Page 1 of Enthralled

“I will come to you.”

A sharp scent of lavender fills my nostrils, shocking my senses. I moan and turn my head slightly, fighting the pull of consciousness. I don’t want to be dragged up through layers of dreaming mist back to the waking world. Not yet.

Because that voice is speaking in my head. Warm, low. Intense.

“From anywhere in all the worlds, I will come.”

Another moan rumbles in my throat. I feel warm breath against my skin, panting, ragged. Ravenous. I feel the brush of soft lips, the sharp edge of teeth. Sensation travels through my veins, flooding my body with prickling warmth. I gasp, my back arching, my body eager for that touch, my soul hungry for that connection.

“Just say my name.”

My lips stir, eager to form the syllables. But nothing comes. Nothing but a frustrated groan in my throat. Who is this who speaks to me in such melting tones, who caresses my body, who calls to life such fire in my core? His name is just there, resting on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t . . . I can’t . . .

My eyes flare open.

I stare up at the coffered ceiling overhead even as the scent of lavender overwhelms me. It’s so strong, I stuff my hand under my pillow and wrench free a small lace sachet. My eyes, blurry with sleep, struggle to focus on it, struggle to make sense of anything. I hiss through my teeth and toss the sachet to the foot of the bed. Grimacing, I press both palms to my eyes, digging fingers into my head. My body is strangely alive with prickling heat, remnants of some fevered dream. There’s a knot of burning tension in my loins, and I squirm with a desire for relief I don’t understand.

Say my name.

That voice in my head. I try to catch it, to hold on.

Say my name . . .

. . . my name . . .

. . . my name . . .

Then it’s gone. Even the last echo is lost. Was it ever there at all? The heat in my body fades, and I’m left hollow, cold. And that stink of lavender is still in my nostrils. Lavender. Of course. Lavender buds, plucked from the bush standing by the door of the gray stone townhouse on Elmythe Lane. Danny Gale’s house. And this room, with its coffered ceiling and lacey curtains—this is the Gale’s little guest room, the former Mrs. Gale’s pride and joy, an untouched sanctuary which her children and their friends were forbidden to enter. How many times did Kitty Gale and I crouch in the doorway, peering in at all the pretty baubles and delicate furnishings? I recognize that washbasin with the painted cherubs and roses, and that hideous clock on the mantel, suspended in the arms of dancing, semi-nude nymphs. The stink of lavender in my nose carries it all back to me on a wave of memory and confusion.

What am I doing here?

The quilt feels suddenly so heavy on my body. I throw it back and sit upright, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. Immediately a wave of nausea rises like a cloud, filling my head. My stomach pitches. I clap a hand to my mouth, gag. Then, desperately, I stagger out of bed, dragging the quilt to the floor behind me as I half-fall over the washbasin set against the far wall. For an instant that picture of cherubs and roses swims before my eyes. My body heaves, and I empty the contents of my stomach into the basin, foulness marring the dainty images. I close my eyes, unable to bear the sight, and heave again and again, even after my stomach is empty.

Hands shaking, I fumble for the little hand towel and wipe my mouth. Slowly, blearily, I lift my head and stare at my face in the little gold-framed mirror above the washstand. My eyes are ringed in dark hollows, my complexion pale, my cheeks drawn. I look like I died and reanimated. I heave a shuddering sigh and blink.

In that moment of darkness behind my eyes, an after-image appears: my own face but with long dark hair straggling in snarls across my shoulders, and my eyes, sewn shut with thick black threads.

My eyelids fly open again. I could almost swear I feel the hideous sensation of threads bursting. But that’s ridiculous. It’s just a dream, a nightmare. Maybe I’m delirious. Obviously I’ve got a touch of something. That would explain the heat in my body when I first woke, wouldn’t it? Fever. I must have a fever.

A light tapping at the door startles me, and I turn my head too fast. The room spins, and I close my eyes again, willing it to stop. “Clara?” It’s Kitty’s voice, followed by another tentative knock. “Clara, dearest, are you awake?”

I glance down at the mess I’ve just made in the basin. “I . . . yes, Kitty. But I think I’m . . . unwell.”

“Unwell?” The doorknob turns, the door opens. Kitty sweeps inside, already dressed for the day in a neat lawn gown, her hair swept back from a brow puckered with concern. She takes in the sight of me in my nightgown and my wild hair, bowed over the basin, and grimaces. Without hesitation she presses the back of her hand to my forehead. “You’re not feverish,” she says.

“I’m not?”

Tutting, Kitty steps back, takes one of my hands and pries it away from the basin. She smiles gently. “It’s just nerves, dearest. That’s all. Nothing a cup of tea and toast won’t settle.”

The prospect of either tea or toast makes my stomach knot. But I say only, “Nerves? About what? Why should I be nervous?”

At this Kitty tosses her head back and laughs outright. “Wedding jitters, of course! It’s perfectly natural.” She pats my cheek fondly. “After all tomorrow is your big day.”

“My . . . my what?” Coherent thought refuses to form, much less a complete sentence. I watch, stupefied, as Kitty fetches a dressing gown from the wardrobe and shakes it out. When she turns to me again, holding out the garment, I can only blurt, “I’m getting married?”

Kitty chuckles. “Turn around, you goose.” I obey silently, allowing her to help me into the dressing gown. She faces me forward again and hastily does up the delicate row of buttons for me so that my nightgown is entirely covered up in layers of lace and frills. When she finishes the topmost button, I catch her eye.

“To whom?” I ask.

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