Far From Heaven (13 page)

“How tragic,” Ash said, strolling from the room now that the damage was done.

“I’m going to get you for that. Now I’m stained for the night.”

“As if you’re going to be wearing it for very long,” he commented from the bedroom.

She shuddered in anticipation. Nearly a week had passed since the incident on the street, and every night, Ash had come over. Every night, he’d given her the best orgasm of her life. Which meant, frighteningly enough, that it was only getting better.

She didn’t know what was happening, but she wasn’t complaining. How could she? The sex was absolutely astronomical—she found herself floating up there around Jupiter every time he so much as touched her.

It couldn’t be that she’d found the one. Not like this. Not when he still hadn’t said one word about what might happen after he went home. This probably wasn’t good for her; she constantly swung between moments of elation and uncertainty, but hell, when had that ever been any different?

Those moments of uncertainty really only seemed to plague her when he wasn’t here with her, though, and he was now. She wasn’t going to ruin what time they had.

Grinning goofily at her reflection, she stuck her hands under the warm water running from the faucet and leaned over to rinse out her mouth—and came up with a scream caught in her throat.

Blood poured from her faucet, red and obscene in the white sink. She yanked her hands back, nearly choking when she saw that it covered them both and dripped from between her fingers to splatter on the countertop. She reeled backward, catching a glimpse in the mirror as she did so of a silently screaming gray face—and her own shriek finally tore free. She threw herself forward again, whirling around and slamming her butt against the counter.

Of course, nothing was behind her. And nothing came from her faucet now except clear water that swirled harmlessly down the drain.

Ash appeared in the door with a frown in place as she stood there trying not to fall down, her eyes wide, her chest heaving.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his gaze raking her from her bare feet to her pale face. She knew it was pale because she always looked like death itself after one of her episodes.

Normally, her answer to that question was “yes” followed by fake composure, or “no” and an absolute breakdown. What came out this time was, “Will I ever get used to it?”

“Get used to what?”

“After all these years…you’d think I’d get
used
to it. But I don’t. Every time I see something, it’s as bad as the first time.”

He stepped inside the room, taking her trembling hands in his. “What did you see?”

She glanced down into the pristine white sink. “It was running with blood. And…the faces. In the mirror. I saw them again. I saw them the other night at the restaurant too. It’s never happened outside wherever I lived before, Ash. It’s following me now. But what the hell am I talking about—it’s always followed me, no matter where I go—”

Her voice grew higher, tinged with hysteria, and Ash closed what little distance was left between them to pull her into his arms, murmuring that it would be all right.

“Am I losing my mind?” she whispered into the hot flesh of his naked shoulder.

“No,” he said. He sounded so certain.

“How can you say that? What
is
this, then? Seeing things that aren’t there…that’s crazy, right? There’s no other explanation. That’s—”

“Haunted,” he said softly.

She pulled away from him at that, looking up into his dark eyes. They stared back, assured, steady…dispassionate, really. As if he dealt with this sort of thing all the time. “Haunted? You mean like a poltergeist?”

“Or worse.”

Maddie scoffed. “I’ve wished it could be something like that, something there was even the slightest chance I could get rid of. But honestly…I don’t believe in those things.”

“After everything you’ve seen? How can you not? Because you aren’t crazy, Madeleine. You’re absolutely coherent.”

“That doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t feel that way.”

With both hands, he smoothed the hair back from her face. “It looks that way. I think…you’re very strong.”

Strong? No, no one would ever say she was strong. What was the matter with him? “That’s the last word I’d use to describe me.”

“No, that’s the last word you think others would use to describe you…others like your ex. But I want you to forget about all of that. Even if you don’t believe what I say about you being haunted, believe that you are not weak, and you are not crazy.”

“So…just say that you’re right, and this…thing, this entity…is following me, how do I get rid of it? It’s happened ever since I was a little girl, no matter where I live. It’s me it’s after, for whatever reason.”

“But you’re still here,” he said, looking down at her with an assessing gaze she didn’t understand. He said it almost as if he were puzzled, but it was the exact same thing she told herself over and over when she was trying to calm down. Then he blinked and glanced around. “Are you finished in here? Come on to bed.”

She turned off the faucet and allowed him to pull her out of the bathroom, but she couldn’t help casting one last apprehensive glance toward the mirror. All she saw was her own face this time, pale, shadowed…haunted.

“The first time I remember it…really remember it…I was fourteen,” she said. They were lying face-to-face, fingers interlaced. “Things had happened before that, but they were minor. Infrequent. But on my fourteenth birthday, I saw the gray faces for the first time. My grandparents had a party for me—one of the few times they did anything like that. I spent the whole thing curled up in the corner of my bedroom, crying. They couldn’t get me to come out. I guess that’s why I never got another party. I think they had the same problem with me that most people do—they were scared shitless of me.”

He could almost understand. Sometimes he was scared shitless of her too.

“It was really bad for me in the beginning. I tried to hide what was happening from my family and the few friends I had, and I got pretty good at it, even though I don’t think I used a mirror my entire freshman and sophomore years if I could help it. I wore my hair in a ponytail and didn’t bother with makeup. Wasn’t ever a fashion plate—I just didn’t care.”

“You seem to now.”

Her faraway gaze was directed at him, but he knew she didn’t see him. “I finally decided to suck it up. When I was sixteen, this guy I liked started showing some interest, and I was so eager to go out and be normal I tried to pretend none of it was happening, for him and for myself. That didn’t last, of course. Guys came and went and I tried to hide it from most of them. David was the first one I really let in, thinking we were close enough and he cared enough that he could handle it. He couldn’t. But can I really blame him? It’s not his fault.”

“Can you blame him for being a coward who deserted you? Yeah, pretty easily.”

“I guess so.” She sighed. “But it’s best to let it go. I got so frustrated being afraid all the time, and I still do. I get almost defiant about it. Thing is, I’ll feel that way one day, and the next I’ll be a mess.”

Defiant. Oh, she could be. He’d known her long enough to know how strong she was, even if she didn’t agree. She’d always been beyond his reach, and he’d tried so many times to get to her. It had never worked, until now—and even then he’d had to exploit the weakness of someone else.

He’d come close once long ago—or at least, closer than any of his other attempts in centuries past. She’d been burned at the stake as a witch in some long-forgotten village in England, when all she’d been guilty of was helping ease women through the rigors of childbirth. One wretchedly cold winter’s day, she’d been reluctantly called to the bedside of a nobleman’s wife who was nearing the end of her strength during a particularly grueling labor, only to lose both the mother and the child despite all her efforts.

Naturally, the idiots blamed her—they’d called her a witch, the devil’s handmaid. Surely she consorted with demons to receive her healing powers. Funny how the people had been happy to make use of them until she failed the wrong person.

If only the fools had known a real demon had revealed himself and propositioned her the night before her execution, and she’d reviled him.

He would never forget that night. Even in the cold, dank stench of the cell they’d pitched her into, even knowing what she faced on the morrow, she’d remained steadfast. She’d been down on her knees when he’d come to her, her hands folded and her head tilted back toward the ceiling. Full lips murmuring prayers. Despite the dire circumstances of the moment, he’d thought of having her on her knees for an entirely different reason, putting those lips to a far more productive use.

He should have known it was futile, but desperation had driven him. He was about to lose her
again
, and who knew how long he would have to wait this time to find her when she came back—
if
she came back? He’d been prepared to offer her anything, pay any price just to have her now, but he had to tread carefully.

“Good evening, madam,” he’d said, trying to sound innocuous.

Apparently he wasn’t good at it. She’d taken one glance at him and scurried to her feet, backing against the wall. Yes, it had been far harder for his kind to walk among the masses in those days. Far more of a challenge, far more fun to try. Even in the darkness, he could see the searing blue of her wide eyes, the milky smoothness of her skin. The moonlight glowing off the snow-covered landscape outside her window managed to show him every detail of her delicate face.

She’d stood there, gently panting with her untamed curls loose around her dirty cheeks, looking like a woodland nymph he’d startled. She didn’t speak, but waited for him to continue. He’d ached so hard to tear his way into that room and possess her, he nearly ground his teeth to dust. He’d looped his fingers around the bars and clenched them hard to keep from doing so. “If there were any way possible to escape your fate,” he’d begun, staring hard through those bars into her panicked eyes, “would you take it?”

It was all he was allowed to ask until she answered in a manner consistent with his plans for her, but he’d known it was a lost cause before he finished the question.

Despite her obvious discomfort with him there, her voice had rung out strong and true. “I would not. I would not lie to save myself. Nor would I blaspheme, or sell my soul. I’ll face the flames on the morrow and find my peace in eternity before I face the everlasting fires of Hell.”

It was done, then, hopeless. He’d known she saw the fury rise in his eyes, no doubt turning them crimson at having lost her yet again. He hadn’t been able to resist one final barb. “Shall I ask again, then, when the first of the flames licks the flesh from your body? I should think you’d be much more amenable then.”

“Get thee behind me, Satan!”
she’d cried.

The words themselves had hurt, all but throwing him backward. He’d snarled at her and whirled away, scarcely able to rein in his savagery as he stalked down the corridor away from her.

And he watched her die in agony the next morning, wanting to scream, wanting to stop it somehow. Not because he wanted to end her pain—there would be plenty of that where he planned to take her. But because she should be
his
. The fire had devoured her mercifully fast and the angels had winged down from Heaven to carry her soul home. One of the bastards had seen him there among the onlookers and smirked at him before they shot off and disappeared into the ice-blue sky.

Who was smirking now?

Actually, not him, not at the moment. It took effort to pull his thoughts away from that crisp, terrible winter morning so long ago, but it was over. And he was here, in Madeleine’s bed, where it was warm and dark and he was…wanted. She snuggled against his chest, her breath cool and minty sweet. The memory of her down on her knees in feverish prayer still wreaked havoc on him, though, and while he’d be content to let her drift to sleep—she needed it—he was so hard it hurt.

As if to make the decision for him, she tilted her head up and her lips brushed his. Her fingers slid down to lightly stroke his cock, and every muscle in his abdomen clenched. “Is this for me?” she asked teasingly.

He could only groan her name in reply and sink into her kiss. Plunder the mouth he’d dreamed would someday murmur desperate pleas for deliverance to him rather than to Heaven. Here it was at last; it was his.

“Oh, Ash,” she sighed against his lips.

“I love the sound of that,” he said. “Love to hear you say my name.”

He felt her smile. “Ash.”

“Again.”

She repeated it on a giggle, over and over. He laughed, nibbling her lush bottom lip—which made it difficult for her to speak, but still she tried. He nipped his way down the line of her jaw to her throat, which she bared for his exploration. “Thank you for listening to all my insanity,” she said as he kissed and gently sucked the place where her pulse beat so strongly against her skin. “For understanding me. You don’t know how much it means…”

Her voice trailed away, broken, and he lifted his head to look down at her. Tears glimmered in her eyes. She blinked rapidly as if trying to send them back where they belonged.

It was no use. They belonged to a shattered soul that could never be repaired. Bravely, she forced the words out. “You don’t know how much it means to be with someone I feel like I can tell anything to. It’s so weird, having known you only a week—or maybe that’s why. There isn’t any pressure. What do you think?”

Shit. Did she really expect him to talk right now, when her hand was doing that? He studied her face, the subtle nuances of this incarnation. She always looked the same, for the most part. Always blue-eyed, always dark-haired. Her nose was a little sharper this time, her cheeks more rounded. Despite any slight differences, he knew her face better than he knew his own. “Madeleine, I think you’re incredible. I think…that’s why…oh,
fuck
…that’s why this dark entity has attached itself to you.”

Her movements ceased, and it was the closest he’d ever come to whimpering like a little girl. Where the hell had
that
come from?