Dark Salvation Part 8

He brushed his fingertips across her shoulder. "I didn't mean to offend you."

He must think she was angry at him. She forced her rigid muscles to relax, and leaned her head back against his arm. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then counted to ten and let it out.

"You didn't. You just reminded me of something."

He curled his arm around her shoulders, offering silent sympathy. She soaked up his warmth and vibrancy, feeling the life beginning to flow back into her.

"You're doing so much for me, and for Gillian." He hesitated, his uncertainty only making him more appealing.

"You seem so sad," he continued. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No." She shook her head and looked away. Her eyes felt funny again, and she didn't want him to think she was crying. "It's nothing. Old news, over a long time ago."

He reached out, cupping her chin in his hand, and turned her to face him. She still refused to look at him. He held her jaw until she met his gaze.

"It may be over, but you're not over it. Perhaps talking about it will help."

She'd never told the whole story to anyone before. Why would she, when they'd only use it against her? But Desmond was different. She felt that she could confide in him. The unfamiliar trust surprised her.

"I never knew my father," she began. "When I was a little girl, I'd spend hours in front of his picture. I made my mother tell me the stories about him over and over again, until I thought I knew every minute of their two years together."

He placed his hand over her chilled fingers, fisted in her lap, and gave them a rea.s.suring squeeze. She searched his eyes, but saw no hint of censure, only encouragement.

"Everything would have been fine if it hadn't been for the Vietnam War Memorial," she continued.

"When I told my mother we should go see it, she became distraught. She forbade me to go anywhere near it."

"But you went?"

"I went." Rebecca smiled wryly, "I always was very determined."

"I'd noticed." He returned her smile, but also tightened his grip on her hand. "I emptied out my savings account and bought a bus ticket from upstate New York all the way to Washington. The line for the memorial was very long, full of people bringing gifts and mementos for the loved ones they'd never had a chance to say good-bye to. Somehow, I felt connected to all of them, bound by a common purpose. We all wanted to see the wall and touch the one special name chiseled into the stone, as if that could make the deaths real. As if that could bring them home."

She bit her lip, determined not to cry. The day was engraved upon her memory, as if it had been only yesterday. The elderly man in front of her, leaning on a cane and smelling of camphor, who clutched a pair of shoes to his chest. The weeping woman behind her, who held a bouquet of carnations and babbled on about how they were her son's favorite flower. And between them, the girl whose innocent love was about to be destroyed by the cold, hard truth.

Desmond pulled her close, cradling her in the warmth of his embrace. His arms held her safe, protecting her from her memories, until she could continue her story. She listened to the steady thud of his heart beneath her head, felt the rise and fall of his chest with each slow inhale and exhale of breath.

Gradually her pulse slowed to match his, and her breathing steadied. But she didn't move, unwilling to look at his face as she finished her tale.

"When my turn came, I stepped up to the directory of names, my heart pounding and my mouth dry. I knew the date I wanted, and ran my finger down the list, looking for Private Charles Morgan. He wasn't listed."

"Not listed?"

"No. I flipped backward and forward in the book, thinking that maybe my mother had gotten the date wrong. He wasn't listed anywhere. He wasn't listed, because he hadn't died." She took a deep breath, and finished her explanation in a rush of words. "That's why my mother hadn't wanted me to see the wall.

Because I'd find out how the story really went. Charles Morgan hadn't been a young hero, killed before he could return to his young wife and infant daughter. He'd been a frightened teenager, who'd returned from the most harrowing experience of his life only to be confronted by his girlfriend and a baby she insisted was his. He couldn't deal with either one."

Desmond's arms tightened around her, and he rocked her gently, murmuring soothing words into her hair. He stroked his hands down her back with slow, rhythmic warmth.

She sniffed. "I promised myself I wasn't going to cry."

"Go ahead and cry. For your father, and for you."

She looked up, surprised at the husky note in his voice. His eyes seemed unusually bright, as well, so she blinked to clear her tear-smudged vision. His gaze met hers, and she forgot to breathe.

His eyes gleamed with the brilliant green of sun-dappled leaves, as he lowered his gaze to her mouth.

She knew he was about to kiss her, and that she could stop him with a word. But she didn't want to.

She'd never felt so close to another human being, and couldn't bear the thought of pushing him away. It would be like pushing away her own heart.

He bent closer and touched his lips to hers. As if he'd closed a circuit, an electric thrill coursed through her at the contact. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she gave herself up to the sensation. He slid his kiss to the corner of her mouth, then whispered against her lips.

"Did you ever see him?"

She wanted to stay floating in the soft fog Desmond's kiss inspired, insulated from her past. But his words called her back. The story seemed somehow distant, though, as if she was listening to herself tell it, rather than telling it herself. That made it easier.

"No. I spent years trying to find him, and eventually tracked him down. He'd gotten married, and had three sons and two daughters. I met his wife when I went to see him, determined to find out why he'd abandoned me. She's the one who told me he was dead. For real, this time. A victim of Agent Orange, a few months before I got there."

"After all those years, to miss him by a few months must have been terrible."

"Not as terrible as what she said next. You see, she knew who I was. My father had told her about me." Rebecca shivered, seeing again the pity in the woman's eyes. And the fear when she glanced toward the yard where her own children played. Again, Desmond's touch drew Rebecca back to the present. She turned to him, blindly seeking comfort to ease the freshly opened wound. "After he'd recovered from his experiences in the war, my father came back and tried to patch things up with my mother. She turned him away. My father wanted me, and she told me he was dead!"

Rebecca hid her face in Desmond's shoulder, shaking as the long-denied emotions rocked through her.

Desmond stroked her back, her shoulders, her hair, soothing her pain until he made her shiver with a different kind of need. Turning her face, she captured his lips in a kiss.

She didn't need him to distract her anymore. She'd faced her memories. But she wanted a new memory, a better memory, of love and caring, to replace the old memory of betrayal and neglect. And Desmond cared more than anyone else ever had.

He stilled, as if sensing the change in her, then wound one hand in her hair and pressed her even closer. She opened her lips beneath a fiery onslaught that seemed to draw the very air out of her lungs.

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She could only feel.

Feel, as his tongue traced the edge of her lips. Feel, as his mouth slid across her jaw, and down the sensitive column of her neck. She twisted her head to the side, encouraging his exploration. His tongue rasped across her tender skin, and he pressed a kiss to the sensitive pulse point.

His hand in her hair tightened, pulling her head back and lifting her throat to his kiss. Her breathing quickened, rapid b.u.t.terfly breaths. She wanted this. She wanted him. Here. On the couch. On the floor.

Anywhere. As long as it was now.

Desmond tore himself away from her and Rebecca moaned, low in her throat. He struggled to control his breathing, waging a harder battle to control his hunger. He'd only meant to comfort her, not to become carried away like this.

As soon as her first powerful memories had struck him, he'd raised his mental shields. Strong thoughts carried clearly, even if the other person wasn't telepathic, and he had no wish to pry. But such strong shielding took a lot of energy to maintain, and he'd lowered the shields at the end of their conversation, wrongly a.s.suming that her calm appearance indicated a calm mind. Rebecca's last thoughts had been vividly erotic.

She reached for him now, eyes closed, tuned in to her own world. He caught her hand and guided it away from him, back to her. Not that he didn't want to make love to her. He ached with wanting her. But not now. Not like this, in blind response to the emotions called up by her memories.

When they made love, it would be because they'd chosen to. Because they were ready. That day would come. He was sure of it. And when it did, they'd not only share the pleasures of their bodies.

They'd share the pa.s.sion of their blood.

The drink his researchers had invented freed him from ghoulishly haunting hospitals and other sites of death, as he'd once done to satisfy the needs his curse created. Yet there had been times when living bodies had sustained him, had offered more than mere sustenance.

His gaze dropped to Rebecca's arched throat, slick with a layer of sweat. He imagined her beneath him, her pulse racing, the thick, sweet taste of her blood mingling with the salty taste of her sweat. He swallowed, eyes closed, picturing the ecstasy of their joining.

She whimpered softly and he opened his eyes to look at her. She leaned back into the couch, her neck stretched provocatively. Her pulse hammered faster than before, her shallow breath coming in quick pants. He'd caught her up in his fantasy somehow. Maybe not the details, but the general slant of his thoughts certainly seemed to have gotten through. But how? He'd been guarding his thoughts from transmission.

The explanation struck him with the force of a lightning bolt. She'd picked up on his thoughts the same way she'd countered his earlier attempts to mentally control her. By using her own mental powers. She shared more than just a blood type with Gillian. She shared the telepathic gift as well.

Obviously, she didn't know how to use it. She probably didn't even recognize the ability. To most people, she'd just seem to be remarkably intuitive and unusually persuasive.

Look what she'd done with only her raw telepathic ability. With training, she might have skills equal to his. He'd need to find out just how strong she really was, but he already knew the most important thing. This changed everything.

Chapter 6.

DESMOND PREFERRED to spend his mornings with Gillian, whenever possible. But today he needed to see Philippe. Their disagreement had lasted long enough. After 150 years, a few ill-chosen words spoken in the heat of anger shouldn't drive them apart.

He'd already dressed and fed his daughter, and put her to bed for her morning nap. She wouldn't miss him if he left while she slept. At least, that had been his reasoning when he called Mrs. Waters and asked her to come over early. She arrived just after Gillian drifted to sleep.

"Thank you, Mrs. Waters. She should sleep for another hour or so."

"I'll be quiet."

"Oh, and my guest will be staying in all day. She's still in bed, since she didn't sleep well." Rebecca had suffered a string of nightmares. The first time, her frightened telepathic cries had woken Gillian. After that, he'd kept a light connection to Rebecca's mental state. Not a deep enough connection to eavesdrop on her actual thoughts, it sufficed to let him sense her rising panic as she slipped into a nightmare. Each time, he sent a quick burst of mental energy back along the pathway and woke her up.

Neither of them had gotten much sleep. He didn't need much, but she'd been exhausted. Just as the rising sun put an end to the night, she'd slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep from which she had yet to awake.

Mrs. Waters glanced at Olivia's old room, then slid her gaze across to Desmond's door.

"Will she be wanting a breakfast?"

"She only had coffee, yesterday. I imagine that's all she'll want today." He glanced at his watch.

Philippe would be leaving for his office soon. "I hope having her here doesn't inconvenience you."

"Not a bit. After all, she's your guest."

"She is." He caught the emphasis Mrs. Waters gave the wordguest , but didn't have time to waste arguing over Rebecca's exact status. "If she's bored, she might like to read one of the books in my study."

"I'll tell her, Mr. Lacroix."

Leaving the household in the capable hands of Mrs. Waters, he went downstairs and knocked on Philippe's door. No answer. He'd missed him. He'd planned to meet privately, but now he'd have to catch Philippe at his office and hope no one else was around.

Since time wasn't an issue any more, he could check on Dr. Chen's progress first. Chen's lab was between here and Philippe's office in the administration building, and the brief detour would give Desmond the additional ammunition he needed in his battle with Philippe. He headed toward the main area of the complex.

Reaching Dr. Chen's lab, he triggered the scanner with his keycard. The scientist looked up as he entered.

"Mr. Lacroix. I didn't expect you so early."

"How are the tests coming?"

"Well, most of them are finished. We can discuss the results now if you want."

"That would be fine." Desmond pulled over a chair and sat down. He shouldn't antic.i.p.ate Dr. Chen's response, but after discovering Rebecca's mental powers last night, he knew the results had to be positive.

"Okay. You know all about what sort of transplant your daughter needs?"

"Yes." She needed a bone marrow transplant, and bone marrow donors were rarely found outside of the immediate family. He'd been prepared for disappointment. Until last night.

"I checked the compatibility of Ms. Morgan for a potential donor. Gillian's system would not reject a transplant from her."

"Excellent!" He'd been right about Rebecca. Once Gillian's body absorbed the functioning cells, her immune system would revert to a healthy state. His little girl would live. "When can we start?" "It's not that simple."

"Nothing ever is with you scientists. Now what?" He didn't want to hear any of the laborious details Dr. Chen would use to try and impress him. He wanted to run home and tell Gillian they'd found her cure.

She wouldn't have to suffer through any more shots. She'd have the strength to run and play like other children.

"Accepting the donor's blood marrow is not enough. She'll still produce the bad cells. Unless those cells are recognized by her immune system, they will gradually overpower the viable ones, and go back to destroying her healthy cells."

Desmond squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his lip, hoping the external pain would blind him to his emotional pain. He'd been so sure Rebecca held the answer. Even now, he couldn't bear to give up.

There must be some way to salvage this, some way to save Gillian.

"Isn't there anything you can do? Make Rebecca's cells capable of identifying Gillian's illness?"

"Not directly. But I thought she might have that reaction, so I tried combining Ms. Morgan's gene sample with other samples we'd tried in the past. A combination of Ms. Morgan's genetic matter with yours is capable of identifying and neutralizing cells transformed by your daughter's illness. It might be possible to introduce that combination into the deepest layer of Ms. Morgan's DNA, so that her bone marrow generates the new type of cells."

"Combine my DNA with Rebecca's, then give her a transplant so that she can give Gillian a transplant?" It sounded plausible. What was Dr. Chen waiting for?

Desmond leaped up and grabbed the doctor's shoulder. "Then do it!" he ordered.

Dr. Chen paled and fell back against his desk. d.a.m.n! Desmond let go of the scientist. He'd forgotten his strength, and squeezed too tightly. Stupid, stupid. Hopefully Chen would think it was an extreme overreaction, but a human one. Desmond couldn't take much more of this, having his hopes raised and then dashed. Like a piece of wire that had been bent and straightened one too many times, another reversal would make him snap.

Dr. Chen lifted his good arm and felt the injured shoulder. He must have been more surprised than hurt, because his color was already returning. He straightened his jacket.

"Well, you see, Mr. Lacroix, we can't. Not today. We don't have the technology. I'm sorry. But new discoveries are being made every day. With the resources of this Inst.i.tute-"

"No. There's a way to cure her. I know there is."

Desmond paced the lab, stepping around the scientist. There had to be a way.

"Well, there is one possibility," Dr. Chen offered hesitantly.

Desmond rounded on him and demanded, "What?"