Sin. Sharron Burnett
was softened with conditioners that held the same aroma. The scent seemed slightly familiar.
She felt good. The heat was relaxing her.
Missing time. It was phenomena she was all too familiar with. It was a byproduct of the mental chaos that all but defined her early adolescence. She had been diagnosed, paranoid schizophrenia. And sometimes, someone else took over, completely. Basically, she was a freak, worse; she was a psychotic freak.
But that was before. She had a life now, a career…meds.
She laughed. She had her sanity, and it was not going to slip away just because she had another episode.
Was that what this was? The gap in her memory was the same or rather normal. But that is where the similarities ended. She should be terrified; she should be worried sick actually. Why wasn’t she? It was almost like she was under a spell.
She heard laughter.
She bolted, splashing water out of the tub. She instantly sank down low.
She heard a distant chuckle, somewhere inside her head. A moment later, she knew no more.
*****
Liquid moonlight glittered like diamonds under the full moon. Silent and cold, the waves crashed violently outside the picture window, breaking with a flash of white against the jagged cliffs below.
“Oh my god.” She stopped, staring at the scene. “This must be a dream,” she said quietly.
“Not this time,” he rumbled, shooting her a glance through the shades that were forever close at hand.
The world tilted, drawing her forward, toward him. He put a steadying hand on her back when her hands came in contact with his chest.
He pulled away, leaving her with vulnerable eyes that pierced into his soul.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely.
“There is no need for apologies,” he said in that distinctive voice.
“It is your company which I desire the most.”
“Me?”
“You are Maggie?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then yes, I am in good company.” He said, reaching out to capture one long braid.
Her hair was divided, straight down from the crown of her head, plaited and still slightly damp. The water had held conditioners that perfumed her skin with an essence of some exotic muskiness. She swallowed hard hoping to find her voice.
“I should find m-my…”
“You will see her again.” He returned.
He led her down a spiral staircase; it was made of stone. The steps shallow and wide. It seemed as though they went on forever, circling the interior wall of a gigantic tower. She had navigated them gracefully up until now.
They arrived at what turned out into the strongholds entrance. It was boldly arched, dramatically carved wooden door of unbelievable size.
She was enthralled as it opened with a resonant creak.
“Come,” he said as he led her outside, into the night.
Blood red roses flanked either side of the entrance, continuing a labyrinth within the surrounding gardens. A foot path meandered through the grounds, illuminated by moonlight and torch fire.
A vast collection of religious statuary graced the gardens. Demons and imps cavorted together like children around the virgin mother. Her beloved son draped across her lap; her face masked in sorrow.
“The leader of men.” He derided. “An icon for all mind-numbing, irreverent bigots. His story has been revised throughout history by the corrupt and inept, until it no longer resembles the truth.”
“Do you know the truth?”
“I am the truth,” he whispered. His smile hidden behind long coal black hair.
The path ended in a circular alcove where an ancient rowan tree sunk roots deep into the earth. Another stone angel knelt at her base. She was chained to the earth, naked, fallen. Her wings had been severed; her body scourged and a crown of thorns circled her brow. Blood spilled from her eyes, crimson tears that fell across a face, despoiled by pain and horror.
She turned away, turning her back on the monstrosity.
“You don’t like it?” he asked. His smile crooked.
She faltered; his question taking her by surprise.
“Its…” she felt bile rushing up to her throat.
“I’m sorry…” she broke away, quickening her steps before another wave had her rushing for the closest bush.
He laughed, catching up with slow unhurried steps.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, feeling a profound embarrassment.
“Don’t be,” he said, seizing her arm, his luminous eyes, brilliantly intense.
“Art is meant to take one by surprise, to create a stirring even if it’s in the stomach.” He looked amused.
“I find myself pleased by your response.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” His eyes were black, intense, clinging to every curve and hollow of her familiar face. He sighed, taking her hand in his. He brought it to his mouth, pressing his lips to the erratic pulse.
“Hmmm…this could be harder than I’d imagined.”
“Did you sculpt that?”
“Guilty.” He smiled, looking altogether blameworthy.
“She looks like me,” she said tightly.
“Your painting, the one hanging above the bed. His face was once similar to my own,” he said, as if it were an afterthought.
“I guess we both connected on some artistic level.” Maggie laughed, a nervous little sound, her eyes darting toward his. His words made no sense to her, although she would never say so.
He grinned; his eyes, a deep aquatic green now. She looked away, bewildered.
His sexuality was palpable, making her feel a terrible yearning. She wanted to be touched by him. She couldn’t control it, this need.
“Do I make you uncomfortable?” he asked, a slow and steady softening changing his eyes yet again.
“God, yes.” She breathed, a slight smile curving her lips.
She was holding her breath; her arms crossed in front of her.
“I can help with that.” He promised.
“The first kiss is always the most anticipated.” He took a step closer.
“I’m not going to downplay the second or the third, but this one in particular can be worrisome.”
He reached up, threading his fingers into her hair. She began to tremble as he pulled her closer.
“Close your eyes,” he whispered, feeling her stiffen.
He kissed the hollow beneath her ear; his lips gentle as a sigh against her skin. Her jaw line followed and finally her lips. His tongue invaded her mouth, mating with hers in an age-old battle. She felt an overwhelming need spiraling toward obsession as she clung to him, kissing him back.
He pulled away first; his mouth set in a tender grimace, as though he was in pain. He retrieved her arms from around his neck.
“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
She didn’t know what to say. Her eyes fell, heat infusing her cheeks.
“I’m…” she began. “I’m