not to respond. His unapologetic sensuality was nerve-racking. It made it difficult to focus on anything besides the unconcealed lust in his eyes.
“Then you’ve been…here since I moved in?” I continued, trying to understand how he existed, in what reality. Could he see and hear just as I did?
“I’ve been here quite a bit longer than that,” he answered with a small laugh. “And, yes, from the moment you first walked through the front door, you captivated my interest. I have watched you ever since…tout à fait captivé, quite captivated.”
“But you only made yourself known today,” I continued, shaking my head to let him know that it didn’t make sense.
“Making contact with your world can be a tricky thing, ma minette,” he said. He stepped back, turning away from me as he exhaled and started for the window. Even though I couldn’t hide the disappointment welling up inside me, I was nonetheless relieved to have my own personal space again. Drake Montague was, in a word…overwhelming.
“Why can it be tricky?”
Bracing both of his hands on the windowpanes, he dropped his forehead to the glass, as if he were looking down at the street. I could see his deltoids straining against the light cotton of his dress shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing dark, wiry hair that covered his tanned forearms. He pushed off the glass and faced me. From this distance, I could easily enjoy the sight of his broad shoulders and the way they tapered into narrow hips. I felt the breath catch in my throat and gulped down the thought that this man, this spirit, this whatever you wanted to call him, was painfully beautiful.
“Just because I am aware of you does not mean that you are aware of me,” he answered simply with a shrug.
“So how could I hear your footsteps then?”
“You uncovered the newspaper clippings and you learned who I was. That understanding bonded us, ma minette, allowing your subconscious to open itself to me. Before, your psyche was closed off. There was no way I could have reached you.”
I couldn’t say I fully comprehended what he was saying, but there was so much more I needed to ask him, so many questions I wanted answered, that I decided to focus on other subjects. “So what happened to you?” I started, remembering the articles about the legendary Axeman. “And why are all those newspaper articles covering the walls downstairs?”
He held his hand up to gesture for me to stop talking. “Tout à l’heure, ma minette, all in good time.” Then he smiled a captivating grin and took the four steps that separated us. When he was directly in front of me, he brought his fingers to my cheek again, before securing a stray tendril of hair behind my ear. “I need you to do something for me,” he started.
“What?” I asked, at a complete loss. What could this spirit possibly need from me?
“Find every newspaper article you can about the Axeman. Devour them. Learn the story. Know the history as well as you know yourself.”
“Why?” I started as he shook his head.
“Learn as much as you can. I will visit you again when I am able.” He took a deep breath and pulled away from me, suddenly appearing exhausted. “I’m afraid this session has taxed me. It will take a while to build up my reserves again.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to,” he interrupted. “Please remember all I’ve said, Peyton.”
The way he said my name suddenly made it feel as if we’d known each other all our lives. The air caught in my throat. “I will remember it.”
“Very well, je vous dis au revoir, I bid you farewell, mon chaton, my kitten.” Then he reached for my hand, closing it in his very large, warm one, and brought his lips to my skin. A shiver started in my spine and worked its way clear up to the nape of my neck.
I woke up with a start. Looking around, I realized it was still night and I was in my hotel suite at the Omni. I took a deep breath and rubbed the back of my neck, glancing at the clock to see it was ten past three a.m.
I took deep, cleansing breaths while I tried to make sense of the dream I’d just had. It was beyond bizarre. I’d never been aware in a dream that I was dreaming before and I’d also never dreamed in such incredible detail. I could smell and feel as if I were awake. It just seemed so real! Of course, my first instinct insisted that it was nothing more than my subconscious mind launching into overdrive. But somehow, I couldn’t shake the sensation that it was more than that, much, much more than that.
The main reason I thought it couldn’t have been a dream, and maybe Drake Montague really was trying to reach out to me was simple: I can’t speak French.
7
Over the course of the next week, I didn’t have any more strange dreams, nor did I notice any other “ghostly” phenomenon in my house. As time went by, I was less and less convinced that my dream about Drake Montague had legitimately been him reaching out to me from beyond the grave. Yes, there was that little hiccup known as the French pet name he’d called me but I just dismissed it as something my subconscious mind had picked up somewhere. And as to the footsteps I’d heard upstairs? I was beginning to doubt whether I’d even heard them in the first place. My house was old and everyone knows that old houses creak and groan. All in all, I was very happy abandoning the idea that my house was haunted because the very idea went counter to everything I believed. What was more, it seemed the more time passed, the less convinced I was that anything otherworldly had happened at all.