Hope Everlastin' Book 4 (22 page)

As cellars went, this one
was pretty clean and organized. His head bobbed in appreciation of
this. No cobwebs that he could see. Nothing scurrying about. Not
yet.

A few minutes into his
unhurried exploration, he began to hum the theme from the Red Dwarf
series. It helped to quell his unease. He idolized the character of
Lister, believing him to be the epitome of a man's man, the
ultimate hero and slob extraordinaire. Favorite segments of the
show flashed across his mindscreen, and he grinned as he searched
what turned out to be a vast sectioned-off area of the basement.
Sometime later, he detected a rather unpleasant odor.

He came across a door and
opened it. A foul stench rolled over him from the room beyond, a
stench reminding him of body excrement, rotten food, and something
else he couldn't begin to analyze.

"Oooo-eee," he rasped,
pinching his nostrils closed. Now sounding like a cartoon
character, he added, "I've been in garbage dumps that smelled
better than this."

He leaned into the room,
the beam of the flashlight dancing on the interior walls, then
lingering on a table a short distance away.

"What the....?"

Releasing his nose, he
cautiously stepped to the table. Amid empty pork rind bags and
other various food containers was a heap of white
sausages.

Not sausages he realized
upon a closer inspection. He gagged and clamped a hand over his
mouth when the flashlight dipped and he saw a gutted peafowl on the
floor by the nearest table leg. His eyes wide with horror, he
trained the light back on the table. He now knew the sausages where
in fact the bird's intestines. Someone was hiding in this cubbyhole
in the cellar, eating whatever they could find. And anyone capable
of eating the raw innards of a bird was not someone he wanted to
encounter.

Another fact registered.
The wicks of three short, black candles were smoldering, as if the
flames had been extinguished a short time ago.

Trembling violently, his
gorge rising into his throat, his flashlight dangling from a slack
hand at his side, he rigidly turned toward the door. Pale gray eyes
stared at him from above the flickering flame of a held
candle.

There was no life in those
eyes.

No fear or
surprise.

Certainly no, "Hello.
Welcome to my sty."

At first, Stephan Miles
felt only a mild punch to his chest. Then twinges of pain—annoying
pain—made him look down and slowly raise the beam of the flashlight
to the area. He thought it utterly ridiculous to find a knife
poking out from his breast, a large hand attached to the handle.
The knife was given a twist by the stranger's hand, and Miles' pain
turned to searing agony.

Bewildered more than
anything else, he looked again into the pale eyes.

Why?
he wanted to ask.
Is this really
necessary?

No words passed his lips.
He'd always had a problem with voicing his objections.

The blade again turned
inside him, but he looked unwaveringly into those eyes, seeing his
stupidity and his own death reflected in them.

What really galled him was
knowing the man was enjoying himself. This guy was a killer, and no
amateur. A great story in itself.

To hell with the
green-slime-infesting-ghost.

Here he was, faced with a
flesh and blood killer, and wasn't it just like freaking fate to
have him on the victim side of the story!

The word "Shit" gurgled
from his blood-filled throat, and his tunneled vision diminished to
pitch darkness. He wasn't aware of falling, or of the blade being
wrenched from his flesh before he hit the floor. He was bewildered
by the fact he could still think, and believed himself floating
within the infinite blackness.

Hello!
he called into nothingness.
Hey,
asshole, where are you? Just for the record, you just murdered a
nice guy! That's right, you bloody shit! A nice guy! Are you going
to explain to my mother why I was found with my shorts inside out?
Asshole! Couldn't let me die with a little dignity, could
you!

***

Cuttstone stared
apathetically down at the heap at his feet, absently wiping the
bloodied blade against the left leg of his pants. A buzzing filled
his ears. He ignored it and stepped over the body and stood at the
table. The smell of death didn't bother him, nor did the other
stenches in the room. He could shut off any of his external senses
when they became intrusive.

He was about to place the
dirk on the table when he realized it was emitting a pleasant
vibration. His fingers flexed almost caressingly around the handle.
The blade winked in the meager glow of the candle he held, and he
lifted the knife to regard it more closely.

The gleaming,
blood-spackled steel rippled like the surface of a pond when a rock
is tossed into it. His pulse quickened in anticipation of the
Guardian contacting him, and he breathed heavily through his opened
mouth. The vibration intensified, pulsing rhythmically. Then came a
hum from the knife, its cadence primordial, beckoning,
mesmerizing.

Trancelike, Cuttstone
cleared off the table with his left forearm and lowered the knife
to the wood surface. The hum grew louder as a blue glowing speck
appeared on the border surrounding the runes. Seconds later, the
blue glow spread like liquid fire along the entire border,
illuminating the runes and making them appear three-dimensional,
hovering above the blade.

"I'm here for you,"
Cuttstone said in a monotone, his unblinking gaze riveted on the
runes.

The dirk rose to stand on
its steel tip atop the table. It gradually rotated, spinning faster
and faster until the dirk appeared to be but a blur of glowing blue
mist. The hum crescendoed into a symphony of countless rhythms.
Pounding. Beating. Pulsating like the skins of drums under the
driving force of hands. Maddening rhythms. Compelling rhythms.
Rhythms that deftly wove a spell of encompassment.

There was no escaping
them.

Cuttstone had no will to
escape.

The mist spread out, its
blue glow turning the squalor of the room into a mystical setting.
Cuttstone's head first lolled to one side, then the other. He could
see a door appear in the heart of the mist. It was opening, slowly,
but nonetheless opening. His heart hammered painfully. A normal man
would fear the pain, but he considered it a gift. All that mattered
was his belief that the Guardian thought him worthy enough to
visit.

When the door fully opened,
the aperture expanded until it was large enough for him to lean his
head and shoulders through. Beyond, he found more blueness of
varying shades. Enchanting splendor. Serene. Infinite.

"I'm here," he said, his
voice soft with awe and reverence.

A disembodied face rushed
at him, enlarging and halting a few feet from the opening. He
couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. To him, the visage was no more
hideous than his own. A mere man would have gone into shock and
died from terror. Not Cuttstone. He had longed for so many years to
look upon the Guardian, and now realized that he had countless
times in his life, in more cities than he could
remember.

This one had a raised,
glowing red disfigurement that ran from its right brow, across the
left eye, and down half the craggy cheek. Cuttstone accepted it as
an identification mark, one that enabled him to recognize his
Guardian from the others he was now sure existed.

Man called them gargoyles,
but he now knew them to be gods.

His personal Guardian
roared. Cuttstone's eardrums burst, and he instinctively shrank
back as the Guardian's hot breath blasted against his face. The
door closed, the mist vanished, and the dirk fell onto its
side.

The man known as the
Phantom lowered himself onto the chair and dazedly stared off into
space. His world was now soundless, and would be for the rest of
his life. He didn't question the necessity of this, or resent the
blisters forming on his burned face, for he knew he'd waited too
long to claim the begetters in this house, and the Guardian had
punished him.

* * *

Beneath the Callanish
Standing Stones on the Isle of Lewis in Scotland, the ground
rumbled.

C
hapter 8

The day began with a light
drizzle, but by late morning the sun won out over the clouds. Beth
and Lachlan decided to bring the twins outside and, to Roan's
delight, asked if the boys could join them. Taryn was still asleep,
and Deliah and Winston drove into town to go through the files at
the police station.

Whistling, Roan practically
danced up the staircase. The boys had finagled their way into his
bed again last night. It was so seldom Laura and he had a chance to
be alone, he now felt as if he were blessed.

When last he'd seen
Laura—about an hour ago—she'd mentioned she was going to make the
beds. He knew her routine. She always did the boys' rooms first,
then theirs. If his timing was right, and he was sure it
was....

A broad grin spread across
his face when he opened their door and saw her bent over the bed,
tucking in the bottom right corner of the sheets. He eased the door
shut and tiptoed behind her. His eyebrows lifted appreciatively as
he checked out the roundness of her hips and buttocks beneath his
shirt that she wore. She had dressed for breakfast then bathed
after the dishes were done. Obviously, she had decided to make the
beds in as little as possible because she was barefoot, bare-legged
and, he hoped, devoid of underwear.

She released a squeal of
surprise when he clamped his hands on her hips. She whirled, but
stopped short with a laugh when she realized who it was.

"You scared the hell out of
me!"

Roan flashed a devious grin
and, his hands still on her hips, drew her tightly against the
hardness of his body. "Hey, gorgeous. You up to some serious play
time?"

Her face brightened then
fell into a look of mild despair. "The boys."

"They're ou'side wi' Lannie
and Beth," he said merrily. His fingers kneaded the firmness of her
hips and he moved his lower body in a manner that told her what he
had in mind. "I've got a wicked hunger for you."

"How wicked?"

His right eyebrow stretched
upward as far as he could make it go. "Weel, I really haven’t had a
chance to try to break ma three hour record."

"I don't think we have that
much time," she chortled.

"We could make love in
double time."

An amused frown creased her
brow. "Pray tell, how does 'double time' work?"

In response, he swept her
up into his arms and deposited her on the bed. Then, her laughter
ringing through the room, he peeled out of his shirt with
incredible swiftness, twirled it over his head and gyrated his hips
with a quickened rendition of "The Stripper" theme crooning from
his throat. Finally, he tossed the shirt across the room and sat on
the edge of the mattress. He removed his shoes, socks and pants
with record-breaking speed then stood in his white boxers with his
hands on his hips and sang out, "Ta-daaaa."

Laughter brought about a
painful stitch in Laura's side. Her arms braced against her middle,
she rolled into a fetal position and tried to will back her mirth,
but her laughter flowed from her like a waterfall down a
mountainside. She could no more cut off her laughter than she could
plug up a cascade with a bottle cork.

"Laura?"

Roan soberly glanced about
the room then looked at her pensively. "Lass? I didn’t think it
was
tha'
funny."

Still she laughed, squeaks
intermittently escaping her. Roan rolled his eyes to the heavens,
climbed on the mattress and turned her onto her back. Tears
streaked her flushed face and brightened the emerald green of her
eyes. Her laughter finally wound down, but hiccups took over and
she giggled after each as if she had no control. Stretching out
alongside her, he smiled down at her with the patience of a man
deeply in love.

"Are you through?" he
chuckled moments later.

She was breathing hard and
staring up at the ceiling. "Sorry." Hiccup. Giggle. Groan. "But
while you were undressing with the speed of light—" Hiccup. Giggle.
A muttered light curse. "I had this image of the Energizer Bunny
trying to make love to me, and I wore him out."

"I'm offerin’ you this
perfect body o' mine, and ye're thinkin’ abou' a bunny?" he asked
with comical disbelief. "Is there a message in this, or am I bein’
obtuse?"

Her eyes sparkled with
mischief. "Who told you that you have a perfect body,
huh?"

He grimaced sheepishly. "So
I'm gettin’ a wee paunch."

"No, you're not." Placing a
hand on his chest and shoving him onto his back, Laura straddled
him and removed the rubber band that held her hair in a ponytail.
She shook out the thick mass of pale gold strands and looked down
at him with a seductive smile as her fingertips trailed from his
shoulders to his lower rib cage.