Falling Light Part 21

He had transformed himself and left the universe of his birthplace forever. He had expired in a transcendent blaze of power, and rose reborn from the ashes, all so that he could free himself from the perpetual nightmarish connection with his soul mate.

He had hoped his transformation would destroy her. No such luck.

He had broken free, but mutating his spirit had changed hers too. His greatest triumph had carried the seed of potential failure, for by studying his accomplishment, she and the rest of the group had learned how to follow him.

One fact remained that provided both comfort and warning. He cuddled that fact close throughout the long years. At least now they lived independent of each other's existence. At least he had achieved that much. Congratulations, ladies and gentlemen, the operation was a complete success. The conjoined twins survived the separation.

That meant he could destroy her and survive. She also had the potential of surviving his destruction, but that didn't mean anything to him. When she followed him to Earth, he knew she was prepared to destroy herself if that was what it took to bring him down.

If he could find her, if he could only just find her.

She was the opposing queen on the chessboard, the most powerful piece in the shadow game. Mary and Michael weren't strong enough to defeat him on their own. If he took the old b.i.t.c.h out, he would achieve checkmate. Destroy her, and he would have conquered this world. Then it would only be a matter of time before the inhabitants of the Earth realized it as well.

The endgame was so close.

The helicopter completed another ma.s.sive circuit.

"Do it again," he said to his pilot.

They hovered over the rugged south coast of Michigan's central Upper Peninsula. The area spanned four million acres of protected state and federal forestland.

One could wax poetic about the panoramic beauty of the sky on that late afternoon. The storm had left nature lovers a present in its wake, for they were going to have a spectacular sunset.

One was not in the mood. He curled a contemptuous nostril.

"Sir?" the pilot said, glancing at him sideways.

For this trip, he hadn't brought one of his drones. He thought he might need a pilot who would be able think with more creative independence. Now he wanted to pull his hair out, only his monkey suit, with the hairy knuckles and hairy a.s.s, didn't have enough hair on his head, just a receding hairline and that wretched, army-style buzz cut.

He said icily, "What part of 'do it again' did you not understand? Oh forget it, just put us on the f.u.c.king ground."

"Certainly." The pilot spoke with smooth courtesy and an impa.s.sive face. "Where would you like to land?"

The interior of the helicopter felt too close. He was pa.s.sionately sick of confinement. The pressure building in his head was intolerable.

He whispered, "Find a spot."

The pilot found a spot. He settled the helicopter down on a high bare outcrop of rock on the eastern sh.o.r.e of the Garden Peninsula, which overlooked Lake Michigan. They landed a comfortable distance back from the cliff's edge.

"Wait here," he told the pilot.

He removed his helmet and climbed out of the helicopter on stiff legs. He sucked in deep draughts of clean, chilly air and jogged in place to wake the meat up. Then he paced the length of the short cliff. White-capped waves churned against the rocks at the foot of the outcrop forty feet below.

He looked over the water as he paced back.

Wisconsin lay south and west. Michigan's Lower Peninsula lay southeast. He spun north, a slow narrow-eyed pan that encompa.s.sed the wilds of the Upper Peninsula.

Where are you, b.i.t.c.h?

An early evening sky smiled down at him.

He pressed monkey fists to his forehead, concentrating ferociously. The psychic landscape was as bare, open and peaceful as the windswept hilltop view.

I know you're out there, he thought at her. I know it.

Silence told a tale of her laughing at him.

"Sir," said the pilot from behind him. "I thought I'd remind you-"

A body could only take so much. He snapped, and the pilot died in midsentence.

After he recovered from the convulsions of the migration, to his startled pleasure, he realized what he had been too preoccupied to notice before.

The pilot was a beautiful male, as graceful as a dancer with lean, whipcord strength, coffee-and-cream-colored skin, a clever aristocratic face and black almond-shaped eyes. He paid more attention to the pilot now than he had when the young human had been alive.

He stretched and looked at the long, dark fingers with satisfaction. Now that was more like it. He booted the body of his old host over the edge of the cliff and stood staring over the Lake, hands planted on slim hips.

So the b.i.t.c.h wouldn't show herself. She probably thought she had things under control.

It was time he stopped indulging in temper tantrums and shook her out of that control, and past time he reminded her of whom she fought.

For thousands of years and countless battlegrounds that spanned the realms, she had refused to even speak any of his true names. She called him by the shabbiest of nicknames, the one that was both insult and lie, for he was no Deceiver. He lived true to himself. He refused to bow down to her mores and strictures, or to submit to any society's rules or judgment.

His oldest and truest name-that was the one she feared the most. Morning Star he had been called when he had been the King of Babylon, but his dark radiance had never been like her white, pitiless glow.

Light Bearer.

The ancients had not meant it as a compliment.

Lucifer smiled a wicked smile, spread out his beautiful hands and called on his oldest, primeval power.

Fire rained down on the land.

Chapter Twenty-three.

JUST AS MARY did, Michael had a place of the heart that existed past guards and barriers, cynicism and shortcomings.

It was the image of a large bedchamber. A fire blazed in a stone fireplace, chasing away the shadows and the chill of the night. The bed was ma.s.sive, with a rope frame and a thick mattress stuffed with feathers, and a pile of luxuriant, embroidered woolen blankets and soft furs.

As soon as she set foot inside the room, Mary knew the place. The heavy wooden door was reinforced with iron, and it could be barricaded with a thick oak bar from inside the room. The chests that were filled with his possessions lay against one wall, while the chests that were filled with hers were set against another. It was an intimate scene filled with peace and safety.

Two chairs were positioned in front of the fire. A lady's embroidery lay on one seat of the chair.

Mary walked over to the chair and picked up the embroidery. It depicted a woodland scene with colorful flowers and wild animals. "I remember this piece," she breathed. "I worked on it all winter long."

Michael walked up behind her. He buried his face in the hair at the nape of her neck. "Recalling details of this lifetime saved me, I think," he said. "I couldn't feel any real emotion when I was younger. I couldn't connect to anything, until I remembered this place."

Mary turned in his arms. She nestled against him. "We were happy here. I was so happy." She paused, searching the dim, distant impressions that had surfaced. "It wasn't perfect. There was always something to worry about, wasn't there?"

"War." He ran his hands up and down her back. "There was always the threat of the Deceiver, and war. We could never risk you getting pregnant, and sometimes, when there was a drought, we worried about the harvest. But we remembered who we were. We were together and completely present, and in this room, nothing else mattered."

"Yes," she whispered. For an enchanted time in this place, they had shared peace, love and safety, three of the most powerful words in any language. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"I had to." He pressed his lips to her temple, and they stood together silently for a time. Then he sank a fist into her hair and tilted her head back to kiss her, in a deep, thorough exploration of her mouth. He said against her lips, "When I make love to you again, we won't be exhausted and caught in the images of distant memories. We are going to be completely present and in our bodies."

She tightened her arms around him as she whispered, "Promise?"

"Nothing on earth could keep me from it." He kissed her again, and his warm lips were hard and demanding. He pulled away with obvious reluctance. "But for right now we can truly rest."

"And wake up together," she said.

"Absolutely." He eased her gently from the mental image and with obvious reluctance pulled away from her presence. Then nature took over, and she joined her body in a deep sleep.

A formless time later, cold air wafted over her cheek, and she surfaced out of the peaceful dark to discover that she was on the move. Michael had wrapped her in a blanket and he carried her up the steep hill to the cabin. Overhead, the moon winked through the trees, and the night sky was crisp and clear.

"What happened?" Her voice was blurry with sleep. "What time is it?"

"I'm sorry I disturbed you," he said quietly. "It's around two or three in the morning, and I'm ravenous. I can't get back to sleep until I eat something, and we don't have any real food on the boat. I didn't want to leave you down there by yourself in case you woke up and wondered where I had gone."

"I'm glad you did," she murmured. Michael had slipped on his jeans and the sweater. She nestled into his chest, tucking her face into his neck. Not only was she naked underneath the blanket, she was barefoot too, and she remembered all too well how rough the path was. She was entirely happy to let him do all the work.

When he strode across the clearing and reached the cabin, she shook an arm out of the blanket to open the door for him. Astra was either asleep or at least resting, for the cabin lay in deep shadow, but Michael was still surefooted and certain as he carried her quietly into his bedroom and deposited her on the king-sized bed.

She discarded the blanket and slipped underneath the covers, while he disappeared. In the kitchen, the refrigerator light came on briefly as he rummaged for food. She turned on the bedside lamp, and a few minutes later, he walked into the bedroom carrying a plate of sandwiches and two tall gla.s.ses of water. He pushed the door shut with one foot.

Now that she had awakened, she realized just how hollow and empty she felt. He set the plate on the bed, undressed and slid under the covers with her, and they ate in companionable silence. The sandwiches were Astra's handiwork from earlier, made with homemade bread, individually wrapped and quite delicious.

She finished before Michael, and lay down to curl against his long, muscular legs, drifting until he set the empty plate on the bedside table. He switched off the light and slid down to lie beside her.

They turned to each other at the same time. She wound her arms around his neck while he rose over her and settled between her legs, and the weight of his long, powerful body covering hers was the very best thing that had happened to her all day.

He kissed her, hardened lips moving sensuously over hers while he explored the moist, private interior of her mouth. She relished the slight abrasion of his unshaven cheek and lost herself in sensual pleasure. He leaned his weight on one arm while he caressed her breast and plucked gently at her nipple, and his erection pressed against her inner thigh.

Then his body stiffened. He broke off the kiss, leaned his forehead against hers and swore under his breath.

Frowning, she stroked the back of his head. She loved him so much. She murmured, "What is it?"

"Our supply of condoms are in a police evidence room," he growled. "Along with your purse and my backpack that we left behind in Petoskey after you were shot."

The corners of her mouth drooped in disappointment. "Oh, no. And you don't have any here."

She didn't say it as a question. He wouldn't be so frustrated if he had any condoms here, and she already knew that he had never been with a woman in this life, before her. He had chosen instead to wait and look for her.

Still, he shook his head wordlessly. He began to roll off of her. "We can always make love in other ways."

She gripped his shoulder. "Wait."

He stopped, settled his weight again comfortably on her, stroked the hair off of her forehead and waited.

Just as she couldn't risk a pregnancy in that lifetime long ago, she couldn't risk one now.

She also had more resources available to her than she had when they had stopped to rest at the cabin near Wolf Lake. She sank her awareness into her body and realized almost immediately that they weren't in any danger. Her monthly cycle wasn't viable for conception.

"We're safe," she whispered. "We don't need to worry for at least another week."

He took a breath. "You're sure."

He didn't ask that as a question either, but still, she smiled. "Quite sure."

She slid her fingers through the short, dark hair at the back of his head, coaxing him down to her. He came readily, and his mouth slanted over hers in a kiss that blazed along her nerve endings.

He cradled her, mind, body and spirit. She could feel it. There was no part of him that held back. He was totally engaged, totally present and open. It set her alight. She arched upward against his long, muscled torso, rubbing her body against his and reveling in the sensation of being skin to skin, of feeling the fluidity of his powerful muscles flexing and shifting on her.

He broke off the kiss, muttering something that she didn't catch, and trailed his lips along her skin as he slid down her body with delicious, agonizing slowness. He stopped to suckle at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, tugging strongly first on one nipple, then the other. She gasped and cradled his head in both hands while white-hot pleasure shot arrows down her limbs. It settled into an escalating need at the intimate juncture of her pelvis.

He put a hand between her legs and pressed at the exquisitely sensitive nubbin at her center. She tilted her pelvis up and pushed against him. The wetness of her arousal slicked his hard, clever fingers, and pleasure turned into a keen, bright spear that stabbed her so sweetly, a sharp, involuntary sound broke out of her.

He buried his face against her flat stomach. "Feeling nothing is worse than blindness," he whispered against her skin. "When you're blind, you can still experience a wealth of sensation. Feeling nothing is the worst kind of starvation you can imagine, only you don't know it. You don't know it until you start to feel something. That's what happened to me when I started to remember what it was like to love you. I looked for you for so long. I needed you, and I knew that I was starving."

"You know I love you, don't you?" she whispered back to him. She stroked everything she could reach of him-his hair, the side of his lean cheek, his broad shoulders. "I just love you. I love you."

"We don't leave each other alone ever again," he gritted. He gripped her hips in a bruising tight hold. "NOT EVER AGAIN."

"Never," she told him. "I swear it."

Her body housed too much extreme emotion. She ached for his centuries of pain, and she was aroused and so d.a.m.n happy. She couldn't hold it all in, or hold still. She wiggled down the bed, running her hand down his lean torso until she found his thick, stiff p.e.n.i.s. He sucked in a breath as she caressed him. She relished the velvet skin covering the hard length of his c.o.c.k, stroking the tips of her fingers along the beautifully shaped tip until he jerked in reaction to her gentle caress.

He grabbed her wrist. "I can't take too much teasing right now. I'm so f.u.c.king close to spewing all over you."

"Not yet, you don't," she told him. She took him in a strong grip. "Come here."

He followed her urging, shifting his position until he lay over her again, his weight on both elbows while she held him poised at her swollen, wet entrance. She rubbed the thick tip of his c.o.c.k against her, moistening him and heightening her own pleasure.

He sank both fists into the sheets on either side of her head, shaking all over. "G.o.dd.a.m.n," he hissed. "G.o.dd.a.m.n."

"Don't you come," she breathed in his ear. "Don't you do it."

Listen to them. They almost sounded like they were arguing. It was the best kind of struggle, the best argument, unbelievably sharp and delicious. He bit at the delicate curve of her ear, the light, stinging nip conveying his urgency.

She raked the fingernails of one hand down the wide, tense curve of his powerful back. At the same time, she lifted her hips and groaned, "Now."