Page 6 of Whispers of Torment

Months passed without uttering a syllable. His jaw hurt from being locked. And then one day a boy walked up the stone drive to the farm, ragged and hungry, asking for work and food and shelter. The sight of his painful thinness and gawky adolescence inspired Nathan to try again.

“Of course,” he had attempted to say, but his voice was a croak. He tried again. “Please come in and share my dinner while we discuss the details.”

The boy, Turner, was an orphan, but had come of age and could perform most odd jobs. He’d worked his way up the east coast until work became too scanty to support his need for things like food and shoes. This was at the start of the Civil War.

Turner unhinged Nathan’s jaw and made him part of the living once again. He was the son he would never have. And then an army recruiter came and lured Turner away with promises of glory and fame, money and land. Nathan remembered that day like no other—Turner in his new regimental uniform, eyes glowing. The pair shook hands and Nathan gave him a small pouch full of coins.

“You must write when you can,” he told him.

“Of course I will, Nate. Thank you for all of this.” He waved a hand about himself, indicating his much-improved state. He possessed thick new boots, a tall strong body and a head filled with all the sense Nathan could stuff into it.

Nathan embraced him and watched as he walked down the ridge and into the valley. Never had he set eyes on him again, but many years later he received a letter from his captain stating he had died early of illness. He had sickened and died. That was all. If Nathan had been near, he would have made him a new life—a long life without disease or death. He would have made himself a real son.

He gazed from the airplane window at the white expanse of sky, wondering about these melancholy thoughts. He wished to offer the best life to the woman who had Called to him. To do so, he would need to climb out of his bohemian existence and rejoin the human race rather than hide behind his art. Yes, if he had to abandon his farm, he would do so. She had become his entire world. And he didn’t even know her name.

* * *

After the long, cramped hours on the airplane, Nathan’s feet were winged. His eyes locked on the exit. The interior of the airport was frigid with air conditioning, but he knew when he passed through the double doors, he’d be blasted by tropical heat.

Hawaiian greetings were exchanged and people were adorned with leis. Their perfume dizzied him.

His feet slowed. The air compressed. Hot and cold. Hard and soft. Tangible. A lump of salt welled in his throat as he realized he could sense her, as if she had left bold footprints to follow.

Excitement gripped him. He milled around the gate, touching things. A chair, soda machine. She’d chosen cola. He could see her fingertips, the nails short and oval. He broke into a sweat.

He launched himself toward the exit, where a native in hotel uniform asked if he could help him.

Nathan assessed him. “Yes.” He had been with her. He needed a ride to the hotel.

“No luggage?”

“Lost in transit.” He followed him to the burgundy minivan parked at the curb.

With a lurch, he paused. Could she be inside? Heart hammering the walls of his chest, he stuck his head through the door and searched the faces. An elderly couple sat in the back, a younger, fresh-faced couple in the center.

No, she must have used the shuttle earlier.

“I’ll ride shotgun,” he told the driver.

Her essence clouded the vehicle, penetrated Nathan’s pores. His eyes closed on the images of her directing a lock of hair behind one ear, her dark lashes against her cheek, the corner of her mouth tipping up. The tip of her tongue moistened her lower lip, and a pulse of heat shot to Nathan’s groin. His cock pressed against the length of his zipper.

The steps it took to bind them flickered through his head like a ticker tape. Join our bodies, share our blood. Join our bodies.

Traffic was horrendous, and by the time they reached the hotel, Nathan’s molars ached from grinding them. He rode the edge of his seat, and before the vehicle stopped, he dropped a bill into the driver’s lap and leapt from the rolling van, hurled himself through the lobby doors, blasted by the feel of her again.

He began searching. Following her essence.

Here. And here.

His feet were quiet on the carpeted corridor floors, but his heart thudded. He saw her mouth again, her sharp white tooth set into her lower lip.

He stumbled toward the door of the suite, guided by the view of her feet, elegant in strappy high heels. The door stood open, and he drew up, panting hard with the effort to control his joy.

Silently, the door swung inward. His eyes swept the room. She was not here, but she had been. She had slept here. Her head had rested upon this pillow. A tremble gripped him.

“Can I help you?”

Nathan whirled. The slight woman in the doorway wore a hotel uniform. He nodded jerkily.” The woman who stayed here—has she checked out?”

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