Marge waited a beat as if debating the need to test their relationship with a harsh truth. She decided too much was at stake.
“Your life can no longer be a pity party because your deadbeat mother left you alone. You were offered all the love in the world once, and you refused to accept it. Don’t make me choose between you and Christan because I’m not sure which way I will go.”
CHAPTER 9
There were ten steps from the bed to the adjoining bathroom. Lexi knew, because she’d walked back and forth for the past hour.
She needed a shower. Needed to change into the clothes Marge said were waiting in the closet. She needed a lot of things she wasn’t going to get and she was sick with needing things. Marge was right, she liked the pity parties. Now that she realized the truth of it, she didn’t like them so much anymore. And that was the trouble with your holier-than-thou belief system because it always came back to bite you in the end.
She looked around. Her eyes felt dry and tight. The room was comfortable, but empty, as if no one had been present for a very long time. Maybe no one she knew was present now.
Walking toward the bed, Lexi trailed her fingers over the comforter designed in a woodsy print of greens and cream, then traced the red moose embroidered on a throw pillow. An antler lamp sat on the table. The planked wood floor had a warm patina, and a green striped rug had been arranged in front of the chair. It might have felt welcoming except for the phony cabin look. It wasn’t her. Or maybe it was, and she was as phony as the room.
Machiavelli had it right, according to an old book she’d once read, bored, filled with ennui and looking for answers. He’d said that most people only saw you as you appeared to be, that few understood who you really were. Lexi once thought she knew what that meant, back in her old life.
And it was so funny, she thought now, that she could acknowledge an old life. Funny, after months of rejecting the idea of past lives, she’d walked through the door Marge opened and closed it behind her with little question. What did that say about who she really was, instead of who she appeared to be?
Rock Cove had been her secure place, where she controlled who got close. The small coastal town felt like home. The cottage felt like home. Her connection to earth energy felt normal in a place where spirit mountains had become a business opportunity. There’d been no reason to think about passion, desire, or physical need so intense it felt like hate.
And yet, there’d been moments, when she sat alone on her deck and watched the copper sun disappear into the indigo sea. When she would drift in a dream of something lost. She couldn’t explain the effortless knowledge, not even to herself, but there were countless mysteries in her mind, endless memories grinding up to the surface: the sound of a voice, the feel of a tender finger sliding across her hip, the promise of an excruciating connection. Deep places in her soul would begin to unfurl, unbidden, until she no longer felt whole, as if something vital to life had been excised. She would turn her face toward the ocean wind, where the salty air became her tears. Where she tried to breathe and couldn’t. Where memories felt too alien, so completely physical she ached with them, and as the last faint streaks of orange began to fade into rose she would feel the loss so intimately not even the wine would help her sleep.
Unbidden, the image of that half-remembered lover consumed her with eyes dark as obsidian, unbowed and so ancient it hurt. When Christan confronted her in the rocks Lexi had been unprepared. Had never expected that instant of ecstasy when her body remembered his and all she’d wanted was to be part of them.
She remembered only traces of the way they once were, the raw eroticism that flared, uncontrolled. His existence on earth was so breath-taking it passed beyond myth. Lexi thought about the reason she was tied to him, why he would have slammed that power into her mind with such emptiness in his eyes. She thought about it until her throat closed up, until grief struck her, until she was clawing at her clothes, ripping the material from her body. She was sobbing as she tried to shed the outer skin she’d carried her entire life.
When she was naked, she turned on the shower in the small adjoining bath and stood under the frigid water. The pain was unending, a long silence with no end. She didn’t care as she stood there, waiting for the moment when the shivering stopped, when she would slide into hypothermia. She braced for it, welcomed the instant when even breathing stopped. But it didn’t, and when she turned off the water and stepped out onto the white rug she faced the truth about herself, about who she was, who she had been.
Words rose unbidden, an ancient echo in her mind, from a lifetime she couldn’t recall.
Her voice.
His.
“Sei un mostro. Ti odio Christan. Ti odio.”
“E’ cosi facile da fare…
She dreamed that night.
It started soft, a sweet dream of a young girl who raced like a gazelle across semi-arid hills. A girl who tended her family’s herd of shaggy black and white goats, using a spear and a bow with arrows to drive away the predators.
There was magic in the air and an ancient spring, and the myth told at night by the Grandmother, who spoke of Kyrene, the mortal daughter of a Thessalian King, a water nymph and virgin huntress who lived in the bright, green woods around Mount Pelion. Kyrene had raced, tended sheep and fought off predators until the day when, in the midst of a battle with a lion, she had attracted the attention of a God—a God who possessed such power he carried her off to the North African coast along the Mediterranean Sea.
Their love had been legendary, this God and his water nymph, and the springs where the girl now lived were named for her, for Kyrene. It was why there had been so many crops, as many as three in a single year over the following centuries. It was the reason, too, for the invaders from Rome, from Egypt and Persia, who came and went, building and destroying until now Cyrene was little more than broken monuments and crumbled buildings, and the young girl with her father’s shaggy goats.
But that had been the story the Grandmother told, around the campfire and in the secret caves, while the child had drawn pictures in the sand. It was the story she loved over the years but never quiet believed. Until the day she saw him watching her and the story became real.
Her name was Gaia, of the earth. She explored the ruins where she lived, loved the stone lions that stared directly at her as if they knew what she was thinking. He had also stared, a bold lion on the hill, wild and standing unafraid. She thought he was a statue come to life. His muscles rippled beneath a honey-colored coat, with colossal shoulders and black-tipped paws larger than her hand. In the transparent summer sun, he had shimmered in copper and gold until her heart clenched.
She knew he had been hunting her for weeks, but not in a bad way. He kept her company in the sharp, clear way he had, always watching. He was a mystery older than time. But she’d not been frightened. Had never been frightened of who she knew him to be. He had been her silent companion for weeks until she’d had enough, of his reticence, his demanding power. She’d turned to face him, there on the open plain, in the midst of her father’s goats. Without her weapons, with no other human nearby. And held out her slender hand.