Page 95 of Darkness Bound (Night Prowler 5)
“I’m not leaving her,” said Hawk, staring at Jacqueline.
“Hawk.”
He ignored Xander’s warning tone. “I’m not leaving this room until I know she’s safe.”
Jacqueline wouldn’t look at him. Morgan did, however, and her look was long and penetrating. She said, “You have a challenge to prepare for, my friend. You should go get some rest, go—”
“Not. Leaving. This. Room,” he reiterated, almost hissing.
Morgan’s gaze grew questioning, even more intense. She examined his face, the twitching muscle in his jaw, his posture, rigid and battle ready. Then her eyes cleared, and she looked for a moment as if she would break into song. But she simply shook her head, smiling, as if at a private joke. With a sidelong glance, she said, “Consider it a favor to me. A gift, if you will.”
She’d put emphasis on the word “gift,” as if there were special meaning in it.
Hawk cocked his head, thinking . . . and then he knew.
Not a gift . . . a Gift.
Hope flooded his body as if he’d been injected with it.
He turned on his heel, jerked his head for Xander to follow, and, without another word, left.
They sat at one of the long tables in the warm, silent room. Tinted luminous violet from the fabric hanging from the tall tree branches above, shafts of sunlight illuminated the floor. Jacqueline was pale as stone, stoic and straight-backed in the chair opposite her, but Morgan smelled her confusion and fear as bright as a handful of lemon zest tossed in the air.
Fear. That one thing was everything that was wrong in the world.
“My husband was assigned to kill me,” she began, crossing her legs and settling back into her chair. “That’s how we met. He was an assassin, I was his mark. Funny, isn’t it, the strange ways love stories can begin?”
Jacqueline sent her an arch look. “Ever heard of Stockholm syndrome?”
Morgan ignored that. “I was a traitor, you see. A traitor to the tribe. I’d done the unforgivable: colluded with the enemy. They promised me freedom—something I’d never, ever had, mind you—and all I had to give them in return was a name. At the time it seemed like a grand idea. I was always an outsider, a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. I never once felt I belonged to the place or time or people I was born to. And I wanted . . . things.” She sighed, remembering the girl she’d once been. That lonely, longing girl. “I wanted to be the kind of girl who devoured life. The kind of girl who knew how to dance a tango and speak exotic languages and roll her own cigarettes. The kind of girl who splashed naked in Paris fountains at midnight and jumped out of airplanes for fun and died in some beautiful, tragic way that would inspire poets to write works of great genius and crowds of people to weep over my flower-draped coffin, wailing my name.
“I wanted so many things. Frivolous things. Grand, ridiculous conceits. But there was only one thing I really needed, though it took me half a lifetime to discover it.”
She had Jacqueline’s attention now.
“Hope.” The word lingered on her tongue, soft as a lover’s name. “I never understood that a person can endure anything, any tragedy or hardship, as long as she has hope. It’s the single most powerful force in the universe. More powerful, eve
n, than love.”
“Hope,” repeated Jacqueline warily.
“It’s what differentiates us from all the other creatures of the Earth. Most people might point to love, but even insects love their offspring. It’s coded into the DNA of every living being to love, to protect those closest by blood or bond. It’s how species continue to exist, continue to procreate. But hope . . . that’s the thing that truly sets us apart.”
Her audience looked more than a little dubious. “What about language? Music? Art?”
“You can teach a monkey language,” Morgan scoffed. “Besides, every animal has a means of communication. Just because they’re not speaking the King’s English doesn’t mean they don’t have language. Music, too. And art, well! Most of what we call ‘art’ isn’t. It’s just a bunch of narcissists jerking each other off. Technically speaking, animals make art all the time. Have you ever seen a pod of dolphins racing over the open water? Art. Have you ever seen a honeycomb, or a spider’s web, or the incredible architecture of a bird’s nest? All art. It’s everywhere in the natural world, only we don’t call it ‘art’ because animals aren’t navel-gazers; their art is always functional. It doesn’t exist just to relieve their mommy issues, or stroke their egos, or satisfy their pathetic need for approval.”
After a time, Jacqueline said, “You’re sure your husband wasn’t assigned to kill you because you’re over-opinionated? Men generally can’t stand that. In my experience, a woman with strong opinions affects a man’s testicles in the same way as exposure to extreme cold.”
That made her laugh. “I can see why he likes you. He’s always had dreadful taste in women, but you . . . you’re a keeper, duckie.”
“He?” said Jacqueline pointedly.
Morgan studied her, the laughter fading. “It’s a great gift, too, you know. Probably the greatest gift one soul can give another. It’s what Xander gave me. It’s the reason I ultimately returned here with him, when I could have lived anywhere in the world. Done all the things I ever wanted. He gave me what I needed in order to accept my past. To embrace it. To transcend it.”
Jacqueline said, “This is beginning to sound like a ‘Drink the Kool-Aid’ speech.”
“It’s actually more of a warning speech,” she shot back, staring Jacqueline dead in the eye.
