Page 27 of Whispers of Torment

Sometime soon he would look into her eyes. What would he say then?

Lillian paused in the entry of the modern art exhibit, sudden fear at the sight of John’s retreating back gripping her.

When he’d asked if she would be all right on her own while he looked up an old friend and curator of the Chicago art museum, she hadn’t anticipated this crushing alarm.

She wrung her hands and rocked a little on her high heels. You’re being stupid, Lillian. You’ve wanted to be alone since Oahu.

She forced her hands to unclench and moved forward. The space bustled with a tour of Boy Scouts and couples vacationing and elderly ladies.

Lillian stopped before a large canvas and forgot her nervousness. She stared at the shapes and colors until her eyes blurred, allowing the piece to sink into her. But no art spoke to her like Nathan’s sculpture. She shifted her handbag beneath her arm, feeling the weight of the rose.

“Hello.”

She looked up into a pair of warm brown eyes, gold-flecked and similar to Robert Albright’s. Heat blossomed in her chest.

She smiled. “Hi.”

“Interesting choice of media isn’t it?” he asked.

Lillian tilted her head to study what appeared to be a slice of deli ham affixed to the bottom right corner of the piece, sure. “Is that?—?”

“I don’t think so,” he answered with a smile. “Looks like it, though.” They stood silently contemplating whether someone had glued his lunch to a canvas. Suddenly, he turned to her. “I’m Will. Will Cochran.”

She extended a hand. He clasped her hand in gentle fingers and surprised her by raising it to his lips. “I’m Lillian.”

One auburn eyebrow elevated. “Just Lillian?” He boldly grabbed her left hand, checking for a ring. “Okay, Just Lillian. Shall we move on to the next piece?”

Together they drifted to the next artwork. He stood very close to her, but she wasn’t uncomfortable. For the first time since John had walked away, she felt her tension ebb.

She studied Will from the corner of her eye. He was mid-height, lean and wiry, but with the broader shoulders of a professional athlete. Auburn hair flopped into his liquid eyes. He stood slouching with hands jammed into the front of his ragged jeans.

“Are you an artist?” Her boldness shocked her a little. She rarely spoke with strangers.

He grinned again. “No. But I know many artists.” He seemed to understand what she meant and shrugged. “I guess they wore off on me.”

“What kind of artists do you know?”

“All kinds—mostly painters in New York. I’m from Vermont, so it’s nothing for me to shoot down to the city for an opening. I also know one sculptor.”

Lillian’s eyes flew to his. “I recently acquired a small sculpture in San Luis Obispo,” she heard herself say, unclipping her handbag. She reached inside and retrieved the rose sculpture.

“Ah.” It was a soft groan. He rocked back on his heels. “That’s Nathan’s.”

The stone pulsed on her palm. “N…Nathan’s?”

Will’s hand lashed out to steady her when she swayed, his eyebrows drawing together in concern. Gripping her by the upper arm, he led her a short distance away to a stone bench.

His footfalls wiped clean the slate of her mind. A group of Boy Scouts moved into the area, and their voices were high and biting.

Where was John?

As she sat, her breath came in little squeaking gasps and knew she was really losing it. She leaned forward, dizzily dipping her head into her hands. Blackness was moving toward her in a great cloud like a swarm of locusts on a crop.

Will gently rested a hand on her spine, and she flinched as the electrical shock ripped through her. He jerked back.

“An immortal,” she heard him murmur and laughed low in her throat. Seventy years of never crossing the path of another immortal, and now Lillian knew two in the span of a week.

“I felt that, Lillian,” he whispered. “That shock we both felt— that’s what happens when another immortal touches your immortal tattoo.”

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