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SUGAR MOON

A Dark Erotic Romance

AUDREY GODWIN

A Renaissance E Books publication

ISBN 1-58873-355-6

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A Sizzler Romantica Edition

PROLOGUE

The old man smelled death. It prowled like a thief in the night, creeping through his open window with the stealth of a slithering snake. The heavy stench was smothering, like the reek of decaying fruit, rotting flowers, or decomposing flesh. He coughed and tugged at his collar while it billowed and swelled. The message of doom shrieked from the moaning wind, murmured from the grotesque paintings that hung in the shadowy halls, and whispered from the cracked statues in the overgrown, neglected garden.

Tonight he felt an unnatural chill ... a chill that came from the grave. In this collection of wood and peeling paint called Northclyf Nursing Home, he simply existed. It was like living in a graveyard. Full of old bones that were still walking around simply existing until the day they die. Their faces were covered with a web of deep-cut wrinkles while others had translucent skin drawn tight over old bones. Haunted, they were. Looking out from beneath hair, lank and shaggy, their bodies wasted to a skeletal thinness, the excitement of life gone from their eyes. They never knew from one moment to the next if another breath would be drawn.

The old mansion rose tall and sinister on a ridge overlooking the ocean. Soaring into the dark, low-hanging clouds, its ornate spirals and eaves curled into an elaborate design that was even older than its inhabitants. The high winds of the approaching storm caused tree limbs to sway mysteriously, creating fingers of darkness that stretched across its columned exterior. The hideous bird attached to the rooftop whirled erratically. The elements over the years had rusted the metal feathers, and on a night like tonight, when hell visited the old mansion, it squawked and whirled like a maniacal bird of prey.

The old man sat almost as still as death as he looked down and saw the slow-moving figure of an old woman that shuffled past the home every night at midnight. As the scorching bolts of electricity twisted powerfully through a dark, rumbling sky, the spectral flashes revealed the deathly pallor of old age beneath the unkempt folds of her tattered hat. Tonight the air was pungent with the smell of moisture, and as she trudged along the heavily tree-lined street, her cane tapped mysteriously, and her steps filled the crisp air with the brittle crunch of autumn leaves.

All at once her steps paused and she lifted her eyes, looking with interest at the one bright window in the otherwise dark mansion. For several electrifying seconds their eyes met and held, and the old man felt a jolt. There seemed to be something in her face, something familiar, something that stirred him deep inside. In the background the old man could hear the scarred-up seventy-eight record spinning round and round on the ancient turntable. It emitted the haunting musical strains of an old song being played on a tinny piano with a smooth sax in the background. The bluesy tune brought back memories. Memories of bathtub gin, blasting machine guns, and cold-eyed men in bright ties and dark suits. Every long, mournful note spoke of a dangerous era that was dead, finding life only in the withering memories of those that were once young and vigorous.

The room was filled with mementos, among them a group of black and white photos without frames that lay on the nightstand. The pictures were old, yellowing, and looked as if they had been handled often. One of the pictures showed the faded likeness of a young man with a rebellious sparkle in his eyes. He had a chiseled chin that was softened by dimples pressed into lines by his gleaming smile. His brows had the deep arch of a bird in flight, and his hair was full, dark, and roguishly long for the time in which he lived. His lips were full, and what many women would call kissable. The handsome young man was Broc Sanford, and in that photo he was only twenty-eight.

Today Broc is 86 years old, his hair is white, his skin pale, thin, and wrinkled. Once he was agile, but now he shuffles along with a cane while bearing the pain of old bones. From his rocking chair, he looks out into a world in which he no longer belongs. When he feels especially lonely, he picks the pictures up in his trembling hand and shuffles them slowly as he gazes into the past, re-living every moment. By now his eyesight is fading, but his wire-rimmed glasses sharpens the image of a certain young woman who after all these years hasn't changed. Not a line, not a wrinkle, not even a gray hair. Even though the pictures are a dramatic black and white he sees her in color. Her hair, naughtily bobbed, was dark and shining and erotically tousled as if she had just left his arms. Her lips were a shining red, and parted slightly as if inviting his kiss. Her eyes, the color and intensity of a misty blue-green ocean, were sensuous and lazy as they look sinfully up at him through thick, curling lashes. She had been a wild and wonderful affair, but it had to end because she lived in a big house on a hill. What could he ever give her that could compare to that?

As he sat there with her beautiful face still etched in his memory, he wondered where she was today. Movement caused his eyes to shift and again fell on the old woman who pulled her eyes away to resume her shuffle. Slowly she moved along the path until she turned the corner. Stumbling down the path that wound around the old mansion, she found herself at the back of the home, and on the path that would take her to the edge of Harper's Woods. She passed by the home every night at midnight. He didn't know who she was and she could never tell him. He would die soon ... they both would. It was too late for them ... no use in trying to re-live the past.

At last coming to the entrance to the woods, the old woman stumbled onto another path that took her deeper into the tangled darkness. Night birds called out above the treetops, a haunting wind rustled the dead, brittle leaves, and the blanket of memories wrapped themselves tight around her, the only thing that would keep her warm tonight.

Broc's pallid old head began to dip and twitch, causing him to wake up and look around. He was disoriented for a moment, but finally managed to get his bearings. After silently shuffling the long ago pictures of his youth and vitality back into the dusty vault of his memory, he slowly pulled himself out of the chair to get ready for bed.

He fumbled for several minutes, swearing silently as he clumsily struggled into his pajamas. Feeling every ache, every pain, he finally sat on the edge of his bed looking up toward the roof where the feathered creature continued it's frenzied whirl in the gusting winds. He didn't mind the raucous squeak.

It reminded him that he was still alive.

CHAPTER ONE

Death stood silent and still, its presence being formed by the shadows that pooled. They slowly shifted, moving like thick snakes, twisting, coiling, twining until his form was complete. His presence was revealed in the moon that resembled the white marble of a tombstone ... in the sky that was the color of a coffin lid ... and in the starless night that was as dark as the inside of a grave. Death didn't travel the highways, but slowly welled up out of the earth, gathering it's ugly form from dark doorways, from the crooked, spidery silhouettes of a neglected garden, from the pools of shadow that lay in wait in the narrow halls. It lurked in corners, hid beneath old furniture and behind portraits of dead owners. It prowled through rat holes, caused spider webs to dance when no breeze blew. Yes, death was there stalking the halls when the last breath was drawn ... when the last thrash of a weak heart suddenly stopped beating.

And now it had slithered into Broc's room.

A loud crash of thunder trembled the house, waking Broc. Slightly irritated by the noisy elements, he turned over in his cozy bed, trying to get comfortable. As he shifted himself around, he noticed something that looked like a dark form standing in a corner. The old man's eyes squinted into the darkness while he quickly reached over and began to feel for his glasses. Putting them on, he peered into the darkness again, then gasped when a burst of brightness revealed a man dressed in a black cape with one side thrown casually up over his shoulder. When he saw the red lining, he thought of blood.

"My God, it's a vampire, he whispered as a succession of lightning bolts reminded him of the flickering shadows of an old silent movie screen. Broc knew he had to be dreaming. He tore his glasses from his face and rubbed his eyes for a few seconds, then put them back on again.

"Thank God, he murmured when he saw nothing but a fluttering of nighttime shadows. With the slowness of old age he carefully removed his glasses, placed them back on the nightstand, and was just about to lay back down when he heard a whispery, chilling voice.

"I wouldn't thank Him just yet."

Broc lunged forward, his attention turned to the same corner.

"I'm over here, the brittle voice said.

Broc's head twisted around wildly. He saw something moving in a smudge of shadows while he again fumbled on the nightstand for his glasses. When he put them on, the image sharpened. He didn't know what to call it ... demon ... evil spirit ... Beelzebub ... but it seemed to float in the air. Broc felt as if he were in an old Edgar Allen Poe movie.

"I'm dreaming, he whispered nervously, "I have ... I have to be dreaming."

His frightened eyes darted around the room expecting to see ravens fluttering their wings, crumbling castle walls, but instead another blaze of lightning streaked across the sky and Broc saw the creature looking at him with with an evil smirk.

"You're not real, he rasped, his eyes raking across the long, gaunt face and sharp chin. "You can't be real. I'll wake up any minute, and you'll be gone."

The creature stepped out of the shadows and Broc saw teeth that looked like long, sharp slats the color of dingy enamel, and thick, unruly eyebrows that cast a riotous shadow over the rest of his face. Then he heard a raspy whisper. "I wouldn't bet on it."

"But you ... your nothing, Broc said, his voice trembling. "A stomach ache maybe, or some bizarre movie I saw on TV. You can't be real, it's impossible."

"Oh, I'm real allright, the cold voice said, "and it's very possible."

"T-then who are you? Where ... where did you come from?"

"Where do I come from? He looked down at Broc and hesitated as he stroked his sharp chin. "From hell ... the grave ... your worst nightmare."

"I knew it! There, you see? You are a dream."

"I said nightmare, old man, not dream. Dreams come only during sleep. Nightmares, on the other hand, can come at anytime ... awake ... asleep ... insanity ... drugs ... you name it."

"My God, Broc gasped, his face frozen in fear. "Surely you're not who I think you are."

"And just who might that be? the chilling voice floated across the darkness.

"The d-devil, Broc whispered with a trembling voice.

The man came closer, looming dark and threatening in the small room. "And why would you think that, Broc? Is it because my appearance is the- He thoughtfully considered his words. "-I don't know, what shall we call it ... the stereotype, perhaps ... the chilling image that stupid artists create and give to a curious world?"

"Whatever. All I know is I've never seen anything like you."

After a few seconds, the imposing figure said, "I'll take that as a compliment. And as to your question ... no, Broc, I'm not the devil, I'm just one of his army. My name is Aleksa. I'm what you might call a- With a deep, throaty laugh, and an amused eye cast in Broc's direction, he rasped, "-Soul Collector."

"Oh, my God, the Angel of Death! Broc cried, pushing himself down under the covers.

Aleksa's amused look disappeared as if he were insulted . "I am not the Angel of Death. If I were, you'd be dead by now. I'm a Soul Collector, got that? Soul ... Collector? I come on the eve of the Angel of Death to try and make a deal."

"Deal? Broc said, confused.

"You know, insurance for your soul."

Broc frowned as if trying to understand. "You're selling soul insurance?"

Aleksa lifted his hands in exasperation and looked upward. "Why me?"

Then sudden realization flooded Broc. "Oh my God, you're....

Aleksa frowned down at Broc. "Would you please stop using that word?"

"What word? Broc asked, peering over the blanket. "G-God?"

The creature put his hands up to his ears. "There you go again!"

Broc's trembling lips tugged slightly upward and he pushed himself forward, looking at the creature curiously. His words began softly, then gained volume as he continued. "God ... God ... God ... God ... God...."

"Aaaaaarrrrrrggggghhhhh! Aleksa shouted. "Stop, I tell you, I can't stand it!"

"God ... God ... God, Broc persisted, just to see the demon writhe in pain. All at once his eyes widened when he saw Aleksa suddenly spread his hands and set fire to the room. "Oh, hell! Broc shouted.

"That's more like it! the demon announced, then without warning his arms lifted again and the fire that was non-consuming and radiated no heat, abruptly disappeared.

Broc, trying to gulp down his fear, was trembling ... and quiet.

"You will refrain from using that word as long as I am in this room, is that understood?"

Broc nodded as he peered from beneath the cover.

"Now, Aleksa said. "Back to business."

Broc's old, dim eyes looked at the shadowy creature curiously. "Business? What business?"

"You should be able to figure that out, old man. Don't tell me your brain is as shriveled up as your body."

"If you're talking about my soul, forget it, Broc said, laying down and covering himself up. "It's not for sale."

"Everything's for sale ... at the right price."

Broc stuck his head up and looked at the demon. "The only thing I want to do is live. All at once he sat up, urging himself toward the demon in a challenge. "Can you give me that? Can you give me another twenty-five years ... or thirty, maybe ... hell, forty!"

"Why in blazes would you want that? the demon asked while Broc's old eyes continued to challenge him. "Do you have any idea what you'd be like in forty years?"

"I didn't think so, Brock murmured, then lay back down and turned his back to the demon.

Undaunted, the demon looked down at what appeared to be a lump in the mattress. "You're already eighty-six for crying out loud. A few more years, and they'll be digging you a grave in anticipation. Now what in blue purple hell could possibly be left for a withered up eighty-six year old man to do but die?"

"I don't know, Broc said, lifting his head and winking at the creature mischievously, "but you can be sure I'd think of something!"

"I'm sure you would, but the answer is no!"

"Been nice knowin you, Broc said as he flopped over and buried himself under the cover.

"Don't you understand? Your time is up. We have to think small here. Added years on your life is something you should have thought about a long time ago ... you know, when there was time to adjust the schedule. Now it's ... well, it's too late ... way too late. Hell's got a schedule to keep."

"Hrummph! came a sound from under the covers.

"Why in hell do you have to be such a tight ass! Aleksa almost shouted. Then after a few paces back and forth, and a few impatient rakes through his hair, he said, "All right, what if I give you anything you want ... that is ... anything within my power that doesn't have a bunch of rules attached to it."

"Rules, huh? Broc said, pushing himself from under the covers. "In other words, you can't do nothin', right?"

Aleksa frowned at Broc with irritation, then offered, "How about a last meal? Steak ... an inch thick of course, and corn on the cob. Luscious mashed potatoes dripping with butter- The demon's eyes lit up as he thought of something. "-and the best part ... no heartburn, no upset stomach. He waited for Broc's reply, then said impatiently, "Doesn't that sound better than that strained slop?"

Broc snickered. "You'll have to do better than that. Besides, what would I chew it with?"

"Mmmm ... I didn't think of that. I could give you teeth, of course ... no, Aleksa said after thinking about it. Too much work. Aleksa frowned, rubbing his forehead with his long skinny fingers as he began pacing again. After a moment's silence he whirled around. "How about a new car?"

"All that's small time stuff. What the fuck are you, a miracle worker, or a car dealer?"

Aleksa looked shocked at the insult. "A car dealer? Please! After adjusting his cape and giving the indignity time to settle, he began thinking again. All at once he smiled down at him as if he'd just had a great idea and said, "A new car ... and a new suit. I'll even throw in the last meal ... with teeth!"

Broc snickered. "You're really pushing that car. Why in hell don't you give it to somebody who'll be around long enough to drive it? And what's the new suit for ... to be buried in? As for the last meal, no thanks. I'd feel like I was sittin on death row! With that Broc pulled the cover up over him, and yelled, "Now get the fuck out of here, and go back to hell where you belong."

"Well, what in blazes do you want? Aleksa shouted while glaring down at Broc. Finding himself ignored, he punched a sharp finger against Broc's aged frame. "You're not nodding off on me, are you? Just then an idea came to him and he angled a look toward Brock, his lips screwing up in a wolfish leer. "I know what you want. How about a roll in the hay, huh? How does that sound?"

Broc lifted his head and looked him up and down. "Sorry, you're not my type."

"Not with me, you imbecile, I mean with the woman of your choice."

Bingo, Brock thought in his head. Slowly his head came up off the pillow and he turned toward Aleksa. "Any woman? he asked.

"Any woman at all, Aleksa said, thinking he'd found the answer.

"Ravyn St. James."

"But she's... Aleksa began, his voice fading as he became captured in Brock's steady gaze.

Broc didn't say anything, he allowed his eyes to do all the talking.

After several heartbeats Aleksa's eyes widened. "That was a dirty trick."

"You said any woman, Broc said, issuing a challenge.

"No way, Aleksa said, "forget it."

"But it's only one night, Broc pleaded, the aching memory once again tugging at his heart. "Let me re-live that night, and I'm yours ... I promise."

"But you're asking for a trip back in time. That's world class stuff."

"All I'm asking for is a kiss ... one small kiss, Broc begged, remembering the night on the foggy train platform. He went away remembering that kiss and had never been able to get it out of his mind.

"You know it won't stop there."

"I'll die a happy man if I can just see her once more ... taste those incredible lips."

"I have to think about this, Aleksa said, pacing with a concerned look on his face.

"If you're who you say you are, you could swing it. Hell, it's not much ... a touch ... a kiss."

"A touch ... a kiss, he says, the demon mumbled, trying to make up his mind.

Broc couldn't help but get excited. He moved himself toward the demon, trying to convince him. "It's only a moment in time, for Go- His words stopped abruptly and his eyes crept up to look at the demon who was daring him to say it. "-is it all right to say heaven?"

"You're certainly preoccupied with all things holy, arent you? Aleksa said, then sighed. "All right, I guess it's okay since heaven's a place, and not a ... yuk ... Force,"

"-for heaven's sake, Broc continued. Then he turned and grabbed a picture off his nightstand. "Here, he said pushing it toward Aleksa, "when I go back I want to look like that again."

"A youth spell on top of everything else? Sheeee, your not asking for much are you?"

"Why not? You don't expect me to go back like this."

"Who said you were going back at all?"

"Look creep, you asked me what I want, and this is it! You want my soul? This is what it'll take to get it!"

Aleksa thought for a moment, then turned to Broc and shrugged. "All right, I'll give you four months, but not a second longer. Do you understand?"

Broc looked at him as if the demon was simple minded. "Hell, yes, I understand. Now, can we get this show on the road?"

"But ... don't you want to ... to haggle? You're going to let it go at that? No questions, no..."

"Am I speaking English? Broc asked sarcastically. "You promised me four months of youth and I want it. Broc held his face up as if the demon were going to perform an abracadabra spell on him.

Aleksa cast him a pitiable look, then snickered. "It would be so easy. He proceeded to lift his eyes toward the ceiling, stroll around the room with his scrawny fingers on his forehead, saturated with conceit. "It's my damnable character, the demon sobbed. "I'm just too good. Hell doesn't deserve me. Then his face took on a displaced ethereal expression. "I should be a saint in heaven."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Broc said impatiently, "let's get on with it."

Hearing Broc's impatient words, Aleksa tumbled back down to earth and his words took on a hard edge. "Look, old man, you have to be careful what you ask for. I don't know why I'm telling you this, but you just gave me a loophole here."

"I did?"

"Sure, you know about loopholes. Demons and lawyers, we're big on loopholes. That's why criminals go free, the innocent become the guilty, and the good guy ... well, nobody listens to the good guy. Kinda makes you wonder about the judicial system doesn't it?"

"What the hell are you babbling about?"

"Loopholes ... aren't you listening? He pointed his bony finger toward the snapshot. "What I'm saying is, I could make you look like that, but you'd still be eighty-six years old and your bones would still ache. If you were smart, you'd tell me to make you as young as you were in that picture, and..."

"All right, Broc said, his impatience rising. "I want to be as young as that, and I want to look like that again, and..."

"Hey, hold on. I'm not some genie granting three wishes here, and I'm not your fairy god- Suddenly Aleksa's words stopped and his tongue licked his lips. "-Yuk! He looked over at Broc and frowned. "The word leaves a bad taste in your mouth, doesn't it? After a few spits and sputters, he continued. "What I'm saying is, a youth spell is big business."

"I'm beginning to think anything that makes you sweat is big business. Besides, all I'm asking for is one night."

"Only one night for an eternity in hell? I don't think so."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying it comes in a package ... a plan - "

"-a trick, Broc finished for him.

Aleksa looked insulted. "I just want you to be sure. After all, the cost is high, and if you try to outwit me, I'll be your worst nightmare. I've got all the demons of hell on my side and it'll be a battle."

Broc's old eyes brightened as they had so many times in his youth when he was about to take on a big case. "You don't think I can handle it, huh?"

"I know you're smart, but if you even so much as try ... well ... let's just say there'll be hell to pay. Suddenly Aleksa began laughing maniacally as if he'd made a big joke.

"So ... now that the lectures and bad jokes are out of the way are we ready to start? Broc asked impatiently.

Aleksa stopped abruptly, frowning when he realized his joke went unappreciated. Shifting his eyes toward Broc, he said with a sneer, "I wouldn't be too anxious if I were you."

"Get the lead out, counselor, Broc said as if he were gearing up for a tough fight, "and let's see what you can do."

"Oh, all right! the demon said, feeling as if he was giving the stupid mortal a one-way ticket to hell. "In order to go back in time, you'll have to be at the same train station you left her at on February twelfth at precisely midnight. You - "

"Wait a minute, Broc interrupted. "That train station's been closed down for decades. It isn't even operational."

"-have to board the train - "

"Do you fuckin hear what I'm saying? That train station is like a ghost town. They don't even use it anymore. They moved it, you moron, clear across town."

"-and if you're a second late the train leaves without you, Aleksa continued, the inflection of his voice soft as if he were talking to an idiot. "If that happens you'll never have the opportunity again, and your soul will belong to me. Is that clear?"

"What about the train station, Bozo? It's a friggin graveyard for trains!"

"Don't you think I know that?"

"Then how...."

"Just do as I say, and you'll be on your way to your lovely Ravyn, just as I promised."

Without saying anything, Broc looked over at his calendar. It was October third now ... plenty of time to be only seven blocks from the nursing home at the appointed hour. He wasn't stupid, he knew he was running a risk by making a deal with the devil. Everything seemed too simple. He was even getting four months of youth handed to him on a silver platter. Broc looked over at Aleksa with a frown on his face. "No tricks, understand? Plain and simple. Four months of youth, then bingo ... off we go ... right?

"Right, Aleksa said with a look on his face that must have resembled the snake in the Garden of Eden.

Broc saw the look, and although it nagged at him, he wondered if the demon could look any other way. He was from hell, after all. What did he expect? "Okay, Broc said nervously, "so what happens now?"

Aleksa took a small vial from somewhere inside his cape, walked over to the nightstand and poured the clear liquid into a pitcher of water. "When this water is gone, look for signs of youth in your face ... in the way you feel. It'll be a gradual change."

Broc immediately reached over and grabbed at the handle of the pitcher only to find the demon holding it down with his bony hand. He looked up at Aleksa's glaring eyes that had a tiny flame shooting up in each one. His expression was threatening, his voice chilling. "I'm afraid it isn't as easy as all that, my friend. My services are not free, you know. You don't get a drop of that water until I'm paid, or no deal."

"Paid? You don't get my soul until..."

"Before I came here I learned that your IQ was near genius. You should be able to figure it out."

Broc thought for a minute, then shrugged and said, "Other than my soul, all I have are a few books and a jack knife ... that's about it. When no reply came from Aleksa, he turned back toward him, and asked, "Are we talkin in terms of money here, or...."

"Please, Aleksa frowned, "what in blue fuckin hell would I do with money ... or any of this junk?"

"Oh, I see, Broc said, when the realization of what he was saying dawned on him. "It has to be something I really love, huh? Something I've had for a long time that has my heart and soul attached to it."

"Precisely, Aleksa said, looking at him with a smirking sidelong slant.

Broc scratched his head. "Well, the only thing I can think of would be my pictures here, or maybe my record player and my records. He looked at Aleksa pleadingly. "I'd really hate to give those up, though."

"Fire and brimstone! Aleksa swore. "We could be here until the ice age with your stupid guesses. He went fishing inside his cape again and pulled out a plastic bag. He lifted it up to Broc's face and ordered, "Breathe into it."

Broc backed away slowly. "What? My breath? What do you want that for?"

"Let me worry about that, old man."

After angling his eyes down at the plastic bag warily, Broc slid his eyes over at the pitcher full of magic water and considered the alternative. He caught a glimpse of his hand that was spotted and wrinkled with age, then shifted his eyes toward the old, yellowing photograph. Seeing the young, handsome face, he felt such a crushing sense of yearning. He thought again of that foggy train platform, Ravyn's face, and the distance he had stupidly put between them. Time had taken all that away, so why shouldn't he try and go back to that night and correct the mistake he'd made? Even if it cost him his soul, he had to somehow make things right. If he didn't, he might as well go ahead and die. There would be nothing left for him. At least this way, there was a chance.

Aleksa's evil eyes scrutinized Broc as he tried to come to a decision. The tricky demon knew what he was thinking. Already the old man had taken a dangerous turn. No longer was it only a kiss, now he wanted to make it right ... correct a mistake. Well, you'll never get the chance, you old bastard, I'll see to that. One night, the old man had asked for. One night, indeed, Aleksa thought. One night ... even one moment could change history. And if by some impossibility the old man managed to board that train, not only would he escape hell and damnation, but he would even unlock the fiery gates for several others, and that was unthinkable. Aleksa narrowed his eyes on Broc, knowing he had no intention of playing fair, there was too much at stake. With what he had planned, the old man would never make it to the train station. By the time that all-important night arrived, the old man's soul would be descending down to hell ... going up in smoke ... crying out for mercy. No, old man, he thought, not even one night. Especially, not that one night. That night had been significant ... pivotal ... a crossroad. If he allowed Broc to tamper with it, it could change everything. Sure, he would grant him a little youth, a little excitement before it was time to go, but it was all according to his carefully laid out plan. Aleksa smirked at the aged face that was agonizing over a decision. Ahh, yes, Aleksa thought, by February twelfth the old man would be dead ... buried ... and choking on brimstone!

Finally Broc looked up and saw Aleksa's eyes burning into him.

"Ready? the cold voice asked softly.

Broc's eyes slid down to the bag, slowly opened his mouth and reluctantly blew into it. When the bag became fat with air, Aleksa grabbed it and closed it as if he'd trapped something valuable inside. He brought it up before his eyes and looked at it closely, then smiled when the air inside began a mysterious flare, like millions of tiny sparklers caught inside. Aleksa looked at it, admiring it. He couldn't take just any breath ... they all had a different hue ... and this was Broc's. It was a gift for the big guy ... proof that he had made a deal ... insurance that the old man would be coming soon.

Broc's hungry eyes darted over at the pitcher of magic water and saw the bony hand lift slowly. When Broc hesitated, the demon's hand turned, palm up, as if extending an invitation. Broc quickly reached over and picked it up. He didn't bother with the glass, but put the pitcher to his mouth and began drinking thirstily. As he lifted it higher and higher, the water overflowed the sides of his mouth and fell onto his pajamas while Aleksa looked on. H e ignored the demon and kept drinking desperately until it was gone. In the background he could hear Aleksa's maniacal laughter growing faint as he ... and Broc's last breath ... faded into the night.

CHAPTER TWO

Suzette Danaus was a green-eyed blonde with curly hair that seemed to literally froth around her face. She parted it on one side, and the deep curl that formed tight ringlets at the roots fell to a sassy bob that hung about an inch above her shoulders, and no matter what she did with it, it never seemed to lay down, but always defied gravity with curls going everywhere.

Suzette grew up choking on the dusty secrets of the past. As a child she thought she would go crazy with the telling and re-telling of the story of a scandalous affair her grandmother had had with someone by the name of Broc Sanford. She paid little attention to it, assuming her grandmother was dead.

And then her life changed forever.

Now, eighteen, and beautiful, she was up in the attic searching for her mother's old ornate jewelry box when she happened to see a stack of papers. The headlines were large and glaring, and the pictures covered the page. Her eyes rested on a bawdy picture of a man in boots, tight jeans, and a muscled chest that barely fit in the thin T-shirt that stretched across his chest. Instantly, she knew he was the man that her grandmother had been in love with. Forgetting everything, she dropped the jewelry box and grabbed the stack of papers that had written every word of the famous scandal that happened back in the twenties ... the scandal she'd grown up hearing about ... the scandal about the outrageously handsome, social-climbing Broc Sanford and her very own grandmother. Before, it had only seemed like some stuffy old history lesson, but now, emblazoned across the paper, she got a sense of what it must have been like.

Her grandmother was described as heiress to the St. James fortune, and Broc, as the money-grabbing fiancé that wanted her only for her money. There were pictures of each of them, Broc's handsome features capturing her full attention. She looked with interest at the photographs of Broc. She hadn't realized he was so good looking, and couldn't seem to take her eyes off him.

Finally dragging her eyes away, she spread the paper out and read the words that detailed the story, getting lost within the dusty pages. She read at length the insulting words of betrayal, a scandalous account she already knew ... at least she thought she knew, until she began reading these old papers that had somehow gotten lost among a lot of musty junk. The pages were yellowed and very fragile, but as Suzette read, it became crystal clear that she had been told nothing but bits and pieces.

As the story unfurled before her eyes, the words began to leap off the pages. No longer was it part of a dry past, it took on realism, color, and emotion. The story was clearly written to try and sway the public's opinion of a cad who had apparently led the heiress astray. As she read she could almost taste the gin, and feel the passions that stirred within them. By now every vivid, descriptive word convinced her that Broc Sanford had to have been the most exciting man in the world at one time, and could certainly understand her grandmother's infatuation with him.

Her quickly moving hands turned page upon page while her eyes darted over the compelling words. Slowly Suzette's head became filled with raccoon coats, rumble seats, and the Charleston that was considered risqué in those days. She was learning that they lived their young lives during an era that was struggling with its virtue. Young people were going wild with alcohol, trying to pull themselves out of a prim, corseted era with daring new styles in clothes and hair, suggestive dances, and music that stirred their young appetites. The vivid words of the journalist told about how Ravyn endured cruel stares, whispers, and heartless gossip from those that didn't understand. But Suzette knew that her grandmother had been in love ... too much in love to withhold herself. And since her parents wouldn't let them marry, she submitted to him, ruining herself, and forever bearing the label of a scarlet woman ... even by her own family.

All the rest of the day, the Sanford-St. James affair seethed and fumed inside her. She knew the whole thing was a sore spot with her father, and she would have to tread very lightly. But she couldn't let it lie ... she must know more. Somewhere along the way the story had just stopped. It wasn't said what had happened to either of the lovers, and Suzette wanted the whole story. Where were they today? What had happened? Had Broc ever come back to her, or had they ended up as star-crossed lovers destined never to be together? Suzette couldn't bear the thought. It hadn't been talked about between her and her father in a long time, and she decided that this was a good time to bring the subject up again.

Just then her father stuck his head around the door. "Come on, sweetie, dinner's ready."

Suzette stood up and walked into the dining room. She watched her father as he carefully set the food on the table, a cuptowel wrapped around his waist, and knew what the evening would bring. Amorous touches, whispered suggestions, then moans, heavy breathing, and at last satisfaction. How could he pass judgement on someone else when he treated her like a wife instead of a daughter?

When had the competitive nature of a five-year old femme fatale turned into giving sex to her father to get what she wanted, she wondered. It was then that she realized that her father hadn't brought a woman home in years. And why should he, she admitted, when she satisfied all of his needs?

Then there was the rest of the family. How could they have been so one-sided ... so unfair. Hadn't they made mistakes in their life? How could they be so pious, so self-righteous? She had come to realize that up to now she'd heard nothing but words ... biased words ... words that had a tinge of anger imbeded beneath them ... words only from the family's point of view. For some reason she'd never heard anyone speak about the other side ... Broc Sanford's side ... her grandmother's side ... the lovers side. She bided her time, then when she felt it was now or never, she carefully brought the subject up by telling her father what she'd found. Their conversation slowly grew, flaming into an argument when Suzette demanded more.

"My God, daddy, why didn't you tell me all of this?"

"What in hell were you doing in the attic? Stay down from there, you'll get hurt."

"Answer me! she shouted.

"What good would it have done? Besides you weren't interested."

"That's because I didn't know the whole story. What else are you not telling me? What about grandma, is she alive?"

He stopped what he was doing and looked up at her with impatience. "What is this? Some new project of yours? You're not busy enough, so now you have to go on some kind of crusade? Let it rest, Suzette. You know all you need to know."

Suzette became angry. "You're treating me as if I'm not even a part of this family. I have a right to know, Daddy. Is she alive, or not?"

"Just don't worry about it, I'm taking care of her."

Suzette's eyes widened at his reply. She dropped her fork with a clatter, and her hands fluttered up to her face slowly, covering her mouth. "Oh my God, she said, in a thoughtful whisper, then slid her eyes back to her father. "Where is she? Suzette urged. "Tell me, daddy, where is she?"

He hesitated, then said, "Back East ... Atlantic City."

"Is anyone with her? Is she in a home ... what?"

A look of guilt passed over his face, then he answered her softly. "No."

"No? Suzette said with a disbelieving scowl. "Daddy, someone needs to be there with her, for God's sake. She's old, she needs care."

Finally losing his patience, he looked up at her. "She's getting care, Suzette, the only kind I can give her right now. He indicated to her plate. "I suggest you eat your dinner."

"What kind of help, checks? She needs personal attention."

"All right, so I'll hire someone, he yelled, angrily spearing a potato with his fork, and picking up his coffee cup.

"A stranger, when her family is around? No way! I'll go myself!"

He slammed his coffee cup down into the saucer, sloshing the dark liquid down the side, then pointed his forkfull of food at her. "No way in hell, do you understand? You can get that idea out of your mind right now, young lady!"

"Why? Suzette demanded, throwing her napkin down, refusing to eat. "You can't go, and she needs someone!"

Suzette finally got her way ... she always got her way. She knew how to manipulate her father and when she couldn't persuade him any other way, she would sit in his lap like she did as a child and let him touch her. She would wait until precisely the right moment, then in the heat of his passion ... when he would give her anything to be allowed to continue ... she got her answer ... the answer she wanted. Then before his fever had had time to cool, Suzette was leading him like a lovesick puppy to the airport.

"Daddy, she said, seeing the look in his eyes, "it's best this way. Someone has to take care of her. Who else is there? No one cares but you and me. If I don't do it, she'll die out there all alone."

"I know baby, but you have college to think of."

"No big deal, I've got plenty of time. She looked at the worry on her father's face. "Hey, I'll pick it up later. Then winding her arms around his neck, she looked up at him in her cute little kittenish way. "Okay?"

He smiled, "It's against my better judgement ... but if you promise."

"Of course I promise. And don't worry, you'll come to see me ... you'll come to see both of us. Just then her flight was announced and she looked up at him and whispered, "Gotta go."

He couldn't believe she was leaving. He was going to miss her, and wanted to give her one last kiss full on the lips, but his guilty eyes darted around at the crowd, and he had to settle for a fatherly kiss on the cheek, furtively licking her face. He knew as he looked down into her beautiful face that there were going to be many lonely nights ahead for him. God, he must be crazy to let her leave him, he thought, feeling the coldness as she began backing away. He began taking short, uncertain steps toward her and called out, "Write, call, hell fax ... anything. I love you."

"Okay! she yelled out over the loud din of the crowd, then turned to the ticket-taker just before entering the tunnel that led to the plane. Before going around the curve, she looked back and blew him a kiss. It was the first time she'd been away from home, and she felt so grown up ... free ... and she loved it.

* * * *

When Suzette found Ravyn, she was appalled by her surroundings, and felt an instant anger at her father. He knew she lived like this, yet he did nothing. When she looked into the face of her gradmother, her heart broke. She saw a drawn, pale-faced old woman dressed in dark rags, living in a shack in the woods. The first thing she wanted to do was move her into a decent house, but Ravyn refused.

"But grandma, this is no way to live. She looked around. "Out here all alone, you could die, and no one would even know. Let me help you."

Ravyn's voice sounded like dry paper crackling while she settled herself in her favorite rocking chair. "I know it's not much, but I've been here so long, it's come to mean home to me. She looked at Suzette and smiled. "I'm an old woman, sweetheart, I don't need much. Besides, I'm comfortable here. I've got everything I need ... my garden, a well for water. It's enough, so don't you worry."

"Well- Suzette looked around. "-think about it, okay? Then if you change your mind, just let me know."

"Of course. Now come on over here and sit close to your old grandma."

Suzette immediately went and sat at Ravyn's knees and laid her head down. "It's so strange, she said, her voice sounding soft and faraway. "I've always dreamed of sitting at someone's knees. Then looking up at the old woman, she smiled. "The knees of someone I love. Now it's come true. I love you grandma ... so much.

"I love you too, baby."

The two of them sat there for a long time without saying anything, then suddenly Suzette spoke. "What was it like, grandma? You know, living way back then. What was he like?"

Ravyn looked down on the glistening blond hair, the curls that coiled around her fingers, and her thoughts traveled back. "It was a turbulent time to live in, Suzette. So much going on around you. The world was changing fast ... the birth pangs of a new era. It seemed you had to grab happiness whenever you could. None of us knew where we would be tomorrow. Ravyn's eyes suddenly began shining, and a twitching smile tugged ever-so-gently at her dry, cracked lips. "And then he came into my life, she whispered.

As Suzette listened, she hung on to every word Ravyn said, and began putting all three perspectives together ... the one from her grandmother, the one from her family, and the one from the collection of papers in the attic. The realism was unbelievable, and the words burned into Suzette's brain until suddenly she was no longer there, but back in the twenties, living every moment as her grandmother described it.

"My family hated his poverty, the old voice crackled. "They felt he was beneath my station in life. A tear crept down her cheek. "He was so ambitious, she said. "His eyes would glow when he talked about his dreams, but he knew that's all they were ... dreams."

"Why grandma?"

"He was poor, honey. He wanted so much to be a lawyer, but he couldn't afford to go to law school. His mother was sick, and everything they had went to doctors and medicine."

"But he did, didn't he? I mean that's what the papers say, that he left and became a famous lawyer. If he was poor, I wonder where he got the money ... and why didn't he take you with him?"

"I suspect my father finally got to him. It was bound to happen, I suppose. Ravyn looked down at Suzette sadly, fingering the shining spirals that tangled themselves between her fingers. "I remember that train station like it was yesterday. The fog ... his kisses ... there was something different about them. He promised to return to me, and I hung onto that for the longest time telling myself that he wouldn't forget, but somewhere down deep inside I knew I'd lost him."

"What happened next, grandma?"

"Well ... as time passed I began hearing about him. He seemed to be making quite a name for himself, so little by little, I began collecting all the pictures, magazine and newspaper coverage I could find. She looked lovingly at the cover of the worn scrap book and caressed it gently as it lay on a nearby table. Then a tender sound colored her voice. "My parents had driven us apart, but they didn't know that I still had him with me through the scrapbook I kept. I dreamed about what it would be like when he came back for me. I pictured him climbing up to my window some dark night and taking me away. She chuckled. "Young people are so fanciful. Anyway, I looked at those pictures everyday ... and still I waited. Then the day came when ... I don't know ... somehow I knew he'd gotten lost in all the excitement of the big city, his career, and- She hesitated. "-other women. She gave Suzette a sad smile. "I doubt he even remembers my name."

"Of course he does, grandma, he loved you, Suzette urged as she lifted her head. "I heard that he lives over at Northclyf, why don't you..."

Ravyn shook her head. "He doesn't know me anymore, child, she said. "I'm a stranger, no more than a memory ... a passing ghost in the night."

Suzette slowly rose to her feet, bothered by the incredible sadness of the story and the tears that her grandmother still cried, but tired to hide. "I have to go, grandma, she said, leaning down to kiss her lightly on the cheek, "but I'll be back tomorrow to see about you. Are you going to be all right? Do you need anything?"

"Don't worry about me, child, Ravyn said, struggling up from her chair. "You just go out and find yourself a nice young man. You're too pretty to be rummaging around in the dusty old past."

"Maybe, Suzette said, her soft laughter bubbling teasingly, "but I doubt if there are anymore like Broc Sanford around. She turned and walked out the door.

Ravyn looked after her, thinking about her comment. Suzette had her tainted blood ... could she also fall under the spell of a handsome dreamer like Broc Sanford? Be left on some foggy train platform in the middle of the night? She felt a chill ... a premonition ... a warning. She was so young. She couldn't let the same thing happen to Suzette that had happened to her. She would have to guide her ... warn her, somehow. There were things Suzette didn't know ... things she couldn't tell her ... things she wouldn't believe ... not yet anyway ... maybe never.

On her way home Suzette drove around the circle toward Northclyf, and noticed for the first time how large it was. It loomed tall and foreboding, the relic of a bygone era that was located at the north edge of the city. The roads that once were curbed avenues had long since deteriorated into nothing more than curving paths that connected the city with the ridge upon which Norchlyf stood.

Slowly driving along the street that curved around in front of Northclyf, she looked up at the imposing shadow that cast a murky likeness on the front lawn. The building was very large, and white, with a wrap-around porch, and steeples and towers emerging from a tall roof which was very high. A metal bird sat on the highest point, and whirled in the wind, a painful squeak coming from each turn. The woodwork was ornate and lacy, as if it was built in a more romantic era, and white wicker rocking chairs lined the porch. The wide front yard stretched out to a fence that circled the property all the way around. She leaned over, looking into the faces of all the old men, wondering which one he was. While her eyes searched the grounds, she happened to see a small cardboard sign. It was attached to the large one, and fluttered in the wind. She pulled up as close as she could, and stopped to read it. The sign said they were looking for a Companion. Even though she was well taken care of by her father, she knew a job would help, so she looked again at the sign and wondered if she would qualify. Although a companion was only someone to sit with the old people and talk or play games, she was afraid some kind of nursing degree, or special education was required.

Deciding to at least try, she began digging into her purse. After clattering around in its contents she brought out a tube of lipstick to brighten her red lips, a brush to fluff her glistening hair, and a mascara wand to thicken her long eyelashes. When she finished, she took one last look at herself in the rearview mirror, clicked her purse closed, then quickly lowered her hand to the door handle and opened it. She climbed out, nervously making her way up to the gate feeling timid and somehow misplaced. For the first time she felt as if she didn't have control, and that someone else was actually guiding her. It had been a last minute decision ... a spur of the moment thing, and felt as if that was why she felt so strange. She walked slowly and deliberately down the walk, looking around furtively. There were several people in the yard, some sitting in the lawn furniture talking, while others played lawn games. She looked up on the broad sweeping porch and saw a line of old men that all looked alike ... except one. He looked considerably younger than the others and leaned forward in his chair, his clear, sharp eyes following her. The intensity of his gaze made her uncomfortable so she tried to ignore him.

As she mounted the front steps she could feel his eyes on her with every step she took. Just before she opened the screen door, she hesitated, cut her eyes back over to his where they were met with such intensity that it almost took her breath away. She felt awkward for a moment, but finally managed to open the door and walk inside. She looked around for a moment, then heard a friendly voice.

"Yes, the smiling nurse said from behind a counter, "may I help you?"

"Yes ... uh... she began, then motioned toward the yard. "I noticed that you're looking for a companion. She smiled while wringing her hands. "Well ... I'd ... I'd like to apply for the job."

The nurse's smile slowly faded as she looked the young woman over. "Well, we were hoping for someone a little older. You know ... forties ... fifties ... something like that. She looked at her curiously. "How old are you?"

"Twenty ... uh ... eight, Suzette lied.

The nurse cocked her head, looking at her with an unbelieving frown.

Seeing the nurse's reaction, she lowered her head in embarrassment, then looked up, smiling weakly. "I'm sorry, she said, suddenly wanting the job badly. "Look ... I know I'm young, she said, "but I'm sure I could do it. She gave the nurse a pleading look and began speaking rapidly, "I love old people. I ... uh ... well, I just recently lost my grandmother, she lied, "and my time is rather empty, you know? I was her companion for years, so I know what to expect."

"Well, I guess we can give you points for experience, the nurse said, giving Suzette a piteous smile. "But, like I said, the age thing..."

Suddenly Suzette felt someone's eyes on her. She turned around and saw the man from the porch peering through the screen, still watching her, then turned back to the nurse. "Who is that? she whispered. "He's been watching me since I first arrived."

"That's Broc Sanford, the nurse whispered back, and noticed Suzette's strange reaction when she mentioned his name. "Maybe you've heard of him. He was very famous at one time. A real hot shot lawyer, they say. You wouldn't remember, but your grandmother might have. Did she ever mention him?"

"No ... uh, I don't think so, she said, lying again.

"We think he's been doing something to his hair, the nurse mumbled, cutting her eyes over to him and grinning. "It used to be white."

Suzette's lips tugged up in amusement. "I guess they never get too old, huh?"

"Not this one, at least. I hear he was quite a stud in his day. You know, drop dead gorgeous and all that."

"How old is he?"

"Eighty-six, going on thirty-six, the nurse quipped, then the two began giggling.

Suzette turned slightly to see if he was still there.

"No ... don't turn around, the nurse hissed, pretending to be writing something down on a tablet, "he's still there."

"Why is he watching us?"

"It looks to me like he's interested. If you do come to work here, you'd better watch him. Several of the nurses have gotten pinched by him just recently. Trying to speak without moving her mouth, she continued, "It must be those vitamins they've been putting in his orange juice, she snickered. "Maybe I should give some to my boyfriend. The heads of the two women leaned toward each other, both breaking out in giggles.

After their laughter had died down, Suzette said, "Well, I appreciate you talking to me at least. I guess I'll just have to..."

"Hey, as far as I'm concerned, you're hired."

Suzette's eyes widened. "Really?"

"Sure. You'll just have to get the approval of my boss, Rena Garrison, but she usually leaves these things up to me. The bottom line is, if I like you, she likes you."

"Just like that? What about the age thing?"

"Ahhhh, she said with a swipe of her hand, "don't worry about it, I'm not. Then she leaned over and pulled a few blank forms from a drawer and handed them to her. "Just fill these out and bring them in ... when ... Monday? Is that okay?"

"Perfect, Suzette said, folding them, and inserting them carefully into her purse.

The nurse extended her hand. "My name's Gloria."

Suzette took her hand. "My name's Suzette ... Suzette Danaus."

"What a beautiful name."

"Thank you."

"Okay, Suzette, when you get here, just check with me and I'll give you a list of your duties."

"What time?"

"Eight'll be fine."

"Thanks, see you then."

As Suzette turned, her eyes scanned the large structure. She hadn't been in many nursing homes, but she always thought they were sort of hospital-like. This one was more like someone's home. The front foyer had been made into a comfortable reception area. The space was large, but still had a homey, even cozy look to it. The furniture was of the overstuffed variety, very soft and cushy and the color was Island Sand, making you think of blue skies, blue water, palm trees, and a beach. The wall hangings were lovely pastels, every one a beach scene. The furniture was accompanied by a glass coffee table with an aquarium full of exotic fish of every color in the base. Suzette thrilled at the shimmering rainbow that was cast upon the expensive sand colored tile as they swam lazily through their small kingdom. Everything was topped off with a beautiful coral throw at the door. The reception area took up one whole wall. It had a shiny wooden counter, complete with a computer hutch, phones, calendars, and a smiling, friendly nurse behind it.

"It's important that the front look inviting ... you know ... first impressions, and all, the nurse said to Suzette.

Suzette chuckled, slightly embarrassed. "So, you're saying the rest of the place is a dump, right?"

The nurse laughed. "No, not at all. Actually it's quite attractive. I can't leave the front desk, but I'm sure it'll be okay if you want to look around."

"Thanks, she said, then turned her head and peered through a pair of open double doors with fitted lace curtains obscuring the glass. On the other side she saw a large, round room they called the Salon. It had a tall, domed ceiling and a wide, flowing staircase right in the middle. On the right side of the stairs was a large room that looked like a combination sitting room and library. It had books, game tables, and a TV that stayed on almost all day. Stretching her neck, she could see several of the old people gathered in front of the flickering picture, or sitting at tables playing cards. She could hear the muted sound of the TV along with a lot of good natured laughter. On the other side of the stairway was an archway. She stepped into it looking around curiously. It led into a dining room with a large table where apparently some of the residents ate their meals. It was very homey looking with flowers, plants, and a long buffet at the other end. Beyond that was the kitchen. She peeked through the swinging door and saw an enormous kitchen with an endless counter equipped with a sink, rack and every kind of appliance you would ever need. She also saw a large, commercial type dishwasher, and an island in the middle of the room where pots and pans hung. Another table about half the size of the one in the dining room stood beneath a couple of windows. Coming out, Suzette's eyes looked up and saw two landings. One was the second floor, and the other led into the tower where a murky darkness gathered in spite of the light the tall windows let in. The shadowy halls apparently wound themselves around the mansion going into different wings. Besides the tower rooms, two of the wings were dedicated to the residents, and another housed Rena Garrison's apartment, while the other housed the business office. The salon had a set of French doors that led out into a yard that was bordered by the white picket fence. The fence was about waist high and had a thick, tangled mass of baby roses, honeysuckles, and weeds entwined between boards that were in bad need of paint. Beyond the little fence was one of the forgotten roads that wound around the mansion, then further out was a deep slope, and then the ocean.

Northclyf sat on a sharp point north of Atlantic City on a piece of land that was circled by a narrow street called September Lane. At one time there were curbs and sidewalks, but because of high winds from off the ocean, and the constantly blowing sand, the asphalt eventually crumbled almost to dust. It seemed to almost re-shape the earth as it created a shoulder on the edge of the cliff, and that portion of September Lane later came to be known as Cliff Road. It continued on, passing the entrance to Harper's Woods, then wound around the home until it passed on the other side. On a map it would have looked something like the curving head of a cane. On the north side, a fork veered off from it, and wound dangerously around the ridge, then dropped off into a smaller footpath that led to the beach. The portion of Cliff Road than ran behind the home was a rather strange looking area. At the mercy of the ocean, and the elements, it appeared as the ruins of a once traveled street. On one end, the one closer to the ocean, it was windswept with sand that blew violently up from the beach ... sometime in sheets. It seemed mysterious ... like a street that goes nowhere. On a blustery night, the ocean gives off sounds like a growling tiger, then at other times it sounds like a cat slurping milk. As mysterious as the ocean is, there's nothing like the nights when the moon is full. The radiance it gives the earth is pure magic. That's when you can see the wind in the swirling fog and feel its misty kiss upon your face. If you listen, you can hear the cries and moans, as if someone is out on the ocean calling for help. Some say it is the ghosts of those that have died at sea. At the other end of the beach is a lighthouse sitting upon another ridge, and while the light is revolving, and the fog is drifting out to sea, you can see what looks like ghosts dancing on the surface of the water. The other end of the road is leafy because it leads into Harper's Woods. It is a dark, foreboding piece of land and some say the devil lives there. It is dense with strange, deformed looking trees that stand at an angle, some leaning against each other. Their branches grow together in a snarl, their strange embrace, hideous. It was owned by an old recluse named Jed Harper. Jed lived there for years until his death when he became victim to the strong winds that came off the ocean. Even today, when the wind is high, some people say they can hear old Jed scream as he fell to his death.

Suzette felt a chill as the stiff wind off the ocean sang a haunting tune through the crackes of the French Doors. Turning from the sound, she looked up into a domed ceiling where a very large chandelier was attached and windows of all shapes and sizes reached up as far as they could go, meeting at the top, giving the effect of a skylight. There was bamboo furniture everywhere, and large potted plants that resembled palm trees of every height and size took up any empty space. There were a couple of ceiling fans attached to the lower parts of the dome, and the gentle wind they generated moved the fronds of the plants back and forth, giving the shadows life. She had a feeling that whoever decorated it, had a yen for the islands. The woodwork was a stark white, and the place was light, airy, and very attractive in the daytime, but at night, with the lights out, it might resemble a humongous cave. When the dark, dusty picture came to mind she felt the strange prickle of a chill, and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Just as she was leaving, something caught her eye. Nestling in a corner between the stairs and the sitting room seemed to be a cage. The lacy, intricately formed metal had been painted white, in keeping with the décor. She walked over to it, tugged on the door, and opened it. When she stepped in, she saw several different kinds of buttons and gadgets. Looking around, she realized it was a small elevator, only big enough for a few people, then stepped out, closing the door behind her. Just as she turned her head, she found herself looking into the face of the old man, the lines of his face deepened by the dark shadows. She stood paralyzed while his eyes stared deeply into hers. She could see a struggle going on inside him ... almost as if someone young was trying to get out. Then his dry crackling voice rasped, "Get out ... now ... before it's too late. After the cryptic message, he shuffled into the small elevator, pushed the button, and as it droned upward toward the tower, his eyes stabbed at her like bullets, the sound of his words still hanging in the air.

* * * *

That night Broc examined his face in the mirror. When the demon said the change would take place gradually, he didn't realize what he would be going through. He had thought only of the outside, forgetting about the inside, and all the urges that a young man has. He was beginning to hunger for a woman again ... to feel her lips, her breasts and her juicy softness surrounding his manhood. Suddenly he didn't belong in a place like this. He wanted food, not slop. He even remembered waking up one morning and having teeth. His eyes were becoming sharp again, as well as his hearing. Now everytime a nurse leaned over, he felt his eyes sliding deep into her cleavage, or along the alluring roundness of her hips. Just the thought of what was beneath her uniform had him wringing his hands and pacing. He had been on edge lately and he knew why. He needed a good roll in the hay, and the sooner, the better. With that thought the vivid picture of the young woman that came in today was brought to mind. When he saw her, it was like his hormones did a somersault. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Her beauty was as potent as Ravyn's had been so long ago. She was the first woman he had ever seen that could hold a candle to her. It was like the past coming alive again. His body felt things he thought were dead, and he couldn't do anything but stare. Broc's pacing came to an abrupt halt when he turned and almost ran into Aleksa.

"What do you want, you bas..."

"Tsk, tsk, no names, now, Aleksa said, then looked at Broc for a moment. "I'm getting some strange vibes here. Am I to understand that you don't want her? Is that it?"

Broc frowned. "Want who?"

"Who do you think? The little blonde, of course. She's yours, you know ... all luscious and ready on the proverbial silver platter."

"What? You mean that little tart that was in here today? My God, she's no more than..."

"What does age have to do with anything? You're getting younger everyday, and you're going to need someone. That is ... if your history with the lovely Ravyn is any indication, he said, then snickered. "You know, the one you rode like a bucking bronco?"

"Shut your filthy mouth, you bastard!"

"I believe I said no name calling? the demon reminded him as he began looking around the room at all the memorabilia. "Now, why don't you be a good boy and take what I've given you? She's here ... you're here ... with all your original equipment. What could be more convenient ... or fun."

"So she's a plant, is that it? I knew it! Why? Can you tell me that?"

While sauntering around the room picking up different objects and looking them over, he took his time answering. "The reason is obvious. You need a woman, I've provided you with one. Why are you so suspicious?"

Broc looked at Aleksa and snickered. "Do you seariously think in your wildest dreams that I'd want to have anything to do with any whore you dug up for me, with the emphasis on dug up! Besides, I don't need you to pimp for me. I can get my own woman."

Aleksa suddenly dropped the trinket he was holding, making a clattering sound on the hard wood, and gave Broc an amused look. "Pimp? I've been called a lot of things, but never a pimp. Look, if you're bothered about this, just think of it as flying first class, or having whipped cream on your waffle. Four months is a long time to go without a woman."

"I'm not buyin', you bastard! You didn't say anything about bringing anyone else into this, much less a woman. I want the original deal we made. The train station ... February twelfth ... midnight."

"I haven't forgotten, but why can't you have both?"

"I'm not stupid, peabrain. You're so damned transparent I can read a newspaper through you. You want me to get my mind on her so I'll forget about our deal."

Aleksa chuckled, then slid his eyes toward Broc. "You're not even close, but what can I expect? The only problem is, now that she's here, I can't remove her."

"Why?"

Aleksa frowned, feigning concern. "It's those pesky rules again ... sorry."

"Look, I don't care what the hell you do with her. Put her in a box and mail her to China for all I care. You just remember the train station ... February twelfth at midnight!"

"All right, Aleksa complained. "Jeez, you're beginning to sound like a broken record. With a mimicking voice, he said, "Train station, February twelfth, midnight ... train station, February twelfth, midnight ... train station, February twelfth, midnight. Gad, give me a break already! Then cutting his scowling eyes toward him, he shrugged, and said, "Oh well, I suppose some people just can't accept gifts graciously. After a short silence Aleksa stroked his lean cheek. "You know, as long as you're not interested and I need a diversion, maybe I'll dip my..."

For some reason Broc felt an icy fear crawl up his spine and yelled, "NO!"

Aleksa whirled around. "What?"

Broc's words were low and threatening. "I'm warning you. If you touch her, you'll never get me."

"But if you don't want her..."

"Look, I don't know who, or what she is, but nothing and nobody touches her. Do you understand you slime from hell?"

Aleksa snickered. "You really need to work on your insults, Broc. That one just- He lifted his hand and gingerly wiped at his cape. "-rolled right off me."

"You know what you are, I don't have to tell you."

"And I know what you are, Aleksa said, his voice soft and threatening. The merriment left his eyes as they narrowed, steadily stabbing Broc as if they could bring blood. "That's how I know you won't be able to resist this sexy little tidbit I'm waving under your nose."

"I should have known. Pesky rules, huh? You won't get rid of her because you don't want to, am I right? You might as well stop playing games, you bastard. You're not unique, not even special. I've dealt with hundreds worse than you in my career, and I've eaten everyone of them alive."

"Really, Aleksa replied, the tone of his voice becoming so gritty that Broc could almost smell the smoke of brimstone on his breath. "Then let the games begin, counselor."

"Indeed, Broc said, his eyes meeting Aleksa's in challenge.

"Just for your information I know all about the little warning you gave her today. Please, Aleksa spat in riducule, "you think after I put her here, you can get rid of her so easily? What ultimate stupidity! She's here to stay, and you might as well get used to it."

"All right, so she's here to stay. But I warn you, the little cunt had better steer clear of me!"

"I don't understand why this is such a problem for you, Aleksa said, scowling at him impatiently. "I just want to make your last few months on this earth enjoyable, that's all. You pace around your room biting your nails down to your knuckles, and won't let me help. Then he grinned and leaned toward Broc as if he were going to tell him a secret. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to refuse a gift that's offered? I picked this little piece out myself. I knew you'd had the best, so I got a hot blooded little she-devil for you ... knows how to conduct herself in bed ... get the picture?"

"I don't believe you! Broc shouted. "What the hell kind of twisted mind do you think I have?"

"I don't know, what kind of twisted mind do you have?"

"Get out, you creep, and take your funny exit lines with you."

"I'd take offense at that if I didn't know you have problems, Aleksa said, tapping a long,bony finger one one side of his temples.

"I don't have any problems that your disappearance wouldn't solve."

Aleksa's nostrils flared at the continued insults, then a sly smile tugged at his curving lips, "You remind me of a starving man looking at a feast, but won't eat. What kind of sanity is that?"

"You're a piece of shit, did you know that?"

Aleksa snickered. "There you go again. Really Broc, if you're trying to hurt my feelings you're going to have to do better than that."

"You're a creep ... a fungus ... a low down snake ... when God created you he had to wash his hands afterwards ... hell, he had to fumigate!"

"I'll give you that one just to prove what a great guy I am. Besides I..."

Broc raised his hand and stuck it in his face, giving him the finger. When it didn't seem to faze him, he shouted, "Isn't there any fuckin way to offend you?"

Aleksa looked at him closely. "How long have you been having these spells?"

"How long has it been since you came into my life?"

"Your edgy, flying off the handle all the time. Seems to me you need a good lay. You feelin stressed? Headachy? Restless?"

"Can you hear yourself? You sound like a friggin TV commercial."

"Yelling at me won't help. We both know what you need right now is a willing woman. After one night you'll be surprised at how calm and serene you'll begin to feel."

Broc lifted his hands and buried his face in them. "You're like a nagging headache that won't go away."

"I know ... a joke, that'll help, Aleksa said, then began. "There's this guy, see, that goes to the doctor and tells him he hasn't had sex in months. The doctor tells him what he needs is a woman, then tells him to- he looked at Broc, indicating that he should fill in the last line.

Broc shrugged.

"-take two and call me in the morning. Suddenly Aleksa doubled over with laughter, then looked up at Broc. "Get it? Take two and call- His words faded, and his laughter slowly began to die. "-don't you see, you wouldn't be ac... He stared into Broc's solemn eyes. "You know, you'd take the fun out of a mass murder."

"A word of advice, Broc growled. "Don't quit your day job."

Aleksa snorted. "You say such hateful things to me I don't know why I even try. If only you knew the good things I have in store for you."

"Yeah? And what would they be, I'm afraid to ask?"

"You're going to have to start paying attention, Broc. What in blazes were we just talking about? When Broc looked at him as if he didn't have a clue, Aleksa said, "A willing woman for criminy sake. All at once an ecstatic smile appeared on his ugly face. "Ahhhh, yessss, can't you just imagine it? I tell you there's nothing like a willing woman. Just then he looked at Broc with a studious expression on his face. "You know, of course, with the position I'm in I have to endorse rape, you know the savagery, the force, the violence, the danger ... you have to admit there's something wonderfully gut-wrenching about it, but, then he looked up as if imagining something enjoyable, "when I think of a woman that's willing ... mmmmmmmm, just think of the nights ... the passion- His eyes danced with evil glee. "-and she'll give it to you any time you want it. Morning, noon, or night. Just think, sex for breakfast ... sex for lunch ... sex for dinner - "

Broc looked at him with disgust. "Is that all you ever think about?"

"-on top- He followed close on Broc's heels as he paced around the room. "-writhing beneath you ... sitting up ... laying down ... in the mouth ... between her breasts ... sucking ... licking ... chewing ... biting. All at once Broc turned and looked him in the eyes when the demon asked, "Does any of this bring back memories?"

Broc lunged forward. "You filthy..."

Aleksa lifted his hand to silence him. "I know ... slime from hell ... piece of shit ... whatever."

"This is low, even for you, you bastard, and I'll tell you right now that I don't intend to play your game."

"You trying to convince me, or yourself? Hey, go ahead, take a bite out of the apple. A juicy taste of the forbidden fruit is just what you need. After all ... it's all in the family."

"Family? Broc asked as he watched the demon begin to slowly disintegrate before his eyes. "Wait a minute, come back here, he yelled to the disappearing figure. "What do you mean ... family?"

"Genius IQ, and you can't figure it out? Tsk, tsk. Suddenly flames shot up from where Aleksa had been standing, and from out of the blazing inferno, his words had a ring of truth. "I'll see you in hell yet!"

CHAPTER THREE

Broc woke the next morning with hunger pains ripping his stomach apart. He hadn't eaten solid food in so long he'd forgotten what it was like, and now his body was screaming its discontent. "Coffee, he mumbled as he pulled himself up, trying to open his drooping lids. He automatically reached out for his glasses as he did every morning, and after a few seconds of fumbling and clattering, he finally found them. Still half asleep, he brought them up and perched them on his nose while he wound the wire carefully around his ears. He sat still for a moment, blinking. Everything seemed to be fuzzy and out of focus. He reached up, lifted them a little and rubbed his eyes then settled them back down and looked again. Seeing the same thing, he quickly grabbed them from off his face, mumbling, "What the hell. His squinting eyes looked down at the glass within the fragile metal rims, then lifted them toward the light to see if they were dirty. He was about to pick up a portion of the bedspread and clean them when he noticed the intricate weave of the pattern. He'd never seen it so clearly. Lifting his eyes, he looked around his room as if he'd never seen it before. His eyes slid to his robe, stunned that he could see every fibre, then his eyes darted over and saw the wood grain of his phonograph stand out as never before. His eyes moved down at his slippers, seeing for the first time how shabby they had become. Almost in a trance, he got up slowly, the glasses falling to the floor, and looked out the window. He couldn't believe it. He could see at a great distance. How long had it been since he'd seen the city covered with early morning fog ... leaves falling ... it was wonderful. Everything had a sharp edge ... colors were more vibrant ... he could even see leaf patterns, and the maze of the bark on the trees. Still exploring this new world of his, he turned his eyes to a newspaper article he had hanging on his wall and was amazed when he could read the headlines from there ... even the smaller print. His glasses were completely forgotten while he continued to turn and gaze at everything. Not only was his vision perfect, he seemed to feel a raw energy inside him he hadn't experienced in ages. He felt like he could run ten miles, but knew if he tried, he wouldn't get ten feet. He was still trying to get used to his new surroundings when a knock sounded on his door. "Come in, he called out.

The creeping sound of rubber soled shoes stepped in. The nurse was carrying a stack of clean linen when she looked up and saw a strange man scratching his dark head. She frowned, then glanced around the room looking for a disheveled white head and a lopsided bathrobe. With a puzzled expression she noticed the bathrobe lying on a chair, and her eyes darted back to the dark haired man. She knew that the old man had been doing things to his hair, but this was ridiculous. "Excuse me ... Mr. San..."

At the sound of her voice, Broc turned.

When the nurse saw the young face, her eyes widened. "Who are you, and how did you get in here? she demanded.

Broc looked at her as if she was one brick short of a load, and said, "How the hell do you think I got in here? I got old for God's sake. What's wrong with you Rosalie?"

The nurse's eyes darted around. "Where is he? she mumbled, her voice trembling. "What have you done with him?"

"Done with who? Broc asked, his eyes following hers as she scanned the room. Then he turned back to see her looking at him as if he were a stranger. "Rosalie, what... he began, reaching out toward her.

The nurse saw him advancing on her and began screaming, the linens flying into the air just before she ran out the door, calling for help.

"Goddamned PMS, Broc muttered, watching the excited nurse slam through the door. Turning away from the howling scene, he reached down for his bathrobe and caught a glimpse of his hand. It was almost as smooth as a baby's, and all the discoloration was gone. At that point his eyes shifted and he noticed the condition of his pajamas. "What the hell is going on? he mumbled as his fingers curiously lifted a few of the torn remnants, then let them fall limply through his fingers. A sudden realization flooded him when he remembered the look on the nurse's face and the way she stared at him. "She didn't know me, Broc whispered, then turned abruptly and rushed toward the mirror, only to stop just short of it. He couldn't look ... at least not yet. Go slowly, he told himself as his bare feet inched toward the square wooden base. With his adrenalin pumping, and his breath jerking, he squeezed his eyes shut, and lowered his head. Maybe he was a coward, but he just couldn't make himself look, he didn't think his heart could stand it. Finally his eyes opened and he began moving, slowly ... very slowly. First to the slightly cluttered dresser top ... to his brush, filled with strands of thinning gray hair ... to a box of tissue ... his watch and wallet.

And then the climb began.

Ever so gently up to his reflection.

At the first glimpse of himself, his breath suddenly stopped. He saw a husky body that showed itself boldly through shreds of material. His arms were muscled, his chest full of crisp dark curls, and his neck and shoulders, thick and rock hard. His hungry eyes moved upward to a strong chin, dimpled cheeks, and at last, intense, coffee-colored eyes that looked at him from beneath winged eyebrows, and dark, curly, tousled hair that fell in a carefree way along his collar and forehead.

"Oh, my God, he breathed, gaping at his own reflection in wide-eyed wonder. His unsure hands slowly rose and touched his young, handsome face lightly, afraid it would melt under his touch, or somehow disappear and he would find himself dreaming. His eyes were wide, raking across the man before him ... a man he almost didn't recognize. Then all at once a slow smile revealed a perfect set of teeth, and his quick hand grasped a wad of his dark curly hair as he combed his fingers through it, feeling it's silky softness.

He turned to the nightstand and grabbed up the picture of himself and compared it with the reflection. It was him, all right, more than sixty years ago. He was excited until his eyes happened to fall on the reflection of his cane, leaning against the wall in a corner. Suddenly he came down off his high, and felt a deep sadness for the old man he had been. He looked down at the photograph of a smiling, happy individual that didn't seem to have a care in the world, and wondered what had happened. What had pressed the full lips he saw in the photograph into a line of old man's disappointments, troubles, and regrets?

No wonder the nurse hadn't recognized him. The old Broc Sanford was gone, along with all his aches, pains, and weaknesses. He glanced over at the reflection of his cane again, standing quietly and still, as if it were waiting for him. "So long, old friend, he whispered, then allowed his eyes to return to his incredible reflection. His arms had muscles that ballooned everytime he bent them, and his stomach looked like a washboard. His legs were strong and well proportioned, and could take him anywhere he wanted to go.

Enjoying a new vitality, he couldn't resist trying a series of he-man poses when it suddenly came to him that he had to get out of there. Without wasting another moment he turned and slammed open his closet and pulled a bag down. He began stuffing his clothes into it when he realized that they wouldn't fit anymore. He looked down at the pajamas that his husky, sturdy body had almost shredded, and yanked them off.

He had to get used to the idea that the dried up, haggard old man he had been for the past few decades was gone, and in his place was a young, brawny, beefy man that no one would believe was Broc Sanford. He could hardly believe it himself as he looked down at a generous cock that had replaced the shriveled up thing that could barely be used for bodily functions ... an old man's bodily functions. As he marveled at its magnificence, he was sure he would never be able to conceal it under ordinary clothes. My God, had he ever looked like this, he wondered. He couldn't remember.

He threw the bag aside and didn't bother to put the clothes away that he'd strewn on the floor. Suddenly he spied an old baby blue jogging suit that had always seemed to swallow him up, laying on the floor of his closet. He leaned over and grabbed it up. Looking it over, he decided it would have to do until he could find something that would fit, so he quickly pulled it on, then stepped into his shoes. They were tight, but he had to wear them, he had nothing else.

Ready to go, he ran to the window and looked out at the ridiculous thing they called a roof, and knew he'd never make it. It was probably too high anyway. He may be young and strong, but he wasn't stupid enough to think he was Superman. He had no choice but to take his chances in the hall. He opened the door slowly, only a couple of inches at a time, then cautiously pushed his dark, curly head forward past the door frame.

He furtively peered in each direction of the long corridor. It was still early, so the atmosphere was somewhat tranquil. He crept out of the room quietly, plastered himself against shadowed walls and slithered along as silently as he could. He peeked from behind drapes, large palms, plants, and hid himself behind furniture and in dark corners until busy, rubber-soled feet passed him by. He knew that shortly a crowd would gather in his room, and if he timed it right everyone would be there while he was running out the front door.

By the time he'd made it to the salon, he heard the garbled voices of an entourage of nurses hurrying toward him. He quickly jumped behind a giant plant and peeked out from within the fronds, watching them as they passed not three feet in front of him. Bingo! he thought as they hurriedly climbed the steps on their way to his room. Not wasting any time, he jumped out and headed straight for the double doors. One more turn, he thought, just one, and he would be gone.

"Can I help you? a voice said as it drifted over to him.

He slid to a stop on the tiled floor, then turned to the young, attractive nurse standing behind the desk. "No ... no ... I'm just leaving."

She looked at him strangely.

Knowing she was suspicious, he went on to explain. "I've already seen the ... uh ... who I came to see. He pointed toward the door. "I was just leaving."

"Is everything okay?"

"Is ev ... uh- He looked at her rather lost. "-well... Finally giving up, he asked, "What do you mean?"

"Well, when someone is here anytime other than visiting hours, it usually means the resident has taken a turn for the worse. She looked at him inquiringly. "Is everything okay?"

"Oh ... uh ... yes- He shrugged, and chuckled sheepishly. "-false alarm. Then he turned, and was just about to begin running when he was stopped again by her voice.

"You seem to be in a hurry."

"Oh, no, he smiled, trying to casually make his way toward the door that looked invitingly out into the street. Then both their heads turned when they heard loud voices drifting down from his tower room. He was about to bolt when she spoke again.

"It's very odd, she said with a curious frown. "It seems Mr. Sanford ... Broc Sanford ... is missing. A nurse found someone else in his room this morning, but no sign of him. We have no idea who it was, or where Mr. Sanford is."

While she was talking, Broc couldn't help but notice the way she was crowded into her clothes. Her collar was open just enough to allow him a shameful view into the deep, dark secrets of her breasts, and her eyes had a lazy, early morning look to them that would have him doing somersaults if he didn't get out of there. When he saw her lips part in a slow smile, he felt a forest fire begin in his groin. He felt his recently revived sex harmones dancing a jig, and knew if he didn't get out of there soon, something long, hard, and hungry was going to be pointing in her direction. Since he couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a woman, everything in him wanted to run over and feel her, smell her, and have her. The thought painted a vivid picture in his mind, and as his body responded, he felt something move. Oh my God, he thought, taking a peek down at the front of his jogging pants. He had to get out, or die!

"Well, he said as he began backing away, "I hope you find him."

Suddenly a voice came from the salon. "Celia, call the police. Mr. Sanford's room is a mess. It looks like a burglary. His wallet with his money and credit cards are gone, and..."

Broc didn't stick around to hear anymore. He turned and began running, slamming the screen door and almost flying down the front walk. It hadn't occurred to Broc that his whole identity would have to change. He couldn't be Broc Sanford anymore. He had to think up a new name ... a new life ... and try to blend in with today's youth. Even though he was expecting it ... hoping for it ... he felt this thing had somehow been dumped on him all at once. He'd thought it would be a slower process, with time to plan, but he certainly didn't think he'd be out on the steet with nothing to wear, and no place to go.

He turned down an alley, not knowing where he was going until he saw a clothesline filled with clothes and linens that whipped in the wind. Broc stopped abruptly, and knelt behind some trash cans watching the house. The yard had a tricycle, and a sandbox, but when Broc happened to see a treehouse sitting very private among thick limbs and leaves, an idea took root. The clothes he saw told him a woman, a man, their son, and a baby lived there. He looked down at his ill-fitting jogging suit, then back up at the line of clothes that beckoned to him.

Just then he noticed a woman slamming out the back door and going to her car. She's leaving, Broc thought, then looked back toward the house wondering if anyone else was in there. Since it was early morning he figured the woman was going to work, and since there was only one car, chances are her husband had already left. He wondered about babysitters, since one child was apparently too young for school.

Broc watched as the car bumped out of the drive, then slowly emerged from his hiding place and slowly crept up to the clothesline. He began looking through the clothes as if they were hanging on a department store rack. While his eyes darted around, he snatched a pair of jeans, a blue work shirt, and a pair of briefs, then ran toward the tree. The tree cast a deep shadow behind it, and Broc hid there looking out. When he was sure no one saw him, he ran around it and hurried up the blocks of wood that were nailed to the trunk forming a makeshift ladder. When he found himself surrounded by a small, private enclosure that he couldn't stand up in, he changed clothes as best he could. As soon as he was through, he slowly and carefully climbed down, then rushed out of the yard while pushing his old jogging suit down into a rattling trash can.

Walking along the alley, he punched his shirt down in his pants while turning all the way around to see if anyone had seen him. When he finally got to the street, he looked up one way and down the other, wondering how he was going to manage a place to live. Just then he passed a store window with a pair of western boots in it, and slowed to a stop. His eyes shifted down to his old shoes that pinched his feet, then back at the boots and was reminded that he needed to check his money.

He pulled out his wallet to see how much he had in cash, then checked his credit cards. He looked down at the boots again, knowing he was going to need clothes too, since he couldn't go robbing clotheslines everytime he needed a change. He smiled when he thought of the headlines, Clothesline thief strikes again. After carefully putting his wallet away, he turned toward the double doors of the department store ... and walked into a new life.

* * * *

A squad car screeched up in front of Northclyf. Car doors slammed, and leather souls scraped on pebbles and asphalt going up to the door. The first officer walked in, leading the other, and each of them touched the brims of their hats in greeting. "Someone call in an emergency?"

"Yes, Rosalie said, stepping from the salon, "My name is Rosalie Simms. I didn't call, but I think there's been a burglary, and possibly a kidnapping."

The second officer immediately took a small pad from out of his pocket, wrote down the time they arrived, the possible charge, then said to his partner. "How about I look around down here while you go up to his room."

"Good idea, the first officer mumbled, then turned to Rosalie. "Could you show us the room? he asked while chewing gum.

The nurse noticed that the buttons of his blue uniform stretched over his bulky body as if in pain. "Of course, she said, leading the way.

The two walked in, looking around. The officer browsed awhile, his casual examination including a few quick glances at the windows, in the bathroom, the closet, and under the bed. After making a few notations, he ended his search by coming to stand by the nurse's side. "This is how the room was when you found it? You haven't touched anything?"

"No, nothing's been touched, the nurse said, a worried look on her face. "Oh yes, I dropped some linens over by the door. I picked those up later, that's all."

He turned to the door, opened it, then leaned down and examined it for any deep cuts, scratches, or lacerations in the wood or metal lock. "No forced entry, he mumbled. "Did he invite anyone into his room that you know of?"

"Not this early, she said, wringing her hands. "Most of the residents are just getting up, and those that aren't served meals in their rooms eat in the dining room. They don't usually start socializing until later in the day."

"Well, he's clearly not here. We'll need to make a search of the grounds..."

"God, he's dead, she agonized, not being able to hide her fear any longer, "I just know he's dead!"

"Ms. Simms, we don't know that for sure. Maybe he wandered off someplace. Was he on medication? Under a doctor's care?"

"They're all on medication, she said while pressing a tissue to her mouth. "They're old for God's sake, and required to have check ups regularly. Broc Sanford was eighty-six. She glanced around. "Where could he be? He could barely shuffle from one place to another. Her eyes found something, and she pointed. "Look, he didn't even take his cane! She turned back to the officer. "Don't you see? That proves something happened to him. He can't go anywhere without that cane!"

"Did he have a favorite place?"

"A favorite place? the nurse said, looking at him strangely. "No. They don't go out, especially alone."

"How about his family, have you notified them of his disappearance?"

"He doesn't have any family. He never married."

"How much do you know about any friends he had ... acquaintances?"

"He was alone ... just the people here in the home, mostly."

"Anything in his past ... threats ... people that might want him dead?"

"An old man like Broc Sanford? What kind of threat could he be?"

"Well, you never know. Maybe someone out of his past ... someone holding a grudge ... someone that went to prison because of him."

She frowned. "Well, I can't be of much help to you there, all I really know about his past is what we have on file here."

"Did he have visitors? Someone that he might have invited up to his room?"

"Visitors aren't allowed in the rooms. They usually spend their time on the grounds unless the weather's bad, then they go into the sitting room. The residents visit each other's rooms from time to time, but no one else."

The officer slapped his pad against his hand. "Well, it's kind of hard to do an investigation with nothing to go on. He turned and looked around the room. "No forced entry, nothing but a cluttered room that looks like a million others, and no names of visitors, friends or family. He turned back to the nurse. "If you could just give me some names ... just one."

"Officer, if a resident has no family, then he's pretty much alone. Sure, they make friends here, within the walls of the home, but by the time they make it here, they're just existing until they die. The nurse lowered her lids in sadness. "It's like marking an end to your life."

"You paint a pretty grim picture."

"I know, and it's a shame, but it's true. Like so many others, Mr. Sanford was alone. Sure, he spent some time in the city a long time ago ... fell in love even. But those people ... I'm not even sure they're still alive. She indicated to the memorabilia around the room. "This is all he had left of his life. No wonder it was so important to him. This is his family ... friends ... memories. God, it's so sad. Not only for him, but for all of them. Checking in here is like standing in line for the graveyard."

"Was he in good heath ... I mean for his age? If he had a stroke he could have wondered off."

"I'm not aware of any problems he had, but that wouldn't explain the young man I saw in here. You find that young man, and you'll find Broc Sanford, I'm sure of it. She frowned when the memory came back to her, then looked up at the officer. "It was so strange. He acted as if he knew me ... called me Rosalie."

"Well, whoever he was, he seems to be the key to the whole thing. Could he have been a grandson ... someone in his family that came to check him out of the home?"

The nurse looked insulted. "Don't you think we would have known that? There are forms to fill out ... banks to notify ... suitcases to pack ... goodbyes to say ... forwarding addresses ... a million things to do. You don't just come in and take them."

"Of course. Sorry, the officer mumbled while looking around at the mess. "Well, I'll be the first to admit the circumstances are strange all right, but right now he's nothing more than a missing person. By the way, he said, looking around the room, "until we know more, don't let anyone touch anything. He turned to go, then looked back at the nurse. "Another thing. I'd like to bring a book of mug shots in and let the nurses take a look at them just in case someone saw him coming or going. Is that okay?"

She glanced down at the photograph on the table and pointed. "It was him."

The officer looked down at the photo with a puzzled expression. "That was the man you saw?"

"No, of course not, but it looks like him."

"Who is it?"

"Broc Sanford, the nurse said, smiling. "Fifty ... sixty years ago. She picked up the photo and handed it to him. "Handsome, wasn't he? Slowly her smile died, and her voice became ominous. "But I would swear on a stack of bibles that was the man I saw in this room this morning. And then she shrugged. "Hell, I don't know ... maybe the job is getting to me."

"No, I don't think so. It seems to me anyone that looked that much like him would have to be a family member."

"I don't know, the nurse said, frowning. "If Mr. Sanford had family, why wouldn't they have been around before now?"

"Did he have any money? Money that some distant relative might have wanted to get his hands on? Do you know anything about a will, or illegitimate children, maybe. You know, Mr. Sanford was quite a famous man at one time. Everyone knows about the affair he had with a local girl before he took off and got lost in Chicago. Who the hell knows what could have come from that. I understand the girl's family hated his guts."

"Well, as far as money, sure, he has a little, and I happen to know he has a will, but illegitimate children? God, who knows? He was such a scoundrel, I wouldn't be surprised. I suppose there could be some hanging around."

"It's certainly something to consider. I just hope we don't find his body floating face down in the ocean somewhere."

"Poor old guy, the nurse muttered. "What a way to go."

When the two of them turned to leave, the nurse was just about to close the door behind her when she allowed her eyes to scan the room one last time. Her darting eyes stopped abruptly when again she saw Broc Sanford's smiling face looking at her. It was the same face ... the same eyes ... the same smile she'd seen here ... in this room only a few hours ago. How in God's name could it be? How could Broc Sanford suddenly be fifty years younger? It was eerie, and it gave her a peculiar feeling. She stared at him for a moment, then her eyes lowered thoughtfully. She finally shook her head and closed the door. The officer was silent as he stretched a wide, yellow tape across the frame.

* * * *

Broc hadn't been shopping in so long everything he looked at amused or shocked him. He raced through the mall as if he were a wide-eyed kid seeing the world for the first time. His head swiveled around on his neck trying to see everything. It seemed as if he'd been locked away in prison instead of just being confined to a nursing home. He felt as if he'd been dead, and re-born into a wild new world. He finally found the department he was looking for and headed for it. He looked around, fingering the items curiously. Inflated prices were one thing, but when he noticed how styles had changed, he knew pin-striped suits and fedoras weren't the answer today ... no, today he was barely an adult, so he bypassed the men's clothes and made a sharp turn and headed for the department that catered to the younger crowd. There he found clothes with designer tears, rips in jeans and tee-shirts, shiny garments that would blind you, and metal chains holding thin pieces of material together. He also found the ridiculously overpriced boots next to the jewelry section. After buying the boots he had one ear pierced, got fitted with a gold earring, then chose a few of those that bracketed his ear, and clamped them on. While he was looking in the mirror at his new image, the floor salesman encouraged Broc to get his navel and nipples pierced. Broc backed away, shaking his head and laughing. "No ... I don't think so."

"Well, this is quite a stack of purchases you have here, the slight, prunish old clerk said. "Will you be using your store charge?"

"I'll pay cash."

"Cash? the clerk said, and stared at Broc as if he didn't know the meaning of the word. "That's a switch. Usually it's a card, or at least a check. People hardly ever use cash anymore."

The remark surprised Broc and made him realize that a lot more than just styles had changed, so he looked at the clerk and frowned, "You still take it, don't you?"

The clerk stared at him strangely. "Of course."

Broc looked at the total, dug the money out, then threw the cash down on the counter. Just as he was leaving, the clerk fingered the money gingerly and asked with a scowl of disgust, "It isn't counterfeit, is it?"

Broc laughed, then made a big thing about looking around to make sure no one was watching. Leaning toward the clerk, he whispered, "Just ran it off this morning. Watch out, he said, lifting his hand and rubbing his fingers together, "the ink might still be wet."

"Kids, the clerk muttered when Broc turned to leave. "I wouldn't doubt it. I wouldn't doubt it one bit."

As he was leaving the store, Broc looked back and shook his head in amusement when he saw the skinny little dark-haired clerk holding the bills up to the light. His next stop was a diner where he ordered breakfast and used their bathroom to clean up and change his clothes. The new clothes made him feel better, and he came out with his familiar swagger while combing his hair back. As soon as he sat down, a waitress came over to refresh his coffee, and smiled with an invitation in her eyes.

"Anything I can ... do for you? she purred.

"No thanks, he said, and watched her wiggle as she walked away. He smiled and shook his head at the thought of the waitress coming on to him.

Suddenly he felt vulnerable ... like a newborn ... hell he was a newborn, or might as well be. Walking around in this big new world, if someone asked him his name he wouldn't know what to tell them. He had no driver's license, no birth certificate, no identification of any kind. This bothered Broc more than he cared to admit. He cut his eyes over to the waitress. He may hate himself in the morning, but he had other things on his mind, and turned to put another coin in the jukebox.

As the music played, Broc's mind began working. It had become painfully clear that his new situation had put him on the spot with no place to live and no car. He could probably manage to get a car somehow, but what about a place to live? He had money, but didn't know if he could swing the rent these apartments charged today. Using his cards he had managed to gather together enough cash to last him a while. But what about when it was gone? He couldn't get a job...

And then Northclyf crossed his mind.

If he could go back there it would be the answer to all his problems. It was something to think about. Maybe it might work ... maybe it wouldn't. But it was a wild idea! WILD idea!

But he couldn't do anything without a car ... got to concentrate on a car. Short of stealing one, where was he going to get a car without a driver's license? He sat there for a while, raking his hand through his hair, then suddenly came up with the perfect solution. He quickly got a phone book out and ran down a list of car rental agencies. Instead of picking the best, he circled the smallest, and least reputable he could find, then tore the page from the book.

Jumping up, he paid his tab, and slammed out like a wild Texas wind. He was in a hurry. He tore across busy streets, ran down alleyways, and finally found the little hole in the wall he was looking for. He'd almost missed it, since it looked like it was hiding among the ratty little dumps on this short strip of mall. "Elite Car Rental, Broc muttered, then snickered. Just the sound of it was cheap, he thought. He went in, waved a hundred dollar bill in front of the pimply youth, and grabbed a set of keys so fast he scared the boy spitless.

When the boy saw Broc looking at the dashboard as if he were trying to figure it out, he bit his lip, worried. He pointed out a few things, then stepped back when he saw him start and stop, veer one way, then the other. His eyes furtively darted around to see if anyone was looking, then stepped back quickly when he saw him shoot out of there like a bat out of hell. He doubted if they would ever see the car in one piece again, but with a hundred dollar bill tucked safely away in his pocket, he didn't really care. Broc tried to make him believe his car and license had been stolen, but when the boy saw that Broc didn't even know how to drive it, he knew he'd been lying. It left him wondering why a thirty year old man would need a crash course in driving, and wouldn't have a license.

Broc didn't give the kid another thought as he cruised down the freeway, wondering where he would sleep tonight. For some reason his thoughts naturally turned toward the boardwalk. It was a nostalgic place to him since it was his and Ravyn's favorite meeting place. Their affair had begun there, then slowly progressed into a blur of cheap, blinking, scorching motel room lights. They had to sneak around as if their love was wrong, or dirty, but she didn't seem to mind. She rewarded him with rough and tumble rides while rocking above him, until they both exploded into unbelievable orgasms that left them exhausted, sweaty and satisfied. It was then, while they were having one hell of an affair that Ravyn had a scare ... a scare that brought Broc out of the shadows and into the lives of her family. When she found out she was pregnant her family pressured her into telling them who she'd been seeing. She refused for a long time, then finally, among all the arguments, tears, and stubborn silences, she ultimately broke down and confessed.

The next thing Broc knew, he was looking down at a stack of bills that he knew would make all his problems disappear. It was more money than he'd ever seen in his life and it was being offered to him by Ravyn's father. He agonized, his teeth clenched in anger, when he remembered the man's dark eyes, the hate that was etched on his face ... and his words ... his ugly, dirty, filthy words.

"Ravyn sent me. She knows you need money. He looked down at it. "There's enough there to get medical help for your mother, see you through law school, and anything else you need. He turned to go.

"Wait a goddamned minute, Broc said, a frown of confusion on his face. "What the hell are you saying?"

The man turned, his eyes boring into Broc's. "I didn't want to tell you, but Ravyn had an abortion today. She doesn't want to see you anymore."

The news hit him like a gun blast. "My God, he said, feeling for a chair and sitting down. "My child ... and she ... she ... killed it, he whispered. "She- he looked up at the man as if he had just heard his death sentence. "-we love each other ... she wouldn't."

Tears welled up in his eyes when he thought about that day. Broc still didn't want to believe any of it. He knew that her family was embarrassed that she was seeing a man whose mother cleaned toilets for a living and would do anything to get rid of him, even lie. It didn't matter that he was ambitious ... studying to be a lawyer ... that someday he'd be able to give her all the things she was accustomed to. And it sure as hell didn't matter to them that they loved each other ... at least he thought she loved him. He ached inside when he thought of the child ... the child that would reinforce their love, not drive a wedge between them. Had he ever really known her? When it came right down to it, maybe she was a snob like the rest of them ... a St. James snob through and through. He simply wasn't good enough, and never would be. Thinking she was lost to him ... thinking he would never see her again ... he took the money. But when she came to the train station and begged him not to go, he got confused. Had she changed her mind? Was she playing with him? One minute she wanted him, the next minute she didn't? Was this some kind of rich girl's game? He wanted more than anything to get off that train and kiss her tears away, but it was too late. Plans had been made for his life, his education ... and the fifty thousand dollars tucked neatly away, spelled success.

He pounded an angry fist against the steering wheel while a pool of hot tears crept down his cheeks. Why hadn't he jumped down off that train and found out what the truth was? There would always be another train, but never another Ravyn. Someone else will come along, he'd told himself, but no one ever did. Sure, he'd had lots of women, but never another like her. Her family's screaming voices and scowling faces said he'd ruined her, and maybe he had, but she'd ruined him as well. No woman could ever measure up to his Ravyn, so he never married, but concentrated solely on his career. After all, that's why he took the money, isn't it? To make a name for himself? He tried to tell himself it was for different reasons, but he knew the truth. He knew that every drop of midnight oil he burned, every outrageous show he put on in the courtroom, every time his name was printed in the paper, and every picture of him that appeared in a magazine, was done to get her family's attention. He wanted to make them pay ... pay for looking down on him ... pay for taking their precious daughter from him ... and pay for offering a poor, ambitious boy money that they knew he couldn't refuse. Yes, he wanted to make them sorry ... make them feel that they had acted hastily. He wanted to take his success, and his money and slap them in the face with it ... beat them to death with it ... make them bleed. But somewhere along the way he'd sold his soul. Maybe not to the devil, but to the world, and to the flesh. And now look where he was. The devil had finally caught up with him, and he was running once again ... but instead of money in his pocket, he had youth. Running true to form, he thought as he lifted a hand and stroked his firm cheek that had tears cascading down it. Then suddenly he began being unreasonable, blaming the whole St. James family for his troubles ... everything from his poverty, to his mother's sickness, to his father deserting him. Anything that went wrong in his life was their fault ... but still he couldn't drive the love he had for Ravyn out of his heart. It was there ... and there it would stay.

He squinted down the long ribbon of road, trying to put the long ago hurts behind him while the wind whipped at his hair, and dried his tears. It was all water under the bridge, he told himself. It had happened too long ago for him to still be hurting over it, so he forced his mind in a new direction, and decided to try and think of a name for himself. Dummy ... lummox ... clown ... bozo, seemed to come easily to his mind, but with a sarcastic curl to his lips, he pushed them out, and whizzed down the highway, mumbling. "Buford ... Roger ... no, maybe something a little more ... well ... sexy. Rock ... Dash ... Rex ... sheee, everything sounds so ... I don't know ... fictional ... totally unreal ... all right, stupid! He wanted his name to say something, have significance, so he drove all day thinking, then suddenly looked up, realizing it was dark. He looked down at his watch and couldn't believe it was after midnight. While looking around for a motel, he happened to see a collection of tombstones sitting upon a hill. Curious, he pulled over and stopped. Sitting there, he remembered the last time he'd been in a graveyard and his eyes became moist.

Since he'd re-gained his youth, he'd been feeling many things, only one of them being a flood of memories. It was inevitable that he would mourn his mother's death all over again, and strange how all the bad memories seem to engulf you, while the good ones stay hidden. The memories were so sharp, it felt like she had died only yesterday instead of decades ago. She had worked herself to death to send him through school. She was on her hands and knees every day cleaning other people's toilets just so he could follow his dream, and then died before she could see his success. He wondered what she would think of him if she had lived to see him become the lawyer she had always told him he could be. Would she have been proud? Proud to see his name in the papers, his face on magazine covers? Would she be proud of all the money he had made? It was more than she'd ever seen in her life. God, if she'd only lived long enough for him to take care of her. She would never have had to scrub another toilet. He remembered seeing her hands dry and cracked from the strong solution she had to use. Tears edged his eyes as he remembered the blood that would seep through those cracks, and how she would have to keep them tied up in rags. He could still see her sitting at their old scratched up table counting pennies. How many times had he seen a bloody finger sticking out of a bandage of rags moving pennies around on that old table. Had it been any wonder that fifty thousand dollars had looked like a fortune to him? God, how he wanted to kiss the hands that had worked for him all those years. Kiss away the blood and make them all well and whole again. She had worried about him. Worried everytime he became hurt or disappointed. When he first started out, he was arrogant ... thought he was immortal. But then when things didn't happen right away, he became afraid. It wasn't as easy as he thought, and he became afraid of the what ifs.

What if it didn't happen for him.

What if he wasn't good enough.

What if ... what if ... what if. It was strange. It seemed the day she died was the day he began to get his breaks.

Trying to push these tormenting thoughts from his mind, he got out of his car and trudged up toward the graveyard. He walked among the tombstones until he saw an old tilted stone with a deeply carved inscription...

Grey Shanley

1838 - 1865

He traveled down one

dirt road too many

Broc read the inscription, wondering what it meant. According to the dates, this man was only twenty-seven when he died, and here Broc had not only lived once to a ripe old age, but had been given a second chance. He knelt down by the grave and whispered, the wind carrying his words into infinity. "I hope it's okay if I take your name, Grey Shanley. You died before you got a chance to live, so maybe you'll let me live for you. If you can, look at the world through my eyes. Smell, hear, and feel through me. Broc looked around when the wind suddenly whistled and his eyes followed every creeping shadow. The graveyard looked dark and lonely, and a snake-like fog began curling around his ankle and slipping sensuously beneath his trousers. He wondered what kind of graveyard this was, sitting here all alone on the top of a hill. No gate, no wall, just a lot of crumbling tombstones sticking up out of the ground. Maybe a graveyard of lost souls, he thought, then looking back down at the grave of Grey Shanley, he knew at least one of them was. Just then he looked up at a full moon that was casting its icy brightness between the dark, twisted tree branches and felt the cold, bony fingers of the fog silently caressing his arms. When he felt the haunting wind brush his cheeks lightly with a chilling, ghost-like kiss, he rose and left quickly.

The next day, Broc found a local historical society, and through local records, he looked up the history of Grey Shanley. He learned that the boy had come from Georgia, and had fought in the war between the states. When the war was over and he was trudging down the dirt road on his way back home, a stinking bluecoat couldn't resist killing just one more southern boy. Apparently he had been buried on the very spot he had died. Broc was just about to click the machine off when down at the bottom of the screen he happened to see an artist's rendering of Grey. He was confused at first, then realized cameras were scarce on the battlefield, and this was the best they could do to get his likeness. If this was a true comparison, then he was a good looking boy with dark, curling hair. Someone with a bright future in front of him ... not a dirt road far away from home. From the words under the picture, he learned that Grey was strong willed and patriotic. He stood for truth and right, and when the war started he was among the first to go. He had endured scorching heat, and numbing cold, and it was a miracle that Grey had stayed alive as long as he did. But it was his stamina and his determination that kept him going, the article said ... until that fateful day on a narrow, dusty old road.

Broc wept for Grey. So near, yet so far away from those he loved. Those that were waiting for him to come home. He would have made it, except for a bluecoat that couldn't resist killing one more rebel. Broc felt a profound sense of guilt since he was originally from the north, and back in those days he would have been considered a bluecoat himself. "I'm sorry, he whispered to the pen and ink drawing of a handsome young man that apparently died for nothing.

So, hiding behind his newly acquired identity, Broc nursed the hurt around his heart and went a little wild. He stayed drunk a lot and found himself in one barroom brawl after another. Everytime he struck a face, he imagined it to be that of the dirty bluecoat, or he would see his mother's bloody hands wrapped up in rags. He wanted to kill the world, and with his fists flying, he tried. But it did no good, because the next night there was always another face ... and another ... and another.

One night when he got drunk he found himself walking down a dark road singing at the top of his lungs and swinging an empty bottle around. That was the night he met Roxanne Holt. In his drunken haze, he didn't notice the car that pulled up beside him. When she got out to help him, he draped himself all over her as if she were a long lost friend. She managed to get him back to his motel room, and believe it or not, she tucked him in and spoke to him in soothing tones until he fell asleep. The next morning he woke up with a king-sized hangover. Everytime he moved, his face screwed up with pain, and he moaned aloud at every sound he heard. In the days that followed he saw a lot of Roxanne. He had learned to like her, even though she was a mysterious type. She didn't lay all her cards on the table like other women did. She held back ... just a little, practically making him beg for it. She would make him chase her around the motel room, but when he finally got her in the sack, he made up for all the years he'd spent without a woman. Oh, baby, did he ever!

Roxanne slipped out of bed very carefully, then crept around slowly while she got dressed. While pushing her blouse down into her skirt, she stood at the foot of the bed, looking at the hunk that slept soundly. While watching him for the smallest movement, she picked up his wallet, opened it and saw a wad of bills that would choke an elephant. She pulled them out and found a place for them in the ample cup of her bra. Throwing the wallet down, she grabbed her lipstick and wrote a message on the mirror, then quickly grabbed her camera and snapped picture after picture of the sleeping beefcake that lay beneath a bunched up sheet that barely covered him. She crouched, turned the camera one way, then the other, and didn't stop until she saw him begin to twitch and move as if trying to shield himself from the bright flash. Quickly grabbing her purse she opened the door. Just before she stepped out, she looked back at him and her eyes revealed her admiration for her bed partner. "Wish I had time for another wild ride, baby, but- She patted her camera. "-this just won't wait. She turned to go, then turned back again. "By the way, thanks for the loan."

While he was getting rolled, Broc was in another world. Lightning was flashing and he was back in his dark room in the home. Suddenly the incessant flashing was inside ... surrounding him ... blinding him. He began yelling, trying to hide his eyes, but the bright flashes wouldn't stop until he lunged forward, finally coming out of his dream. He tried to open his eyes and look around, but everything was made fuzzy by a pounding headache. He closed them again, lowered his head, and raked his hands through his hair. After a while of nursing his hangover he slowly lifted his head and tried to open his eyes again. When he did, he saw one large, red, glaring word on the mirror...

Unforgettable!

* * * *

He came up off the bed as if he'd been shot. He looked around for Roxanne, then saw his wallet on the floor, and lunged for it. Looking inside, he saw it empty. Dropping it, he leaned over and cradled his head in his hands. "God, no! he yelled, remembering how he'd talked to Roxanne ... stupidly taking her into his confidence. He racked his hungover brain, trying to remember what he'd told her. He seemed to remember babbling the whole night about demons ... magic water ... and being eighty-six years old. He remembered her ever-present camera, but couldn't remember if she had mentioned being from a tabloid. She may not have believed his story, but for a fast buck he knew that bitch would probably spread it all over the paper if she could find someone stupid enough to print it.

CHAPTER FOUR

Broc was restless. He didn't know what to do. He knew he was overreacting, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. That tabloid would be out on the street, and he sure as hell didn't want to be recognized when it was. He racked his brain, but the only answer he could come up with was to grow a beard. What else was there? What did a person do when they wanted to disguise themselves, he wondered.

He finally got himself a pair of sunglasses and hid behind them day and night. He hardly ever went out anymore, but paced, occasionally peeking out the motel window as if someone was chasing him. Finally he lay down on his bed and snapped on the TV. A talk show was coming on. God, how he hated those things. He was just about to change channel when a young actor ambled out on the stage looking totally different than he usually did.

Broc kept staring at his familiar face, but couldn't seem to place who he was. The actor arrogantly lifted both hands and waved, then blew a few kisses to the girls while sitting down to be interviewed. The usual pleasantries along with a few laughs passed, finally getting to the part where he explained that he had to dye his hair to prepare for an upcoming movie role. When he said that, everything fell into place, and Broc lunged forward, staring at the miserable little creep he had never liked.

"Yeee-haaa! he cried, jumping up. "Why the hell didn't I think of that? All at once he snapped the TV off and began digging in his pockets. He counted out a few bills and wondered if he had enough there for what he needed. He turned quickly and began looking around on the dresser for loose change. How much did a box of friggin hair color cost, he wondered, then scooped up all his change and loose bills and ran across the street to a drugstore.

He felt like a pervert as he crept around in the women's hair colors with his head down. And then all at once his eyes widened, and his hand shot out quickly and grabbed one. Staring gratefully at the male model on front he wondered when the hell men had started changing the color of their hair? Seeing that it was barely within his price range, he looked at the box a long time, trying to decide if he really wanted to do this. He paced up and down the aisle, raked his hand through his hair a few hundred times before making up his mind. Then he couldn't decide if he wanted to go blonde, or not. The only other choice he had was red, and he wouldn't become a redhead if it harelipped every demon in hell. So, clenching his teeth with determination, he grabbed the box and paid for it with darting eyes and a blush coloring his face. He forced himself to walk normally toward the line of doors covering the front, but as soon as he got passed them he broke into a run, and didn't stop until he made it back to the motel.

Immediately tearing into the box, he walked into the bathroom while reading the instructions. His hands hesitated with inexperience as he poured, mixed, soaked and watched the clock, then when his head finally came up out of the motel sink, he looked into a completely different face. He'd tried to get his sideburns, but by the time he was through, his hair had come out in various shades of blond from the roots up, which created a contrast between the two colors that was dynamic, and just what the young people were wearing these days. He looked better than he thought he would, definitely setting him apart from the old Broc Sanford, and giving him a whole new identity.

The next day he packed his satchel, checked out of the motel he could no longer afford and drove up Pacific Avenue to the boardwalk and parked his car. Leaving it there, he took a stroll in his tight, faded jeans, his ravaged T-shirt, his sunglasses, and his boots, hoping he blended in with the others. He wanted to be just another face in the crowd. Someone that could come and go as he pleased and get swallowed up in humanity. He wanted to get as far away from a certain woman ... better yet, bitch ... or maybe alleycat described her ... as he could. He cursed the night he ran into her on that dark road. It was funny. She looked the part of a reporter. Always wore brown, even had sort of a brownish-red hair. He couldn't imagine her without her camera or the pencil she kept behind her ear. He remembered their last night together ... the night she used sex to dig the whole story out of him. He winced when he thought of how the headlines might read...

Famous lawyer makes deal

with devil to give him youth...

Mob lawyer does business with

the real underworld...

Man born in 1917 looks better

than Tom Cruise...

The haunting headlines suddenly disappeared when he came to a certain portion of the crowded promenade he remembered well. He could feel himself coming alive, roughly shuffling through a crowd of tourists until he found himself under it. He searched until he located the very same column he had pressed Ravyn against years ago as they made love. Now he sat with his back against it and listened to the scraping feet of passersby while he picked up a handful of sand and let it fall through his fingers. It ran through slowly, reminding him of an hour glass, each grain being a moment ... a day ... or even a year of someone's life ... his life.

All at once he looked up and the shadows had deepened into night, the moon rising over the water. From where he sat he could see someone in the ocean swimming toward shore. He lowered his hand and watched the vague figure become a woman floating buoyantly on the choppy water until she rose majestically out of the surf and walked toward the beach. She was nothing but a silhouette at first, but the walk ... the mannerisms ... the one piece white suit that was considered risqué in their day. It was her, and everything about her cried sex! As she came closer the rainbow of boardwalk lights bathed her in their colorful glow causing the tiny drops of water to sparkle like sprinkles of glitter. She boldly walked up to him and peeled off her bathing cap, revealing the saucy dark hair. Now as she stood before him, her haunting presence was a shimmering blue glow, marred only by her tears that mingled with the ocean water. Why did you leave? she asked, her voice a distant echo. Why? You said you loved me. I could have never left you. Why did you leave me?

"I was stupid, Ravyn ... young and stupid. I cared for you, but your family had money. I wanted to make my fortune so that you wouldn't be ashamed to marry me. I wanted to give you a good life."

She knelt before him. I could never be ashamed of someone I love, Broc.

"I know that now."

I still love you, I'll love you forever my darling.

"And I love you."

She went into his arms slowly, their eyes meeting and savoring each other after so many years. As his lips kissed her, she tasted wild ... untamed ... like the ocean. He rolled her over, placing her beneath him where he could feel every beautiful curve of her body. The memories came surging back when she responded to him by opening her legs and inviting him in. He began drawing on her breasts while her willing body moved against him, causing his young, lively cock to harden. "Oh God, how could I have left you, Ravyn. How could I have sold our love for only fifty thousand dollars? He looked with wonder at the woman in his arms ... the woman he'd spent a liftime loving and remembering, and tears crowded his eyes. "I can't believe I traded all of this for something that didn't mean half as much. He lowered his head then, and made a sensuous trail along the soft curve of her neck, whispering his love with every tiny kiss. Then suddenly he felt her being wrenched from his arms. He reached out, but the vision moved away from him, and her voice became an echo, swirling around him.

Come back to me, Broc ... come back. Look for me, I'm closer than you think.

Her voice slowly faded, and Broc knew she was leaving him. "No, Ravyn, Broc called, "don't go! Come back! But she continued to fade until he could see the large, round columns of the boardwalk through her image.

When he opened his eyes the light and shadow of the boardwalk slats were lying undisturbed on his face. He lunged forward and looked around, realizing he'd only been dreaming. He lifted his hand and looked at it. The grains of sand still covered it as if it had been only moments ago that he had been sifting sand through it, but apparently a whole night had passed. He felt the hurt tugging at his heart once more, and his eyes filled with tears. "I will come back Ravyn, he whispered. "Wait for me, my love, I'll be back ... and when I do, I'll never leave you again. With a heavy heart he slowly rose from the sand, brushed himself off, then walked aimlessly along the lonely, vacant boardwalk. He looked around at vendors just opening up their concessions, then up at the seagulls as they sailed smoothly against a bleak, gray sky that made him feel empty and lost.

* * * *

Broc sat in his car looking at the foreboding rise of spirals and towers while smoking a cigarette. He heard the familiar ocean waves slapping against the cliff and thought of his situation. He had no money ... nothing. He had lived on credit cards until there was nothing left, and now his only option was to find a job ... somewhere. He looked down at the pocket of his shirt to see how many cigarettes he had left. This was his last pack, and he didn't know where his next meal was coming from. He knew he was taking a chance with what he had in mind. What if someone recognized him? Even with his new looks he knew it was possible. In the satchel he carried a few clothes and all of his toiletries ... everything he had in the world. His strong, handsome face had grown a stubble, and he still wore the single, small, golden earring. Even dirty and rumpled, he could have been picked as the Sexiest Man Alive in People Magazine by anybody's standards.

He lifted his hand and stroked the merest shadow of a mustache, and hoped that whoever he talked to thought his virile bristle was intended instead of knowing he hadn't had a place to clean up. He moved his hand up and felt of his earring, then dipped a finger down into his breast pocket and put on a few of those that bracketed his upper ear. Every little bit helps, he thought, then pulled out a comb and pulled it through his thick hair that fell well below his collar. It was longer than he'd ever worn it, but that was good. He had to hide his identity as best he could and hoped he had done enough. He looked down at his clothes. They fit well enough, and their tight fit would iron out any wrinkles. There wasn't much he could do for his scuffed up boots, but they'll pass, he thought as he lifted each one and rubbed their tops against the backs of his skin-tight jeans.

He finally emerged from his car, looked up at the window of his old room, then threw down his cigarette just before he ambled across the crumbling road that was once a street. As he strode up the walk he looked around at the tired, gray heads, the worn faces, and felt a real compassion for each one. He knew what they were going through. He knew that they looked back into their pasts daily, and maybe some even shed a tear or two. Hell must be packed with those that were willing to give up their souls for a little youth. The way things were going, someday his would be among them.

He slowly opened the screen door and looked in. There was no one at the desk, but as he walked on in, he recognized Rena Garrison, the head mistress of Northclyf come through a rear door and smile when she saw him.

"I'm sorry, visiting hours aren't for..."

"No- Broc said with some reticence, "-I'm not here to see anyone. I'm ... uh ... looking for a job. I can..."

"I'm sorry, Mister ... uh..."

Broc opened his mouth to give her the name, Grey Shanley, but somehow his glance locked on a book someone had been reading and he blurted out, "King ... my name is King. As soon as he said it, he winced, thinking he sounded more like a dog than a man. He wanted to take it back, but it was too late.

"King, huh? the woman said as if she was impressed. "I like it. It sounds very manly ... strong.

Broc took a deep breath, relieved that she didn't burst out laughing, and began wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Not realizing the sweat on his brow was from nerves, and not the weather, the woman plucked a Kleenex from the box and handed it to him. "It's so hot for this time of year."

"Yes- he mumbled, using the tissue she gave him to blot the sweat on his face, "-yes, it is."

"Anyway, Mr ... uh... she looked confused, "iss King your last name, or first?"

Cutting his deceptive eyes over to the book, he blurted out, "First."

"And your last?"

"Uh ... well... Broc began nervously, "its... He wanted to kick himself. Why hadn't he thought of a name before he got here. He looked down at the book again. He'd already given his first name as King, what was he going to do now? With that damned book staring him in the face, all he could think of was Stephen. Talk about being able to think on your feet, he felt like the village idiot. Then he looked up at her, smiled weakly, and being totally out of ideas, he thought, oh well, what the hell? "Steven ... son, Broc said, gritting his teeth for the expected reaction. "King Stevenson."

She frowned, glanced down at the book, and said, "This is wild. King Stephens, Stephen King?"

"Steven ... SON, he emphasized, "and it's spelled with a v, not a ph. He smiled weakly. "People tease me about it all the time. Under her sagacious scrutinization, his eyes began darting around.

"Do you have identification?"

"No ... I ... what I mean to say is ... I lost it when I was robbed ... just last week, in fact. The lie lay heavy on his tongue, so he couldn't meet her eyes and stared uncomfortably at some point beyond her face.

"Well, Mr ... uh ... Steven ... son- She hesitated, then added, "-with a v ... uh ... as I was saying..."

Suddenly one of the nurses that was trying to hang some curtains in a large window in the salon fell off the step ladder, making a big noise. The two of them turned and ran inside to see what it was, and without thinking Broc hurried to her, helped her up, then hung them without incident, and without the step ladder. When he finished he turned and asked, looking from one to the other, "Don't you have someone around here who can do the heavier jobs for you? He looked down at the nurse that had enjoyed the feel of his arms around her. "She could have been badly hurt."

"Well ... now that you mention it..."

"There, you see? You didn't think you needed anyone, but the fact is, these lovely ladies around here need help. Broc smiled and nodded at several of the nurses that had come in when they heard the noise.

The woman looked around at the nurses, then back down to the one who had fell, and gave her an impatient look. "Olive, she began, but the nurse paid her no attention. "Olive! she said a little louder.

The nurse finally came out of her dream-like state and looked over at the head mistress. "Oh ... yes, Ms. Garrison."

"Time to go back to work, she ordered. But when she noticed the nurse still wasn't moving, she yelled, "Now, Ms. Foster!"

"Oh, The nurse's voice trembled. "y-yes ma'am. She turned to hurry away, embarrassed at the reprimand. Just then she felt Broc's hand on her arm, and stopped suddenly, turning toward him.

"Are you all right? Nothing broken or anything?"

"No, the nurse said timidly, then slid her eyes toward Ms. Garrison. "We do need..."

"Olive ... I'll take care of this. Just go back to work, dear."

"Yes ma'am, the nurse said while casting a mischievous eye toward Broc, and smiling.

Ms. Garrison turned and looked at the others, that by now had gathered in a group and were tittering and smiling at Broc. "Well, haven't you got work to do?"

"Yes ma'am, they muttered, cutting their eyes over to Broc as they each went their own way.

Broc recognized every one of them, and tried to get used to the way they looked at him now. Not like before, but with interest ... sexual interest.

Ms. Garrison watched until each nurse was out of sight, then brought her attention back to Broc. To hire him would most likely be a wrong move, but even she was captivated by the tall, strongly built, handsome young man, which could be very very bad for a staff of young, attractive nurses. The only men around were those that came every once in a while to do repairs. Everyone of them were dirty, smelly slobs. They were clearly nothing like this young man. She looked him up and down while pacing around him. "No fooling around with the nurses, she said crisply. "No flirting, no hiding in dark corners with your hands all over them. If I find out..."

Broc smiled when he realized he had been hired. "You don't have to worry, Ms. Garrison. I'll abide by the rules. If you've got a hands-off policy, say no more. He gave a slight shrug. "It's done."

The woman smiled, but the smile had an edge to it. "Don't think you have me fooled Mr. Stevenson. I think we both know you're lying."

"Look..."

"You're not going to try and tell me I'm wrong, are you? Really, Mr. Stevenson. You show up here with no identification, a fictitious name, nervous as hell, and you expect me to believe you. Well, she continued with a gleam in her eye, "I'll play your little game, but there's a price to pay. I only hope your worth it."

Broc felt a chill, wondering what her remark meant. "I'd just like to explain..."

"Look, I don't care what the story is. If you've just escaped from prison, killed someone, or if you're being chased, it doesn't matter. All I ask is that you do your job and I'll keep your secret, let you hide out in a nursing home. She smiled, looking him over. "I have to commend you. It's perfect. A place filled with nothing but old people and women? Who would think of looking here?"

"Really..."

"Quiet, she interrupted. "You'll start tomorrow morning if that is convenient- Suddenly her eyes narrowed. "-and whether it is or not..."

"Tomorrow's fine, he said, his eyes downcast and his voice soft and submissive. All right, so she knew something, but she didn't know what she knew. My God, Broc thought. What would Freud think of that statement?

"When was the last time you had a good meal?"

"Well..."

"I thought so. Go into the kitchen..."

Remembering the slop he had to eat when he was here, he declined, saying, "No thanks, Ms. Garrison, applesauce is not exactly my idea of a good meal. Backing away, he continued, "You don't have to worry about me, I'll get something ... somewhere."

"Mr. Stevenson ... uh ... King, our residents are given what they need. Some don't have teeth, and their digestive systems are not what they were when they were younger. Naturally I wouldn't expect a brawny young man like yourself to eat applesauce. I was simply going to suggest that you go into the kitchen and fix yourself something. We have soup, meat, eggs, potatoes ... almost anything you would want ... even junk food. Then she looked at him with a touch of mischief dancing in her eyes. "But don't touch the applesauce. That's reserved for the residents."

He smiled at his own stupidity. "Yes ma'am ... sorry."

"That's okay, she replied, smiling as he left the foyer. She watched him, expecting him to hesitate, look around, or even ask where it was, but her smile turned to a frown when she saw his confident stride disappear around the dining room arch that lead into the kitchen. She wondered how he knew where it was, and quickly followed him.

He turned when he realized she was behind him.

"How did you know where the kitchen was?"

Broc had to think quick. "Well, the kitchen is usually below the bathroom... he lifted a finger, pointing to the upper floor, "there's a bath..."

"But how..."

Broc shrugged, and looked upward at the structure. "Well ... these old ... uh ... mansions are all about the same ... aren't they?"

I suppose so, she said thoughtfully, then added, "By the way, wash up after you eat. Don't use the dishwasher, it's the commercial type, and can only to be used for big loads."

"Yes ma'am, he said, cringing a little at the close call he just had.

Later, Ms. Garrison found Suzette sitting at the front desk reading her book. "Suzette..."

Suzette jumped, then laughed, feeling stupid.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay, I guess I was in my own little world."

"So, how're you getting along on the front desk? Any problems?"

"No. Actually things are kind of quiet right now. She held the book up. "I've been reading."

"I'm going out for a few hours, I just need to put these things away."

"Have you heard anything about Mr. Sanford?"

"I'm afraid not."

"It's so strange, Suzette commented. "What do you think happened?"

"Oh, I don't know, the older woman said while flipping papers and stacking folders, "he's probably up in some spaceship somewhere having his no-no's punched, prodded and poked."

"Do you have any idea where she is?"

"She? Rena asked, looking at Suzette questioningly.

"You know. The girl he had the affair with."

Rena stopped abruptly, her eyes, thoughtful. "It's very odd ... a mystery, you know? After Broc Sanford left town she just seemed to disappear off the face of the earth. No one knows what happened to her. She didn't even come back to claim the mansion after her parents died."

Suzette looked closely at the older woman. "But that was a long time ago. Maybe she's here now ... living close ... very close."

"No, I don't think so."

"Why do you say that?"

"Honey, Rena replied while scurrying around trying to get things done, "if she were alive she'd be living in that old victorian mansion on the hillside ... in style I might add. That was her family home, you know. Once it was beautiful, but look at it now. Nothing but ghosts. The wood has darkened, the windows are broken out, and some nights you can almost hear voices coming from inside. Shouting, crying. I've even heard some people say that they heard Broc's name bellowed out in anger. Have you noticed how the tourists gather in front of it? I wouldn't be surprised if a lot of our tourist trade comes from that love affair. She looked at Suzette thoughtfully. "It seemed like an exchange somehow. He exchanged her for fame and fortune. She took a deep breath, then looked at Suzette sadly. "I wonder what she wound up with. Nothing but a broken heart, I'll bet ... and a fall from a high ridge. Rena hesitated for a moment, thinking. "I never knew the young Broc Sanford, but it's got to be one hell of a man that would drive a woman to suicide."

"Suicide ... but she didn't..."

"No, I know, but since no one's heard from her since, what else could it be?"

"Maybe she's just ... ashamed."

"Well, anything's possible, I suppose. After getting everything put up, the woman grabbed at her purse and headed toward the front door. "I'll be back this afternoon, I have some business to take care of."

Suzette tried to keep busy, but would glance anxiously at the phone. It hadn't rang all morning, and visiting hours wouldn't begin for a couple of hours yet. She looked around at the residents who were in the sitting room, either watching TV or playing games, then suddenly knew what she was going to do. She put the book down and headed for the stairs. She told herself she wouldn't stay long. She just wanted to see his room, fondle his private things. She wanted to feel him all around her, to bask in his presence somehow, make him more real to her.

At last she stood in front of the door and looked both ways down the mottled corridor. Shadows moved along the carpet, but they were only plant fronds that swayed, being moved by the air from ceiling fans. Since no one ever came up here, it was isolated most of the time. Even the elevator cage didn't come up this far. It stopped at the second level where all the residents lived, and if you wanted to go any further, you had to climb.

This level was sort of forgotten, except for Broc Sanford's room, and a smaller room next door. Even the hall lights were furnished with dim bulbs that kept the area draped in murky darkness. She slowly lowered her hand to the doorknob and turned it while cutting her eyes around to make sure no one was watching. Then she leaned down and passed easily under the yellow police tape across the frame of the door.

She stepped in quickly, closing the door behind her, then leaned against it to let her heart slow down. When her breathing became noraml, her eyes opened, then began darting around. She saw so much memorabilia from the twenties, she felt like she'd just stepped back in time. She saw an old phonograph and looked down at the record he must have been playing at one time. She tried to read the name of the song, but the label was so scratched up she could just barely make out ... Am I Blue. The name of the vocalist was impossible to read, so she leaned down and picked up the sleeve that was so ragged it was coming apart. On the front was a woman dressed in a strange, flashy costume. She had on a jeweled cap that fit so close to her head it made her heavily made up eyes look even larger. Her outrageous dress sparkled in the lights, hugged her hips, then gave way to beaded fringes. Her gartered legs were revealed through the daring jewels, and she knew that this must be an authentic scene right out of the twenties.

She brought the sleeve up close to her heart and closed her eyes, seeing someone dancing in Broc's arms. A surge of jealousy suddenly clutched at her, catching her so off guard, she dropped the sleeve. She was going to pick it up, but just then her eyes caught a famous newspaper item hanging on the wall. Her wide, curious eyes scanned the ancient print that told about five gang members that were dressed as policemen walking into a garage that doubled as a bootlegging depot in Chicago's North Side. Suzette's imagination blazed with gunfire, cold-eyed men, and a dark, dusty warehouse when she read how they had apparently shot and killed seven of "Bugs Moran's gang with submachine guns. The shooters were suspected of working for Al Capone, and the newspaper dubbed it The St. Valentine's Day Massacre.

Suzette felt surrounded by the past as she continued to look around. She wandered over to the nightstand and was surprised to see pictures of her grandmother and Broc, and grabbed them up quickly. They stood on cracked asphalt in front of a broken down old book store pushing a book forward that she just barely managed to make out was the sexual practices of other cultures. Their young faces were filled with rebellion, typical of the time in which they lived. She looked at all the pictures, the last one being the two of them cuddled up together in a small diner. Broc was leaning back against the wall of the booth, and Ravyn was in front, leaning back against him. His arms were around her, and they were both smiling up at the camera, their eyes keeping a secret ... an intimate secret. Just seeing them together, it looked so right ... like they were meant for each other. They both looked contented ... satisfied. She knew what that meant, it meant one was incomplete without the other, and it meant they had made love ... real love ... true love.

Tears crept down Suzette's cheeks. So it was true, she thought. Not that she'd ever doubted it, but if she had, these pictures were the proof that their affair had actually taken place, and that Broc never really forgot her. He apparently had kept these pictures preserved the best he could over the years and displayed them as a constant reminder. Suzette glanced at herself in the mirror, then looked down at the photo. With the exception of her hair that was a different color, she might look exactly like her. Suddenly discouragement filled her. So what if she looked like her grandmother? It was too late for her ... for her and Broc. And if by some chance she could have known him, what guarantee did she have that he would have wanted her?

She was about to turn away when she happened to notice one more picture. It was Broc alone, smiling into the camera with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Suzette couldn't believe how handsome he was. She stroked the picture, wishing she could keep it ... keep all of them ... but finally she put it back down, feeling only a portion of the sadness that her grandmother must have felt for years. She turned and sat down on the bed, bouncing for a moment in it's softness, then laid down on it. It was still unmade, and she naughtily hugged his pillows to her, surrounding herself with his scent.

Suddenly her eyes flew open when she heard a loud noise. She scampered off the bed, threw the pillows down and went to the door and pressed her ear against it. She looked around at the room, hating to leave, but knowing she'd been here way too long. After a while she opened the door very slowly and peeked around the frame. Seeing no one in the halls, she leaned down under the yellow strip and stepped out, closing the door behind her. She ran quickly, skipping down the stairs and hurrying back to the front desk. She saw Ginny at the counter leaning over a writing pad, then said apologetically, "Sorry, I had to go to the bathroom. Did anything happen?"

"Nah, Ginny said, looking bored. "Next time you have to go just call, I'll sit in for you."

"Yeah, Suzette said, "thanks."

Suzette sat down at the desk and picked up the book, but wasn't interested in reading it. Her dreams were much more exciting. She almost wished she could have lived in the stormy era in which Broc and her grandmother lived, and leaned back in the chair, her eyes fluttering to a close as she imagined what it must have been like.

Slowly she drifted into another world where she heard gun blasts, and saw the reckless spray of blood and gin all over an empty nightclub. And then she saw herself dressed in a sexy, tight-fitting gown and a jeweled cap. Her breath stopped when she saw him step out of a shadow wearing his pin-striped suit and sexy fedora. He looked at her, from beneath the lowered brim, his eyes dark and sensual. Just then Ravyn entered the room and his eyes shifted. Suddenly Suzette knew it was a contest. Who would he pick, her or Ravyn? She waited, but his eyes didn't move away. They stared at Ravyn as if hypnotized by her beauty. Making his choice, he turned his back on Suzette and walked toward Ravyn with a certain boldness in every step. Without waiting for an invitation, he forcefully pulled her into his arms...

Suzette quickly lunged forward in her chair, a killing pang of jealousy rising up inside her chest. Suddenly she hated her grandmother ... suddenly she wanted her dead!

CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning Suzette walked into the kitchen and saw the big table surrounded by excited, jabbering nurses. They all had silly smiles on their faces while they hovered over someone and flirted outrageously. She had heard that a real hunk had been hired, and grinned as she reached up and pulled a cup down from the shelf. While she poured coffee into it she furtively cut her eyes toward the man whose face was hidden by the lingering mass of chattering females.

Forcing her attention back to what she was doing, she tinkled around with spoons, the sugar bowl, and the creamer until she had the dark brew adequately turned into something other than coffee. Lifting the cup and touching the edge to her lips, she slowly turned and leaned against the counter, a curiosity building up inside her. Her eyes kept seeking him out, then slowly ... in only seconds ... he came into view. Suddenly her eyes widened, her mouth dropped open, and her coffee cup slipped from her hands. She looked down and saw it falling in slow motion. The cup turned, rim over bottom, causing the blonde, sugary liquid to slosh everywhere. She looked back up and as he leaned back in his chair enjoying the frivolity around him, she was strangely reminded of an Egyptian Pharaoh leisurely being fed grapes by a crowd of love-starved females. On his face was the same smile she saw in the photographs. The wide smile that made the dimples on his cheeks become deeper, the coffee-brown eyes, the deeply arched brows. Oh my God, she thought, it's him. The same delicious shape of his mouth, his body ... everything. This man was Broc Sanford ... but he couldn't be, could he? All at once there was a loud noise that took her attention from the crowd at the table. She looked down at the shattered cup as if she was in a trance, then back up at the ghost of Broc Sanford.

Broc stood up quickly, fought his way through the nurses, and came to her aid. He grabbed a dishtowel and began picking up the broken pieces. While he was kneeling at her feet, he looked up and she was still staring down at him. It was as if her eyes had captured his, and an electricity such as neither of them had ever known passed between them. In each of their minds a boardwalk, wild surf and gritty bodies writhing in the sand seemed to be tightly ensnared until Suzette, who had a tormented look in her eyes made a small cry that sounded like a sob coming from her throat. "I'm s-sor... she tried to say, but when she couldn't finish, she turned and ran from the kitchen.

"What's wrong with her? one of the nurses whispered.

"She'll be all right, "the other nurse explained, "she's just embarrassed."

While Broc was cleaning up the mess, his troubled eyes darted toward the open door that she ran through. Her eyes had dug down deep into his soul. He was concerned with what she saw there.

* * * *

Suzette stumbled out and slammed into the nearest bathroom. She was literally quaking inside. The upheaval in her stomach was so violent, she felt herself getting sick. She leaned over the toilet while everything in her stomach came out. Pictures went through her mind of two people walking arm in arm on the boardwalk until they couldn't keep their hands off each other and had to go underneath. She thought of the surf that chilled her and the heat of passion that burned her up until she reached the ultimate satisfaction. Where were these thoughts coming from? Had she heard the stories from her grandmother for so long now that they had become a part of her? She had never been under the boardwalk, or walked on it with any man, much less him. She had been having these visions for days now, and felt as if she were caught between these two people, serving as some kind of conduit, making it possible for them to reach out and touch, feel, and come together through her. Then a thought suddenly struck her. Of course, she thought when she looked up at her reflection in the mirror. Maybe I don't look exactly like my grandmother, but after all I am a part of her. Knowing the story of their love ... and feeling it ... and being a woman, I can understand my grandmother's feelings. It's simple ... nothing unusual about it. It was something called gene transference, that's all. Hadn't she heard some shrink talk about it one day on TV? Sure, it could happen to anyone, she thought, convincing herself. Now, feeling she at last had her head on straight, she turned her thoughts to the guy in the kitchen. So who is this incredible look-alike, where did he come from, and why is he here? She could accept that he was just someone that looked like Broc Sanford, but the timing was just too perfect. The fact that he seems to have leapt out of the past and landed on the doorstep of Northclyf just after the old man disappeared was too much. She remembered the first day she saw him. Even then she thought it strange that he looked so much younger than the others and was shocked when the nurse told her he was eighty-six.

...eighty-six, going on thirty-six. We think he's been doing something to his hair ... we think he's been doing ... we think ... eighty-six, going on...

Suddenly her heart began pounding when she thought of the pictures on his nightstand. Her mind begin whirling, the face of an old man, slowly becoming young. It was impossible what she was thinking, and hung her head over the sink, shaking it vigorously. The whole world had been mourning Broc Sanford, apparently thinking he was dead, and even though she knew she had to be wrong, she felt like yelling to the world...

Broc Sanford isn't dead ... he's in the kitchen!

She waited until her stomach had finally settled down, then splashed some cold water on her face. Still curious, she finally walked out and hurried up to the front desk where she began searching through the application files. When she came to his, she learned that he had given the name of King Stevenson and he was from Boston. When she read that, her hand came up and clutched her stomach. She noticed he only had one year of college, having had to drop out because his mother was sick. She knew the story ... the story about Broc's mother working herself to death to send him through school. As she read on, she learned his background was similar to Broc's, with only a few variations here and there. It might have been the past of the real Broc Sanford if he hadn't went to Boston to become a lawyer, and this unnerved her. She quickly put the application back and clutched the edge of the counter, waiting for her breathing to return to normal.

So she'd had a shock, she thought, so what? She was over it now. She let go of the counter slowly and tried to busy herself with needless things while several nagging thoughts continued to bang around in her head. Perhaps people are recycled just like paper and plastic, she reasoned. It's entirely feasible that someone far in the future would resemble someone in the past. Why not? After all, how many faces can even God dream up to create? He has to duplicate some of them, surely. Suddenly she looked up and saw him coming toward her. "Oh, God, she mumbled, then did a doubletake when instead of a young man dressed in jeans, long hair, and earrings, she saw the breathtaking vision of Broc Sanford in a hip-hugging pin-striped suit, and a sexy fedora with the brim dipped down in front of one eye. She couldn't help but stare, then suddenly the vision disappeared, and she shook her head as if to clear it.

As he came closer she dropped her head and pretended to be busy, hoping he would pass by without speaking. Her eyes darted toward the phone. Ring, for God's sake! she silently urged. Then feeling a presence she looked up into the same eyes that she somehow knew had at one time stared out from beneath a flashy fedora, only now it was from beneath a wayward curl that dropped down along his forehead.

He sat a clinking cup of coffee down in front of her.

She looked at it, noticing that it was very blonde, just the way she liked it ... but how did he know? Her curious eyes lifted toward his.

"Are you okay? he asked softly, genuinely concerned.

"Yes, she smiled thinly, then turned her eyes downward. "Thank you for the coffee."

"No problem. I figured you needed it."

She smiled, her eyes glancing quickly toward the kitchen. "I'm sorry about that, she said, then looked up at him again. His face was so close, and his incredible coffee eyes stared into hers. She felt herself succumbing to the hypnotic spell of his powerful looks again, so she turned away quickly, determined not to stare. "I guess I ... well, I don't know what's wrong with me. Nervous, I suppose."

When his hand reached out and covered hers she saw his wrist and caught her breath. My God, she thought, it's the tattoo of a raven. She had learned that Broc had it put on his wrist at the boardwalk one day when he and Ravyn were together. This was too much. This man looked like him, wore his tattoo, had a similar background ... how else were they alike ... in bed, maybe? At the thought, she jerked her hand out of his and brought it up to her mouth to keep from crying out.

"If you need any help with anything, he was saying, "just call. I was hired to assist you ladies in your duties. All beautiful women need a man around now and again. You know, to move heavy furniture, or whatever, he said, trying to look into her eyes once again to see if the same magic was there that he had seen before.

"Yes, she said, with her eyes still lowered. "I'll do that."

"By the way, my name's King Stevenson. He hesitated, expecting her to introduce herself in return, but she was silent ... puttering around the desk doing things that really didn't need doing. With nervous hands she began sharpening a few pencils, and when she almost put a pen into the pencil sharpener, Broc caught her hand. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. She looked up at him with surprise, then moved her eyes down again, seeing what she was about to do. Becoming flustered, she turned away from him, embarrassed. "I know it won't work because I've done it a million times myself."

She turned back around and smiled, then began laughing at herself. "I'm sorry, Mister... She floundered, trying to remember his name.

"Stevenson, but I'd like it if you called me King."

"Well, King, she said, sweetly. "I guess today just hasn't been a very good one for me. It began when I got out of bed this morning."

They both laughed, their eyes meeting once again as he said, "Well that's what I'm here for ... to make your life easier."

"In that case you should have been in my bed... Her voice faded as the erotic suggestion became thick and heavy between them. Suddenly she lowered her head and she whispered, "I'm sorry. It seems I'm always saying the wrong thing ... doing the wrong thing. I don't know what's the matter with me today."

"I understand, he whispered as he looked deeply into her eyes and raised one eyebrow seductively, "but let's not abandon the idea."

She suddenly felt very hot and quickly grabbed for a fan and began moving it vigorously in front of her face. "It certainly is warm for this time of year."

"Yes it is, he responded, slightly amused at her discomfort. Then as he backed away slowly, he said, "Don't forget, I'm here if you need me."

Suddenly the vigorous movement stopped, and she put the fan down. "My name is Suzette, she said softly to his back.

He stopped, turned back to her and smiled, his eyes softening as they scanned her face. "Beautiful name, he said, "it fits. He gave her a flirtatious wink just before he walked away.

She watched him until the shadows enveloped him, then closed her eyes, willing her heart to slow down.

* * * *

She's taboo, Broc told himself as he slammed into the first bathroom he saw. He leaned over the sink, feeling his stomach doing flip-flops. He knew if he stayed here he wouldn't be able to stay away from her. He was also convinced that if he had any sense at all he'd get out on that friggin highway and get the hell away from this place. Then he lifted his eyes and began talking to his handsome reflection. "Maybe I could sleep with her just once... Quickly realizing what he was saying, he hung his head. After a few seconds he slowly raised his eyes and narrowed them on his own reflection. "You miserable weakling, he hissed, "can't you put a lid on it for a few weeks? If you touch her ... just once, you'll be playing right into the hands of that worthless demon from hell!"

Aleksa leaned back on his throne, looking at the screen with his fingers spread, and pushing against each other. As his index fingers rested against his chin, the weak insult brought a smile to his lips. "Worthless? Aleksa said. "Really, Broc, when will you learn to insult me in style? How about despicable, low, contemptible, wretched, or depraved? Those I can be proud of, but worthless ... sheeee! While the flames licked insatiably around him, he looked again at the screen and frowned. "Talk about dull, how about a little action, huh? He picked up the bloody colored drink beside him, blew the smoke aside, and muttered, "If this keeps up, I'll have to turn on cable!"

Broc looked down at his watch that reflected eleven eighteen. Lunch would be served soon, he thought, and he would have to be in the kitchen with her. How was he going to get through it? He wouldn't be able to keep his eyes off her. He'd have to touch her, brush up against her. Maybe he could beg off ... say he was sick. No, dammit, he told himself. This is my first day for God's sake. I can't be sick on my first day. Then an idea hit him. If he concentrated on one of the other girls, maybe she would take his mind off Suzette. He needed someone ... someone that would let him ... Hell, sex should be easy enough to find around here, and who knows, it just might work. Just then the tantalizing picture of her incredible green eyes and bold red lips came to mind, making him wonder if he was fooling himself. He looked down at his watch again and remembered the things he had to do before lunch and turned to leave the bathroom. Just as he was coming out, Ginny, the little blue-eyed redhead that made no secret of how she felt about him, was passing. "Hey Gin, he said, suddenly very friendly.

"Hey there handsome, she returned, stepping up close to him.

She began her outrageous flirting while Broc cut his eyes back at Suzette and saw her watching them. "What's cookin', babe?"

"I know where there's an empty room, she said, looking up at him seductively.

"Yeah? Goin a little fast, aren't you? Besides, I was warned to stay away from you chicks. No feelin up the nurses, the old lady said."

"You talkin about Garrison? She's not gonna fire you, darlin'. She's got the hots for you herself."

"What? Broc said, as his surprised eyes left Suzette, and frowned down at Ginny.

"Sure, didn't you know?"

"You gotta be wrong, sugar. Old lady Garrison wears iron underwear."

"Not where you're concerned, handsome."

"Too bad, he whispered in Ginny's ear, "she's not my type, but I know someone who is. She smiled up at him when his hands began stealing around her waist. He happened to look up at the blonde-haired beauty at the reception desk, and it was the sight of her that made his arousal begin to harden.

"Hey do I feel a bomb that's about to go off?"

"Only one way to find out, he said. "Where's that room you said was empty?"

Her voice lowered in a whisper, "It's Broc Sanford's old room. You know, the old man that came up missing?"

Broc looked down at her. "You mean they haven't rented that room out yet?"

"Not yet. Everybody thinks he's dead, but since the police haven't found a body yet, they're still investigating. Anyway, Ms. Garrison doesn't want to let it go until she knows for sure the old man isn't coming back. Her blue eyes gave Broc a coquettish look, then the edge of her lips lifted in a sexy grin. "The old man's bed is just goin to waste, know what I mean? It's kinda private since it's on the top floor. No one wants to climb up there without a real good reason, she said, watching him for a reaction. "I could think up one or two, couldn't you?"

"Maybe ... if I thought about it a while, he said with a lazy-eyed, flirtatious grin.

"A word of advice, though. Since it still has the yellow police line across the frame, just make sure it stays in place, or else someone might get wise."

A million things were going on in Broc's mind with this new information. How could he use it to his advantage, he wondered. His question was answered the next morning.

CHAPTER SIX

It was still early when Rena Garrison sat at her desk flipping through a pile of employment applications that dated all the way back to when Northclyf had first opened its doors.

She kept all extensive personnel records in her desk drawer, but simple application files, personnel forms, and current business was kept downstairs at the front desk, convenient for the nurses. All personnel records older than five years were kept in a dusty little enclosure just off the bathroom. It had been built as a dressing room, but since Rena didn't use it, she stored the three file cabinets in there, refusing to keep them in her office since they were old and scarred. All other records, except those most current were boxed up and kept in the attic.

Her half-glasses perched on the end of her nose as she lifted one application then another until she came to her own. The date on it was June 19, 1914. Previous to her was Willhemina Davis ... Willie they'd called her. The black woman had been one of the founders of the home. The one, in fact, that had hired Rena just before the old woman was due to retire. The home had changed owners four times since then, but long before that, poor Willie had died. In fact everyone that Rena knew when she first came to work for Northclyf had died long ago.

That made it convenient for her.

No one knew Rena's exact age, or even how long she had been employed there. It was the perfect set up since the old people never lasted long. Neither did the young nurses who after a few years were off to greener pastures. Rena felt very secure in keeping her secret in this setting. There was never anyone around that could wonder about her, and her longevity. Even the owners weren't local, and when a new one took over they did nothing more than come up and take a look at the place to be sure everything was running smoothly. All it took was a brief look through the financial records, a few questions, a walk through the home, ending with a chat with the residents, and they were gone, satisfied. Since the owners were located far down the coast there were no surprise visits, only a telephone call now and then. As long as she could give them a sterling report, and assure them there were no problems, everyone was happy. And Rena was good at handling problems, even if the solution was ... well ... extreme.

She thought back to how radically the world had changed since she'd been alive. She'd seen wars, famines, plagues, people dying in the street. She thought back to the days of her youth when sitting in her hand-carried coach the drivers would have to stop and push the impoverished, skeletal bodies off of the roadway for her to pass. She'd seen empires crumble, rulers come and go.

Many had endured, but none like her.

She picked up a mirror and looked at herself. Her skin was flawless, and her eyes exotic and dark. Her hand moved up to her face, and stroked it. She knew the price she had to pay to stay young ... to live. To say she upset the normal rules attached to living and dying, was understated to say the least. The whole schedule of the Soul Collector had to be revised, all because of her, and her palace witch. She had been devastated when Ramla died. The old witch had been around a long time, but because Aleksa had to balance the scales, he had to take her.

Someone has to die, he had said, just be glad it isn't you.

And now, since she owed the bastard, he came to her for favors from time to time. She was afraid it was a debt she would never get paid in full. She bitterly recalled their encounter one dark night not long ago, just before King showed up on the doorstep of Northclyf. Her plush apartment had been lighted with lamps emitting a golden glow, and the curtains that lined her wide balcony were as light and thin as gossamer so they wouldn't merely blow, but would wisp easily on the wind. She loved to wander out and look into the night sky and see the sparkling stars that reminded her so much of the blue skies of her home. She didn't worry about curious onlookers, her apartments were high off the beach, and very privats since that end of the peninsula gave way to a windy bluff.

When he appeared, the lamps dimmed, and his looming silhouette was broken only by his red, glowing eyes.

"I'm sending someone to you ... you do the rest, he whispered.

"But how will I know him?"

"You work around old people. He'll be young, handsome ... virile."

"Can't you tell me something about him? What about his history ... who is he?"

"It's better you don't know. Use your talents to do what you do best ... and you know what that is."

"Tell me who he is, or no deal! she lashed out angrily.

"I don't have to tell you anything, bitch. If you want to stay on this earth another five hundred years, you'll do as I say."

"But I can't..."

"This is hell's business, he rasped loudly, "and none of yours! His red, glaring eyes penetrated hers. "Now ... he'll be here in two days. And you'll do as I say, or suffer the consequences."

She stood there speechless, hating the fact that she was subject to his power over her. But she had no choice, she needed him. He brought her young men from time to time. Young men that were so vital to her.

His eyes bored into hers. "Lucretia..."

"Don't call me that! she said, looking around as if afraid someone might hear.

"Afraid someone might guess who you really are ... Ms. Borgia?"

"I don't give a damn what you call me, but I want you to know one thing. I'm not used to..."

"Then get used to it, bitch, Aleksa spat. His eyes held something dark and fierce when he said, "I know you're weakness for young men, but whatever you do, don't ... and I repeat don't ... sleep with him!"

The bastard knew what she'd been thinking. A young, handsome man coming her way, and she can't sleep with him? It's ludicrous, it's what she does, it's how she stays young, he knows that. "But why..."

"He can do you no good, so keep your hands off. Do you understand? Off! All I want from you is poisoned wine ... when the time is right."

Rena was getting angrier by the second as she watched him simply fade into the night. "The nerve, she said as she glared at the space he had occupied just moments before. It bothered her that she didn't know who the young man was, or his history, but to have that arrogant demon to insult ... even humiliate her in this way, was infuriating! Of course she would do as he said, but to come in here and dump someone on her, and give her nothing but a bunch of rules she had to live with was unfair! What could there possibly be about him that would keep her from wanting him in her bed? There was only one thing that could kill her, and Aleksa knew what it was. Aleksa needed her as much as she needed him, and if there had been a danger, surely he would have told her. He always had before, but now ... She wrung her hands as she paced.

"It's okay- she repeated to herself over and over, "-I'll just ... I'll just find out on my own ... no problem."

And then the day came when she saw the tall, husky god with sex appeal oozing out of every pore. It was then that her resolve melted, and her plans began. She remembered the day she hired him. She looked him over while barking out orders. No fooling around with the nurses, no flirting, no hiding in dark corners with your hands all over them. If I find out...

Then when he walked away, she saw the way his tight pants cupped around his perfect butt, and whispered, "You're wrong, Aleksa, this young god can do me a lot of good!"

Now, as she looked back down into the mirror that didn't lie, she knew she was beautiful ... as beautiful as she'd been when she was young. But everything wasn't perfect. She longed for things to be as they once were. She thought back to the deep blue skies of Egypt and wept for her home. Not only for the place, but for the time. Modern machinery wasn't everything. Fast cars, flying machines, and moving pictures in a box wasn't everything. She remembered the soft, silky gowns she wore, the gentle Egyptian breeze flowing through the open arches of her palace. How she longed to be back there again. But now ... today ... only ruins stood where her palace had been. Columns ... her beautiful columns that once supported her palace were standing alone, holding nothing. Her beautifully elaborate hallways going nowhere, her once ornate stairways that had once led to an exquisite balcony, or to a vast rooftop garden had long since crumbled, and now led to nothing, a stairway to the sky. She shuddered when she thought of the cracks and dust ... spiders crawling in an out of her once luxurious palace. Suddenly she looked up when a quick knock sounded on the door. She quickly wiped at her tears and said, "Yes?"

The door opened, and a nurse with a silly smile on her face stuck her head in. "King ... uh ... Mr. Stevenson is here."

"Yes, please send him in, she said, then quickly shuffled the papers back into the file and closed the drawer.

Broc sauntered in looking around at the office décor. The wood shone with frequent dusting, and the carpet was a deep pile of berry red. A row of windows looked out onto the beach, and Broc figured as elegant as everything was, the desk was probably the most expensive thing in the room since it took up almost half the space. His eyes moved away from the crowded bookcase somehow doubting that Rena spent any of her time reading, and said, "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, please sit down. She rose easily from her chair, side stepped from behind the large desk and leaned comfortably on the edge in front of him.

Broc looked up at her. The place of advantage, he thought. I'm sitting, she's standing looking down at me. They were the rules of the game, and women knew them as well as men. He looked at her expensive attire that paralleled in a feminine way, of course, a man's business suit. Dark fabric, the mark of success; white shirt, the mark of intelligence; bright tie, the mark of power. It's something you learn early in your business career, even women.

They play the game too.

His eyes looked around at the knick knacks, expensive paintings. Home field advantage ... her office. It gives her power over him, dominance. Remembering what Ginny had said about Rena's feelings for him, he knew that it could also be a sexual comeon. He moved to get up.

"No, don't get up."

He shrugged. "Okay, whatever, he said, understanding why she wanted to keep him seated. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, brought the fingers of one hand up and rubbed them across his mouth while he furtively raked his probing eyes over the attractive head mistress of Northclyf Nursing Home. Her hair was dark with burnished highlights. She wore it up, and although Broc had never seen it down, he suspected that it was at least shoulder length since she wore long fringes down the side of her face in what Broc preferred to call the shakedown look. It was always unruly, and very sexy.

She was attractive, beautiful even. Very different from the silly young nurses around here. Her skin was smooth and richly tanned, and she had an interesting mole that looked as if it were flirting with the edge of her upper lip. As she spoke it seemed to almost mesmerize you with its movement and added an exotic touch to her swarthy complexion. As Broc watched it, his tongue crept up between his lips with a longing to lick it, or kiss it. He found himself wondering if it was real, or just one of the many decorations women wore today. Her eyes were dusky, and reminded him of deepening twilight ... but when she was angry, they resembled a dark night in hell.

The longer Broc watched her move, the more he saw a sexiness in her that you don't see in many women today. It's a shame, he thought. Women today don't bother with themselves like they used to, but Rena cared about herself very much, and it paid off. She had a certain glamour that women had traded in for comfort years ago. He could tell that this dark-eyed beauty was comfortable with glamour, that's why she had it. She was a strange woman with a cold exterior, yet extremely sensuous ... sort of a fire and ice combination. She seemed to have a deep soul, probably lived many lifetimes, seen many things. Broc had never believed in reincarnation, but in Rena's case ... he was sure she had lived more than once.

"Would you like a drink? she asked, her husky voice interrupting his thoughts.

Broc chuckled, and looked outside at the sun just coming up. "No ma'am ... it's a little early for me."

"Call me Rena, she said, almost in a whisper. "Wine, then ... or coffee perhaps."

"No, don't bother, I'll get some later."

Leaning over she pushed a glass of wine in his direction exposing the merest glimpse of a swelling, sensuous bosom. "Try some, it's very good. Are you aware that there's a wine cellar here? Stocked very well, too. I don't think I could stay anywhere for any length of time that didn't have a wine cellar. She smiled down at him. "I must be addicted."

Broc began sweating. She was hot, all right, just like Ginny had said. Looking at her he could tell she had a vast amount of womanly gifts that she was ready to share with him, but he wasn't quite sure he was ready to climb that mountain.

"Think I'll pass on the drink, Broc said as he moved to get up. "I've got a lot of work that needs..."

"But you haven't heard my proposition yet, she said sweetly, then lifted a smooth, naked leg and boldly placed her foot on his chair, being sure she touched his leg.

He cut his eyes over to her long, curving leg. "Proposition? he said, his voice cracking.

"Yes. Now be a good boy and drink your wine and listen to what I have to say."

Not knowing what was coming, Broc sat back slowly, his eyes staying rivited to her leg, and the tempting peek up her skirt.

"You know Broc Sanford's room upstairs..."

"Oh sure, no problem, Ms. Garrison, Broc said leaning forward to get up again, "I'll clean it up for you right away."

"I'm not finished, she said impatiently, the strength of her eyes causing his movements to come to a halt. Her long eyelashes fluttered as she looked down into her wine glass, then back up at him, and he knew she had something on her mind ... something important. "Where are you staying? With friends? A room somewhere?"

With no money in his pocket just yet, he couldn't afford a room, but didn't want her to know his situation. "I've been staying at ... at a place along the boardwalk."

"As you know, she said, rising from the edge of the desk and pacing, "I'm the only one that stays on the grounds. I have a small apartment in one wing. She turned to look at him. "You understand of course that someone has to be here around the clock to keep an eye on the old people ... but I need help. Then she sat down in the other chair and leaned toward him, her dark eyes capturing his. "King- She said his name with relish. "-I'd like you to move in here ... with me."

His eyes widened. "What?"

"Don't get the wrong idea, she said, pulling back and allowing her cold exterior to emerge. "I didn't mean with me ... I simply meant in Broc Sanford's old room. It's not being used for anything ... just going to waste you might say. And I need a man around here. Suddenly her anxious voice turned thick, and dripped hot and sweet, like honey. "After all, it's the reason I hired you, and it's the perfect solution, wouldn't you say? Her eyes caressed him, and the tone of her voice softened. "The room's empty ... you're on you own, so to speak ... you understand."

He understood all right. He understood that look, her body language, and knew what she was proposing. "But what about the police ... the investigation."

She leaned back and lifted her hand that had a ring on every long, flowing, delicate finger. She carefully ran one of those decorated, long-nailed fingers around the edge of her wine glass and looked up at him. "I received word yesterday that they're shutting it down. They say they just can't afford to expend manpower on a case that's going nowhere. They've assured me that if anything comes up they'll let me know."

"Then aren't you going to rent it out?"

"Not just yet. I want to keep it a while longer just in case. You'd be sort of a caretaker, I suppose. Of course you'd have to vacate if he ever did come back. Then she looked up at him with expressive eyes. "If that happens, I'm sure we could find suitable arrangements for you ... somewhere."

Broc knew he couldn't stay under the boardwalk forever. He'd been lucky so far, since the weather had been unseasonably warm, and the problem of finding a place to stay had been staring him in the face. Just as Rena had said, it was the perfect solution ... of course her reasons being different from his. "Well ... sure ... I guess."

"Then you'll take it?"

Broc wanted the room in the worst way, but he didn't know what Ms. Garrison had in mind that she wasn't telling him. "Okay, but what about rent? How do I know I can afford it?"

"Believe me, sweetie, by working here you'll be paying for your room and board in ways you wouldn't dream of. Her dark eyes sparkled with hellish promises, and her voice became ominous. "There is one thing- She moved closer to him, and Broc could smell her musky perfume. "-I want you to be available to me whenever I need you. No questions asked, and no discussions with anyone about what goes on around here at night. Agreed?"

"Well, he hesitated, "s-sure. My God, Broc thought. I don't know if this bitch wants me for sex, to dig graves for her, to slip poison into some old codger's drink ... or worse. What the hell could be worse than murder, he wondered.

In time, he would find out.

* * * *

That night Broc moved in. When he stood in front of the door, he grabbed at the yellow strip and ripped it off, then reached down and turned the doorknob and pushed the door open slowly. With the exception of a thin layer of dust, everything was pretty much as he'd left it. He could tell snoopers had been here, but it didn't bother him since nothing seemed to have been taken. His pictures were on the nightstand, his clothes on the floor, and his record player had his favorite record still on it.

He walked in and dropped his bag, feeling like he had come back home. For the next couple of hours he dusted, vacuumed, and cleaned out closets. When he got through, he walked out of his room thinking he would go down to the kitchen for a cold drink when he thought he heard something. He saw a glow moving across the dark salon on the bottom floor, and stood at the railing and looked down. He saw that the glow was a candle in the hands of the mysterious Rena Garrison.

As she walked up the stairs, she shielded the flame with her hand, and the glow gave her beautiful face an esoteric quality. He hid in the shadows and waited until she was safely in her own wing, then crept down the stairs to the wide salon. He went into the kitchen and grabbed a coke, wishing it was a beer, then wandered back out and began to lock up. It was something Rena had asked him to do each night since he was now living here.

He pulled the tab back on his Coke, took a deep swig, then crossed over to the French doors and stepped outside for a little fresh air. The night air was cooler than he expected, and when a blast of wind came in off the ocean, he caught a chill.

Just as he turned to go back in, he happened to look beyond the fence and saw the old woman in her familiar ragged trenchcoat and tattered old hat shuffling along a path. Broc had remembered seeing her night after night from the window of his room. As he watched the woman coming toward him he stepped out of the shadows and crossed to the fence, staring at her. She had her head bowed to the wind, but when she heard his feet rustling the dead leaves, she lifted her head, then suddenly stopped dead in her tracks.

He immediately heard a muffled cry come from her, then suddenly the old woman wilted ... as if she were going to fall, but quickly caught herself on her cane. He could barely see her eyes in the darkness, but somehow they captured his, and the same old awareness that he'd seen from his window was in her eyes. Who was she, and what was it that called to him from within the shadow beneath the brim of her hat? Some kind of familiarity ... an intimacy that grabbed at him, imprisoning him for several moments, refusing to let him go. He could almost feel the physical raking of her eyes across his face, hesitating to move away. After the two had stared at each other for several minutes, he saw her give him a courtly nod and continue her scraping shuffle down the leaf-strewn path.

* * * *

The next morning Broc felt great. Having his old bed to sleep in made a big difference in the way he felt. He awoke early and met with the kitchen staff to serve breakfast to the old people. Some had to be served in their rooms, so he took charge of balancing tray after tray in is hands while his young legs carried him up and down the stairs.

After everyone had finally eaten and scattered to various parts of the mansion, Broc made his own breakfast. Slowly the usual crowd of nurses gathered, several of them leaning forward across the table's shiny surface, but Ginny, the bold one, actually climbed upon the table and laid down before him in a semi-reclining position as if offering herself to him as dessert. Broc was enjoying their company when suddenly their good time came to an abrupt end.

Ms. Garrison entered on silent feet, and stood very straight and tall. With a stern look on her face, and long-nailed fingers that gently stroked her pet tiger, Fancy, she spoke in a shivery voice that pierced the gaiety like a long, sharp icicle. "I don't pay you girls to sit around and flirt with the help. I believe you have work to do that's not getting done. Am I correct?"

"Yes, Ms. Garrison, their timid voices rose in unison while scrambling off the table and hurrying out.

When Ginny hurried by, the older woman reached out and caught her upper arm, squeezing it painfully. "Ginny, dear, the table is where we eat, not fornicate. If I find your lovely body sprawled out in such a position again, you'll be fired. Is that clear?"

"Yes ma'am, Ginny replied, keeping her head down, but cutting her eyes over to Broc with a mischievous grin on her face.

After furtively returning her grin, Broc cut his eyes up at the older woman, clearly unhappy with the way she had handled the situation. "That wasn't necessary, he said through clenched teeth. "We were just talking."

"Have you forgotten who is in charge here? she asked, looking at him with anger. "I'll decide what is, and what is not necessary around here. Is that clear?"

He lunged forward in his chair. "What in hell are we supposed to do all day in this mausoleum? We whisper instead of talk, creep instead of walk. What'll happen if we shout? Will the walls come tumbling down? Will we wake the dead?"

"You'll do what I say, or else, she spat.

"What the hell am I supposed to do? Tell them to get lost? Be as stiff and unfriendly as you are?"

She was unprepared at the insult, and sputtered, "I'll ... I'll let that pass."

"What about my free time? he said as he looked down at his watch, then turned and lifted his wrist for her to see. "I'm not even supposed to start my day for another hour yet. Am I to be deprived of female companionship on my own time too?"

An expression struggled across her face that was difficult to read, then trying to speak briefly and to the point, her words came out sounding like a hiss. "Your free time is your own, but you know the rules, the girls are off limits!"

"Does that include you? Broc whispered, his voice rustling with innuendo. "Do you have plans you haven't discussed with me yet? He gave a quick nod toward the door the girls left through, then yelled, "Your're friggin jealous, lady, and it's eating you up."

Her guilty eyes avoided his while she awkwardly turned her attention to the cat she held in her arms.

When she didn't bother to deny it, Broc knew what that meant. He rose from his chair, picked up his dishes and angrily clattered them into the sink.

Trying to cut through the awkwardness between them, she asked in what she hoped was a normal tone. "How was your room last night? Comfortable, I hope."

Broc whirled around, his hands clutching the edge of the sink behind him. "Look lady, let's get something straight, right now. I'm not your property, see? Giving me a room without rent doesn't give you the right to..."

"You're my employee, she rasped wickedly, trying to contain her anger, then looked at him with her dusky eyes. "That gives me the right to do anything I want. You get a paycheck the same as everyone else around here. Your job is to do what I tell you ... no matter what it is."

"This is friggin sexual harassment, pure and simple."

Her lips turned up in a faint smile. "Call it what you will, but there's nothing simple about it ... or pure. Her eyes took on an intimacy that made Broc uncomfortable. "And remember one thing. My name is not lady, or Ms. Garrison, it's Rena. I'd like you to remember that."

She turned to leave, and Broc called out, "Rena, with a sarcastic tone in his voice.

She stopped, turned around slowly, and looked at him steely-eyed.

"What's your story, huh? Child abuse? Broken marriage? I'm just wondering how the hell you could get so damned mean in what ... thirty-five years?"

Her face became suddenly stony, but she remained silent.

"Just keep in mind that I can walk out of this place anytime I want."

"And hide where, she scoffed, then added with a sarcastic ring to her voice, "King? You try to leave here and I'll have the cops on you so fast..."

"You've got it wrong, I..."

"I've got nothing wrong, she spat. Then allowing her temper to calm, she added, "If you feel cooped up in this- She cocked her head and allowed her rolling eyes to survey the structure. "-mausoleum as you call it, the beach is just down the rise. Why don't you go down and enjoy it today?"

"But I've got work to do, I can't just..."

She spoke as if to a small child. "What does it take to get through to you? Your work occurs mainly at night. Her eyes traveled the length of his body, then she shrugged. "If you're needed, I'll send someone for you."

As she turned to leave, Broc looked at the swinging door, speechless. He didn't know how to figure her. She was a combination of fire and ice and he couldn't help wondering which was predominant ... would the ice eventually put out the fire, or would the fire melt the ice?

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was after six and Rena sat at her dresser, combing her long, burnished hair. It had turned cold again and she was feeling lonely. She had taken a long, hot shower, and after releasing the fluffy towel from around her, she pulled a tray of bottles forward to bathe herself in her smooth, silky, luxurious oils. She picked one up and was just about to upend it when she caught a glance at the label. Her eyes widened when she looked down at the silhouette of Cleopatra in a bath with rose petals floating on the water, and yelled, "Bitch! All at once she angrily threw it against the wall where it shattered.

Allowing her Egyptian temper to cool for a moment, she picked up another bottle and smiled as she looked at the label that was adorned by an Egyptian tiger stalking through the jungle, his yellow eyes glowing into the darkness. She felt a sensuous kind of heat when she looked at the picture. The tiger was a sexy, predatory animal, like her. She reached down just then and stroked Fancy, her own pet tiger. A baby yet, but tame. As the animal grew she would become more striking, more beautiful, more mysterious. At first she would have to keep Fancy confined to her wing, but in time, when everyone was used to her, she could see her stalking through the home, her eyes glowing from behind gently moving fronds.

Rena looked at her swarthy image in the mirror, and thought that possibly in a previous life she might have been a tiger. She loved the thought, and smiled as she opened the bottle. Tonight was a special night, and she would have nothing on her body except the exotic oils designed for the hot beds of Egypt. She thought of the oils they made today, and smirked at their impotence, and at the mundane, unimaginative scientists that struggled to come up with even the most ordinary of fragrances.

She uncorked the bottle and closed her eyes, allowing the delicate aroma to drift up to her. As she poured it into her hands and smoothed it on her body, she could smell it's dark, exotic scent that reminded her of mystical, romantic nights, and clusters of twinkling stars in a wide Egyptian sky. She loved the smoothness of her own private blend, and luxuriated in it.

As if in a trance, she rose and began to dance slowly around the dimly lit room, continuing to caress her breasts, her abdomen, and the insides of her thighs with the oil. Enclosed within the cocoon of the fragrance, she strolled out through the gossamer curtains, and out onto the balcony where she allowed her naked body to be sensuously stroked by the cool winds of the evening. She held the bottle in her hand and lifted it up, almost as if in worship.

This blend she had created with her palace scientists. She had brought the formula with her down through the ages, and it never failed to mesmerize, and hold captive those she wanted in her bed. She had learned many things from her palace scientists, not only the formula for her exquisite oils, but other potions, as well.

She had been royalty in another life with many lovers, and when she was through with the trusting souls, she simply mixed up a deadly dose and ... killed them. After all, she was ... and always would be ... the famous Lucretia Borgia, Italian Princess, and most beautiful woman in all of Italy as well as Egypt ... even more beautiful than Cleopatra. She wanted to stay young and beautiful forever, so she traded her life for that of her palace witch.

Down through the ages she carried with her the danger and mystery she was born with. She had become an historic legend because of her many lovers, and the unusual way she had of disposing of them. She smiled at the questions King had asked her today. Child abuse? Broken marriage? Really, how trite. She was evil enough to bite the head off a snake, so how could such commonplace circumstances effect her? If anyone was to be blamed for her hot, Italian temperament, it was her husbands.

The bastards!

She had learned from them that a man was only good for one thing, then he had to be disposed of and another to take his place. They came and went, one by one, through the shadows of her palace corridors. Some were the most handsome and richest in the world, but nothing lasts forever, and when she was through with the hot-blooded scoundrel, she not only had his soul, which she gladly gave over to Aleksa, she had his money, his house ... everything. That's how she had discovered the exotic land of Egypt. It was the place of many of her lovers possessions. And she had come to love it ... all of it ... from the burning sands to the swaying palms beneath a wide, starry sky.

Now, living in this modern world, she had another lover, and when she had taken all from him that he could give, he would die like all the rest. She hadn't figured out why Aleksa saw fit to change the rules with this one, but it didn't matter. The demon's warning fell on deaf ears. After all, what did Aleksa expect her to do with one so young and handsome, keep her distance? Impossible!

Her deep throated chuckle drifted on the wind as she thought of the mixture that she would use to end his life. She looked up at the tower toward King's room. He'll like it, she thought. Mixed with wine ... he'll love it. But not yet, she thought. Not until I've had him ... over and over.

Not until I've had my fill!

Coming back in from the balcony, she put on her most revealing negligee and looked at her body in the mirror. She saw breasts that no man could resist, and a perfect body that was every bit as beautiful today as the one that had brought pleasure to countless men in her mysterious palace of blood. She picked up her robe, then threw it down, refusing to hide her perfect body. Instead, her hand reached down and clutched the sheer, gossamer material, then with exaggerated movements she swished it with royal pride as she whirled through her apartment. Looking forward to a hot, explosive night, worthy of any in Egypt, she opened the door gently, walked through, then turned and closed it equally so.

With her hand resting on the balustrade, her dark eyes looked up into the murky shadows of the tower, then slowly began climbing the long staircase to King's room.

A soft knock brought him to the door.

When he opened it, she boldly walked in without an invitation. As she passed by him, he was assaulted by her fragrance, but came back down to earth when she chucked his chin and said, "I supposed I'm going to have to install an intercom so I can summon you whenever I- She winked. "-get the urge."

"I don't believe I invited you in, he said angrily.

She continued past him without looking back. "Didn't you? No matter ... you would have."

He made no move to close the door, hoping she would get the message. "This is ... this is not a good time."

She turned and looked at him with a raised eyebrow and a tiny, arrogant smile. After a brief hesitation, she said with a soft voice, "Close the door, King."

He stood there for a moment, clenching his teeth in anger, then without saying anything he slammed it.

When she knew she had his full attention, she turned before him, stretching like a lazy cat in the sun.

"My God, Broc murmured, his eyes hungrily raking along every line of the exquisite gown. The shadowy material was smooth, thin, and unadorned and had an enticing deep V-neck that brazenly extended down beyond her navel, stopping just short of her pubic mound. The point seemed to arrow, leading you to the place of sensual pleasure. Seeing his eyes embracing her every inch, she turned once again, letting him see what he was getting. It revealed her body in a tantalizing light and shadow effect, but hid nothing. Her thighs, breasts, and buttocks, though still veiled, were lighter in shade while her curves and valleys were barely hidden in the shadows of the thin material. He suddenly began sweating. He could see all the way through the thin, spider webbing, and as much as he hated to admit it, he wanted her. He felt his senses clouding up, and shook his head to clear it, not knowing what was wrong. It's the fragrance, he thought, then he looked at her again. No ... her body ... suddenly he gulped, not understanding what was happening to him.

She could tell he was becoming aroused and stepped up closer. She took his hands and placed them around her almost-naked waist and asked in a sliding, seductive voice, "Am I going to have to lead you every step of the way?"

"Why the hell didn't you just come in here naked?"

"Mystery, she whispered, smiling up at him. "Men love it."

As she spoke, he could smell the sweet fragrance of her lipstick.

"Not too much, just enough, she said, then began stroking a long-nailed finger against his well-defined lips. "Don't you agree?"

He could feel her breasts pushing against him, and when he looked into her eyes, the deepening twilight had turned to fire, and her lips with the exotic mole were trembling with passion while they waited for his touch. "You bitch! he murmured as their lips met. "You goddamned fucking bitch! He moaned as he felt a fire climbing in him, and pushed her down on the bed while tearing at the thin thing that separated them. "I hate you, do you know that? he mumbled, moving his hungry mouth against the hills and valleys of her breasts.

"No one said you had to love me, she breathed, hearing his hot breath in her ear while he called her names that only excited her.

Broc felt like something inhuman. He wanted to rip and tear at her body, and couldn't seem to control himself. He at last gave a savage cry, and Rena felt his generous cock plunge into her over and over again. Her body lurched with his, and her long nails scratched his back as the turbulence of their passion swirled around her. She cried out, each plunge bringing her upward to a new height until it was so intense the flames of her release was like the explosion of a million glowing stars burning on the ceiling above her.

"I'd ... I'd like to cut ... out your heeeeeaaaaaarrrrr... he began, but an orgasm grabbed him, "aaaaarrrrggggh! he bellowed, ending the act with a savage cry.

Rena submitted to the erotic warmth that radiated from both their bodies, and basked for long moments in the glow of ecstasy. Then she turned her head and looked at his blonde, tousled head as he lay there too weak to move. "Odd, she mumbled. "He reminds me of my first husband, Giovanni. Then suddenly her face took on a bitter look. "So damned religious, he couldn't be a husband. Then slowly her features softened, and she reached out and stroked Broc's cheek. He was angry now, she thought, but that was okay. After all, his anger was part of his appeal. She didn't go in for the sweet, beautiful, pie-in-the-sky, love-ever-after kind of thing. She'd tried it ... three times. With Giovanni, Alfonso, and even the Grand Duke of Ferrara, but it hadn't worked, so now she took what she could get. She liked them young, and this one was young and beautiful. She leaned over and kissed his soft, luscious mouth, almost feeling an ache in her heart at what she would eventually have to do. Careful, she cautioned herself, then got up and quietly left.

* * * *

The next day Broc felt dirty, and he hated himself for any enjoyment he'd experienced the night before. Everytime someone looked at him, he felt like they knew what he was there for. But how could they, he asked himself. He hadn't even believed it himself until it happened. Eventually everyone began noticing how aloof he had become, and if they mentioned it he avoided their eyes and told them it was their imagination. He had to get out of that house of death occasionally, so he spent a lot of time strolling the beach or down at the boardwalk, thinking about Suzette. He didn't actually care about the others ... but Suzette ... he wondered about her. If she found out about him and Rena he wouldn't have to worry about getting involved with her because she wouldn't have him on a bet.

As one day after the other passed he would watch her from afar, wanting to at least talk to her, but felt he was too dirty, so he kept his distance. One afternoon when the sitting room was empty, Broc was searching the book shelves when he felt someone come up behind him and touch him intimately. "I'm not on the clock yet, he said bitterly.

"You're on the clock whenever I say you are, Rena whispered.

Knowing she wouldn't leave him alone until he responded, he turned around and crushed her to him with a hot kiss. When his head lifted, he saw Suzette standing in the doorway, watching them. "Oh my God! he hissed, then pushed Rena away and ran toward the doorway that was empty now. When he got there, he saw her running toward the front. "Suzette, he yelled. When he finally caught her, he whirled her around and saw tears in her eyes.

"I don't know what's wrong with me, she said, brushing away the tears. "I've certainly seen two people kissing before."

"It didn't mean a thing. Do you hear? Not a thing."

"Why would that matter to me? she said trying to pull herself away from him.

"Because you feel the same things I do, Suzette. Admit it."

"What are you talking about? she tried to laugh as she looked up into his handsome face. "I'm sure I couldn't care less."

"Then why are you crying?"

Before she could answer Rena walked up and saw him holding Suzette tightly.

"Suzette, get your things, you're fired!"

"What? Broc shouted. "Just because she came in on us when we were..."

"Reason enough, Rena snapped, then turned to go.

"If she goes, I go, Broc said defiantly, causing Rena to stop in her tracks and whirl around. Then his next words cut into her. "And you know how lonely the nights can be."

"It's your reputation I'm trying to save, don't you know that?"

"She won't talk. I'll see to that."

Rena looked from Broc to Suzette, then back again. "Why does it matter to you? What is she to you?"

"Nothing, maybe, but she's innocent. It's you- He hesitated. "-and me that deserve the punishment."

"Then take your hands off her, Rena snarled.

Broc abruptly released her.

"Suzette, she began, looking at the girl's bowed head, "you're excused for the rest of the day, but be here as usual in the morning."

"Yes ma'am, Suzette muttered, then turned to get her purse and headed toward the door.

"Suzette, Rena called out.

Suzette stopped, but didn't look back.

"I know you don't care about me, but if you want to spare King the shame of having everyone know about this situation, you'll say nothing of this to anyone. Is that clear?"

"Yes ma'am."

After Suzette slammed through the screen door, Broc whirled on Rena. "From now on keep your hands to yourself, bitch. I work at night. Even whores deserve some time off. Then he turned and vaulted up to his room.

* * * *

As Suzette drove down the narrow street, tears blinded her eyes while she tried to deal with what she'd seen and heard. King hadn't been around much since that day at the desk when she'd made a complete fool of herself. He seemed to purposely stay away from her ... from the home ... from everybody ... until today. The change in him seemed to occur after he moved into Broc Sanford's old room. Suddenly his friendly nature disappeared and he avoided everyone ... wouldn't speak ... ducked his head and hurried out of the room when anyone spoke to him. She'd wondered why Ms. Garrison became so angry if any of the nurses paid him any attention, now she knew.

Suzette pulled the car onto a wide path, and drove slowly among the trees until she stopped in front of a large shack with dark wood, and a creaking front porch.

The house was old and haunting.

Just like the woman that lived there. Suzette constantly tried to get her to move out, even open up the old victorian mansion on the hill, but the old woman wouldn't budge. Suzette knew she had to be hiding something, but she just argued that she'd been there for too many years, and as bad as it was, it was home to her. Some of the screens on the windows looked as if someone had tried to tack them back on after they were half torn off. Others had large holes with pieces of a rag jammed into them to keep the flies out.

Ravyn got out of the car and ran up to the wobbly porch and slammed through the front screen door. She saw the old woman sitting in her rocking chair and ran up to her and knelt beside her, laying her head on her knees.

The old woman smiled as she stroked her hair. "What's the matter, dear?"

"Nothing ... it's just ... I don't know, I felt a little sick and thought I'd take off early."

The old woman lifted Suzette's chin, and looked into her eyes. "Then why didn't you go home? Why did you come here?"

"I don't know. I just wanted to check on you to see if you had everything you needed."

The old woman looked deep into her eyes. "You know I can always tell when you're lying. Now tell me what's the matter."

Suzette was silent for a moment, then she began speaking in a whisper, "I've met someone ... someone at Northclyf."

"You've met a young man? the old woman said with a smile.

Suzette's eyes looked troubled. "Not just someone, she began, then looked up into the old woman's eyes. "I mean, it's so strange. He's the very image of Broc Sanford. You know, the man you've been telling me about?"

The old woman felt a lurch inside her at the mention of his name, and the smile slowly faded from her face. She remembered the dark night along the path when she found him watching her.

"I mean ... the old man disappears mysteriously, then suddenly King shows up."

"King? Is that his name?"

"Yes, King Stevenson. But to look at him you'd swear he was Broc Sanford. She looked up at the old woman. "When I'm around him ... when I look at him ... I feel something. What could it mean? I've never been in love ... is that what it is?"

The old woman didn't answer, but began remembering years ago, and what it felt like to have Broc's eyes on her. That was what she had felt the other night ... the strength of those eyes. What she suspected was true, then. She knew it now. No eyes on this earth could move her like his. They aroused something deep inside her ... something familiar. Those eyes reflected too much life. Too many years that had seen too many things.

The night had been dark, but still their eyes locked, and memories raced by. At first she couldn't believe it. The way he looked at her gave her chills ... almost as if he knew who she was ... knew everything about her. She told herself it was her imagination ... and now this. Of course Suzette feels something, but not what she thinks. It may be love, but oh, God ... she can't ... no, not with him!

She looked worriedly at the glossy young head that lay in her lap. What if Suzette is attracted to this man? What if ... no ... no ... no! It couldn't ... shouldn't happen! She had to protect her, even if it meant making Suzette hate her. Suddenly the old woman rasped, "Stay away from him."

"What? Suzette said, raising her head.

She looked down at Suzette. "Just do as I say, and stay away!"

"But why?"

"Because you don't know who he is ... I do!"

"But who is he? she asked, puzzled.

The old woman didn't answer, but when their eyes met Suzette saw a fear there that she could feel down to her toes. The strength of that look made her inch up slowly and back fearfully out of the ramshackled house. As she stumbled out, she yelled, "I won't! I won't stay away from the only man I could ever love ... and you can't make me!"

* * * *

Broc slammed into his room seething. He banged around loudly until his anger cooled, then sat on the side of his bed with his head buried in his hands. He could hardly believe how complicated things had become. Everywhere he turned women were coming on to him. They seemed to be creeping out of the woodwork. He longed to be back in the days when relations between the sexes were simpler. Sure, they had their bold women, but there were so few of them they were an oddity, not a way of life. He was convinced that today all women were whores. Only in this day and age could a man find himself in a situation like this. It would've never happened back when he was young. Back then men had made the advances, and that's the way it should be.

This youth thing hadn't turned out the way he thought it would. All he wanted was to go back ... no problems ... see Ravyn one more time and right the mistake he'd made. Why was that so much to ask? He was determined to be at that train station on February twelfth come hell or high water. He didn't know if Aleksa was using Rena Garrison to complicate his life, but she was definitely a force to be dealt with.

He stayed in his room until the sun was all the way down and silently dared the bitch to want anything from him tonight. He was determined to throw her out on her naked little butt ... that is if he could get past her jutting breasts, her dark, disturbing eyes, and that hellaciously tempting mole!

Suddenly he heard something, and his head jerked around toward the noise. He was becoming pretty good at slipping through the mansion without anyone seeing him, so he quickly crept out of his room and looked down through the wide spiral of the staircase to the lower floor. He didn't see anyone there so he crept down the stairs, trying not to make any noise. He saw the kitchen door closed, but there was some kind of light showing through the crack at the bottom. It was an undulating light like the one he saw the other night. Rena was just coming out, so he plastered himself against a wall and watched her while she passed through the salon, then up the stairs to her room. He was just about to go back up himself but kept hearing something so he walked over to the French doors, and out into the yard. After looking around for a time, he discovered it was nothing but a couple of branches scratching against the house. He managed to break them off, and was just about to go back in when suddenly his eye caught something he hadn't seen before. It was deeply shadowed by the moonlight and so littered with falling leaves and dead limbs and vines he couldn't tell what it was. He walked over, reached out and swept as much of the debris away as he could and discovered it was a very old looking fountain.

"Well I'll be damned, he mumbled, looking at the incredible statue of a mermaid.

Her hair was full and curled, and fell in a stone curtain around her shoulders, framing her round, naked breasts. He could tell that the statue must have been very beautiful at one time, but due to neglect, now it was old and stained. The beautiful goddess sat on a large rock. Her bare breasts were perfectly round and jutting, and her tail looked as if she had just flipped it playfully. The statue had been placed in the middle of a garden that had gone to ruin after many seasons of being exposed to the elements. Sitting on a ledge was a rusty cup you could drink with, and running down from the rock and into a bowl, were hard water stains. Not only was it a running fountain, he thought in amazement, but obviously one you could drink from.

This statue had to be very old, he told himself, how long had it been since there had been fountains you could drink from? He would have bet that there were none around today, at least not in this country.

He turned just then and saw three wrought iron benches that were filthy with rust and dirt. They were positioned around the fountain, apparently placed there so you could sit in the company of this beautiful goddess and enjoy the cool breezes from the ocean while taking a drink of her refreshing water. A thin layer of spider webs stretched across the small bowl where dirt and sand lay, and a gathering of dry, crackling leaves seemed to be held captive within it, moving with the wind as if trying to escape. The goddess looked lonely and forgotten as leaves drifted around her, and naked, scrawny tree limbs scratched at her beautiful body in the blowing wind. He noticed something written on the tall base, and leaned down. He pulled at the spidery debris, brushing it away, and read a deeply carved inscription.

Lorelei

Ocean goddess, cunning sprite,

water's daughter, mother, and wife.

Romancing in the undersea caves,

and dancing in the salty waves.

You bless my soul with ocean peace

as your moon-tides ebb, and increase.

Oh, goddess of the sea supreme,

your waters quench the thirst of my dreams.

So this was Lorelei, Broc thought as he looked back up at her exquisite loveliness. He remembered the story of the little water sprite that mythology said lured men to their doom. She would sit on the rocks and sing, calling out to the sailors with her haunting song. It was said that as they passed by in their sea vessels they couldn't resist her, and would allow her haunting tune to lead them to a watery grave. He'd never forget the fascinating story of the seaman that ordered his men to strap his body to the ship's mast so that when he passed by, he couldn't respond to her temptation.

He strolled around, wondering just what it would take to restore it when he noticed something familiar about her. He stood staring up at her face of light and shadow, trying to place where he had seen it before, but couldn't quite make it out. He looked down for a foothold, then began climbing to get as close as he could. When he finally found himself looking her square in the face, he almost lost his foothold in surprise ... the cunning little sprite was the very image of ... Suzette!

Later, when Broc went to bed, he dreamed of the beautiful Lorelei. He saw her out on the ocean flipping her tail while riding the waves. Her breasts bounced invitingly and gleamed in the sun, her long hair hung down to her waist, surrounding her creamy, white shoulders like a silk spun veil. Her arms lifted toward him, and he felt a compelling urge to somehow get to her. Then suddenly he heard her voice lift in the most beautiful tune he had ever heard. It haunted his sleep, and urged him to come to her. He couldn't understand the language, but the lilts and faraway echoing strains had a magic and a message that transcended all dialects and tongues.

It was one he couldn't resist.

She wanted him, she was waiting for him, she would let him love her. Together they would ride the waves, romance in the underground caves, and dance in the salty waves. Suddenly he saw himself under the water with her. It was strange since his breathing didn't seem to be restricted. He watched her undulating erotically before him and he could feel himself becoming aroused. Then she began motioning for him to come to her, and he felt compelled to follow her. She was leading him into a cave, and against one wall he saw a giant open clam shell that was a bed. She lay down on it and motioned for him to join her, her song giving him mental pictures of what they would do as they made love. The pure pleasure she could give him, the orgasms he could experience. Somehow he knew it would be so glorious, it would be something worth dying for. He felt the haunting melody pull at him, and he had begun moving toward her when he heard a small, faraway voice calling to him. It was Ravyn ... somewhere in the distance.

Broc ... the voice called, ...come back to me my love ... come back to me!"

Suddenly he could see her at a distance and reached out to try and touch her.

Come back to me ... come back to me!

Just as their fingers were almost touching his eyes flew open, and he found himself waist deep in ocean water. He looked out at the choppy surface and knew instantly that he had been lured there by the beautiful Lorelei and her haunting song. If he had continued to follow her ... if that clam shell bed had closed over him, he would have been swallowed up by the ocean waves and drowned! The only thing that saved him was Ravyn's voice ... a voice that had traveled over fifty years into the future!

Broc turned and hurriedly made his way toward shore. He fought the waves, feeling watery hands trying to pull him into their depths. He struggled, but didn't give up, until he found himself down on all fours on the beach. While trying to draw a deep breath, he began wondering if he was going to manage to stay alive until his February date. He couldn't help wondering what it was about that trip back in time that made the old demon cringe. He just wanted to rectify one mistake he'd made. Was that so hard to understand? He wanted to be honest with Ravyn, she deserved that. He had to explain about his mother ... that he took her father's money for her ... for his education ... for their future. None of it had turned out right, he knew that, but he owed her the truth. Then he would either stay or go, whatever she wanted. But if he had to say goodbye again, at least she would be glad he was gone.

Then suddenly a thought occurred to Broc. What if Ravyn hadn't wanted him? Who knows, maybe she was glad that he left. She wasn't there when he finally did return to her. Maybe she'd been gone a long time ... didn't want to be there ... even ran from him. The thought tore Broc up inside, and when tears began trickling down his face, he realized that he had even another reason to go back. He had to find out what happened to her.

Suddenly Broc began yelling at the air around him, visualizing Aleksa's ugly face. "I'm going back, you got that? And neither you, nor that little blonde tramp is going to stop me! So get off my back, you bastard, and take her with you!"

Aleksa was completely entertained as he watched Broc whirling madly as he raised his fist in the air and shouted obscenities to someone that wasn't there. "The plot thickens, he rasped. "Send her away? No way ... she's my Lorelei, you bastard, and she'll lead you to your doom. You'll sleep with her because ... well, that's who you are. You couldn't resist a stone statue, and you won't be able to resist Suzette, a living, breathing, warm, willing woman. And when you find out who she is you'll gladly slit your wrists to undo the filthy deed. He stood up and broadly whirled his cape among the red, smoking flames. "That will be your undoing, my dear sir, he said, turning to leave hell's observation room. "She's my ace in the hole ... my trump card. If by some chance you escape all of the other traps I have set for you, you will not escape her. He turned and spoke to Broc's handsome image reflected on the burning lake. "And you might as well forget about the train station you bastard ... you'll never get there."

CHAPTER EIGHT

For the next few days Broc worked around the fountain trying to clear the area out as much as possible. He had made a valiant effort at gathering all the debris that had collected in the bowl, and pulled, cut, and yanked at the strangling vines that through the years had embraced the fountain in a death-like grip. When he finally got a look at the ground, he didn't just see dirt, he was faced with weeds, dried roots, rocks, and huge clumps of earth. That's when he realized there was more to this than simply digging a hole and putting a seed in it.

Filled with discouragement, he finally plopped himself down against the trunk of a tree and hung his head in despair. By now he was convinced that he didn't know what the hell he was doing and while sitting with his dirty fingers laced through his hair, he decided to inquire at a nursery.

With the decision made, he finally pulled his sore body up and dug some keys out of the pocket of his jeans. Even though he still had the little red klunker he got from the tumble down car rental place, he discovered when he came here that one of his duties was that of sole operator of Northclyf's truck. He did all the picking up, delivering, hauling, whatever was needed, and kept the keys on him at all times. Once he found he would have access to the truck he had tried to return the car, only to find an Out of Business sign tacked up on the door. As it turned out, since he couldn't give the car back, he assumed he was stuck with it. Now, bounding out to the parking area, he was quickly reminded that he needed to wash the truck soon. The name that was printed on the side in large white block letters was almost covered up by road dust. Jerking the door open, he slid into the seat, then sped into town, looking for the nursery he'd seen on some corner, but couldn't remember which one. Trying to visualize it in is mind, he seemed to remember it being on Italy Terrace, not too far from British Rags. He wasn't sure. He had driven for quite a while when he finally saw it, and he was surprised to find that it wasn't where he thought it was.

The layout was bigger than he remembered, taking up a whole city block. There were two large buildings that he could see, one in front, the other in back. He maneuvered the truck into a parking place, put it in gear, then walked up to a metal fence that surrounded the yard and walked in. Looking around he saw a graveled yard with dried ears of corn, hay, and pottery decorating it. Decoration? A wild assumption, but that seemed to be the case. There were plants sitting around, some in tires that had been cut out to make for some very interesting planters. Others were in old wash buckets, cans, almost anything that could be used to hold a plant. An unusual number of cacti, Broc thought, then saw a harness and a saddle sitting in a corner with ropes made of rawhide. A he looked further, he saw a pair of iron spurs that hung from the building along with tomahawks, rusty old guns, even a buffalo hide. They were displayed on the side of the building along with a few Indian relics. He saw a large area where a scarecrow stood among a sea of plants that were sitting in plastic containers.

The whole place seemed to be a picture taken out of history. It had an old, rustic look about it, kind of cluttered, like a cowpoke's shed, or bunkhouse. Just then Broc looked up and saw a sign that said, Plant Corral, and almost burst out laughing. He looked around in amazement. All this was on purpose? Apparently the nursery had a wild west theme, and Broc couldn't help wondering about the genius that thought it all up. Just before pushing on the door to go in, he wondered how smart it was to let all those plants sit out in the cool air, but then, what did he know, he couldn't even get a simple garden up and running again without help.

When Broc found that an Italian man owned the place, he thought he was in the Twilight Zone. An Italian owned a wild west nursery located in the East? Beam me up, Scotty, he thought as he struggled to speak seriously.

The Italian looked at Broc with one arm crossed in front of a pooching belly while he rested the elbow of his other on his arm. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, not realizing the struggle Broc was going through not to laugh. Broc tried to explain what he had in mind, and in response the man's head bobbed up and down with intense interest. Just about that time Broc looked down and saw a packet of seeds with the picture of a beautiful white flower on the front. He reached down. "This looks good, he said, glancing up at the owner, "what is it?"

With a shake of his head, the owner took it out of his hands and put it back in the rack. "You do not want that one, my friend."

"Why, it looked..."

"No, no, he began in his deep accent, "that one is for the housewife-a who spends her day puttering around in her yard-a, no? Please-a, take my word, it is much too ... uh- he brought the fingers of his hand together, looked upward as if searching for the word, "-yes, uh, or-din-ary for the garden-a ... no, the paradise-a you have just described to me. With a friendly hand on Broc's back, he said, "Here, come-a with me. I show you real-a beauty. He led Broc out the back door, and toward a glass house in the back. As soon as the two men walked in, the man spread his arms as if he were presenting the Garden of Eden. "For your garden-a ... only the best-a, he said, smiling.

Broc looked around at the wondrous sight, feeling as if he'd just entered a rainforest. The structure was cavernous, and the air damp and warm, almost too thick to breathe. He stood looking around, not realizing he was holding his breath until his lungs cried out for air. There were rows of wooden tables that were so filled with exotic plants they seemed to be spilling over on the floor. Not only did the vivid, multi-colored vegetation crowd the tables, but they were also hanging from the ceiling, and climbing the walls. Broc looked around, feeling as if Tarzan was going to come swooping down through the foliage any moment.

As they walked down each row. the other the man's moving hands pointed out different blossoms while fondling them lovingly. Broc grinned secretly when he saw the man actually blow kisses to those out of his reach as if each one was a beloved member of his family. If there was any kind of history to a flower or shrub, the owner didn't hesitate to explain to Broc just how the plant came into existence, all the while filling his hands with booklets of information and instruction. By the time Broc was through, he felt as if he'd had a crash course in gardening as well as being laden down with every kind of gardening tool he might need.

The two men finally made it to the front door where the owner even offered one of his employees to help with the re-construction of Northclyf's garden.

Without going into much detail, Broc tried to explain to the owner why he wanted to do it himself, so the man nodded his head deeply, pushed his card down into Broc's front pocket with an invitation to call upon him at anytime.

While promising that he would, Broc hurried out before the man could sell him anything else. While walking away, he happened to turn around, and returned the man's wave as he watched him from the door. "You sure as hell saw me coming, he said with a wide smile and a big nod as he struggled with the load in his arms. "Well, what the hell, Broc muttered, looking down at all his supplies, "he's got a living to make, and I've got a garden to bring back to life."

Broc spent the rest of the day in the garden, working late into the afternoon. When he finished getting rid of all the dead leaves and brittle limbs, he began digging up dry roots, and attempting to turn the dry ground over to get it smooth and capable of nurturing new life. By this time the booklets were well worn, and filthy with dirt and mud as he turned one page after the other. Then after treating the ground with the miracle-working chemicals the man said he used in his own garden, Broc was ready to cut rows and plant.

This brought Broc to a stopping point and he turned his attention to the statue. He stood looking at it for a long moment, pacing around it, feeling of it, even trying to topple it to see how sturdy it was. When he found it in better condition than he thought, hope began to quicken within him and he turned quickly and ran inside. Before he knew what was happening he found himself in the attic pouring over old records to find the name of the company that had sold the fountain to Northclyf.

According to the books, the home had bought the statue from an individual who kept it refurbished regularly. For some reason the refurbishing just stopped, no explanation given, perhaps a death, a misunderstanding, whatever. Broc figured it was just about then that the garden began its long journey into neglect. A long time ago, he thought as he began rooting around in some of the other junk until he came upon a dusty roll of ragged old paper. The paper was fragile, thin, and easily torn, but when he managed to get it unrolled, he found that it was a drawing, or a sketch that someone had apparently made of the garden. By now he'd had about all the dust he could stand, so he rolled the paper back up and took it with him while he went downstairs to take a walk through the yellow pages.

He knew what he was looking for, but wasn't sure just how to categorize it. As far as he knew most statues were sold by individuals, even those on cemetery plots. He began by looking under Artists, and could hardly believe the number of names that were there, but no listing as to what kind of artists they were. So he went a little further and thought he had gone too far when he found a resurfacing company that seemed to be misplaced among the light-fingered creators.

No job too small, it advertised, and Broc cringed when he imagined a big burly man with rough hands caressing his mermaid. No doubt about it, for this job he needed the expertise of a sculptor, so he backtracked, and finally found a supply house that sold clay, forms, models, and all kinds of instruments to craftsmen of all kinds. It wasn't much, but it was the best lead he had so far.

Picking up the receiver, he quickly got them on the phone and explained what he needed. Within only seconds he was taking down the name and number of an individual that might be willing to do the job. Almost before the man got through talking, he pounded the disconnect bar, then listened to the quick musical notes of the new number as he punched it in.

While hovering over the phone, the ringing finally stopped and a young voice broke through. Broc found that he was an aspiring sculptor waiting for his first real break. Because his jobs weren't too plentiful right now the young man eagerly accepted Broc's offer, and the price they finally agreed on was more than reasonable.

Broc leaned back in his chair and sighed, then looked down at his watch. There wasn't much of the day left, but he was too revved up to stop now, so he went back out to the garden, pleased at the way things were coming together. He inspected what he had already done, then knelt down looking around for any hidden weeds when he became aware of a presence behind him.

"Why are you doing this? the soft voice carried on the wind.

Broc's hands hesitated for a moment, but he didn't turn around since he knew who it was. "I don't know. It fills the days until..."

She waited for him to finish his thought, then asked, "Until what?"

"Nothing ... never mind. I'm just trying to stay busy."

She looked down at the rippling muscles in his back, and noticed how Broc seemed to cringe when she leaned over and touched him. "What if I need you? You're all dirty and sweaty."

Casting her an angry look, he said, "Well, madam, I guess you'll just have to settle for dirty sex, besides it helps me work through the hostilities I feel."

"Dirty sex, she said walking around and looking at what he'd already done, "I can definitely deal with, but hostilities? She turned back to him and forced her lips into a sarcastic smile. "What could you possibly be hostile about? You have food to eat, a roof over your head, and ... me."

He was silent for a moment, then reached for something. "Do you see that? he said, lifting up a big clump of earth and showing it to her. "That's your heart. Then he dropped it and stabbed it with a long knife. "It's a poor substitute, though, ground doesn't bleed."

"But I do, is that it? she said, her lips tightening in anger.

Then before Broc knew what was happening her shapely body was laying before him like a sacrifice.

"Go ahead, she whispered, the anger in her dark eyes shining up at him, "do what you've been fantasizing about doing ever since you started this miserable project. Will my blood make this ground anymore fertile than the liquid in that bottle?"

Broc's eyes cut down to hers, his full lips tightened into a thin line, and his nostrils flared with anger.

"What are you waiting for, you bastard, go ahead and do it, she said, egging him on while her red lips twitched in a taunting smile, "I dare you!"

Broc's feverish eyes roamed over the body laying before him, and raised the knife slowly, his hand grasping the handle tightly.

Slowly it traveled up toward the sky.

The bladed glittered in the sun.

His hands trembled as the tip pointed toward her.

Then suddenly his eyes took on the glassy look of a maniac as the thought of her death excited him. No more visits late at night, no more dark eyes following his every move, no more sneaking, hiding, or afraid of being seen as he turned corners, or passed through shadowy corridors. Then suddenly his mouth spread in a feral line, the curls along his forehead trembled as he jerked his head abruptly, and the glinting blade of the knife began plunging.

Rena's frightened eyes followed the point as it began its plunge.

Down it came, the blade shining.

Down, hungry for the space between her breasts.

Down, tasting blood.

Down, stopping abruptly.

Her jerking breath held, and her frightened eyes stayed rivited to the glittering point hanging just above her breasts. She watched as the biting tip crept closer.

The point pressed against her.

Tracing an erotic line from her breasts downward.

Bringing pain.

Bringing a trail of blood where her skin was exposed.

Reaching her abdomen, the long, thin spike traced a perfect line until it reached between her legs. Rena sucked in a sharp intake of breath then closed her eyes, waiting for the pressure of the knife to cut its dangerous way inside her.

She wouldn't move.

Held her breath in silence.

Refused to cry out.

Then suddenly her eyes opened and met his, and a dangerous look passed between them. Still in his mesmerized state, Broc slowly mounted her, and stood on his knees between her legs. The point of the knife extended obscenely from between his legs giving the distorted appearance of a penis. He hesitated, trembling with the desire to cut, plunge and kill. But instead of bringing blood he began cutting at the clothes that made his entrance into her constricted. When she was fully in view, he heard her gasp when the point of the knife angrily gouged the folds of her vagina. He wanted to fuck he hell out of her with the sharp instrument, and had to make a mad grab for his wrist to keep from mangling her. His eyes finally met hers, steely with hate. "There's nothing I'd like better than to fuck your pretty ass with the blade of this knife, so I'd advise you to get the hell out of here before my hand slips, and I just happen to..."

Allowing his actions to finish the sentence for him, he suddenly began ramming the knife forwards and backwards wildly, simulating the erotic plunges of sex, or the sadistic stabs of someone making a violent kill.

Rena's eyes filled with horror when her eyes met his.

She saw the icy, hated look.

The twitching fingers as his hand squeezed the handle.

Keeping an eye on both him and the knife, she moved backward slowly while grappling with her shredded clothing, then fled inside.

Broc sat in the same spot with his head hanging for a long time, hating himself for what had happened. He had never come so close to killing another human being before, and relishing the idea of her death with such intensity. Then, for no reason, he happened to look up and saw her watching him from a window. Seeing her peering at him made his killing instinct reappear and he spent several moments stabbing at the innocent dirt while his cold eyes held her within their icy gaze.

The wicked look reminded her of his hate.

His disgust.

His desire to see her dead.

Rena pulled herself away from the window and leaned back against the wall with her eyes closed. She breathed heavily with the excitement that was still raging inside her. She had made herself vulnerable to him, and had come close to death, but it only excited her. Seeing the look in his eyes, and the struggle he was having with himself to keep from plunging the knife into her took her to new heights of desire. Rena had lived a long time, and as many men as she'd been with, none had the effect on her that this one did.

He didn't hide his hate for her.

Every time he made love to her he bit her, scratched her and called her names, but it didn't cool her down, if anything it turned her to fire. Many times after making love, she'd found traces of her own blood on her body. Thinking about it, she slowly moved back to the window and looked down on this muscled body working in the garden. He wasn't only a good lover, there was something about him that was uncivilized.

Barbaric.

Savage.

And she loved it.

When Broc finally got himself calmed down he spent what little time of daylight there was left looking at the roll he'd found in the attic. Taking a chance, he indulged in a little amateurish landscaping, marking off areas indicating where he was going to plant. After checking moon phases, temperature, weather, and wind velocity, he sat back on one heel and surveyed what he had done. He hadn't realized so much went into planting a simple plot of ground. No wonder it had all died out, he thought. It would take a person with dedication to keep it up. He looked up and saw the sun setting in the West, and knew he had done all he could for the time being, and went in for a shower.

* * * *

The leaning shadow made a perfect hiding place. The murky form within it stood completely still, listening to the chatter of nurses as they left. She could hear car engines firing up and tires crunching gravel as each car pulled out of its parking spot.

It was late and the residents had retired to their rooms for the evening and the nurses had all gone home except for Suzette who secretly hung back while the others were leaving. Now she stood in the salon, taking advantage of the late afternoon shadows as they lazily stretched across the carpet and gathered in corners, hiding their secrets. It was quiet and still around her except for the swaying of the fronds, their movement generated by the breeze of the ceiling fans.

When she was sure everyone was gone, she stepped out of the shadow and sneaked upstairs, trying to build up her courage with every step she took. What would he think, she asked herself. Would he laugh, throw her out, tell her to get lost, go away, never come back? No, he wouldn't, he couldn't, surely. She preferred to think he would crush her to him, make love to her, even tell her that he loved her. He had to, she thought, because if he didn't she would die, absolutely die!

Even though she was frightened, she felt a certain determination as she stood just a few feet from his door. Then suddenly an evil look crossed her face as she thought about her conversation with the old woman.

Stay away from him! she had hissed.

"Like hell, bitch, she muttered. What right did she had to tell Suzette what to do. She'd had her time long ago. She'd messed up, but Suzette didn't intend to, no matter what she had to do!

* * * *

While in the middle of a shower, brock heard a knock on his door. He just had time to wrap himself in a towel when he heard the knock again. Mumbling a few obscenities, he opened up expecting to see Rena there, but found Suzette instead.

"What in the hell are you doing here? he blurted out, then reached for her and pulled her in. He quickly leaned around the doorframe, looking up and down the corridor for prying eyes. "Have you lost your mind? he said pulling himself back in and quickly closing the door. "Why haven't..."

"You don't have to worry, nobody saw me, she said, trying to assure him, then smiled. "It's kind of fun ... you know, meeting on the sly like this ... don't you think?"

"What the hell are you talking about. I didn't invite you in here."

"I know, it's just that ... well, it's kind of sexy. It reminds me of..."

"Suzette, he interrupted impatiently. "What's the matter? Do you need something?"

She looked around the room. "When are you going to move these things up to the attic? she asked, then pointed to one of the photographs. "Isn't this a cute picture? The last time I was here... Then suddenly she caught herself and stopped abruptly. "Never mind, she said guiltily, not meeting his eyes. Then she looked up at him. "Please don't tell, she said anxiously. "I just had to see it. He's a famous man, you know. He's led such an exciting life, I... then she lowered her head, embarrassed.

"What? About you being in this room? Hell, don't worry abut it. You're not the only one that was curious about the old man's room. I'm surprised they didn't turn this hole into a tourist attraction."

"I just wanted to see how he lived, you know?"

Broc smiled. "You like him, huh?"

"Oh, yes, she said, closing her eyes and lifting her chin as if she were going to begin whirling around the room. "I guess he's my idol, she said excitedly, looking back at Broc. "I've wished a million times that it was me he fell in love with instead... She stopped suddenly and lowered her eyes with embarrassment. "I'm bein silly. It's just that I wish I could have known him, somehow. You know?"

"He would've loved you."

An excited smile appeared on her face. "Do you really think so?"

Broc leaned against the dresser, letting his eyes move over her body. "I can guarantee it."

"You remember that day in the kitchen when I dropped the cup?"

"Yeah, what about it? he asked, sliding a cigarette out of a pack and placing it between his pursing lips.

"You startled me. I mean, you look so much like him. Have you noticed? She walked over to the nightstand and picked up his picture. "Look, she said, pushing it in his face. "Except for the color of your hair, you're an absolute carbon copy."

Broc took the picture out of her hand, took a quick glance, then tossed it back on the nightstand. "Yeah, I guess I do."

"Is that all you have to say? she frowned. "Doesn't it mean anything to you that you could be his twin? Then she whirled while stretching out her arms dramatically. "And now ... living in his room, and all. She had a dreamy look on her face when she turned back around. "It's all so ... I don't know ... strange, I guess. You know, the old Broc Sanford disappears, and now a young one ... looking just like him and all ... suddenly appears out of nowhere. God, it's so romantic. It's like something right out of a novel, or a movie. I mean, nothing like this could happen in real life, yet here you are, big as life!"

He let her babble while he lit his cigarette, then furtively turned his eyes toward the bed where a certain tabloid lay pressed between the mattresses. He remembered the day he saw it laying on the nurse's station, and grabbed it. He knew it was useless to try and hide it, besides it wasn't that bad. He told himself he was being ridiculous, yet he kept it hidden. He just couldn't take the chance.

Then suddenly she was in his face. "It's really amazing, you know? You have the same eyes, mouth, even the dimples..."

"Hey, kid... he chuckled, backing away from being scrutinized too closely.

Suzette's eyes widened. "Kid? You think I'm a kid?"

"Whoa, just get ahold of yourself, okay? Broc said, pushing his cigarette between his full lips. "I didn't mean anything by it. He squinted through smoke that was stinging his eyes while he adjusted the towel. "Say, did you want something? He looked down at himself and held out his hands. "I mean, I'm dripping wet here."

Her shocked eyes shifted down to the towel. "Oh my gosh, you're naked."

"Yeah, if you don't count the towel. He took the cigarette from his mouth and looked at her teasingly. "You mean I've been standing here talking to you for half an hour and you didn't even know I was naked? He snickered, took a deep drag off the cigarette and shook his head. "That sure as hell doesn't say much for my sex appeal, does it?"

"Oh no, Suzette said softly. "You have lots of sex appeal."

"Oh God, he muttered when he saw the look in her eyes. He turned his back on her to crush out his cigarette. "How old are you, Suzette?"

"Twenty ... almost."

"Twenty ... almost, he repeated, while he ground his cigarette into the ashtray, then turned back to her. "What the hell is twenty ... almost?"

"Well ... it means ... uh ... that I'm only eighteen ... now ... but then I'll be nineteen ... then twenty ... soon?"

"God in heaven, mumbled, holding tight to the towel that hung thin and limp around his waist. "I'm standing here in my friggin birthday suit talking to an eighteen year old baby! He grabbed her by the wrist and began pulling her toward the door. "Do me a favor, okay? Go back home to mamma."

She became petulant, and pulled herself out of his grasp. "You're not much older."

He snickered at the absurdity of that statement. "Wanna make a bet?"

"What does that mean?"

"It means I've been around the block a few hundred times ... it means I own the block, sweetheart ... it means... then he began getting irritated, "it means we're going to stop playing games, Suzette. I've seen a lot more of life than you, and believe me, I'm too old for a baby vamp like you."

She seemed indignant. "If you thought I was flirting..."

"Hell, no, he said, walking away from her and lifting his hands. "I don't think you were flirting. Then he stopped and turned back around. "I'm not even sure you'd know how."

"You're mean, she said, her bottom lip trembling.

"Why, for God's sake? Just because I think you're too damned young to be standing in the same room with a grown man that's as naked as a friggin jaybird?"

"But I'm not a baby, she shouted. "I can..."

"I'm sure you can, Broc said sarcastically, "but not with me, got it? I'm sure there must be hundreds of boys your age ready to..."

"But I don't want them, she whispered, "I want..."

"Broc Sanford, right? Well, he's not around, and as his stand-in I don't feel like deflowering a virgin right now."

"A virgin? she sobbed. "Is that the problem? You think I'm a virgin?"

He reached up and brought a hand down over his face in irritation, then turned and roughly grabbed the tops of her arms, almost lifting her off the floor. "Don't you get it? he rasped. "I don't give a good goddam if you're a virgin or not. The truth is, Suzette, that I'm a man, and men make love differently than a kid with pimples on his face. I'm much older than you, and I don't feel like making love to a scared little brat that's going to call out for mamma in the middle of it."

Anger flamed in her face and she lifted her hand to slap him, but he caught it in mid air.

"Let me go, you bastard. I came up here to thank you for keeping me from getting fired the other day, but now I..."

Having her so close, he became dizzy with desire. With a voice deep and raspy, he said, "I like you, Suzette, you know I do, but you have to stay away from me. You don't know who, or what you're dealing with here."

She laughed in contempt. "You think I'm stupid? I know all about you, King Stevenson. You're Ms. Garrison's whore. She tried to pull herself away from him, but his fingers dug deeper, and he jerked her roughly.

"Keep your mouth shut, do you hear?"

"Maybe, she said, cutting her eyes up to him, "if you're nice to me."

"My God, he asserted, pushing her away. "On top of everything else you're a spoiled brat! Driving his fingers through his hair, he said, "What the hell are they teaching kids in school these days?"

"These days? she repeated, then snickered. "You talk like someone's grandfather."

Broc ignored the remark. "Okay, so you've thanked me. "It's time to leave. He indicated toward the door.

"I remember something you said. Remember? The day in the library? You said we both feel the same thing, or something like that. What did you mean?"

He began pacing. "I meant ... we... Suddenly he turned back to her. "This is what I meant, you little bitch. He quickly grabbed her and kissed her deeply, hungrily, and fiercely.

"Stop! she cried, struggling against him. "You're hurt..."

"Shut up you little cunt, he rasped against her lips, "I warned you but you wouldn't listen. He continued kissing her until her knees were weak and she was begging for more. When he finally pulled his lips away, her eyes were still closed. He watched them as they opened slowly, realizing it was the same look he had seen on Ravyn's face so many years ago. His hungry eyes raked across her bruised lips, and her tousled hair, then turned away from her. "God, get out of here ... now!"

"But why? she asked in a tormented whisper.

"Can't you just take my word for once? he shouted. "Get out while your virginity is still in tact."

"King, really, Suzette began, her voice soft with intimacy. "Don't you know the score by now? Only a loser is still a virgin when she gets to be my age. I lost that a long time ago."

Broc cut his surprised eyes down to the innocent baby in front of him, and couldn't believe it. "You're not kidding then, you're not a virgin?"

"Of course not, she said, with an astonished smile on her face.

"But ... who..."

"My daddy, she said, almost proudly.

Broc felt like he'd been hit with lightning. "God, no, he whispered, suddenly feeling sick, dizzy.

Seeing his reaction to what she'd said, a look of panic replaced her smile. "What ... he told me it would be okay ... I mean, my mamma died ... and he ... well, he didn't have anyone else... Suzette suddenly seemed desperate, angry, "he needed me ... and I ... I helped him!"

"He's a fucking bastard, Suzette, don't you know... Broc's words trailed off, knowing she didn't understand that her father had turned her into a delicious little Lolita that no man would be able to keep his hands off of. "Look Suzette... Broc whispered desperately, "I'm not good for you, and I can't tell you why."

"You don't want me because of him? Her eyes looked frightened. "But why? Men are ... they gotta have somebody. It's not like I don't know the score, I ... I know how to make you happy. My daddy taught me lots of things."

The more she said, the sicker he became.

"King, it's different with you, she pleaded. "You may be older, but you're not my daddy, you're not anyone, we're not..."

"God, it would be so easy, he said looking down at her willingness, her innocent beauty, "but I can't take advantage of ... hell, just go away!"

"Don't make me leave, she hissed. "I'll ... I'll just die, I know it. Maybe it's because you look so much like Broc Sanford, I..."

"Forget him, for God's sake! Broc said angrily. "He's yesterday's news! He's gone, vanished, pffft! Then he abruptly turned away from her.

"But you're here, she whispered, putting her arms around him from the back.

He felt her curves pressing up against him, and turned around, feeling as weak as a kitten. When he looked down into the eyes that told him he was the most wonderful man in the world, all his resistance suddenly faded. He looked at her for several minutes, her beauty almost painful to behold. "It's too late, he whispered.

"What does that mean, she asked as the two of them looked deeply into each other's eyes.

"It means that you stayed too long at the fair, baby. With fire leaping up through is groin, he whispered, "You should have left when I told you to."

She felt a thrill run through her when she heard him say the words she thought the real Broc Sanford might have said. "You sound just like..."

"Don't tell me, I know."

"Do you know his story?"

"Like it was my own, he said huskily just before they went into each other's arms.

Suddenly a loud noise sounded outside his door, and they broke away. Broc's sudden movement made the towel drop to the floor, and Suzette looked down at his naked body.

Broc grabbed for her chin, forcing her to look at his face. "You have to leave, he whispered. "If Rena ... Ms. Garrison finds you here, we'll both be Fancy's dinner."

"But when... she began.

He put his finger on her lips. "I'll let you know. We both have to be very careful. If I'm around during the day, ignore me. Even act as if you hate me, but don't give anyone any ideas. Okay?"

"Kiss me, she urged, lifting her arms and winding them around his neck. When their bodies came together his cock began growing against her, and Suzette murmured, "Oh God, King, don't make me go!"

"I have to, he rasped, "but it won't be long."

"Promise me, she said breathlessly.

"I promise, he whispered. "Now go!"

"I don't believe you, she said, while he pushed her toward the door. "You still think of me as a baby and you're just trying to get rid of me."

"Suzette, we can't go into that now."

Suddenly she stumbled on something, looked down and saw the towel coiled around his feet. "All right, she said, suddenly agreeable, "but let me get the towel."

"Suzette, don't worry..."

Before Broc could finish his objection, a small cry escaped his throat when he felt the soft depth of her mouth open up and take him inside. He knew he should make her stop, but felt a passion rising in him that was clouding his brain. Her mouth had already begun its hungry suckle making him helpless to do anything but breathe in several hot, jerking breaths. He was growing weak while her lips and tongue played an intimate game up and down his cock, and his moans were becoming so intense he was afraid someone would hear. Then suddenly he felt her hands reach around and cup his buttocks, pulling him closer while burying her face between his legs where every pulse point was pounding like that of a stormy sea. He couldn't keep his hips from heaving toward her, then suddenly he felt himself climbing with each draw of her mouth that was taking him into a land of carnal delight. The intensity had become so great that he reached down and grabbed her head, pushing himself in and out of her mouth in a wild dance that was draining him of his inhibitions. His face contorted, then suddenly he gasped in sweet agony while his shaft vibrated with liquid fire.

Finally he was there.

There was no turning back.

It took only one more wild, erotic thrust for the white, hot liquid to spew from him like a lusty fountain.

When Suzette heard Broc's outcry of delight, she became elated. His shout of satisfaction was her cry of triumph. She was proud of herself. It was the first time she'd ever been with anyone other than her daddy.

Now, she was grown up.

Now, she was a woman!

CHAPTER NINE

The next day when Broc stepped out into the garden, it was bright and clear with a crisp chill in the air. It was one of those perfect beach days that come around very rarely. By noon the breeze would be warm, the water just cool enough to invigorate you, and the sand would feel like a warm blanket, inviting you to burrow down into it. It was the kind of day where forgetting everything and laying in the sun seemed to be the sane thing to do, but Broc was addicted by this time and paid no attention to the stretch of sand and shining water.

He had just slipped his hands into his gardening gloves when he saw a strange looking man moving around on a small temporary scaffolding he had apparently built. He wore ragged jeans and a dingy undershirt that had the sleeves torn out. He had a colorful kerchief covering his head that was tied at the side, and his hair was a dark, sun-streaked blonde that fell well below his shoulders.

Seeing the scaffold, Broc knew he must have been working since sunup. He was covered with white dust generated by gently moving a sandpaper glove along the surface of the statue.

"I take it you're DeLane Kiley? Broc called out to him.

"Not really, I'm just some psycho with designs on your statue, the man said with a teasing smile.

Broc smiled. "Well, Mr. Psycho, you seem to enjoy feeling up my mermaid."

"Only in an artistic sense, the man said as he disengaged his hand from the gloved instrument he was using. "I'm gay, so statues of women don't turn me on."

"The first time I saw her, I had an erotic dream about her. I guess that means I'm not gay."

"To each his own, the sculptor said while carefully climbing down. Once firmly on the ground, he reached up to an old rag he had laying casually over his shoulder, quickly wiped at the white film that covered him, then extended a clean hand to Broc. "I'm glad to know you. I'm also glad you have a sense of humor. You'd be surprised at the number of people who don't."

"I always enjoy a good joke."

"By the way, I hope my sexual preference doesn't bother you, he said while digging a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "I can still do a hell of a job."

"Not at all, but aren't you here a few days early?"

DeLane offered Broc a cigarette, but he declined. "Yeah, but I didn't have anything else to do, he explained while touching a light to his cigarette. "Hate to be idle, you know? He took a deep drag. "So, He turned and took an appreciative look at the mermaid while he blew a cloud of smoke into the air. "I just thought I'd start a little early. He reached up and took a tiny portion of tobacco leaf off his tongue, and looked at Broc. "I hope I'm not messing anything up."

"No, of course not, Broc said, then indicated toward the mansion. "Have you had breakfast? There's a full pot of coffee, and plenty of sweet rolls in the kitchen."

DeLane looked down at himself. "I guess not, I'm kind of a mess right now."

Broc looked at his dirty clothes. "Don't you have an apron or something you can wear?"

"Yeah, but I can't seem to find it, so I just wore some old jeans and a shirt I had lying around."

"Tell you what, I'll bring it outside. Broc indicated toward the old wrought iron bench. "Go ahead, sit down, relax, finish your cigarette. A nice view of the ocean while we have some coffee will do us both good."

DeLane watched Broc as he went back inside, feeling a little disappointed in his sexual preference, but shrugged it off. He looked down at all the dust he had accumulated, slapped at his clothes then went over to the bench and sat down. While waiting, DeLane thought about what had happened to him while puffing on his cigarette and gazing out into the ocean. As he sat there letting it eat at him, he couldn't keep an ugly bile of bitterness from rising up in his throat. He blamed his problems on people that thought they were better than him. People with money that had the power to make him or break him. He hated depending on them for his success. Sure, he lowered himself to lick their boots once in a while, but he wasn't ashamed of what he was. He didn't understand why some people made such an issue out of it. A lot of artists were gay. Hell, it seemed to go with the territory. The problem was selling to a straight public, a prejudiced public. When they found out what he was, they would usually lose interest, make excuses. He watched their rich, thin, sophisticated lips dripping with lies, but knew what they were really thinking. A gay sculptor, a loser, a washout, a flop, a failure. Why the hell did they think working with stone made you some kind of ethereal angelic type? Michaelangelo and his Cistene Chapel was stuffed up their asses so far they thought all stone handlers were supposed to be flying around with wings. It might interest them to know that Michaelangelo was as earthy as they come, and also gay, that's why he sculpted so many naked men. How many times was he going to be slapped in the face with that one? There were hundreds of successful gay artists. How the hell did they do it? Hid it, probably. Well, hell, maybe it was the smart thing to do. DeLane never tried to hide his preference, though. To him being gay was the most natural thing in the world. He never felt the need to hide it, it was just who he was. It's like the color of a man's skin. You don't discriminate against a person for something he can't help. He is who he is, it's as simple as that.

DeLane was always honest, up front, and remembered paying the price at an early age. The first people to reject him were his parents, then his classmates. He finally left a home he didn't feel welcome in. He always saw himself walking the hard asphalt alone, fists punched down in his pockets struggling against a cold wind. Always cold, like the people of the world. He knew he was good at what he did, and had even sold a few pieces, but somehow it just wouldn't come together for him. Hell, even the gods seemed to be against him. Everytime he managed to get a little money ahead something would happen to take everything he had, and more besides. Then if no job came along, he would have to dig into his savings to pay rent or buy food. The money was constantly going for something more immediate, and badly needed supplies or a truck payment had to wait. It was driving him up the wall. He didn't hear Broc walk up and jumped slightly when he abruptly appeared.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, anything wrong?"

"No, nothing, DeLane muttered, then jumped up when he saw Broc struggling. "Here, let me help. He bit down on the stub of his cigarette, then took the tray quickly, leaving Broc's hands free to brush the fallen leaves and thin, spidery cobwebs from the table.

"You're sure."

"Just a little anxious about starting a new job, I guess."

"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll do fine, Broc said, as he took the tray full of steaming hot coffee and breakfast sweet rolls and set them on the table. DeLane seemed to be a little shy, so when the sculptor didn't take one, he indicated toward the platter. "Better eat up. I just warmed them in the microwave, but they won't stay hot very long out here."

DeLane ground out his cigarette, picked one up and began eating. "It looks great. Thanks."

"Sure. The kind of work you do requires good meals. Broc leaned back and drank his coffee slowly as he watched DeLane devour all the rolls on the platter. It made him wonder when he had eaten last. He felt for DeLane, having been down that road himself.

Suddenly the sculptor looked up at Broc, embarrassed. "My God, I ate everything. Were you ... did you..."

"No problem, Broc said. "They were for you. He patted his stomach. "Gotta watch the old figure."

Wiping at his mouth with a napkin, DeLane suddenly seemed depressed. "I guess you can tell that the sculpting business hasn't been too lucrative of late."

Broc knew something was bothering him, so he leaned forward and asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Against the rules, DeLane said simply while putting his coffee cup to his lips.

"Rules? Broc asked, with curious eyes following him. "What rules?"

"Never bring your troubles to work with you. That's my rule, and I'm keeping it."

"If you insist, but I'd like to help if I can."

He looked over at Broc's kind expression, and after a few moments of silence everything came out. "Well, he began, then shrugged, "I got evicted yesterday. I came home around six and found every damned thing I own on the front lawn. I spent the night in my truck, and that's the reason I'm here a few days early. I don't have anyplace to go. My whole goddamned apartment is out there in my truck, and when my day is over here I'll have to go find a nice secluded parking spot, I guess. He gave a sarcastic chuckle. "I guess this is what it feels like to hang on by your fingernails."

Broc was silent for a moment, then asked, "Couldn't you talk to your landlady? Ask her to..."

"I did. I told her about this job and that I would have some money soon, but she- he lowered his eyes sadly, "-well I guess she didn't care since she'd already rented it. He looked back up at Broc and frowned. "Can you believe it? She rented that dump right out from under my sorry ass. He turned his head and mumbled, "Bitch!"

"How long do you think this job will last?"

DeLane turned back to him and shrugged. "A month maybe, but it's hard to say. It depends on the deterioration of the statue, the size, a lot of things. I won't know for sure until I get into it. He lifted his foot and braced it against the edge of the table and leaned back, relaxing. "My first love is painting and until I can make a go of that, jobs like this are just to keep the rent paid and food on the table. He looked at Broc, and snickered loudly. "I sure as hell don't have to worry about that anymore, do I? No fuckin rent to pay, and no goddamned table, the last few of words said with clenched teeth and anger. He looked down at the napkin he fingered gingerly. "If I could just get a friggin break, he said, throwing the napkin down and reaching for another cigarette. "Hell, I keep tryin to hang on, but..."

"Are you any good?"

"Hell yes, I'm good, but nobody'll ever know it if I can't get my work out there."

"What seems to be the problem?"

"Besides my sexual preference? Names, he said bitterly. "That's what they want. A new artist doesn't have a chance. Two goddamned strikes against me before I ever get started."

Broc lowered his head, sharing DeLane's misery. Then suddenly he looked back at the French doors and stood up. "I'll be right back."

DeLane said nothing, just lit his cigarette, then stared down at the dark liquid in his cup.

When Broc got inside he began looking for Rena. He finally peeked through the swinging door leading into the kitchen and saw her feeding Fancy. He walked in slowly, then relaxed a shoulder against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. "Doesn't that animal ever get enough to eat?"

She began petting the baby tiger possessively as if protecting her from Broc's words. "When your young and healthy like Fancy your appetites are never satisfied."

"Yeah? Well right now she's only hungry for food. What'll you do when she grows up and bites off someone's arm or leg?"

"She'll never do that. She's bred differently than a wild animal."

"You mean to tell me you're going to have a full grown, growling, snarling tiger running around this nursing home? She'll scare these poor people spitless! The goddamned halls will be littered with heart attack victims."

She looked up at him with a frown. "What in hell do you expect me to do, put her to sleep? I didn't spend all my time raising and nurturing her just so she could be put in some gas chamber! She's a special animal! Surely even you must know that."

"Yeah? Now how the fuck would I know that? She looks like a million other tigers to me. I say we turn her over to the zoo, or whatever you do with- He made a swipe toward her. "-hungry female tigers."

"I can't do that, she's tame. Those wild animals would tear her apart.

"Better her than us. Besides, if you don't you'll have to de-claw the little bitch and pull all her teeth. Otherwise, think of yourself as her next meal."

Resenting his attack on Fancy, she eyed him coldly, then got up and tried to push past him to go through the door.

He grabbed her arm as she passed. "You gonna leave that thing in here? Unattended?"

"Relax, King, you're safe, she said with amusement dancing in her eyes. "She's a little young to be on the prowl yet. Maybe it was what she said, or their closeness, but the heavy sexual insinuation hung in the air between them. Then feeling the heat of his hand burn into her arm, Rena's deep twilight eyes dug into his and she whispered, "Did you want something ... I hope?"

Broc didn't think it would hurt to spread a little jam on the bread, so he leaned his head down and kissed her.

She looked up at him with longing in her eyes. "It isn't dark yet, so don't start something you don't intend to finish."

"I need to talk to you. It's important."

"Really, she said, enjoying the clean scent of a fresh shower and his aftershave. "What about? she asked, her voice becoming husky. "A lumpy mattress? A leaking roof? What?"

Broc enjoyed the way she could make even a lumpy mattress sound sexy. "No, it's nothing like that."

"Oh? Rena said, her interest growing. "Well, we could do it here, She cut her eyes around the room. "against the wall, on the floor, Then she returned them to him. "otherwise you'll have to wait until we climb that mountain of stairs."

"Do you have any empty rooms right now?"

She frowned. "Why would you want to know that?"

"Just tell me. How many?"

She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling as if she could see every one of them, then looked back at him. "In this old mansion there's always at least one, but right now there happens to be two."

"Are you expecting any occupancies soon?"

"What is this? she asked, jerking herself out of his grasp. "Why the sudden interest in empty rooms? Afraid the home is going out of business? Then her lips pursed and her words took on a cutesy, baby sound. "Don't worry sweetie, you're paycheck will come as usual every week, Suddenly dropping the pretense, she clenched her teeth and grabbed his crotch. "as long as you do your job."

Broc didn't move out of her grasp as he normally would, but continued looking her square in the eyes. "I want one of those rooms."

Rena frowned at the unusual request. "Why?"

"For a friend."

"What the hell do you think I'm running here, a hotel? No way!"

"It'll just be for a while. Until he gets back on his feet again."

Rena's eyes widened. "A man?"

"Reel in your antenna, Rena, he's gay."

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean back on his feet?

"He's had a run of bad luck, that's all. Needs to find himself a job and an apartment. When he does he'll move out."

"No, Rena said, firmly. "I can't be lending out rooms to every bum that finds himself on the street. Then with a sarcastic leer, she rasped, "One was enough. She started to go, but his hand grabbed her arm again.

"I'll make it worth your while, he whispered in her ear.

Her eyes looked up and met his. "What do you mean?"

"I think you know, he said, his eyes holding hers, the meaning written within their depths.

Her eyes narrowed on his to make sure she knew what he was saying.

"No more avoiding you, I swear. When you call, I'll be there."

She stared into his eyes for a long time, then said, "Just one time, King. Revert back to your old ways just one time, and I promise you the bastard is back out on the street, and you along with him. Is that understood?"

He nodded, then moved his eyes away from hers and gazed at the animal devouring her food on the kitchen floor until he heard the soft swishing of the door.

As soon as he knew she was gone he turned himself to the wall and felt like beating it, but instead, lifted an arm and rested his forehead on it. It took a lot for him to do what he just did. Never in his life had a woman had such control over him, and it was eating at his guts. It wasn't because she was a woman, Broc didn't like anyone controlling him. In his day he had run with a wild crowd, but even the mob didn't control him because they knew they needed him. They treated him like royalty, looked up to him because he was a genius in the courtroom, and he had lived to become a legend. Now, to be controlled by a bitch like Rena made him physically ill.

* * * *

That evening, when the day was over for DeLane, Broc helped him move into one of the rooms. He laid out all the rules and regulations, then turned to leave.

"I'll never be able to thank you enough, DeLane said, just before Broc passed through the door.

"Forget it, it's no problem."

"I know, I'll sculpt you something. No charge, a gift. But it's still not enough, it'll never be enough."

Broc squeezed his shoulder affectionately. "Hey, don't worry about it, we artists have to stick together, don't we?"

DeLane gave him a surprised look. "You're an artist?"

Broc laughed. "Only in the courtroom. Seeing a confused look on DeLane's face, he said, "Words. Words paint a picture, right? That's all I mean."

"Yeah, sure, I guess so, DeLane said, still looking at him as if he were a god.

"Hey, don't get the idea I'm some kind of saint here. I have a plan, and it's completely selfish. Someday I can say to all my friends, I knew him way back when, and even lent him a room.' Broc lifted his hand up toward the door and said, "There'll be a sign, see, and it'll say, DeLane Kiley slept here.' While still indicating toward the imaginary sign, he glanced back at DeLane. "Can't you see it? I can. When he noticed the young man blinking back unshed tears he looked down at his watch. "Hey, look at the time. I've still got a million- Suddenly he stopped, feeling a little choked up himself. "-well, you know. Then he quickly stepped out of the room while offering a mock salute. "See you tomorrow."

Watching him go, DeLane's lips stretched upward in a twitching smile, then he nodded his goodbye, waiting to be left alone with his humiliating situation.

When Broc got to his room, his mellow mood was instantly dispelled when his eyes immediately fell upon the latest addition. It was a sleek, shiny, modern looking instrument called an intercom that was hanging from the wall just at the side of his headboard. Rena had been true to her word and had one put in both their rooms. He would never forget the electrician that appeared on the scene to install it. Rena had had to do some shopping, so she left Broc to overlook the job, but he didn't mind. He watched, mesmerized, while the man strung wires everywhere, running them from his room all the way down to hers. When it was completed, he was more than glad to help when the electrician asked him to stay there and listen while he went down to her room to test it. Broc sat on the edge of the bed looking at the box, waiting for the voice of the electrician to come through. When he finally heard a crackling sound he jumped up, flattened a hand against the wall, then held himself back with a stiff arm and looked at the box closely. He didn't know how loud it would be, and didn't want to miss it, so he lowered his head, listening for the test... 1...2...3... test message, but instead he heard a sliding, seductive voice speak in a clear whisper that filled his room.

"Cheer up, kid, she ain't a bad lookin broad. Take it from me, it could be worse. When you get as old as I am you take what you can get. Between you and me, I'd love to fuck the livin hell out of that mole above her lip, but why the hell even try? Apparently she likes em young. Oh, by the way, he added sarcastically, "should I leave a complimentary supply of condoms? Broc could hear the electrician snickering and angrily snapped the sound off, then made himself scarce while the smart ass found his own way out.

Now, everytime Broc came into his room and saw that sleek little voice box it filled him with anger. Having that thing in his room was almost like being in the same room with her. Time and again, he'd had to sit there and listen to her sticky sweet voice. If she wasn't calling him down there, she was pouring out her troubles, concerns, and filth by the truckload.

Broc remembered the night he was sitting on his bed reading, when suddenly the silence was broken by her drunken voice. She began babbling on and on about some Italian Prince called Giovanni. He had to admit that his interest was raised, so he turned his head and began listening. About that time she brought someone by the name of Alfonso into the picture, and began describing how her brother Cesare had had him assassinated to cause a rift between Rome and Naples.

Where the hell does she get these stories, he asked himself while leaning over and listening to the angry rasp of her voice.

"Well, he got his wish, she muttered, then Broc heard a slurping sound and knew she was stoned. It was the only time she ever drank wine out of the bottle. "With Alfonso out of the way, Cesare's way was clear, she said, then went on to tell him how unscrupulous Cesare was, and that one night he came into her room and tried to rape her. "He didn't get away with it, she slurred. "None of them got away with it. I showed them all with my potions and poisons. Egypt was well rid of them ... all of them."

"Egypt? Broc snickered as he leaned his head down to light a cigarette, then shrugged. "Well, I guess Egypt is a little more exotic than say ... Dogpatch."

"That bastard didn't know how to make a woman happy. I would love to have stuffed his religion right up his dumb ass!"

"What bastard? Broc asked, thinking he'd missed something. "Alfonso, or Giovanni? And whatever happened to this other cat ... uh ... Ces ... whatever. He blew a cloud of smoke upward, waiting for her reply.

"Prince Giovanni, she answered, "he and Alfonso were my husbands."

"Didn't you have another one? he asked.

"The Duke of Ferrara, she slurred, "but he's not part of this story."

"Yeah? What about ... uh ... what was his name ... oh yeah ... Ceasar, wasn't it?"

"Ceasar? Ceasar was a god! I'm talking about Cesare, my brother. He was a punk!"

"You're brother, for God's sake? Are you sure? You're telling me your own brother raped ... no tried to rape you? Broc snickered.

"What the hell are you laughing at?"

"Come on, Rena, no man in his right mind would try to rape you, especially not your brother. It's usually the other way around, isn't it?"

"Why you sorry son of a bitch! she shouted over the intercom.

"And what's all this about potions and poisons? Damn, he said, chuckling, "what the hell did you do, kill off the whole population?"

Then suddenly Broc jumped back when the voice began cursing, and spouting more obscenities than he'd ever heard in his life.

Now, when Broc looked at the little box, it was a constant reminder that he was subject to her every whim. He knew the promise he'd made to her on DeLane's behalf had to be kept, or else. From this day forward it didn't matter what he was doing, when her voice came over that blasted machine, he had to be ready and able to perform.

Before, and even after the machine had been installed, he'd been able to avoid her, but then she got smart. Figured it out. And she'd vault up those stairs and burst into his room hotter than hell. Sometimes she'd find him, and other times she'd be waiting for him when he returned.

Looking at the box now, he knew that was all over. There wouldn't be anymore slipping away, no more tricks. Now he had to be a good boy and answer when she called. He slumped down on his bed, remembering the last time they were together. He hadn't answered, and thought that was that until she burst into his room. Then came the anger, he thought. The anger that propelled their sex.

"A lot of good this thing has done me, she yelled, then picked up something and threw it at the machine. He watched her as she began walking toward him, looking at him with her dark, hellish eyes. "When I summon you, you will come. Is that understood?"

"Like a lap dog, right? Here Rover, here boy, he had answered. "Well, I'm not a dog, lady, and I don't intend to roll over everytime you say so!"

Rena was burning up inside, but she tried to remain calm and her voice became dangerously soft. "In that case, I see no reason to keep you here. You'll leave immediately, both you and Suzette. And I suppose your pet project, she cut her dark eyes toward him, "the beauteous Lorelei will just have to be abandoned. Her voice took on a sarcastic tone. "What a shame. You were doing so well, too."

Broc didn't care about the project. It was just something to fill his days. Something that he thought would be nice for the residents. He knew the minute he was gone it probably wouldn't be maintained. But Suzette, that was a different matter. He couldn't let her lose her job. It was just too bad that both of them had to be subject to a bitching head mistress. "All right, he rasped, turning his back on the woman that had control over him.

She smiled coldly. "That's better. Be down in my apartment in ten minutes."

He whirled back around. "We can do it here, he hissed, not wanting to set foot in her web.

"Whatever you say, Rover ... uh ... lover, she whispered, then lifted her arms and said, "ravage me."

When he heard her smart mouth, he went wild. She gave a slight scream when he angrily grabbed her and threw her down on the bed. Tearing at her clothes, he opened his mouth and suckled her ample breasts. "You want me to ravage you? he growled. "Well, lady, you're going to get your wish. Every movement he made was rough and without consideration. Everything he did was for his satisfaction, not hers. His tongue raked across her tender skin, and when he took her nipples into his mouth, he bit, chewed, and clawed while he released a deep growl from his throat. When his cock was swollen and hard as a rock, he lifted her legs and plunged himself into her as deeply as he could without regard to any pain she might feel. He sliced himself in and out, bucking like a bronco. The feral sounds coming from deep within his throat were guttural and animalistic. He didn't want to look at her, so he kept his eyes closed and sweat poured off him that he imagined to be blood. Anger had spread throughout him so thoroughly that his wild movements were out of control. His breath came in pants as he worked toward that grand summit that would have him shuddering with the sin of satisfaction when it finally arrived. Suddenly a red glow caught his attention and his eyes began to dart around. He gasped when he thought he saw the illusory scene of fire and brimstone and imagined he could see Aleksa urging him on while cracking a whip and laughing maniacally. When an orgasm finally hit him, it jarred him forcefully, and he found himself jerking like a man in seizure. After a few thumping heartbeats he opened his eyes again and he was back in his room and the woman beneath him was shuddering with ecstasy.

CHAPTER TEN

Since the night DeLane moved in, Broc could feel something in the air, something pressing in on him. He could tell the demon was getting anxious, so anxious in fact, it seemed he could smell the stink of hell all around him. He became watchful, nervous. He felt a certain paranoia clouding his mind, affecting his actions. He remembered the night he looked up and saw that the chandelier in the salon had turned to a giant spider, swinging from a silk thread. The spindly legs would wiggle, the glassy, red-rimmed eyes haunted his dreams.

He began watching it, knowing it was waiting for just the right moment to violently tear away from it's place on the ceiling and crush him. Shadows had taken on substance, and he could hear whispers all around him. His dreams at night had become terror-filled. He would find himself running through some distant netherworld, kicking up fog while trying to get away from a crowd of grotesque shadow monsters that were reaching out to take his life.

Before he lay down, he knew this would be a night like all the others, and he would wake up in a sweat with the covers on his bed choking him. He looked down at his calendar, then picked up a pencil. As he marked a large X across the day, it reminded him of the horrible night that he dreamed his eyes and mouth were sewn shut, and he was buried alive. He sat there silently willing the days to pass when he heard a soft knock on the door. The first person he thought of was Rena, and his stomach knotted up. He didn't want to see her tonight, or any night for that matter, but knowing he couldn't avoid it, he clenched his robe around his waist and went to the door. When he opened it, DeLane, with his friendly smile and innocent eyes, stood there. Broc's hands instinctively reached up and clutched his robe, closing it across his chest.

I'm so goddamned stupid, he thought, feeling like a prudish old maid at a strippers convention. He struggled to let go, but as hard as he tried, he couldn't deny the tension he knew was rising in him when he felt his chest hair making an appearance. He tried to act normal, but it took everything he had to stand there with a gaping chest when everything in him wanted to hide his nakedness from DeLane's gay eyes.

Broc tried a wide, friendly smile, hoping it didn't look fake. "Hi, how's it goin'?"

"Great. Say I was just goin down to the Shanty to have a drink. Would you like to come?"

The idea of getting out of Northclyf for a while was definitely appealing, but Broc couldn't let himself pal around with DeLane. "Sorry, I can't ... uh ... Rena ... yeah, Rena said she had something for me to do later. Broc shrugged. "I guess I'll have to stick around. Broc wanted to bite his tongue as soon as he'd said it. The words were disjointed, had a false ring to them, but he didn't take them back. Instead he just stood there like a dope, waiting for DeLane to get the message that there could never be anything between them other than a business relationship, and he wanted to keep it that way.

DeLane backed away from the door, haltingly. "Yeah ... sure, he said, disappointment coloring his voice. "Well ... later, huh?"

Broc's fake smile was wide. "Yeah, later. When he closed the door, he fell back against it, thinking he'd made an ass of himself. None of this was DeLane's fault. He was who he was. Broc, on the other hand, had had more than fifty years to work through this gay thing, but no matter how he tried he couldn't seem to come to terms with it. On the surface he could act out his part, but that's all it was, just an act. He hated himself for that.

Trying to put it out of his mind, he remembered he hadn't locked up yet, so he slid on his jeans and left his room. Jumping up on the banister like a kid, he slid all the way down the curving staircase. He went to the front, then walked back through pools of twisted shadow to the French doors. As always, he looked out. The street was vacant except for the restless winds that blew sheets of sand across the bluff. Suddenly he heard the tapping of a cane, and looked toward the corner. There she was, shuffling along, leaning on the twisted old walking stick while the wind blew around her. He couldn't help wondering where she came from, and where she was going. Broc remembered how irritated he used to become when her presence seemed to intrude on his memories, but now he had become so enamored by the old woman that not only had he begun looking for her, he would hope to see her. He would even check his watch, and found that every night at the midnight hour she trudged along the leaf-strewn path. He couldn't help but wonder what would happen if he spoke to her. Would she speak, disappear, or would she be afraid?

Broc watched her until she disappeared from view, then suddenly heard something and jerked his head around. He saw nothing but shafts of ice cold moonlight piercing though the windows. Their sinister shapes were long and lonely, and bathed everything in light and shadow. Silhouettes of fluttering leaves danced on the floor to a silent music that only they could hear.

Suddenly the thought of Suzette loomed in his mind. He tried to push her image from his mind, but the last time they were together in his room made his groin ache with desire. It won't hurt, he told himself, and began walking through pools of shadow toward the front desk, his movements quick and deliberate. He pulled open a drawer and tabbed through the employee folders until he found hers. When he pulled it out, he looked around as if he thought someone might be watching, then silently picked up the phone while his eyes continued to dart. As he punched in the numbers he felt the chill of an intruder everytime a bird, or a tree limb danced in silhouette across the round salon floor. With his searching eyes still on the lookout, he listened to the buzz in the phone as it tickled his ear. It rang forever, it seemed, then when he heard her sweet voice, it sounded sleepy.

"I guess I woke you up, huh? he whispered, hoping he didn't sound like an obscene caller.

Suzette sat up in bed. "King? Is that you? My God, I can't believe you're calling me. I've dreamed of it, hoped, but..."

For a split second Broc wondered who King was, then managed to fight his way through the cobwebs in his brain. "Suzette, he whispered, interrupting her breathy words. "I've got to see you, baby. When can we get together?"

"I don't know. I guess tomorrow night's okay. Do you want to come over here?"

A dizziness suddenly closed over Broc, and he hung his head for a moment, then shook it.

"Hey, are you there?"

"You know I can't come over there, Broc said, rubbing his head as if he had a headache. "What about your family, your dad would never..."

"My family? King, what..."

"Let's meet at our old spot. You know, under the boardwalk?"

"Our old spot? she questioned.

Broc knew immediately he'd said something wrong, and felt as if he was looking at the present through a part in a dark curtain. His world was Model T's, raccoon coats, sugar moon, and flapping skirts. He was an old geezer trying to live in a modern world that he knew nothing about. What would Suzette think if she knew he was the real Broc Sanford, and she was his new Ravyn? He shook his head, trying to clear over fifty years worth of dust away. Of course she doesn't know about the boardwalk, he told himself, but she'll learn. "Suzette, you know the part of the boardwalk where most of the action is, right? Souvenir shops, restaurants, hot dog stands."

"Sure."

"There's a stretch of beach there. At one end is a restaurant ... uh ... Shipwreck Charlie's, or ... I don't know ... Steamboat Charlie's, or something like that. Beside it, and in the back are rides. Down on the other end are the casinos, and that's where I want you to meet me. Just go down on the beach, then walk under the boardwalk where the columns are that hold the foot walk up on that side. Just stay there at the edge and I'll find you."

"Okay, but won't we get wet?"

"No, not there. We'll be close to the water, but far enough up that you won't get wet. So ... tomorrow night at nine, right?"

"King, I can't wait that long. Why can't you come over here now?"

"I can't, babe. I'm like a prisoner here at night. Broc's lips pressed close to the receiver and rasped, "You know why."

"Sure, but I don't understand. How is tomorrow night different?"

"Rena's taking a trip down the coast. She has to meet with Mr. Shelbourne. Some business involving the home, I guess. Anyway she leaves tomorrow at noon and won't be back until Sunday night."

"But why the boardwalk? There must be a better place."

Broc's thoughts went back a million years, it seemed, and knew there couldn't possibly be a better place than the boardwalk. He remembered lying in the sand with Ravyn while passersby moved above them. They giggled for hours it seemed, and it always ended in a hot, steamy passion party. He knew everyone wouldn't understand, but it had been their Shangri-La, their hideaway. Maybe he was an old fool, but he wanted to re-live that just once more before his time was up. He touched his lips to the receiver and whispered, "Just trust me, okay?"

"If you say so."

"That's my girl. Well, I guess I better get goin', Peepers."

"What did you call me?"

Peepers, he'd called her Peepers. It was his pet name for Ravyn. What the hell was happening to him? He shook his head again and said, "Nothing, forget it."

"It was Peepers! You called me Peepers! My God, that's what Broc Sanford used to call his girl, Ravyn. You know, the song, Jeepers, creepers, where'd you get those peepers? That's where he got it. He always thought she had such beautiful eyes."

"You do know a lot about this character, don't you? Broc said, uncomfortably.

"I told you, he's my idol."

Broc forced a chuckle. "Okay, so you're daffy over the guy. Just don't forget our date tomorrow night."

"Okay ... Broc."

"Broc?"

"If you can call me Peepers, I can call you Broc. It'll be fun, don't you think?"

"Sure, sweetheart. Whatever does it for you. Later."

Broc replaced the receiver very gently, then moved from behind the counter and began climbing the stairs to his room. When he got there, he crawled into bed and tried to sleep but couldn't. He kept thinking of Suzette, and the strange way her image mingled with Ravyn's. The two images, whirling around in his brain caused him to toss and turn. Just when he'd about made it to the edge of sleep, a soft knock sounded on his door. Frowning, he got up and put on his robe. With a touch of anger, he jerked the belt as he tied it, thinking that it would be just like Rena to roust him out of bed for a quick roll in the hay before she left tomorrow. But when he opened it, DeLane stood there staring straight ahead like a zombie. The hallway behind him was draped in shadowy silence. He waited for DeLane to say something, but he just stood there, staring through him. Broc frowned at him. "Hey, DeLane, are you okay? Then suddenly without invitation, DeLane walked in and sat down on the bed. "Hey pal, you must be gassed. Broc said, not moving away from the open door. "This is my room. Yours is down the hall, okay? When DeLane didn't answer, Broc walked over to the bed and sat down beside him. "Hey, cut it out, man. What's wrong? Do you need help? 911? What? As DeLane continued to stare straight ahead, Broc looked him over for wounds, scratches, anything that might give him a clue as to why the sculptor was acting this way. Just then DeLane made a lightning quick movement and grabbed Broc's face, making killer eye contact. Broc found himself litterly captured by DeLane's eyes. He tried to move them away, but they seemed transfixed...

...frozen...

...rooted...

He sat rivited to the spot, unable to do anying but submit while DeLane's eyes burned into his...

...piercing...

...scorching...

...invading...

...assaulting...

...plunging deeper and deeper...

...until everything went dark.

The next morning Broc woke up in bed with no clothes on. He looked around, finding his briefs laying beside the bed. He frowned, wondering when he'd taken them off. The last thing he remembered was being in bed dozing, but he knew he'd had his briefs on. The only thing he could figure is that he must have gotten up sometime during the night to go to the bathroom. They must have somehow wound up there instead of back on him. A dream, it must have been a dream, he thought. He'd been having a lot of them lately, and finding his briefs beside his bed was a lot better than walking along the roof at midnight.

God, what a close call that was.

He'd woke up teetering on the edge of the roof just about to fly off. He remembered being very dizzy, and looking down from the edge and seeing the space between him and the yard stretching like a rubber band, then snapping back. It was like a yo yo ... back and forth ... back and forth. Anyway, after that scare, he wasn't about to worry about how his briefs wound up laying at the side of his bed.

Broc was so anxious to get out into the garden again, he didn't even take time to eat breakfast. He seemed driven. He worked out under the sun for hours, the unseasonable heat beating down on him, the rush of the surf in his ears, the wind pushing at his back. Suddenly he began feeling strange, as if he had cotton in his head. Several times he would shake his head to clear it, look around him and see the world leaning, as if everything was off kilter just a bit. He tried not to notice, but was it his imagination, or was DeLane looking at him with a knowing smirk on his face. "What the hell is going on around here, he mumbled to himself. All of a sudden, he began getting little flashes of last night's activities teasing him. He would see flashes of red, then that damned black curtain again. The slit revealed two people kissing ... only a flash ... then a man's hand moved over his body in a tingling caress. Suddenly he felt a warm feeling steal over him. An orgasm? These felt like memories, but how could they be? Memories of what? Who? Just then he looked up on the scaffold, and saw DeLane looking down at him. When their eyes met the black curtain suddenly opened, and a whole panorama of the night before unfurled his mind. He choked when he saw himself and the sculptor in a hot embrace, fondling each other on the bed. "Oh my God, he gasped. He suddenly remembered every movement, every whispered word, and every thrust DeLane made inside him. His face contorted when he remembered how he had handled DeLane ... like a passionate lover. He pulled his hands up out of the dirt and looked down at them as if they had betrayed him. He brought them up before his unbelieving eyes and groaned loudly. He closed his eyes while his mind painted a picture of two bodies thrusting together, and when he realized that he had loved every moment the two men spent together, a flood of tears fell from his eyes, and shame exploded inside him. The thought was too much for him and in a desperate movement he brought his hands up and began clawing at his head ... at the memories. He'd never seen such ugly, dirty pictures as were going through his mind. Sweaty, rolling bodies of two men, fucking, sucking, moaning, then shouting with the disgusting orgasms that each had reached.

The dirty memories of the debauchery that he'd been a part of was tearing him apart. He continued scratching at his face, causing blood to run down his face until his own flesh and blood became packed under his fingernails. He cried out as the thoughts began taunting him, jeering at him, calling him names. Queer! Homo! Fag! Just then he happened to look up at DeLane on the scaffold, and saw him watching him. He wanted to crack him upside the jaw when he thought about what the sculptor had done to him the night before. He'd been drugged, or hypnotized by the little fag, that was it. Suddenly Broc's head jerked around when he heard a hissing voice inside his head.

Why not end it all now? There's a noose out in the workshed.

All at once Broc got a picture of himself standing on a chair with a noose around his neck.

Just think, the voice rasped, while the picture was still distinct in Broc's mind, with one kick of the chair, all those disgusting thoughts will disappear. Nothing but sweet oblivion. Sounds lovely, doesn't it?

Suddenly something that would have been repulsive to Broc became beautiful. But it's wrong, he argued with himself.

It's a solution, the voice countered.

It was a way of escaping his shame of the night before, Broc decided, seeing it almost as a Godsend. Not realizing that DeLane had stopped working and was watching him intently, he turned and ran toward the little workshed attached to the house. His eyes immediately fell on the noose. In his desperation, Broc didn't stop to wonder why it was there waiting for him. He immediately ran over and grabbed the thick rope and looked around. Again, as if placed there for his convenience, he found an old straight-backed chair. The ugly green paint was scarred up, but when Broc grabbed it, the only thing he cared about was that it was sturdy enough to hold him.

DeLane kept his eyes riveted toward the small enclosure that Broc had disappeared through. He could hear Broc moving around inside and stretched his neck trying to see what he was doing, but could only hear him knocking about. After a few minutes everything suddenly became deafeningly silent. DeLane didn't know why, but he knew something wasn't right. He quickly jumped down from his scaffold, ran the short distance to the shed, and looked in.

"Oh my God! he cried out when he saw Broc's head in a noose, his body hanging from the rafter.

He immediately ran up and caught Broc's flailing feet in his arms and lifted him up. He looked around. How the hell was he going to get him down, he asked himself, then saw the chair toppled over. He managed to pull Broc's body along with him far enough to reach the chair with his foot, then scraped it along the ground toward him while trying to manipulate it back up to a sitting position. Still holding Broc's heavy body, he climbed up on the chair and loosened the noose around his neck, then pulled it up over his head. Broc's limp body was dead weight, and getting heavier, but DeLane managed to get down and place him as gently as he could on the ground. He leaned over Broc, gently slapping his face, but without results. "Come on! he shouted. "Wake the hell up! He continued slapping him until he realized it wasn't doing any good. DeLane was getting panicky. He was about to run into the house and call 911 when a thought came to him. The only thing he knew about this mouth-to-mouth thing was what he'd seen on TV, but he decided to try it. In desperation he leaned over Broc and tilted his head back, pinched his nostrils closed, then opened his mouth and covered it with his own. He began regular blasts of his own breath into his friend's lungs, filled with the fear that he might be doing it wrong.

After several seconds of having air forced into his lungs, Broc suddenly lunged forward, clutching his throat.

"Thank God! DeLane cried, falling back with relief when he saw that Broc was okay.

Broc's breathing was raspy and labored, but he was alive. He sat there for a moment, his shoulders heaving while he sucked in life-giving air and rubbed his rope-burned neck. After a few gulps of air, he turned and looked at DeLane, a question filling his eyes. "What ... what ... the hell's ... going on here? Broc rasped through a constricted throat.

"You tell me, the sculptor said. "You've been acting strange all day, then I come in here and find you hanging yourself from the goddamned rafters."

"You're crazy! Broc said, then noticed a swinging shadow coiled around like a snake. His eyes followed the shadow up to the rafter where the noose was swinging overhead. His eyes suddenly filled with dread, then he looked back at DeLane. "And you- He indicated to the overturned chair, "-you..."

"Yeah. I thought you were a goner at first though."

Broc frowned at DeLane. "But why would I..."

"I don't know. Like I said, you seemed to be troubled about something, and wouldn't talk. I tried, but you just turned away, wouldn't look me in the eye."

"Well, Broc began, continuing to rub his neck, "I guess I should thank you."

"Don't bother. I'm just glad I was here."

Broc got up, still looking around at the evidence that he had tried to commit suicide. All thoughts of any homosexual experience had left his mind. His mind was crisp and sharp now, at least part of it. He still couldn't remember anything about today, but he recalled perfectly what he'd done the night before. When he couldn't get any response from DeLane, he figured he'd had too much to drink so he pulled the sculptor along with him while he helped him back to his room. He even tried to help him undress, but soon he was handling it all by himself and Broc left.

Before that Broc remembered talking to Suzette on the phone and recalled how his mind slowly became fuzzy and out of focus. In his mind's eye he could see the black curtain that kept parting, allowing him a glimpse into the past, and drawing him into it ... into the old familiarity of who and what he'd been. The feeling was like slipping into a pair of old, comfortable shoes, or snuggling beneath an electric blanket on a cold winter's night. He was comfortable ... he wanted to stay there. But the reality that never left his mind wouldn't let him, and after the strange phone call in which he kept confusing Suzette with Ravyn, he somehow made it back to his room and went to bed. He knew that sometime during the night he'd had a wet dream about her and slipped out of his briefs and dropped them close by. The next morning when he woke he felt as if everything had melted like hot wax in his memory. It had been a strange experience, but it was over, and after drinking several glasses of water, and treating the minor rope burns on his neck, Broc went back to his work.

That night, after a full day of gardening, Broc was tired and his bones ached, but he was anxious to keep his date with Suzette. He showered, then relaxed on his bed thinking he couldn't have picked a better night. The moon was full, the night was warm, and as he pictured her in his arms, he closed his eyes in sleep.

* * * *

Suzette stood at the edge of the boardwalk, watching as the powerful tide surged upon the sand, then retreated. Leaning back against a large rough column, she kept glancing down at her watch, then looking around, wondering if she was in the right place ... wondering if Broc was also looking down at his watch somewhere else.

No, her heart whispered, he's not here because he doesn't want to be.

With a sinking heart she lifted her eyes and looked out on the ocean as far as she could and watched the way the moon's brightness rippled along the ocean's choppy surface, cutting a restless path for miles into an infinity of darkness. She slowly walked to where the water washed upon the beach, and placed herself in the path of the moon. Wondering where it would take her, she stepped closer to the water, tempted to step upon that bright path. She could almost see herself walking down it, being tossed upon the waves, her body becoming smaller and smaller until she disappeared into the brightness of the moon.

Behind her she could hear laughter, music, and merriment from groups of happy people that walked along the wide slats of the boardwalk. She turned her face upward and looked into the big round face of the moon, its radiance creating another path ... a path of tears the size of small diamonds as they crept silently down her cheeks.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When Broc woke the next morning he lunged forward, his eyes sliding around the room. He saw that the lamp was still on, he was still dressed, and the morning sunlight poured through his window, ending in a bright puddle on the floor. Suddenly he jumped up, realizing he'd slept through his date with Suzette. Cursing himself, he quickly showered and dressed, then went down for breakfast. As soon as he entered the kitchen, his eyes sought her out. When he finally made eye contact he tried to convey an apology through a look, but her eyes were ice cold. He sidled up to her many times, trying to speak, but she ignored him by rattling dishes, silverware, and trays.

"Goddammit, Suzanne, talk to me, he whispered, then watched as she wouldn't even acknowledge his presence, but simply walked away.

After breakfast he followed her, waiting for a chance to get her alone, but she seemed to always have someone around. Once he found her in a corridor where he saw her cut her eyes around, then disappear around a corner. When he ran after her, she seemed to be waiting for him until she saw him, then she would run, getting lost in a shadow. The shadowy corridors seemed to be filled with echoing snickers and chuckles as she played her game of hide and seek.

She was like a child, running from one hiding place to another. Why was he so surprised that she liked to play a child's game. She was a child, after all, and he felt like a dirty old man by chasing her. What would he do if he caught her? Make excuses? Apologize? Or fuck the living hell out of her? Like her father, Broc thought bitterly, looking from one shadow to another. Had she played these games with him? Here Lolita, here baby, come to daddy!

Broc must have looked in every hiding place Northclyf had to offer no matter how small and ridiculous. After he invaded every closet, he passed a room and saw a bed. He stopped, crept in and stupidly looked under it. He felt ridiculous. What the hell would she be doing hiding under someone's bed, he chided himself while he scrambled up and walked back out into the halls surrounded by shadows that didn't speak. They stood silent and still, as if keeping a secret they weren't sharing.

When he finally emerged from Northclyf's intricate web, he found her downstairs talking to someone. He walked up and asked to talk to her, but she made some excuse and hurried away. By this time Broc was getting tired of the games the little bitch was playing, but couldn't seem to stop his pursuit.

Later, when she sat reading to the residents, he would see her eyes, filled with challenge, cut around to him. That made him angry, and he slammed out. Why the hell was she doing this? My God, hadn't the little bitch ever been stood up before?

Finally his opportunity came when he saw her go into the linen closet. He crept up to the open door, then looked both ways to make sure no one was around. When he knew he had her trapped, he crept in and gently closed the door behind him.

Seeing the light from outside suddenly cut off, she jerked around quickly, looking into the dark face of a shadow that stood between her and the door. When the shadow moved toward her, she immediately let out half a scream, the other half being restricted by Broc's hand that clamped down over her mouth. She began to struggle furiously.

"Easy, you little bitch, you're gonna talk to me, or you won't get out of here."

"King! You bastard, you don't scare... she began, then moaned and dropped the linens when Broc's mouth covered hers. Her arms wound around his neck so tightly, he thought for a minute that he was the prisoner. Even though she melted in his arms, when his lips lifted from hers, she suddenly remembered she was mad at him and began twisting herself in his arms and arching her body, seeking to get free. "Let me out of here, or I'll call Ms. Garrison!"

"She's not here, he whispered. "You know that."

Realizing he was right, she gradually stopped struggling and looked up at him with petulant eyes. "Where were you last night? she said, a sob in her voice. "I waited for two hours!"

Rather than tell her the embarrassing story of how he fell asleep, he said, "I'm sorry. Something came up at the last minute and I couldn't call you."

"That sounds like the biggest lie of the century, you cad, creep, bastard ... and ... and- she stammered, "-well, I can't think of anything worse, but if you can ... then that's what you are! She tried to get by him, and got as far as placing her hand on the doorknob.

Grabbing it quickly and bringing it up to his lips, Broc lightly nipped on it. "I can't go into detail, but I promise it'll never happen again."

Wondering if she should forgive him, she asked, "Did it have anything to do with another woman?"

"Of course not, he said, lifting her chin. Even in the dark he could see the unique beauty of her green eyes, and for some reason it reminded him of that magic night when he first saw Ravyn.

The Blind Pig, a speakeasy, as they were called in those days was located in the basement of a legitimate restaurant. It was filled with smoke and sexy, sliding music. The first shipment of Sugar Moon, a popular homemade beet-sugar whiskey, had come in and everyone was in a celebrating mood. He didn't remember how she wound up in his arms, but while they were dancing he looked down at her through his drunken haze, and her eyes packed an even bigger wallop than the whiskey. It was the night he fell in love. With both the whiskey, and the woman.

And now, suddenly, Broc was looking down into the face he hadn't been able to forget in over fifty years. Hairstyles were different back then, even makeup, but if his eyes weren't playing tricks on him, he'd swear Suzette was the very image of Ravyn St. James. He hesitated, then mumbled, "Aleksa! He was the one that brought her here, of course!

"What ... what did you say? Suzette asked.

Slowly a chilling doubt began to rise within him, and he couldn't think. He suddenly realized he didn't know anything about her. Who was she? Where did she come from? He looked down at her with a curious frown. "Suzette, who are you, really? You show up here right after the old man disappears, and all you can talk about is Broc Sanford. You tell me I look like him, then give me the best goddamned blow of my life. He looked at her curiously. "You know who I really am, don't you?"

Suzette looked up at him, trying to make sense of his words. "King what ... you know me. My name is Suzette Danaus."

"No it isn't, you little witch. You were sent here by someone ... someone we both know. Does the name, Aleksa mean anything to you?"

"I don't ... understand, she said nervously.

Broc's patience was coming to an end, and he grabbed the tops of her arms and began shaking her. "Out with it you little bitch, I want the truth!"

Suzette looked at him with a questioning frown, and when she realized that he was between her and the door, her eyes took on the look of a trapped animal. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but if you don't let me out of here, I'm going to scream."

"You were sent here to seduce me, weren't you? And I almost fell for it. Well, you can go back to Aleksa and tell him it didn't work. Got it? It didn't work this time, and it won't work the next time, because I know what you are. Between you and me? It's a good thing I didn't show up last night. The consequences would have been lethal, no doubt."

Suzette looked at him with frightened eyes. She had no idea what he was babbling about and her fear was mounting. Humor him, she thought. Humor him until I can get out of this damned closet. "Yes... her voice sounded thin and scared, "I will ... I'll tell him. While watching Broc, she began moving slowly.

"You tell that bastard that I can see him coming a mile away."

"Of course. Whatever you say, she said, her voice trembling and her eyes darting as she spoke, first toward him, then the door. When she finally got close enough she lunged for the doorknob and turned it. The door opened so quickly that she stumbled through it, then began running.

When Broc saw her charging through the door, he reached out to grab her, but caught nothing but air. He quickly rushed out and saw her running down the stairs. There was something about seeing her run from him that snapped him back to reality, and he stood there shaking his head as if to clear the cobwebs. "My God, what's happening to me? he mumbled to himself. "My mouth seems to be in overdrive, and I'm saying things I can't control. In his dementia he had thought she was admitting guilt, but realized she was only humoring him until she could escape his insanity. "Jeez! he muttered, red-faced and embarrassed while he wilted down on the first step of the stairway. "She must think I'm a case for the psycho ward. Then a thought suddenly entered his mind and he jerked his head back up. Suzette couldn't be a plant by Aleksa, he reasoned with himself. She didn't even recognize his name. If she was Aleksa's pawn, she wouldn't have run, she would have gotten angry, maybe even tried to seduce me. That means ... Broc began to get excited ... that means she has nothing at all to do with any of this. It means that she was telling the truth, and she really is Suzette Danaus. Just an innocent kid that - God, he agonized, rubbing his hand over his face while remembering his big scene in the linen closet, - that I scared half to death with my insane rambling. What the hell does all that matter now, he asked himself while he cradled his head in his hands. I already blew it. Big time!

* * * *

Suzette grabbed her purse and ran out of Northclyf, not telling anyone where she was going. She got into her car and was headed toward the old woman's shack in the woods when she remembered what happened the last time she was there. She knew she couldn't tell her grandmother about this, so, instead of turning off at Harper's Woods, she headed home screeching and veering until she was bumping up into her drive.

She stopped the car quickly, leaned her head down on her hands that gripped the steering wheel and cried. She wondered what in hell had happened to King. The things he was accusing her of didn't make sense. He seemed to be convinced that she was trying to trick him somehow ... her and someone called ... was it Alex ... Ales...? She couldn't remember. She thought back to all the strange things that had happened since his relationship with Ms. Garrison had begun. They tried to hide it, but everyone knew. Sometimes there would be arguments, slamming doors, then a stomping of heavy boots, then a bang of the door, a slam into the truck, and spray of gravel from beneath the trucks heavy duty tires. Ms. Garrison had made it clear to all the nurses that King was off limits, but that was before Suzette and King had become involved. They seemed to be the victim of circustances and somehow just drifted together naturally. She knew that if the woman had any idea what had been going on between them, she would eat Suzette alive. She could only imagine what it would be like to be chewed up and spit out by that woman. The situation was uncomfortable to say the least. It seemed to her if King didn't like his situation why didn't he just get up and leave? It would have made it a whole lot easier for them to see each other. Suzette figured the woman must have some kind of hold over him, and wondered if this outburst was an indication of it wearing on him somehow.

Still in her confused state, she made herself climb out of the car, realizing she needed to call someone at the home and let them know where she was. She walked into the bedroom of her little one bedroom house and picked up her pink phone in the shape of lips and began dialing. She looked around, loving the little doll-like house. It looked like her, somehow. She didn't mind it being small, that's what made it doll-like. She filled it with flowers of every kind, and even her spread and wallpaper had a floral pattern. She also kept it clean. Very clean. She couldn't stand to live in a dirty house. Her daddy called her paranoid, but she had to have everything in place. Her shoes were lined up in a straight line, and her clothes even had a place of their own. No hangers touching! Even the dishes in the cupboard had to be stacked or hung in a certain way, and she wouldn't let one go unwashed. She furnished the place with only the best, although she went in for a few odd little things like a beanbag chair. Her daddy wouldn't have had a beanbag chair in his house, but she loved it. Bohemian was the way her father described it, but she didn't care. She even had little touches of the cinema around, like posters of her favorite films. One very interesting touch she gave it was putting a neon sign up over the bar between the small dining room and kitchen. Café, it said, giving the little nook an exotic touch. She had lots of plants around, and windows. She was nuts for windows. If you tried, you could imagine yourself in some kind of outdoor restaurant. It was wild, but she loved it.

She was still wiping at her tears when someone answered. "Hi, she said, her voice breaking. Taking time to clear her throat, she tried to sound normal. "Trish, is that you? This is Suzette. I just wanted to call and let someone know why I left. I ... I've been feeling bad all day, and when it got worse I thought I'd leave a little early. I hope I haven't screwed anything up."

"Suzette, are you okay? You sound like you've been crying."

"Oh ... yeah, I'm fine, she said, trying to hold back the tears that insisted on falling. She was finally forced to take the receiver away and hold her hand over it while she gave way to a sobbing party, then lifted it again. "Uh ... it's ... a ... you know, just a headache."

"You sound awful, do you need anything?"

"Really, Suzette sobbed. "I'm fine."

"Well, Ms. Garrison isn't here anyway, so don't worry. You comin in tomorrow you think?"

"Yeah, she said quickly, not wanting to prolong the conversation. "Well ... see ya."

"Yeah, bye, Trish said almost inaudibly, then replaced the phone with a frown. Finally she shrugged it off and went back to her duties.

When Suzette replaced the receiver, she sat for a moment blowing her nose and drying her tears. She finally got up and walked over to the dresser, leaned close to it and looked at herself, trying to repair any damage to her makeup. Suddenly her eyes lowered, seeing a young photograph of her grandmother.

How could you have let him slip away? she heard her troubled thoughts say. I could have kept him. I could have...

Don't get involved with him, Suzette, a dry cracking, musty voice said as it drifted toward her from the mirror. You don't know who he is.

When she heard the voice, she jerked her head upward, expecting to see her own image, but instead she saw the old woman. Her eyes widened, and she slowly sat down on the stool in front of the dry, haggard face. The room in back of the old woman wasn't Suzette's bedroom, but a room in the shack. The dark wood that had no paper, plaster, or decoration looked bare and crude.

It's wrong, the image hissed. He can never be your lover ... he isn't what you think ... he's ... he's..."

"Say it! Who is he, she demanded of the thin, ghost-like appearance, "and why shouldn't I get involved? Suddenly her anger was becoming uncontrollable and she began yelling at the apparition that swayed on the cold surface. "I know the reason, old woman! Because you want him for yourself! You're old, and I'm young. He wants me, not you. A smirk crossed her face as she looked at the image. "I know why you walk by Northclyf every night. It's to see him, isn't it? You think maybe he'll follow you? Come home with you? Make love to a dried up old hag like you? Why should he? Why should he want you when he can have me? Tears began to swell in her eyes. "He's mine, you old witch! Mine! With a swift movement, she angrily dug her hand down into a jar of cold cream and wiped it across the mirror to blot out the old woman's face, "And I don't care if he's the devil himself, I love him!"

When the swaying form suddenly disappeared, she felt as if she'd just stepped out of a dream, and sat looking at the ugly mess she'd made. She dropped her head on her arm and began sobbing. She thought of all the time she'd told her grandmother that she loved her ... and she did. But there were other times ... times that she wanted the old woman dead!

Something was happening to her, she knew it now. She kept seeing flashes of the newspaper articles she'd read. Action pictures of him in his hip-hugging pinstripe suit and fedora ... getting in limousines, climbing out ... lifting glasses in toasts ... triumphant courtroom scenes ... a woman on his arm, always looking up at him as if he were a god. The way he looked toward the camera, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, so sexy, so handsome ... then King ... so much like him.

In her mind's eye she could see the mischievous eyes glinting at her from beneath the famous fedora, then suddenly the same eyes were winking at her from beneath the wayward curls that insistently brushed along his forehead. "I ... I'm getting them mixed up, she muttered, weakly. "King ... Broc ... I don't know who is who anymore. Then her head jerked up when she heard a knock on her door. She sat there for a moment, trying to get hold of herself, but the knocking became louder, more insistent. She got up slowly to answer it, surprised when she saw King leaning his muscular body against one stiff arm, the other raised with his hand rubbing the back of his neck, and a sheepish grin on his face.

"If you were smart you wouldn't let me in. On the other hand, he said, turning to look at the other houses, then back to her, "there's no telling what a crazy person like me might do. Giving her his best one-sided smile that was sure to make her melt, he said, "So why don't you do the neighborhood a favor and get me in off the streets?"

She looked at him and snickered. "I can't, my husband's at home."

His grin disappeared. "You have a husband?"

"No, but if you can act crazy, so can I."

He looked at her and shook his head with pity. "You poor child. If that's as crazy as you can get, we've got a lot of work to do. He indicated inside. "Shall we get started?"

She stepped back. "Enter at your own risk."

He smiled, and sauntered in. "Well, you saw my performance in the linen closet, he began, then turned to her, "which one do you think is taking the risk?"

She closed the door gently then turned to him. "So, she took a deep breath and looked at him warily, "now that the neighborhood is safe, you want to tell me why you're here?"

While casting an interested look around her small living room, he shrugged, "I don't know. I guess I figured I owed you an apology."

"Apology accepted, she said, then opened the door again.

He reached out, slammed the door closed, then put a gentle hand on her cheek. "Not so fast. I haven't groveled nearly enough."

"No need. I've forgiven you, she said, feeling herself being pushed against the wall.

"Well ... you shouldn't, he said, his voice becoming husky, and his palms cupping her face.

"You mean you want to be punished? she said, not understanding why her voice was trembling.

"A good spanking is what I need, he said, his eyes half-open, and smoldering.

She suddenly felt closed in like she did in the linen closet. "King, what are you doing?"

His eyes caressed her face. "Well, if you don't know, I must be doing it wrong, he whispered. Suddenly her eyes got in the way again, and Broc felt his head swimming. "Your eyes, he breathed, "they look like hers."

"Hers?"

"Did I say that? I meant... He looked down at her and smiled, the mood suddenly dispelled. "I don't know what I meant. Just forget it. When he noticed her gazing at him with guarded eyes, he said, "Hey, I'm crazy, remember? Don't think for one minute you're going to get anything rational out of me."

"I guess not, she said, amused at his reply.

He looked around. "Do you live here alone?"

"Yes, she answered, following his eyes. "It's too small for more than one person."

He looked down at her seductively. "Then I guess I'll have to stay very close to you, you know, so we don't take up much space."

When she turned and began walking, he followed her, ridiculously close.

She turned to him and laughed. "You can turn off the charm now."

"I can't, he said in a conceited manner. "It just seems to ooze out."

"Yeah? Well, don't let it stain..."

Before she got the words out, he pulled her to him, and his lips went searching for hers. As usual, she melted in his arms. Now, she thought, it's going to happen now. The thing she'd dreamed about, longed for, was about to happen. She had waited so long for him to sweep her up in his arms, take her to the bedroom, and make mad, passionate love to her, but instead he pulled away. "Would you do something for me?"

"You don't have to ask, she smiled, floating in a cloud of desire.

"Come with me, he said, pulling her along.

"Where? she asked, suddenly waking up and looking around. "Where are we going?"

"To paradise, he said, mysteriously.

"Paradise?"

"Yes. Will you come to paradise with me?"

"King, you're acting strange again."

"Trust me, Suzette. I'm not crazy. I know exactly what I'm doing."

She shrugged. "In that case, I'll follow you anywhere."

And she did. She followed him out the door, and into a truck with the Northclyf logo on the side. Very shortly she found herself on the boardwalk, weaving in and out of the crowd. He rushed, pulling her along until she began resisting with a tug on his arm. "King, I didn't know you wanted to buy a hotdog, and go on a ride, I thought you wanted to make love."

"I do, but everything has to be just right."

"Here? she said, her eyes darting around. "Someone will see us."

"Silly child, he said, tugging at her hand and leading her down onto the sand. The two walked along the beach until they finally disappeared into the shadows under the boardwalk.

Then he turned to her. "Welcome to paradise, Suzette."

"Of course, she whispered, looking around, "the boardwalk. How could I have forgotten?"

The last time she'd been here it was dark. It was light now ... shadowy, but light ... with thin strips of yellow sun peeking at them from above. She looked around at the place she'd only seen in her dreams. The scraping sound of the passersby above, the sand, the columns, the shadows that gave them the privacy they needed to make love. But how did King know?

"Don't you see? he said. "Paradise is you, the boardwalk, the ocean- He pulled her into his arms, and continued huskily, "-and this."

Suddenly she pulled away. "Not so fast, big shot. You're still in trouble."

"Why? What did I do now?"

"You haven't told me why you weren't here. I waited, she pointed, "right over there for three hours!"

"You said two. He looked at her accusingly.

"Two ... three ... it doesn't matter. Five minutes would have been too long. The point is, you didn't show up."

"I'm here now, he said, pulling her into his arms. With each kiss they slowly began sinking down into the sand and it was 1929 all over again. The feet of the passersby scraped and scuffled above just as they did then. While Broc loosened her clothes, Suzette giggled. Then, as it happened so long ago, her giggles turned to moans.

"Tell me you want me, Suzette, he whispered in her ear. "Tell me, I've got to know!"

"How can you even ask, you know I do."

Suddenly he mounted her, gently parted her thighs, and allowed his muscled body to cover hers like a warm blanket. Her arms embraced his broad shoulders, and he buried his face in her neck, breathing kisses there. She could feel the pulsing hardness of his cock pressing against her abdomen. She wanted to feel him inside her, filling her up, plunging hard and fast! Then she felt his hot lips cover hers and the urgency of his kiss made her feel desired, loved, conquered. She drank in his hard, sexy maleness and heard his soft words whispering his love for each part of her body. Then, when the time was right, he reached his hands under her knees and lifted them. She felt him taunting her, his hard rod just above her cleft teasing her. She held her breath, feeling Broc move the tip of his swollen cock against her, causing erotic sensations to burst into a feiry furnace. She was compelled to undulate her hips against him, and moaned as if in pain. "Oh God, King, don't tease me, she whispered, lifting her legs higher, wanting him to go deeper. All at once she heard a savage growl, and he plunged into her so hard her eyes flew open. Suddenly it was flesh against flesh ... man against woman ... desire mounting ... fires starting ... urgent cries, moans, groans and screams. Her breasts tingled against his hair-roughened chest, and her legs clenched him over and over while trying to climb into the carnal paradise he offered. Suzette matched his urgency with her own lusty, unsated needs, and when they both felt the climax coming, their erotic pants, moans and growls exploded into a passion that sent their blood pounding. She clung to him, moving with him as he rode her. Finally when their pleasure was pure and explosive, it came, and their cries were drenched in sweet agony.

"Broc! Oh, God, I love you."

Shock assaulted Broc's senses, and he lifted his head and looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, and she looked so young ... like an angel ... an angel that Broc, with his ugly urges, had just ruined. No, she wasn't a virgin, but he'd ruined her just the same, and felt just as dirty as he believed her father to be.

Not wanting to wake her, he removed himself gently and got up and dressed. While deep in thought, he walked the edge of the beach, feeling the cold water on his feet. He wasn't stupid enough to be upset that she'd called him Broc, but what did it mean? She was enamored with the man from the twenties, he reasoned. And that man ... that photograph ... had come to life and brought her to such a screaming climax that she cried out his name while he made love to her. Was that the reason ... the perfectly innocent reason? Or, had he only been fooling himself? He looked back at the angel he had plunged himself into, and a chill clutched him. She lay there in her blonde innocence stretching like a cat in the sun. She was beautiful ... too beautiful for lechers like him and her father to keep their hands off of. Oh, God, Broc thought in his torment, she was only a baby! Why hadn't she fought? Why hadn't she run away? She did! he shouted at himself. In his mind's eyes he saw her running away from him, frightened, but he chased after her, determined to have her. When lust for her had coiled so tightly in his gut ... when he had wanted her ... had to have her ... he had talked himself into believing what he wanted to believe, but now ... He looked back at her. Why was it that after a man had satisfied himself, took what he wanted, it was only then that the pretense fell away and he could see things as they really were? Questions began in rapid fire succession. Was she really eighteen, or had she lied? Had he committed statutory rape, as well as crossing the line of decency? Had Aleksa won? Was he on his way to hell?

CHAPTER TWELVE

That night Broc sauntered up the front walk of Northclyf with his shirt unbuttoned and flapping in the wind. About halfway up he noticed DeLane sitting on the front steps, chewing on a match. As he approached the sculptor, he slowed his steps, lifted his foot and placed it on the second step. "Hey, DeLane. What the hell you doin out here in all this fresh air?"

DeLane didn't look at him, just continued chewing on his match. "Waitin for you, he said, a note of injustice in his voice, "Where've you been?"

Broc felt a tiny nudge of resentment rising in him at the question. "No where in particular, just out screwin around."

"Yeah? DeLane replied, with a sarcastic sound to his voice. "Anybody I know?"

"If I thought it was any of your business, I'd tell you, Broc said sharply, then turned to go inside.

Realizing he'd made Broc angry, DeLane grabbed the match from out of his mouth, stood up, and threw it into the grass. "Hey man, I'm sorry, okay?"

Broc hesitated on the next step, then turned back to DeLane. "Look, I just don't like anyone getting too personal, that's all."

"Anyone? DeLane asked as he grabbed at a twig and snapped it angrily. "Or just me, a fag?"

"I didn't say that, DeLane. And quit calling yourself names."

"It's true though, he said, hurt and anger seeping through his words. "You're ashamed to go anywhere with me. Afraid someone'll think you're like me."

"But that's the point, DeLane. I'm not like you. We've got nothing in common. It's as simple as that."

"Hell, man, just because you screw women and I screw men you think that puts me on one planet and you on another? We're both men, aren't we? We both like sports, racing, fishing, all thirty-seven flavors... Suddenly he stopped, and looked at Broc inquisitively. "They haven't added anymore have they?"

Broc snickered, "It's thirty-nine, I think."

"Thirty-seven ... thirty-nine ... we're probably both wrong, but who the hell cares? All I want is for us to be friends. Is that asking too much?"

Broc laughed and held out his hand, palm up. "A compelling argument, counselor. You might've made a good lawyer, Baskin-Robbins notwithstanding."

DeLane smiled, slapped his hand, then their fingers clenched. "Wanna go for a drink? A refusal was on the tip of Broc's tongue and DeLane noticed his reluctance. "The Salty Dog, just up the street."

The Salty Dog was just a bar, not one of those gay hangouts that DeLane usually went to, so Broc smiled. "Sure, why not?"

While they walked, Broc pulled his flapping shirt together, then unbuttoned his pants and stuffed it inside.

"So, you got yourself a girl, huh? DeLane asked, looking over at him and grinning.

All buttoned up, Broc pulled his comb out of his pocket and began combing his hair. "I don't know. From the way I feel about her, I think she's the one that's got me, know what I mean?"

"Wish I could say I do, but as far as I know I've never been in love."

When the two walked into the bar, Broc noticed some loud voices and activity over by the pool tables. He and DeLane sat down at the counter and ordered a couple of brews, then began talking about how far DeLane had gotten with the mermaid.

"Actually, I'm almost finished. I thought afterwards maybe I could help you with the garden. I can even show you how to hook the statue up to the water."

"Don't I have to get the water company do that for me? You know, make it legal, or whatever?"

"Hell, no. They don't care what you do with the water as long as you pay the bill. DeLane kept looking at Broc for an answer to his question. "Well, how about it?"

Broc tilted his glass and poured his beer into it. He hadn't counted on DeLane staying around, but knew he didn't have anyplace to go, or a job waiting for him, so he said, "Yeah, sure. Do you know anything about planting?"

DeLane shrugged. "What's to know? You dig a hole and put a seed in it, right?"

Broc snickered, almost choking on his drink. "Sounds like you know about as much as I do. Then he lifted his glass and toasted DeLane. "Well, we can try, but if we can get anything to grow in that patch of ground, it'll be a miracle."

They sat there talking and drinking into the night when Broc noticed the two troublemakers he had seen earlier walk up and stand behind them.

"Hey Glen, the first man said, "I think I see a couple of pussies sittin here. What'dya think?"

"Yeah, Glen said, taking a stool next to DeLane. "I'm surprised they're not raisin their pinkies to drink that beer."

Broc tensed up, knowing trouble was coming.

"Maybe we ought to take'em out in the parkin lot and undress'em to see which is the woman and which is the man."

While the two laughed like a couple of idiots, DeLane leaned toward Broc, barely moving his lips. "If you don't say anything, sometimes they just go away."

"What was that miss? The burly blonde that stood behind Broc turned to the crowd and raised his hands. "Everybody be quiet, the fag here has somethin to say."

Broc clenched his teeth in anger, then swiveled around on his stool and faced him. "Hey, why don't you guys just leave us alone, okay? We'd just like to finish our beers and get outta here. Do you think you can handle that?"

The man's cold eyes looked down at Broc. "Look, Tex, as far as I know, you're okay, but- Quickly reaching over and grabbing DeLane by the collar, he abruptly brought him forward as if showing him to Broc. "-I want the little fag outta here, see? This is a respectable bar, and we don't like his kind smellin up the place."

"A respectable bar? Broc said sarcastically. "You're here, aren't you?"

Not really being sure if he'd been insulted, the blonde's face took on a scowl. "What the hell does that mean?"

Broc reached over and gingerly loosened his hand from DeLane's collar. "Not a thing, he said, trying to contain his anger, "and we'll go just as soon as we finish our beers. Okay?"

Suddenly the bully was in Broc's face, yelling. "Like now, got it?"

Broc couldn't hold it in any longer, so he suddenly jumped to his feet and pushed the blonde backwards. "And what'll you do if we go? Follow us outside and drag us into an alley for the cops to find tomorrow morning? Hell no, he shouted, roughly pushing the blonde again. "I think we need to get this settled here and now. He turned and indicated to the crowd. "Here in front of all these people that are witnesses to the way you've been harassing a couple of law-abiding citizens. Just in case you don't know, Einstein, I'm a lawyer, and my buddy here is a sculptor. If there's anything left of you after he fillets you into steaks, I'm gonna slap your fat butt with so many charges they'll be calling it American Express. Broc pushed on his chest again. "The way I see it, creep, you've got two choices, you can spend the rest of your natural lives in jail, or you can leave us alone."

The blonde's uncertain eyes glanced up and down Broc. "I ain't never seen no lawyer in cowboy boots, and earrings crawling all the way up his ear. He turned to his partner and laughed. "How about..."

Broc quickly reached up and caught both ears in each hand and turned his face back toward him. "Then take a good look, sucker, he said, then suddenly lifted his booted foot up and brought the heel down hard on the man's foot. When the blonde winced, he said, "You're just lucky I left my stiletto heels at home. Pushing the blonde backward, he turned around and sat down as if he were going to finish his beer. When he felt the blonde pulling at his shoulder he reached for his glass as if he were going to take a drink but instead threw the brew behind him and into his face. The man reeled backward, and Broc quickly whirled around on the stool, caught his hand in the man's belt and brought him forward into his fist.

Broc was drawing his fist back for another punch when the man lifted his arms in defeat. "Look, buddy, I got no argument with you, but I know this little fag, he said, pointing to DeLane, "and we don't want his kind in this bar."

Broc stood up and confronted the blonde. "Let's get something straight here. First of all, I ain't your buddy. Second, you take him on, you get me too."

"Hey, the blonde said, pushing a finger into Broc's shoulder, "you wouldn't be defendin that little creep unless you were just like him."

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock, Broc said, just before he reached up and grabbed his blonde hair and brought his face down on his raised knee. "But don't knock it til you've tried it, buster."

DeLane couldn't believe his eyes. Broc was defending him against these two gay bashers, and even sending out signals that he was gay too. Admiration grew in his eyes when he saw Broc move through them like a freight train until both troublemakers were laying over each other in a heap of bloody flesh on the floor. When it was over Broc turned back to the bar, took a seat, and ordered two more beers.

"On the house, the bartender said as he pushed the bottles toward them. "I'll have them hauled out of here in a flash."

"Don't rush, Broc said. "I kinda like looking at the scuz balls, as long as they're on the floor and not in my face. He turned, lifted his bottle, and toasted them. "Cheers! After taking a drink, he leaned over toward DeLane. "I think it's insulting the way they ignore us. Reaching over with the tip of his boot, he nudged one. "Hey! he yelled. "What the hell's the matter? Come join the party, you scuzzy piece of shit. DeLane laughed when Broc upended his bottle and drained it all over them, then followed suit. As they got up to leave they both let their empty bottles drop on the bloody bodies, then stepped over the two pieces of trash on the floor, and headed out the door.

By this time they were feeling their drinks, and walked along the sidewalk with a slight stagger. "One of those guys had the sharpest teeth I've ever come across, Broc said, lifting his damaged hand and looking at it closely. He began splaying his fingers, then balling them up into a fist. "Felt like a goddamned razor blade."

DeLane looked at him with a curious frown. "What was all that talk about bein a lawyer?"

Broc shrugged, still looking at his injured hand. "Another life ... a long time ago ... forget it."

DeLane shrugged, then looked up in the sky thoughtfully. "King ... do you think there's life after death? I mean ... sometimes I don't think God cares much about me."

Still concentrating on his hand, he cast DeLane a quick glance and said, "Why?"

DeLane shrugged. "I don't know. Nothing ever seems to work out for me. Maybe it's because I'm different ... imperfect."

Broc didn't say anything right away, but continued trying to deal with the pain in his hand. Finally, he asked, "DeLane, how do you feel about the sculptures that you make?"

DeLane shrugged, then cocked his head while thoughtfully trying to dig out his feelings. "Well, they're special, you know, he said, picturing them in his mind, "every one. In a different way maybe, but they're all special."

"Why?"

He looked over at Broc, almost insulted at the question. "Because I made them ... they're a part of me. They have my hopes, my dreams, my very life inside them. They may not all be perfect, but they're... Suddenly it dawned on DeLane what Broc was saying. "You bastard, he said, a slow grin stretching his lips. "You must have been one hell of a lawyer."

"Damn that hurts! Broc said, with a frown. "Hell, DeLane, if this is what I can expect from hangin around with you... He turned just then and saw a hurt look beginning on the sculptor's face and his voice lost some of it's anger. "...then ... well ... I guess ... I'd better get in shape."

DeLane lifted his head, an unexpected smile lighting up his face. Suddenly he pushed at Broc playfully. "Mister tough guy, huh? You plannin on bein my body guard, or what?"

"Hey, Broc teased as he skipped in front of DeLane with his fists raised in a fighting stance, "don't fool with the champ."

DeLane laughed while lifting his fists. He dodged Broc's pretended blows, and the two spent their time sparring until they reached the front steps of Northclyf.

Their laughter echoed in the darkness, and their drunken steps scraped against the wooden porch. Then when DeLane grabbed the screen door, and a rusty squeak filled the night air, Broc looked at him and put his finger up in front of his mouth to convey a "shushing message. From there the two crept inside, making an exaggerated attempt at being quiet, but couldn't resist snickering as they staggered to the stairs.

"How can a man get drunk on one beer? Broc asked.

"Maybe you had just one, but I had... He began counting on his fingers, then gave up. I can't count that high."

"But I only had one ... I swear. And I'm drunker than you are."

DeLane leaned closer to him. "Let me smell your breath."

Broc blew into his face.

"No, judging from your breath you had one more than me, and I had- He began counting on his fingers again. "-forty-six ... thousand ... dozen and ... uh ... some odd. He looked at Broc groggily. "I forget."

"Oh, Broc nodded. "Then I must have had forty-six ... thousand ... dozen ... some odd ... and one. He grasped DeLane's shoulder appreciatively. "Thanks for straightening me out about that, buddy."

"Anytime, he answered, then started to go up the stairs. He noticed Broc wasn't with him and looked back questioningly.

"I'll be up later. Gotta lock up and do something about this hand."

"Need any help? DeLane asked, as he stumbled and fell on the next step.

Broc pushed his hand against DeLane's head playfully. "Go to bed, kid. We got some serious gardening to do tomorrow. Then he pointed toward him with a warning. "And don't wake up with a hangover."

"How could I? I only drank forty-six thou- Not wanting to go through that again he hiccupped, turned, and muttered, "-f'get it."

While DeLane was trying to get up the mountain of stairs that somehow seemed to be steeper and higher than he remembered, Broc went into the kitchen and treated his cuts. Afterwards, while locking up, his eyes once again searched the street for the old woman. He stood looking out the windows and tried to blink back a case of dizziness brought on by the curve of the French windows done by some hotshot designer that didn't know how to draw a straight line.

Having to hold himself up against the doorframe, he watched the swirling leaves scuttle along, some rising high in the breeze while others settled in a heap along the curb. He watched those that floated softly, going where the wind took them, and made up his mind that if he saw the old woman, he was going to follow her. While he stood there, his eyelids drooped, the street began slithering like a snake, and he was having difficulty holding himself up. Maybe tomorrow night, he thought, pulling his eyes away from the odd-shaped windows, tonight he was a little too out of it.

After he crawled up the stairs on all fours, he got to the room, undressed, and climbed under the covers, exhausted. He lay there thinking about the old woman and wondering who she was. Finally, his lids fluttered to a close, and he began dreaming. In his dream he found himself in the garden, and saw the old woman watching him from across the street. When she turned to leave, he followed her as she shuffled down the path. He managed to stay behind her, but almost lost her when she turned and went into some dense woods. She would look back occasionally, as if she thought someone was following her, but Broc would hide behind a tree, or in the bushes peering out, then rush from one to the other. The old woman stumbled along until she stood before an old dark house, then stopped and looked back again. This time she saw Broc, but didn't seem frightened. Broc crept closer and closer until he was finally standing in front of her. He looked down into her face that stayed shadowed by the old hat she always wore, and spoke, his voice sounding like an echo in the wind. "Who are you?"

The old woman looked up at him, then slowly lifted the hat that had kept her identity a secret. His eyes widened when he saw the face of his mother. His eyes quickly lowered toward her hands and saw bloody rags covering her fingers.

A crushing hurt filled him.

All at once he heard the loud beating of a heart, and saw the front of her coat pumping in and out. Fear clawed at him when it suddenly stopped. He grabbed the coat and quickly pulled it back and saw a heart that was broken and bloody. Tears began to fall down his cheeks when he remembered that his mother had fallen dead of a heart attack and died at the base of a toilet that she'd been cleaning.

"Who are you? Broc insisted, struggling with his tears.

"Don't you know? The voice sounded old, dry, and cracked. "I'm the embodiment of your nightmares, my boy. I'm made up of every hurt, every disappointment, and every pain you've ever experienced. Suddenly the face that looked at him began decaying before his eyes, and her bloody hands grabbed him, scratching along his chest. "Kiss me, sonny boy, kiss your poor old mother."

"You're not my mother, he cried as he tried to back away, "and your not my nightmares. You're no one! Her hold on him seemed to be as strong as a vise, but he kept fighting her, then finally broke free and began running.

He ran through the trees,

stumbling over roots,

sinking down into muddy puddles,

low hanging limbs slapped him in the face,

bushes got in his way,

but still he ran,

looking back,

stumbling,

looking back again, but still running,

running,

running!

Suddenly he felt something hit him from the back and he went sprawling. When he woke up he was in the garden, and behind him was DeLane lying dead and bloody under the statue that had fallen on him.

"Oh, God! Broc cried, then turned his head to hide his eyes. The shock caused him to pass out. He didn't remember anything else until he was being revived. When he opened his eyes he saw bright revolving lights, and a medic that pulled an oxygen mask away from his face.

The officer pushed through. "Anything broken? Does he need a hospital?"

"No, the medic answered. "He just had the wind knocked out of him. He'll be okay."

The officer lifted Broc up, and helped him to one of the old wrought iron benches. When Broc saw them zip DeLane up in a body bag he began to panic. "My God, what the hell happened?"

"All we know is what the old lady told us."

"Old lady? Broc said, his head whirling around. "What old lady?"

The officer indicated toward the old woman standing just up the path watching him.

A chill crept up Broc's spine when he saw that the old woman was standing on exactly the same spot as in his dream.

"She told us that the young man saw the statue falling and pushed you out of the way just in time."

While the officer was talking, the eyes of both Broc and the old woman met and held for a moment. "Who is she? Broc whispered.

"Just some old lady that lives in the woods."

"Didn't you get her name?"

"Well, I tried, he said, scratching his head, "for the records, you know, but the only thing I could get out of her was, just a friend. When she wouldn't tell me anymore, I let it go. My job makes me do a lot of things I don't like, but harrassing old women is where I draw the line. Then the officer looked thoughtfully at the strange apparition across the way. "I don't think anyone really knows her name. I've never heard her called anything but the old woman. The kids around here say she's a witch. I have to admit she's a mysterious character all right. You know, living in that little shack down in Harper's Woods, and going out only at night. Can't really say as I blame them. When we questioned her, she told us that she walks by the home every night at midnight just to get a little exercise."

"But why midnight? Broc asked.

"Well, we asked her about that. Seems she has an allergy to the sun, that's why she walks at midnight, and keeps herself bandaged up like that. Says her skin in sensitive and she breaks out in a rash if she's exposed to almost any of the elements."

Broc looked at the mysterious old woman that evoked strange looks, whispers, and gossip, and tried to calculate her age. She was old like him, that was for sure. But she must have had a life at one time. Maybe she was even beautiful. How had she wound up in that old shack in the woods? he wondered. She was strange all right, just standing there, watching him. He couldn't help wondering who and what she was, or had been. Broc begrudgingly pulled his eyes away from her when she turned and left, walking slow and stooped over, the echoing tap of her cane preceding her as she shuffled down the haunted street.

"What ... what'll you do with the body?"

The officer shrugged. "We'll try and find his family, but if he has none, he'll most likely wind up in a pine box somewhere."

"No, Broc said, quickly. "No. Don't do that. If you can't find any family, give him a funeral ... a chapel ... sanctified ground ... the whole bit. I'll pay for it."

"You know what funerals cost, it could get expensive."

"It's okay. I've got a little money saved. Besides, he was a friend."

"Sure, whatever you say."

Broc looked down at the statue and saw it broken in half, and badly stained with DeLane's blood. Suddenly his face turned to a scowl and tears began creeping down his cheeks. He knew he was the one that was supposed to be under that statue, lying in a body bag, but somehow DeLane had been there for him again.

Broc looked down at the bloody stone and wondered where he would get the strength to have it hauled away. How was he going to answer the hundreds of questions that would be asked, then go on as if it had never happened? He buried his face in his hands, feeling as if his grief would never end. Then cutting his eyes over at the mermaid whose body was broken in half, he knew he must have been walking in his sleep just like the last time. He'd never had that problem before in his life, but this was the second time in less than a month that he'd found himself out of his bed while fast asleep. He leaned over and raked his hands through his hair, getting angry. Why in hell did DeLane have to give his life? It wasn't fair. DeLane was young, he had plans. A few more years maybe and he could have made something of himself. He remembered their conversation earlier tonight about a Higher Power. Did DeLane somehow know? If he did, how did he know? Were there voices, feelings, something inside, maybe. It was puzzling to Broc, but he knew one thing for sure. Someone somewhere had to be watching over him. He'd never escaped death so many times in his life.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

While Rena was gone, Broc had been given the unwelcome task of taking care of Fancy. Now that the head mistress was back, he hadn't been relieved of the task as he expected, but was asked to continue for a while until Rena got caught up with her work. This irritated Broc, since by this time the cat seemed to have grown attached to him. If he entered a room, her head would come up and she would look at him, her exotic eyes staying on him every minute, watching his every move. If Broc turned to look at her, the cat's eyes would boldly meet his as if she were flirting with him. If he had to pick her up, he would feel her sandpaper tongue stroking his hand, or his neck, and even his face.

Finally having had enough, he slammed into Rena's room and threw the cat on her bed where she was doing her nails. "From now on you can feed your own damned cat, lady. I'm through."

Rena looked up, surprised. "What's wrong? she said worriedly as she rushed to put away her nail polish. "Did she bite you?"

"No, she didn't bite me, although I'm sure she'd love to."

"Then what's the problem, Rena asked, with concern etching her face.

"I don't like the way she looks at me."

"You don't like the way she looks at you? she repeated incredulously. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means ... well ... I think she's in love with me."

"That's it? she said, her worried look turning to one of sarcasm. "No blood, no guts hanging out? Hell, King, the little bitch is just coming of age, that's all. She knows a stud when she sees one, apparently."

"I don't care what she's coming into ... just keep that ... that ... little maneater away from me, okay?"

"Relax. You don't have to get all bent out of shape. Being in love with you is a hell of a lot better than wanting to eat you alive isn't it?"

"No, it isn't. She still wants to eat me ... just for different reasons."

Rena pursed her lips, smirking at the innuendo, then began blowing on her nails while looking at him seductively. "Well, I guess that's one thing she and I have in common. Then she turned her ten wet nails toward him, bent them like claws, and "Grooooowwwwwled!"

He whirled around and left, hearing her laughter as he slammed out of the room and went into the garden to finish painting the wrought iron benches.

It took him most of the afternoon, and when he finished he felt stiff. He spent a few minutes putting the paint and brushes away, then stretched his muscles while he walked around looking at the plot of ground he was so proud of.

Everytime he looked at the platform where the statue had stood, he felt a sad, sinking sensation in his gut. He knew he couldn't spend his remaining days looking at that, he had to do something, but he didn't know what. He didn't want to bring another statue in, he was afraid Aleksa would use it to kill someone else ... namely him.

Feeling a sudden kink in his back, he scowled with pain, then tried to stretch it out while turning and gazing out toward the choppy ocean. After a few minutes his eyes shifted, anchoring on the tangled mass of honeysuckle, weeds and winding vines that seemed to want to strangle the fence. How the hell did the damn things grow so thick and tight with the sand from the ocean constantly blowing? Instead of being choked out, they seemed to thrive, winding themselves around the fence and up the mansion. It was almost eerie, Broc thought when he suddenly heard something and jerked his head around and listened for a moment.

The sound was weird, far away, echoing as if drifting out of a tunnel, or an enclosed space of some kind. It was a deep, anguished, tormented sound, as if something was trapped, desperate to get free. He crouched down, pushing the wild honeysuckle vines aside. He edged along the fence, trying to see into the tangled mass for something caught in the bushes, when he came upon an old abandoned well he hadn't remembered seeing before.

He walked up to the ancient structure and looked it over, his eyes raking every square inch while feeling of the warped wood that hadn't seen a paint brush in decades. The misshapen boards were mottled shades of gray, and were rough to the touch. Suddenly he heard the sound again, and followed it. It carried him to the yawning opening, where he saw Fancy.

"My God, he began, surprised, "how the hell did you ... I just left you ... what ... a half hour ago? He shook his head as if irritated. "You were following me again, weren't you? He looked around, then back toward the mansion, seeing the door closed. "How the hell did you get out? He lifted his eyes scanning the structure, thinking she might have come out through an open window, but saw nothing.

The thought of getting Rena occurred to him, but knew she would look to him for answers, so he didn't bother. Then the unwelcome thought of leaving the stupid cat to get out as best she could occurred to him, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her when he saw her rising up on the side of the well looking at him with frightened eyes.

"Hell, he mumbled, then looked up and saw a threadbare old rope that was wound around a rusted metal rod that was extended between two long wooden posts. His eyes followed the posts up to a tiny roof, complete with ugly green shingles, some torn, others curled up, victims of a burning sun. He wondered why Rena hadn't gotten rid of this eyesore a long time ago when his squinting eyes connected with a pail that was attached. It was corroded so badly it had holes in it, some large, others just coming to the point of working through the metal. He didn't like the looks of it, but since there was no other alternative, he had no choice. He reached up and grasped the handle that was used to turn the rod, and slowly began lowering the pail into the hole.

The rolling rod resisted ... like old bones, but the vessel descended inch by inch while squeaking music filled the air. Finally the ugly, warped container was sitting beside her. Broc waited, but she didn't move, only looked at it, then up at him as if she didn't understand.

"Jump in, you damned stupid cat! he yelled, but still she didn't respond. He knew if he had any sense at all he'd turn and leave her there for someone else to rescue, but instead he examined the rope, wondering if it was strong enough to hold him. He pulled on it a few times to test it, then slowly climbed upon the well and grasped the rope that was stiff with years of dirt, rain, and decay. Handling it gently for fear it would disintegrate in his hands, he used it to climb down into the opening. He began to slowly lower himself, being very careful not to jerk the rope, or make any sudden movements that would rupture the already weakened line.

He descended miserably slow, and when he got about halfway down, he looked under him and noticed that there was no cat. "Fancy? he mumbled as he looked around, puzzled. Then suddenly the rope broke and he began plummeting.

Down, he fell,

feeling the wind pushing at his back,

his feet flailing,

his body turning,

feet over head,

head over feet,

down into a red glow.

He yelled out, fear filling him when he saw the sides of the well passing him by at lightning speed. Imbedded into those walls, were skulls smiling at him, human bones of all sizes and shapes were sticking out. The further he fell, the redder the glow of hell became, and the more bones he saw lining the wall of the well. The skulls were laughing, bones reaching out for him as he fell, his arms and legs flailing out in all directions until he hit the bottom. Upon impact he felt a tremendous pain and passed out. Only a few minutes had passed when he woke up and tried to move, but couldn't. He was sure he'd broken something, maybe his back, so he began yelling, trying to get someone's attention.

He struggled with the pain for hours it seemed, sweat pouring off him. If he tried to move, it felt as if a knife were piercing him, so he could do nothing but lay there and moan, watching the shadows lengthen until it was dark. After a period of sleeping and waking, he heard something. A faraway tapping noise. He knew it was the old woman, so he yelled again.

The next thing he knew he was in the garden, mesmerized, as he always was, by her mysterious appearance, and puzzled by her actions. This time she stopped, looked toward him and nodded flirtatiously. But instead of turning to go, she lingered, watching him. Then suddenly her hat blew off her head and scuttled along in the breeze. He was about to go after it when he saw her cane break, her heavy boots fall away from her feet to reveal stiletto heels, and her trench coat blow open, ripping itself from her body. While Broc watched, she had mysteriously emerged from the old lady's rags as some kind of exotic creature, her curvaceous body covered in tiger skin, her eyes lined, almond-shaped, and exotic. Her hair was full, curly, and the blackest black he had ever seen.

Broc stared, knowing her from somewhere, then realized it was Fancy, in human form. Just then she opened her full, sensuous mouth, and he heard a mewling sound that to him were promises of a night of untamed, turbulent sex. He opened his mouth to answer her, but a painful moaning came out instead, and his eyes snapped open to the light of morning just above the darkness of the well.

Everything suddenly came back to him and he quickly moved to get up, but his body betrayed him, causing him to yell out in pain. Every move he made, he hurt, and as he looked up at the opening of the well, it stretched out for miles above him. He knew he was experiencing some kind of delerium because the opening kept stretching further and further above him until it became so small he could hardly see it.

Fear gripped him when he realized he had no hope of ever escaping his prison. He began sweating with a fever one minute, and experiencing a numbing cold, the next. He mumbled incoherently as he lay there for the rest of the day, getting weaker by the moment. Finally his hunger and thirst became so intense he felt as if something was inside him, gnawing on the wall of his stomach. He could feel himself sinking further into delerium, his lips barely moving in muttering whispers.

Weakness made him sleep, then wake, then sleep again until the day was spent. When he woke up for the last time, he could tell it was getting late in the day because the shadow in the well had deepened into darkness. The musty smell was thick enough to take a bite out of, and filled his nostrils. The choking odor reminded him of wet grave dirt, making him realize that he might very well have fallen into his own grave.

Aleksa must be jumping with joy, he thought as he looked around at the darkness. The moist ground was a haven for bugs of all shapes and sizes, and he could see the evil little things emerging from the ground. He began yelling while fighting them off, then noticed that rats and spiders had joined the group. He even imagined he saw a giant spider coming down the side of the well toward him. He began throwing rocks at it until it turned around and began crawling out. By this time he was so desperate he began yelling until he became so hoarse he could hardly speak. Finally he lay silent, with nothing left in him but a whispering rasp. Then just as the sun was about to go down, he looked up and saw Rena looking down into the well.

"Thank God, Broc rasped through a sore throat. I've been yelling for hours."

"What the hell do you think you're doing? I've been looking everywhere for you. You were supposed to shampoo the..."

"I've been here, he tried to yell, his voice scraping against his sore throat, "trying to get someone's attention."

"What do you mean? I don't understand. Just then she knelt down, reached forward, and he miraculously found himself out of the well and laying on the ground.

"How did you do that? he said in a perfectly normal voice.

"Do what? she asked, looking at him questioningly. "King, what's wrong with you?"

He lifted himself up to a sitting position and looked around. "Where's the well?"

She looked around. "Well? What well?"

"The well that was here."

"I don't know what the hell you're babbling about. There is no well, got that? No well! You've just been laying out here screaming your lungs out, and fighting off something you thought was crawling on you. She turned and pointed toward a window. "You even broke the window in Mr. Compton's room with your rock throwing. I hope you know that you're going to have to pay..."

He looked up into her chattering face, not hearing a word she was saying. Had he been hallucinating again? Had the whole thing been a dream, a dream of him falling down a well to rescue Fancy?

"Fancy, he whispered, then looked up at her. "Where's Fancy?"

"She's inside. King..."

"Was she out ... I don't know ... yesterday, or the day before?"

"Of course not. I never let her out unless I'm with her. Even then she's on a leash."

"The well- He looked up at her, his eyes begging her to believe him. "-there was a well, dammit! An abandoned well with a rotten rope, a pail..."

"King, there is no well, there never has been! How many times do I have to tell you?"

He looked around and knew she was right. He saw nothing but a leaf-strewn yard filled with trees and bushes, but no well. "Oh, God, he mumbled as he raked his hand through his hair. It had happened again. He looked down at his body and felt around, but there was no pain. He could hardly believe it, but here he was, sitting in the yard like some idiot babbling about a well that wasn't there, and had never been there.

"Get up and shampoo the carpet in the salon, Rena ordered, then rose and went inside.

Broc watched her walk away, puzzled. How could it not have been real? he wondered. If I had rubbed my stupid hand across it, I would have gotten a goddamned splinter! I would swear ... stack of Bibles and all ... that it was real ... it was real ... it was friggin REAL!

* * * *

Broc hid himself in his room thinking about the incident and wondering what was coming next. At this point he was getting panicky. He sat down looking at his calendar and noticed it was only a few weeks before his flight into the past. The days seemed to have melted away. Where did they go, for God's sake? Was that an hallucination too? When it came time to start out for the station would he even know who he was? By that time he might be insane, feverish, utterly crazy, or dead, buried, and burning in hell.

At this point he wasn't sure of anything. He had to somehow get a fix on this whole situation before it slipped out of his hands. Feeling insecure and vulverable, he suddenly got an urge to see the old station. He hadn't been there in ages, so how did he even know it was still there? He felt stupid, but he had to make sure Aleksa wasn't playing some insane trick on him, so he jumped up, ran out of Northclyf and headed down the street.

It wasn't a long walk, only seven blocks, but he knew now that if he made it to that moment, that hour, Aleksa would make it as difficult as possible. Why, he didn't know. The demon had been fighting him every step of the way, and he knew the miserable fiend hadn't expected him to make it this far. He knew there was something about that night that worried Aleksa, but he didn't know what it was. When he finally reached the last corner, he stopped abruptly, holding his breath.

He stood there for a moment, building up his courage, trying to prepare himself for what he might see. When he was finally ready, he rounded it quickly and saw the familiar darkened, abandoned area.

There it is, he thought. Tall, dry grass surrounding railroad tracks that hadn't been used in years. He heard the wind rustling through the trees, and he saw dead leaves scuttling along the ground. Everything seemed to be normal, but was it his imagination, or was the little place shimmering as if it was illusory? Since he couldn't tell the real from the imagined anymore, he couldn't trust his eyes.

He couldn't just look at the station from here, he had to feel it, see it, touch it, be surrounded by it. He was reminded of the well and how real that had seemed. He had experienced it, smelled the dirt, felt the bugs crawling on him, but still it wasn't real. What made him think this would be anymore real just because he could feel the grain of the wood, or feel the platform under his feet, even hear the squeak of weak boards?

Broc knew there were no guarantees, but still, he pushed his fingers down into the pockets of his tight jeans and walked slowly toward the station, looking around apprehensively. The place was so familiar, he felt chills. He stepped gingerly upon the platform as if he thought it might collapse under him, and looked up at an old sign that hung crazily from one hook. Broc reached up and hung the sign straight, his eyes raking across the splintery board and black paint that showed decades of neglect. Atlantic City, he read, although only part of the words were there. The old sign blew and squeaked in the wind, just as it had back then.

A haunting wind pushed against him, and he felt the eerie ghosts of the past all around him. He couldn't stand in the middle of all this and not feel her presence, or remember the events of that night.

The fog was heavy as it swirled, surrounding them both. He could almost see himself and Ravyn locked in each other's arms while her father hid himself in a shadow. Broc had been young, intimidated by the older man. Maybe he would have stepped off that train if he hadn't been there. But with the old man's money tucked away in his ragged old bag, and his piercing eyes watching his every move, he could only say goodbye, no matter how much it hurt. On the night of the twelfth there'll be another train, a haunted train, a train that will take him back in the past, a train with only one passenger. There'll be no conductor calling out stations, no crying babies, and no drunks looking for the club car, or old women looking for the ladies room.

He looked around, sudden chills assaulting him as the cold wind let out a piercing cry and the ghosts whispered around him. He peered into the ticket house and saw dust, broken wood scattered on the floor, a dusty counter, cubbyholes that had cobwebs stretched across them, and a roof so weak, he could almost see through it.

On the tracks he saw the ghost of a passenger train slowly begin moving, heard the echo of a train whistle as it began to pull out, saw their fingers almost touch, then he saw her face, her beautiful face become overwhelmed by the swirling fog.

As if she were drowning in it.

And then ... to him she was dead.

Oh, God, don't let her be taken from me again, he thought, not again. Then he turned, walked, ran, tears falling, the heels of his boots echoing a crisp sound in the cool night air as he made his way back to the prison he'd made for himself ... to wait a little longer.

* * * *

That night when it came time to lock up, Broc delayed it just a bit, hoping he would see the old woman. He hadn't seen her since DeLane had died and wanted to thank her for the help she had given the police. He was standing at the French doors looking out when he saw her scuffling along with her cane, all bent over, battling a heavy wind. He was glad to see her, but couldn't help wondering why she would come out on a blustery night like this. Maybe I can offer her some warmth, he thought, and opened the doors and walked toward her. When he reached the edge of the yard, he stood by the fence watching her as she approached.

When the old woman saw him, she hesitated. There he is again, she thought as she stepped off the curb of the leftover deserted street. Instead of walking along her usual path she decided to cross to the other side in order to avoid him, but heard him call out to her.

"Please, may I speak with you?"

She hesitated again. The familiar voice cut deep into her soul, and her eyes closed. She felt dizzy. Pretending she hadn't heard him, she continued on her way, her tapping cane feeling the way for her. When she got close, she turned, trying to widen the distance between them, but he reached out, his hand almost brushing her sleeve. Her cane finally fell silent. Moving her head only slightly, she looked up into his face ... his young, handsome, line-free face ... and knew he couldn't be more than thirty. She'd only seen him from a distance, but now, so close, it was hard for her to breathe.

He looked down into her face that was darkened by the shadow cast by the brim of her tattered old hat. "I wanted to thank you for the help you gave the police the other night."

Her head still lowered, her dry voice crackled like dry leaves when she spoke. "No need, young man. I was glad to help."

Broc was encouraged when she spoke and leaned over to see under the hat, but she turned her head, allowing more of a shadow to fall on her face. "Are you cold? Tired? Would you like to come in and rest a while?"

"No, she said, a smile twitching her dry lips, "but thank you. I must be getting back."

"Can I walk with you? Is it far?"

"No ... please ... I'll be fine, she said, her cane beginning its tapping sound.

Not being able to think of any other reason to detain her, Broc watched her until she came to the path that led into the woods. Just before she stepped in, she stopped, looked back, and could almost feel the strength of his steady gaze. Without a wave, or a nod, she proceeded into the trees and seemed to disappear.

Like a puff of smoke, Broc thought, wondering for the first time if she was even real. Perhaps they were all dead and being used as living pieces of a board game that was being played in hell by Aleksa and the other demons. His gaze lingered at the edge of the woods where the old woman turned to go in, and wondered. Maybe once she turned into the woods she became an owl, or a tree ... even a snake.

* * * *

While Broc was downstairs, Rena was thinking it had been much too long since she and King had been together, so she went up to his room with sex in mind, only to find him gone. She knew he was locking up and decided to wait for him. To kill time she began looking around, wondering why he lived among Broc Sanford's 1920's memorabilia. She had told him he could move it all up to the attic, but he hadn't. She fingered several things curiously until she came to the table filled with photographs. She picked up the one of Broc Sanford smiling into the camera, and studied it. "When did King have this picture taken? she mumbled, continuing to stare at it. "No, this isn't King ... the hair's... All at once things began clicking into place. She stared down into the face of Broc Sanford, replacing the dark hair with King's light hair, and putting an earring in his ear. Her heart pounded, thudding in her ears, but over it all she could hear an evil cackle ringing in her head. She recognized it as Ramla, her palace witch.

I've been wating for this, you female viper! the scratchy voice rasped. I vowed the day I died in your place that I'd get you. The hours I spent teaching you, the voice agonized. I'll be waiting for you, and you'll pay ... you'll pay me well!

"Oh my God! Rena whimpered, terror filling her. She dropped the photograph, then with frenzied fingers began scattering the things on his table. She grabbed at the rest of the photographs, looked at them, then dropped them suddenly, her eyes flying around the room. She realized now why he still lived among all of this, Broc Sanford and King Stevenson were one and the same. He was Broc Sanford in the flesh, young flesh. The past flashed through her mind, bringing back the day he came in, not long after the old man had disappeared. He sputtered around giving her a false name, and she, like an idiot accused him of ... Oh God, he was simply coming home, that's all, coming back to what was familiar. She remembered how he had jumped at the chance of moving into his old room. She looked up and caught her reflection in the mirror and her hand fluttered up to her face. With her eyes full of fear she remembered Aleksa's warning. He can do you no good! She remembered how quickly his words were forgotten once she saw the handsome young man come strolling in with his perfect body. All of a sudden her mind had become twisted with pictures of what she wanted to do with him. Then later when jealousy devoured her, she kept him alienated from the nurses ... while he was killing her little by little.

She'd had no reason to think he was anything other than what he appeared to be. He was modern from his lightened hair right down to his ripped jeans, but he was in reality eighty-six! How stupid of me! she scolded herself. That's why Aleksa wanted him, he needed to collect his soul!

This was not something that she had difficulty believing. She knew about potions, love spells, and tricks. They had been part of her life in Egypt. She had learned many things at the knees of her palace witch. It was there that she drank the potion that had kept her alive for almost five hundred years.

The picture of that evening unfurled before her and she remembered how beautiful she looked in her sheer gown, and the gold serpent that surrounded her head. She knew her beauty was passing, though, and had begun examining her face looking for lines, dry patches, those places even the exotic ingredients in her milk baths couldn't help. She knew her beauty was fading, so she went to her palace witch crying, begging, demanding! The potion was strong, and the magic night she drank the liquid she felt infused with power, and recalled how the sheer curtains that spanned the arch between the massive columns of her room danced in the breeze. It was as if the gods themselves were giving her their blessings. Maybe mirrors back then weren't what they are today, but she could see well enough to know how ravishing she was.

That night Aleksa came to see her, explaining how she could stay that way as long as she kept the company of a young man. So they made a pact ... a deadly pact. She would have their house and money, but only after she delivered their souls to him. Yes, she thought, Aleksa made it possible for her to absorb their youth like a sponge. That's why she always chose someone young, very young, and that's why she had to dispose of them right after she had taken all she could.

The edge of her lip curled when she thought of all her disposable men. Then all at once her smile vanished when she remembered the inevitable curse that came on the back of every potion. It was the price you had to pay. It was the two-sided coin that said the moment she slept with someone old, she would become old.

She didn't worry. It was a simple rule to keep ... until now. She looked down at her flawless hands, and stroked her beautiful face as she gazed at her now fleeting beauty. It hadn't happened yet, but she knew it was only a matter of time.

She looked back down at the photographs scattered on the floor, and a rage filled her. "He did this to me! she rasped. "He did it, and he will die! She turned and ran from the room, down the steps, then slammed angrily into her apartment. She immediately began mixing her famous concoction, the last one she would prepare, and the most important.

She worked over it, mixing, blending, mingling. A drop of this, two drops of that, until it was completed. Finally, she lifted it proudly and watched as it fizzed, hissed, bubbled and sputtered, the deadly sparkle taking on the hue of the purple bottle. She then took a bottle of wine and poured two glasses, one with the potion added. She looked around the room, everything was ready.

She swayed in all her royal flourish over to the intercom and clicked it on. When she spoke into it, the indirect light in the room barely revealed the rapid aging of her face. Lips that were drying quickly echoed intimately into the sound chamber. "King she said, her whispering voice already taking on a dry sound, "I'm waiting."

She knew, of course, that she couldn't let him touch her, but she couldn't let him know that, so she lowered the lights even more, setting the stage for an intimate liaison. With everything ready she looked in her mirror and brought a filmy veil down over her face, then sat down in a chair and waited while casting a threatening look toward the door. It was forever it seemed until the knock came, but when she heard it, her eyes filled with a deadly evil. "Come in, she said softly, her accent barely beginning to show.

"What's this? Broc said as he walked in.

Rena slowly rose from her chair and walked toward him. "Tonight, the drying voice began, struggling to stay young and lilting, "I am the beautiful Italian Princess, Lucretia Borgia."

"Oh yeah? You mean the dame that poisoned all her lovers?"

Rena looked at him with narrowed eyes. "The very one, she purred, then stepped into a shadow.

Broc looked around. "You trying to save on electricity? Then turning back toward her, he said, "Say, what's the veil for?"

"Lucretia Borgia was very mysterious, she whispered. "She kept her lovers intrigued by keeping her face covered."

"Well, he said, reaching for her, "I've never made love to a woman in a veil before, but I guess I can adjust."

She eluded his arms by turning and opening the balcony doors, the sound of the ocean churning in the background, and the wind lifting the curtains with its cold, bony fingers.

"A little cool, isn't it?"

"You will not notice it ... soon."

"The only way I wouldn't notice it is to be de... Broc stopped in the middle of the word, realizing he had hit on the theme of the night. Maybe it was part of the game, but it bothered him that it seemed all too real. She played her part well. Seemed to want to stay in the shadows ... aloof ... mysterious. And now to open the balcony doors on the coldest night of the year? To hell with this, he thought as he walked over to a lamp to turn it on, but before he could flip the switch, he felt her hand on his. He glanced down and saw a wrinkled hand, then watched as she snatched it away quickly. "Hey, what the hell's goin on here?"

"Nothing, she said, turning away from him. "I just like ... the darkness."

"Where'd that accent come from ... old Arabia? I thought Lucretia Borgia spoke Italian."

The figure in black turned toward the balcony, lifting the gauzy material of her negligee against the wind that was blowing in. "She spoke many languages. She was bright, as well as beautiful. She loved music, dancing, exotic nights, beautiful gardens..."

"Speaking of gardens, I'm going to need..."

"That is no garden, she rasped, whirling around as she spat at him. "A garden is a jungle of exotic plants. Red, purple, yellow, she said, lifting her hand dramatically. "The scent fills the warm nights, drifting on the breeze into the open arches of my palace. She slid her eyes over to him as if he were a bug she found hiding under her sink. "You do not know what romance is, no one in this country does."

Broc couldn't help but smile at the performance she was putting on.

She walked over to the stereo and turned it on, filling the small space not with music but with the haunting strum of an ancient stringed instrument. It was music that inspired pictures of desert sands, wide arched skies filled with chunky stars, arabic costumes of brocaded silk, and trees with hanging branches, almost touching the ground.

"That's music? Broc asked, frowning.

"The music of my day, yes, she said.

Broc shrugged. "You're callin the shots, Ms. Borgia, but I wouldn't exactly call it music to fuck by. He took her in his arms in an attempt to dance and looked down into her face, barely able to discern her features behind the dark veil. Touching his hand to the edge, he asked, "Why don't we get rid of this?"

"Only for you, she said intimately, then lifted it up in a swirl and tossed it on the bed.

Broc gasped at what he saw. He had never seen her hair down, but now it hung along her shoulders, and a golden serpent circled her head with strands of gold swinging from it, mingling in her burnished hair. Her eyes were heavily lined, extending far beyond her lids, and her lips were red, full, and sensuous. A golden snake coiled around her upper arm, his head studded with red, glittering eyes, matching her lush lips. For the first time he was looking forward to getting her in bed. She was mysterious, and more beautiful than he'd ever seen her. Looking at her this way, the accent fit, everything fit, she was Lucretia Borgia, right down to the little mole above her lip that seemed to be her trademark.

Rena saw the way he looked at her. "Do you want me ... me, Lucretia Borgia?"

"Hell yes, baby, he said, breathing hard.

She smiled, her seductive eyes casting a sidelong invitation. "It will come, she whispered, "after the drink. She picked up the two glasses that were already poured and gave him one. With an air of intimacy, she stepped close to him, entwined her arm with his, and looked deeply into his eyes.

He suddenly felt uncomfortable. "What the hell is this? You think that just because I want to jump your goddamned bones for once that we're in love, or something? Before we go another step, sweetheart, let's just get something straight, I'm here not because I want to be, I'm here because I have to be."

"But ... I thought you liked the way I looked."

"Sure I like the way you look. But only because it wakes up something deep and dirty inside me. Any hooker downtown could look just as good."

Her eyes burned with fury as she looked at him, and her teeth clenched in anger. "The ritual will continue."

"Ritual? Broc muttered. "What friggin ritual? You mean the role you're pl..."

"What stupidity! she spat. "You think I am playing a role? That I am not the real Lucretia Borgia, Italian Pricess and Noblewoman? She looked down her nose at the peasant before her. "You think you are so special, all of you. Well, it is I, Lucretia Borgia who is special. In Egypt I would not have even wiped my feet on such as you! She whirled around, creating quite a picture in her black negligee and matching snakes that glittered with evil. "The men I slept with were royalty, like me, not street trash such as you. Well, she held her glass out to him, "I may have to die, but I will not be alone! Drink!"

Broc felt like applauding her. If this was an act, she was superb. She had it down. The way her accent became deeper, and her voice dipped low, even hissed, and the way she strutted, like that of royalty. But watching her, seeing her fine performance, and remembering all the times he had listened to her drunken voice on the intercom woke Broc up to what was actually happening. Her dirty stories of Egypt and her lovers weren't drunken ramblings as he had thought, they came from this bitch's insane mind. Either she actually was Lucretia Borgia, or just one hell of an actress. Either way, she meant business, he thought, then looked down at his glass, wondering. Slowly he lifted it to his nostrils and sniffed. Was it his imagination, or did he detect a strange scent. He slowly looked up at the evil on her exotic face. My God, she's going all the way with this, he thought. She's really going to poison me. He looked around the dark room, suddenly feeling trapped.

"We must make a toast, she whispered, then held up her glass. "To death, peaceful death ... for both."

"Sorry, Broc said, then threw the poisoned elixir in her face, "but I never liked wine."

She staggered back, sputtering, then dropped her glass. "You swine, she bellowed, continuing in her mysterious accent, "look what you have done!"

As Broc stepped toward her, she slowly backed away. "You've set the scene perfectly, Ms. Borgia, or if we're lovers, perhaps Lucretia. Is this the way it always happens? he asked, looking around. "In a room with dirty shadows in every corner, a beautiful, mysterious woman offering herself to the unsuspecting man, but she won't let him see her face until the last moment. That's how she keeps his attention, I suppose. That, and her soft voice that makes many promises."

By now Broc has her trapped and was leaning over her, injuring her with his words. "You're nothing special, Ms. Borgia, he hissed, a note of contempt in his voice. "You're only a beautiful peid piper that lures men to your bed with a mysterious veil, sexy promises, and strange music in the background. It all sets the stage for murder. Am I right so far?"

Rena's eyes furtively begin to dart around, nervously looking for an avenue of escape, but Broc quickly grabbed her, and they struggled. "What's the matter, Lucretia? Suddenly you're acting like a nervous virgin."

"Let me go, you young hellion!"

Her struggle became wild, but Broc managed to forcefully drag her across the room to the bed. Throwing her down on it, he straddled her form. With his red hot eyes on her, he hurriedly began unbuckling his pants.

She had gotten him excited, and now he was ready for action. With his pants flapping open, he fell on her and was about to rip off her clothes when the light from a lamp fell on her shadowy face. When he saw her, he sucked in his breath. "Oh my God! he breathed, looking down into a face that was getting older by the minute. The smudges that lined her dark eyes, and the red glossy lipstick gave her ancient face a macabre look. Before he knew what was happening she reached for him, looking like a corpse rising from the grave. He jumped backward, out of her reach, then all at once she fell back, her last breath wafting nothing but scattered dust.

As Broc watched, he had the insane feeling he was watching a movie set on fast forward. In only seconds he saw Rena's beautiful face go from a mass of wrinkles to dust with only the skull reamining. In another few minutes the skull and the body caved in, and her negligee lay there deflated with nothing but dust inside it.

Broc had to grab something to keep from fainting. He had never seen anything like it in his life and felt himself teetering on the edge between sanity and madness. He turned abruptly wanting ... no needing to get out of there ... away from the sound of that haunting music. He ran up the stairs to the sanctuary of his room. When he burst in his eyes locked on the intercom.

It was the stories Rena told, he thought. So full of sex and violence he got wound up in them. Always with an Egyptian setting. Wide skies, chunky stars, and a shadowy palace where incest, murder, and secrets ... powerful secrets ... political secrets ... were carried through the halls on whispering lips. He had sat listening, night after night, while her words tightened around his gut and traveled right down to his cock, making him so hard he cried out with pain. A couple of times he even had to relieve himself before his penis burst like a balloon.

Of course. There was nothing to worry about. It had been an hallucination triggered by Rena's wild stories. Tomorrow morning he would wake up and Rena would be walking the halls of Northclyf stroking Fancy, and everything would be normal again. No poisoned wine, no funny accent, and no more hissing voices in the night. The fact that he had practically buried his cock inside a woman that crumbled beneath his touch was funny, if nothing else. Aleksa was playing a little game with him, that's all. Chances are, he was down in hell laughing his ugly head off right now.

Broc fell in the bed, refusing all thoughts of a coiling snake that had somehow managed to escape his fertile imagination. He watched the long, low, winding body climb and slide until its head loomed above him. Its glittering red eyes locked on Broc, and slowly opened its mouth. With a murderous hiss filling his ears, and long fangs poised above his neck, Broc lay still, waiting for the inevitable. He at last closed his eyes in sleep, wondering what hell would be like ... if he didn't wake up in the morning.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Broc woke up the next morning squinting into the bright, three-tiered window with a pounding headache. He pulled himself out of bed, popped a handful of aspirin, then let the pounding spray of the shower assail his face while the minutes ticked by. He finally dressed and left his room, his furtive eyes looking around for Rena. In the bright light of day, he was convinced he had been hallucinating the night before, and at any minute he would see Rena strolling around a corner with the ever-present Fancy in her arms.

But slowly time passed.

Breakfast was served, and eaten, and Rena hadn't made an appearance. He knew, finally, that he couldn't put it off any longer. It would be okay, he told himself. She was probably just under the weather, PMS, whatever. But when he stood outside the door, he could hear his own breathing. In the small space, it sounded short and jerking. He lifted his hand to knock, but lost his nerve, his hand hesitating while it rubbed across his mouth. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and finally he forced his hand forward, the knock sounding unreal, short, and intruding.

There was no response.

The quiet corridor was deathly quiet. "Rena, he called out softly while his hand hesitated above the doorknob, then slowly descended. When his flesh met the cold metal, he slowly turned it and through the small slice the open door provided him, he saw a wine glass laying beside the stain on the floor. He pushed the door open, and saw that his glass was still where he left it, the last dregs of dried wine in the bottom. The bed was still missed, evidence of their struggle, and her dust lay undisturbed as a nightmarish reminder.

He stood there looking at the scene, having a problem believing that the occurrences of the previous night were actual fact. Rena, the real Lucretia Borgia ... ridiculous! But then no one would believe he was the real Broc Sanford, either, so how could he deny it? He remembered her crumbling before his eyes ... more than five hundred years catching up with her. Suddenly the memories overwhelmed him, and the room became stifling.

He had to get out.

He quickly backed out of the room, slammed the door, and leaned against the corridor wall. A million things ran through his mind, the least of them being the fate of the nursing home, yet that was the one staring him in the face. With Rena gone, who would run it? In only a matter of weeks he would be gone too. What then?

He paced, drove his fingers through his hair, trying to think up a believable lie to tell everyone. Finally he began walking until he slammed into the business office.

He spent hours digging among the records that would give him some kind of clue as to what to do next. Who the hell owned this monstrosity? Would anybody admit to it, he wondered, then remembered Rena had went to see someone by the name of Martin Shelbourne. When he remembered the name, it also occurred to him that Shelbourne Associates was the printed name on everybody's paycheck accompanied by a swirling signature that couldn't be read. Knowing that their checks came up from Georgia gave him something to go on, so he dug deep into the financial files until he found what he needed.

He was about make a phone call when he happened to glance down in the file drawer and saw Rena's name neatly typed on a red sticker, glaring at him. That reminded him that he needed to make some kind of notation on her file as to the reason of her termination. Slamming the phone down, he dug it out while reaching over to the desk lamp and turning it on.

With a rustle of paper in a thick folder, he opened the file, laid it down and began reading. None of it surprised him. It simply told him that Rena was thirty-six, had a reasonable education, and had never been married. He grabbed a pen, made the notation, and started to put it back when he saw something curious, so he read on. My God, he thought. Rena's history goes all the way back to right after Northclyf came into existence in 1912. According to her file, she joined the home in 1914 at age thirty-six, and hadn't gotten a day older.

The loud flipping of pages filled the shadowy room as he continued reading. In the time Rena had been here the home had changed hands four times, and he noticed one constant thread that was woven throughout all the years the home had been in existence. A surprising number of employees had died while working here. All young men ... accidental poisoning.

Young, he repeated to himself. They were all so ... young. Like him, except that he ... That was it! She needed their youth, and when he came along ... an eighty-six year old man, it must have broken some kind of spell. Of course! She was Aleksa's pawn. He used her to get souls, and had used her to try and get his before she...!

Broc was visibly shaken, and couldn't read any further. He had escaped death one more time, he thought as he slammed the folder shut. His trembling hands came up and rubbed at his face, then raked through his hair. He remembered looking deep into the depths of the goblet she gave him, and how close he had come to drinking it.

He sat for a moment, trying to get his insides to quit shaking, then took a deep breath. Finally his nervous hands scrambled around, putting everything away and trying to figure out the next step. Hell, it was apparent, wasn't it? He had to make some kind of announcement, but what would he tell them? While deep in thought he slowly rose from the chair and paced, racking his brain.

Something ... he had to think up something.

Whatever it was, it certainly couldn't be the truth. He could just see himself standing up before everyone with a stupid look on his face. I went into Rena's room the other night, threw a glass of wine on her, and she started melting! Jeez, they'll lock me up, and throw away the key, he thought. But whatever, he just couldn't do it now, he thought as he buried his face in his hands. It would keep a little while, at least until he got his head together.

* * * *

Later that night, Broc sneaked down to Rena's room for the last time. With him was a hand vacuum, and a bottle of carpet cleaner. He worked into the night gathering up the glasses, pouring the wine down the bathroom sink, working hard to get rid of all the traces of the masochistic night they had spent together. After thinking about it, it seemed everytime they got together a touch of masochism flavored their sex. It was hot, brutal, and rough, always propelled by anger, insults and lust ... lots of lust! But that's the way she liked it, Broc thought, and he didn't care enough to be gentle, in fact he wanted to kill her on many occasions. After straightening up the bed, he made a last check around the room to make sure everything was as it should be, then closed the door, knowing he had finally gotten his wish ... the bitch was dead!

* * * *

The next day, Broc looked out on the faces of the employees he had rounded up, and sputtered out a speech that even he didn't believe. He told them that Rena had resigned, and that Northclyf would be turned over to new management. Puzzled faces looked up at him, then turned to each other, their voices buzzing. Suddenly, one by one the voices rose, and before long everyone was talking at once. He tried to tell them that he understood their concerns, and would try to answer all their questions, but that it was sudden for him too, and he was doing the best he could to keep everything together. He assured them that their jobs were secure, and if they would just be patient, he would have it all worked out in due time. When the room was finally empty, he hung his head, thankful that the hardest part was over, then tried to figure out what to do next. As his eyes darted over to a large food bowl, suddenly he knew. Get rid of that damned cat!

He jumped up and almost ran to Rena's apartment. When he looked in, he saw Fancy sprawled across her bed. He crept up to her, and looked down into her passive face. "Now look here you filthy feline bitch, he began as the cat looked at him with her piercing eyes. "One more meal, see, I'll give you one more meal, then you're outta here. You know what outta here means, don't you? He thumbed backwards. "It means the pavement, bitch ... the highway ... ffffft, he said, cutting across his neck with his finger. "But don't worry, we'll remember you during Auld Lang Syne Season. He reached out for her, and suddenly the cat stood up, her eyes never leaving Broc's for a moment. It was as if the two were confronting each other. Before Broc knew what was happening, he saw another cat leisurely walking toward him from behind the bed, then another from an open closet. He kept seeing cat after cat coming toward him from different parts of the room until the room was running over with cats. "Oh God, he cried as he looked around at countless Fancys, all with piercing stares. As he haltingly backed up toward the door, each of them walked toward him, threatening to overpower him. With his blunt fingernails scratching behind him, he grabbed the doorknob and managed to open it against their heavy bodies crowding around him. He looked back at the cat in the middle of the bed that was still standing in confrontation, a dare gleaming in her eyes. "Then starve, you bitch! he yelled. "You and all your demonic sisters! He quickly slammed the door and twisted the key in the lock, then leaned his head against it, mumbling. "I'm going crazy, that must be it. There's only one cat in there ... only one... Suddenly he heard a mewling sound behind him, whirled around and plastered himself to the door when he saw Fancy looking up at him as if asking for her breakfast. "Aaaaaarrrrrggggg! he yelled as he ran down the hall, struggling to escape this hell called Northclyf.

As much as he tried, he couldn't seem to shake the cat. He pushed her away, kicked at her, but still she followed him around all morning until he finally relented and gave her some breakfast. As she ate, he knelt beside her and gently stroked her. Not out of affection, but because he had to know for sure if she was real, and not one of his demonic hallucinations. He observed her closely while she ate her food, and drank her water, and knew she must be the real Fancy. Deciding that, he knew he couldn't let her out of his sight, so when she got through, he picked her up and held her, enduring her sandpaper tongue, and lovesick eyes.

He felt almost ashamed when he called the local zoo and found himself speaking softly as if afraid she would hear and understand. After arranging to have someone come out and pick her up, he led her out on the front porch, sat down with her beside him and talked to her. It was still early, so no one was out yet. He was thankful, because he couldn't help wondering what this scene must look like. Instead of a man and his dog, it was a man and his tiger cuddled together. He felt guilty when she looked at him with her trusting eyes, and at one point, her sandpaper tongue leaped out of her mouth and stroked him on his lips. "Hmph, you're a female, all right, aren't you? Broc mumbled, then released a pent up breath when hours later, it seemed, he saw a truck pull up at the curb. Two burly men slammed out of the truck, pulled a formidable looking cage out of the back, then headed toward the mansion. "Oh, hell! Broc cried out. "Rena would turn over in her grave if she knew Fancy was going into that. As soon as the men walked up, Broc found himself urging them that the cat was tame, and would need a cage of her own. "She's gentle, he told them, "and very young, so please take that into consideration when you decide where to put her."

The man snickered. "Yeah, we'll give her her own little condo, complete with cable."

Broc felt a blistering anger fill him up inside. He worked hard to contain it until he had Fancy safely in her cage, at which time he turned to the smart aleck and grabbed his collar. "Look you bastard, I'm serious. She's tame, and she's very young. You put her in with a bunch of maneaters, and she won't last out the day. She'll be like a babe in the friggin woods."

"All right, all right, the man said as he moved Broc's hands away from his throat. "Look at it this way. She'll be among her own kind, and in an environment she's more conducive to. She'll be happier, for God's sake. Besides, you can come see her anytime ... you know, make sure she's being treated well, and all that."

Broc felt only a little encouraged as he looked down at the cat and saw her looking at him through the bars. "Get her out of here! he cried, turning his back on her. His hand reached up and began rubbing his neck, then suddenly he turned around and called out to the two men that were carrying her down the walk. "Her name is Fancy, he called out, "Fancy. You got that?"

"Yeah sure, the faraway voice said as it floated up to him from the end of the walk, but somehow Broc didn't feel good about it.

"Why should I care? he asked himself as the truck drove away. "I got rid of the pesky beast, that's all that's important."

That night Broc dreamed of Fancy, and for days afterward he thought about her. He found himself wondering if she was all right, and if the zoo was taking good care of her. He tried to keep his mind off her until one day he picked up a paper and saw the picture of a tiger running through the city streets.

Rare Egyptian Tiger Escapes Zoo

"Oh my God, it's Fancy! he cried, ran to the phone and called the zoo.

"She escaped, Mr. Stevenson. We almost got her on several occasions, but everytime we get close she seems to elude us. She's a slippery little bitch."

"You didn't mistreat her, did you?"

"Hell no. We hardly had time to do anything. We transferred her to another cage for the night, a bigger one, you know? But the next morning when we went back for her, she was gone. The strange part was, the cage was unlocked. I don't know how the hell she did that. It's got us all scratchin our heads. We just can't figure it. That's one hell of a tiger you've got there, sir."

All that day Broc paced while worrying about Fancy. No telling where she would end up, he thought as he looked out the window. Hit by a car, starved to death, or ... Hell, I'm making too much out of this, he thought as he raked his hand through his hair. She's tame, and lovable, someone will pick her up and give her a good home. He had to believe that. He had to turn his thoughts positive, or go crazy. "Imagine, he mumbled to himself, "after all I've been through, being sent over the edge by a stupid cat. I can't figure it out. Why the hell am I so concerned? I hate that damned cat. She's been nothing but a pain in the ass, a headache. He kept telling himself the same thing over and over until that afternoon when he heard shouts of panic from outside, and chairs scraping against the porch. He looked out through the door and saw what was causing the ruckus. It was Fancy sauntering up the front sidewalk, leaving some kind of trail behind her. A smile he couldn't keep back lit up his face and he ran out to her. Broc heard a loud murmur among the residents and looked around at the frightened faces. He knew they were surprised by the animal since Rena had kept her out of everyone's sight. At first, when she was small, she looked like no more than a large domestic cat, but as she grew, there was no mistaking her for the wild beast she was. That's when Rena began keeping her away from the residents. She never let the cat roam the halls, but kept her hidden in her apartment, or her office. She took her outside frequently, but always in the back, or down on the beach, leading her around on a leash. She was still young and relatively small, but by this time the markings of a wild beast, and the low prowl of her walk, made her look as if she belonged in a jungle instead of a nursing home.

Everyone had backed up in fear, almost to the edge of the property, giving the tiger a wide berth. "It's okay, folks, Broc called out to the residents. "She's tame. She won't hurt anyone, I promise. He knelt down and carefully lifted up one of her paws and saw blood, then looked behind her at the blood red prints she had left on the sidewalk. "My God, Fancy, you walked all the way back here? Then he snickered. "I think you might have missed your calling, girl, you should have been in the movies. Just then he lifted her face up to him, and looked into her love-consumed eyes. "Well, I guess if Lassie can do it, so can you, right? Broc began to feel around on her to see if she had any other wounds. While his hands were moving along her body, Fancy must have thought he was playing because she pushed him backwards and climbed on top of him. Broc laughed, and pushed at the cat playfully while she mischievously nudged him, gently nibbling on his ears and neck, then stroked his face with her sandpaper tongue. The two rolled around on the ground with all the residents watching wide-eyed, and when the playing was over Broc was covered with traces of Fancy's blood.

Broc finally had to admit that he loved Fancy. He'd been fighting it all along, maybe because he knew that any feeling for her would only complicate things. What would happen to her come February twelfth, he wondered, and it caused a sadness to overtake him as he hugged the soft, friendly animal to him. With a certain sadness in his heart, he picked her up and began walking her into the house when the words of an old song moved his lips in a tuneful mumble.

You made me love you, I didn't want to do it, I didn't want to do it. You made me love you and all the time you knew it. You...

Suddenly Fancy's tongue leaped out and brushed against Broc's face with one of her famous tiger kisses. "Stop that you little flirt, he said, smiling down into her love-filled, yellow eyes, while his welled up with tears. He had to admit it. He was relieved, even thankful, to have her back.

After that, Broc and Fancy were a steady twosome. She slept at his feet every night, and he always took time out of his busy day to play with her, or walk with her along the beach. He also kept a steady eye on his calendar and found that his emotions were mixed. He sometimes wished the time would go by faster, but at the same time he wished he had more time with Fancy. He had no idea what he would do with her when it came time for him to leave, and this was constantly on his mind.

* * * *

A few days later the weather suddenly turned nasty, and a cold, slicing rain blew through town like an angry spirit. With the weather so bad, the residents couldn't go out, so a few gathered in the sitting room for TV, games, reading, or whatever, but most of them stayed in their rooms. The weather put Broc in a pensive mood, and when he found a dusty old composition book in the attic that apparently hadn't been used, he took it and began keeping a journal. He wrote down everything that had happened to him, from the dark night of the electrical storm when Aleksa appeared in his room, until this moment. He told whoever the reader would be about his goal, and what he hoped to accomplish, and explained that if he never finished this journal that his soul would either be imprisoned in hell, or he would spend the rest of eternity with the woman he loved. When he finished the last few words he looked under the mattress of his bed and drew out a paper that reminded him of Roxanne Holt. There was picture after picture of a handsome man that could very easily have been a layout in Playgirl. His muscled, well-shaped legs were splayed out, with only a thin sheet covering his hips. His hairy chest was broad, and his face was handsome and unlined, with rebellious curls falling along his forehead. The bold black letters read, Eighty-six year old man makes deal with devil. The story was written in wide columns below, but of course since it was written in one of those rag tabloids it was thought of as another ridiculous story, and no one believed it. If anyone around Northclyf had seen the story, they apparently hadn't recognized him from the pictures, which he was thankful for. He certainly didn't need that complication along with everything else that had happened to him.

He carefully folded the paper and laid it on top of the composition book, then hid the whole thing under his bed, intending to do a little writing everyday until ... Until what, he wondered. And why was he writing this? He didn't know, but hoped the day would someday come when his actions would make sense.

After hours in his room, Broc was beginning to get cabin fever, so he decided to take a walk around the mansion to see if there was anything that needed doing. While on his way to the front, he noticed the rain was still coming down in torrents, and stood looking out the French doors when movement caught his eye. He looked to see what it was. Surely the old woman wouldn't be out on a day like this, especially since she never came out in the daylight ... midnight was her hour. Just then he saw a car drive into the wide path the old woman always took into the woods. "That looks like Suzette's car, he mumbled, continuing to watch it as it disappeared from view. He turned abruptly and ran into the foyer. "Where's Suzette? he asked one fo the nurses.

"It's her day off, one of the nurses answered.

It was her car, Broc thought, then whirled around, grabbed his jacket from a hat rack close by and ran out. He quickly scaled the short fence, then jumped down onto the path. He wasted no time as he ran down the rainswept street until he got to the opening, and looked in. He saw the car as it slowly bumped along the rugged path. He made his way through the rain drenched trees and shrubs just far enough to see her park in front of the dark old house and run in. He waited a while to see if she came back out, but she didn't, and he was freezing, so he turned and headed back toward Northclyf. His thoughts tumbled around in his mind as the tearing rain hit him in the face. He wondered, while crossing the narrow street, what business Suzette could have with the old woman.

The old woman everyone called a witch.

The old woman that walked like a ghost along the streets at midnight.

He finally scaled the fence and jumped over, wading through the leaf-strewn yard to the French doors. As soon as he got in, he began a round of sneezing and coughing, then ran up to his room and peeled off his wet clothes. He stood in a hot shower forever it seemed, trying to warm himself, but he seemed to be cold all the way through. In between sneezing spells he swilled cold medicine all afternoon, but by that evening he was running a high fever.

"God, he mumbled as he crawled into bed, every bone in his body aching, "how humiliating to live in perfect health to a doddering old age of eighty-six, then die of pneumonia as a healthy young man of thirty."

As the evening passed, his room became redolent with the smell of strong cough medicine, and death. His teeth chattered while his whole body shook under the covers, a ghost-like vapor hanging silently over his bed. By this time he was beyond caring about anything, or anybody, and when he finally fell into a fitful sleep, he thought he was standing on the rim of a raging inferno, and the heat that covered his head and body ... came from hell.

* * * *

A knock on the door caused Broc to open one eye to a stabbing light that brought his eyebrows together in a frown. The knocking persisted, bringing him all the way out of his fever-induced sleep, and he slowly began moving around. The pounding on his door seemed to go on forever, reverberating in his head. To make it cease he tried to tell them to come in, but instead of words, some kind of unintelligble noise came out. He didn't know what he said, but it must have been understood, because the door opened, and in walked Suzette. By this time the room was spinning out of control, and the weight of his head was too much, so he moaned, and gladly let it fall back down onto his pillow.

She set the tray down on the floor beside the bed, then perched down beside him. With a sweet smile on her face, she leaned close and whispered, "How're you feeling?"

Broc's eyes barely opened, but when he saw her he couldn't help but smile, she was so beautiful. "Weak ... tired ... but at least I'm not coughing or sneezing anymore."

"That's because the doctor came out and gave you a shot."

"Yeah? When was this?"

"Yesterday. As soon as you can, you need to start taking the pills the doctor prescribed. They're on the nightstand there."

"How long have I..."

"You've been flat on your back for well over thirty-six hours, and you're nowhere near well yet. Looking down at him, she frowned. "You know, I should be very mad at you. Why the hell didn't you tell someone you were sick?"

"I don't know ... I guess I just didn't realize how bad it was. I thought a good night's sleep and that would be it."

"Well, just for your information, mister, you've got a big dose of the flu, and you can't come back among the living again until ... I don't know ... a week or so."

He turned to look at the small canisters on the nightstand, but when he turned his head, it ached, and he moaned, "I feel like I've got a hangover."

"Feel like eating? The doctor said you should start taking fluids, and that if you refuse, we should hold you down and force them. She smiled mischievously. "I volunteered."

"Forget it. I couldn't eat a thing."

"King, you haven't eaten in days. It's not much, just some broth. Then her voice became soft and persuasive as she leaned close to him and began gently stroking his forehead. "Now, how about it? Just a few spoonfuls, okay?"

"The thought makes me sick, he said, but while looking into her pleading eyes, he relented. "All right ... I'll try."

Broc struggled to sit up while she pushed herself backward and reached for the tray. She gently maneuvered it around in front of him, then picked up a napkin and laid it across his chest. When she took the spoon and began feeding him, he pushed it away. "Hey I'm a big boy now, I can feed myself."

"Absolutely not, she insisted. "You may be a big boy, but you're sick, and I'm going to spoil you. Her eyes slid up to his, and he was reminded again of the turbulence of their green glitter. "Don't say no, she whispered, "I've been looking forward to this all day."

The edge of Broc's lip turned up in an amused grin, then opened up when the first sip of steaming liquid reached his lips. As spoonful after spoonful went into his mouth, their eyes met and locked time and again. He had to admit the stuff was good, and it was also good letting her spoil him. He continued eating until suddenly he saw her coming forward with a strange look in her eyes. Some of the broth had dribbled down his lip, threatening to drop down on his chin when she parted her lips, laid them on the creeping drop, and sucked on his lip. He automatically parted his lips, and took her tongue into his mouth. "That's mine, give it back, he mumbled teasingly. They both smiled, and slowly their lips opened to each other and a tiny moan escaped Suzette as she began drawing on his lips as if she wanted to eat him up. "Suzette ... don't. I must look awful ... I haven't..."

"You taste like chicken soup, she whispered, "and you smell like heaven, and you look like the man I want to make love to me."

He tried to push her back. "Don't you know better than to say something like that in a man's bedroom?"

She snickered. "Oh, King, sometimes you can be so prudish. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were my grandfather."

"Your grandfather? Why didn't you compare me to your father? I'll tell you why. Because you don't know what it's like to have a father. Not really. I think we both know what a bastard he is, Broc said, bitter about Suzette's past. "I'd like to..."

"King ... don't..."

Broc looked at her worriedly. "Suzette, what would you do if I left?"

"Leave? she said frowning, and moving backward. "You're going to leave? When? Where?"

"It'll be soon ... a few weeks."

"Then I'll go with you, she said, sounding desperate.

"I can't take you ... it's impossible."

"But what about Northclyf?"

"Don't worry about Northcylf. Shelbourne's aware of the situation. He said he'd contact me when he found someone. Seeing the look of misery in her eyes, he leaned his head back, the stress of the situation causing a pain to begin in the back of his head and travel upwards. He looked down at the tray. "Take this thing away."

She removed the tray quickly, then looked deeply into his eyes. "You can't leave, she whispered, leaning over and stroking him. "I won't let you. Her lips began kissing him. "I'm going to make you so happy, she mumbled, "you won't be able to leave. Then she pulled back, slowly standing up.

His eyes moved up and saw dainty fingers that were busy undoing buttons, zippers, and pulling off sweaters. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I just want to help you stay warm, she said as she continued to undress.

"Suzette, now's not the time. I'm weak ... I've got a..."

She gently lifted the cover, slipped in and leaned over him, stopping his words with her lips. He could feel her warm, willing body climb on top of him. Feeling himself burning up with a fever, he said, "Baby, don't ... don't ... please."

All at once there were dozens of hands all over him.

His lazy, weak eyes opened, and instead of one Suzette, he saw several. One blonde head was leaning down making a path of kisses down his chest, while the others were caressing, kissing, and creating feelings in him he didn't think he was capable of in his condition. He gasped when a warm, wet mouth engulfed his cock, bringing it to a rock hard arousal. He threw his head back, and his hips began undulating. Between erotic grunts his eyes sliced open and saw several of Suzette's twins stroking him, licking his body, and pressing themselves against him. His raging fever was giving him a vision of himself in a Michaelangelo painting where a naked man was langorously sprawled out on something that looked like a couch, and women were crawling all over him, attending to his needs. As the eager hands and lips were scouring his body, the desire he was feeling was almost painful. Finally an electric thrill pierced his groin when he felt his cock becoming harder and harder as it was being expertly manipulated by a pair of female lips and a tongue that suckled him like a lollipop. He could hear the jerking of feminine breath, and could smell the fragrance of open lips as they bit his ear, and drew relentlessly on his neck. He felt soft hands all over him, pushing their breasts against him, feeding his ravenous mouth with their succulent nipples, and feeling his eager cock go deeper into someone's hungry, fragrant mouth while they drew harder and faster ... their movements becoming frenzied. He couldn't stand it, and began writhing. Suddenly his response became fierce, and his breathing hard and heavy. He reached down and grabbed a head of curly hair and pushed his shaft into her mouth while a raw, uninhibited desire filled him. He had never been so excited, and responded when someone's mouth covered his hungrily, her soft lips sending explosions of ecstacy spiraling through him. All at once Broc saw Suzette descending on him, wrapping her knees around him, and drawing his engorged cock deep into her velvety softness. He could feel himself pushing in deeper and deeper as she sat on him, pumping. Then, as if in answer to an aching need, she leaned down and allowed him to draw on her lips, then her breasts. He chewed as if he wanted to devour them ... shocked that the needs of his body were so raw and demanding, and burning with fire. Broc could feel the forceful domination of these women suddenly become savage, and felt his plunges being met by a melting fire that closed tightly around his cock. He grabbed Suzette and rolled over on her, feeling his wild plunges rock the bed. The heat of his desire opened his mouth in a wild, savage cry while waves of ecstacy throbbed through him. In one wild motion, Broc grabbed Suzette's buttocks and pulled them up, hard. She was thrashing beneath him as he filled her up completely, and the two of them bounced repeatedly, his stiff, throbbing manhood near eruption. Suddenly he felt a surge of warmth flow through him, and he abandoned himself to complete ecstacy while his cock exploded within her. When the pulsating shower of creamy liquid filled her up inside, Suzette shouted with screams of delight.

Suddenly they both slumped, their energy spent, and after a short time Suzette raised herself up and looked at the man she loved. Slowly she leaned over and whispered, "Don't leave me, Broc. I'll die, my darling. I'll die if you go."

Broc mumbled incoherently to the whispered words, and felt only a slight pressure when she leaned over and gave his sensuously parted lips ... a kiss.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

With Rena gone, Suzette was a constant temptation to Broc. He cursed himself for it, but couldn't deny his needs so he took her into his room whenever possible. Over time the small space became their own erotic lair. After work she would linger until the other nurses left, then slip into his room and stay the whole night. There wasn't anything Broc asked of Suzette that she wouldn't do. Some of their sexual practices felt so deviant, and orgasms so explosive, they slept for hours afterwards, wrapped in each other's arms. Broc knew she was young, and should have been out with boys her own age, but he couldn't even think of her leaving. Her young flesh beneath his anxious hands felt good, and her youthful exhuberance was what every man dreams of. Guilt assailed him many times since he felt he was doing to her the same thing Rena had done to him. If she just hadn't been so willing. But just as Aleksa had predicted, her whole world, her happiness, revolved around pleasing him.

She became an addiction.

Always in the back of Broc's mind was the fact that Aleksa had planted her here. He knew he was playing into Aleksa's hands every minute she was in his arms, but he couldn't stop. This morning when Broc woke up with Suzette in his bed, he raised himself up on one arm, looked down at her blonde beauty and was reminded of the day he saw her going into the woods. It nagged at him. Later, he noticed that she made excuses to get away, or would volunteer to go on errands, so he began watching her and became puzzled when he found that she paid regular visits to the old woman. What possible connection could there be between the two, he wondered. If the old woman was really a witch, that would be the answer.

He looked down at Suzette, suddenly seeing her as the enemy. Could she possibly be paying the old woman to keep him drugged and off balance while February twelfth just whizzed on by? He thought back at the number of hallucinations he'd had, and the times he hadn't been able to think clearly, and his mind whirled. Needing to get out of the room ... away from her drugging presence, he turned and slammed out. He tried to put it out of his mind while he attended to his duties, but it was impossible to think of anything else.

Now, hours had passed, and the question still hung in his mind ... unanswered. The simple question pounded at his brain, and in his mind he considered just how he would say it. Simply put? Accusingly? An innocent question purely on the basis of curiosity? How? One thing he knew for sure ... her response would tell him everything he needed to know.

He stood in the tangled shadow of this floor-to-ceiling monstrosity pretending to be oiling its leaves. He furtively peered through the slices of light between the giant fronds, waiting for Suzette to get off the phone and asking himself, what could it hurt? He felt like a fool standing there talking to himself, but still he had to have an answer. The decision to confront her hadn't come easy because for some reason he had a feeling that his inquiry would be going beyond some invisible point. Going into an area that had been locked up, sealed, forbidden.

When she finally hung up the phone, he dropped his cloth and stepped out of the twisted, chaotic shadow. Trying to emulate a self-assured, arrogant stride, he plunged his fingers down in the pockets of his tight jeans and walked up smiling. "So, how's everything going?"

"Fine, she said, flashing him a beautiful smile. "How about you?"

"Oh ... I don't know, okay I guess. There was an awkward silence, and he said, "Suzette ... I ... uh... She lifted her eyes with a look of expectation, but instead of bringing it up, he skirted around it like a coward and said, "Mr. Sanderson's moving out."

"Really? she said, surprised.

"Yeah, his granddaughter's taking him up to Ohio with her. She got married, you know, and doesn't want to leave him down here. Yeah, it looks like he might move in with her and her new husband."

"That's great, she said, noticing that Broc was acting uneasy. "She's a nice lady ... his daughter, I mean. She always visits him, never leaves him alone ... you know ... like so many do."

"Yeah, he said, smiling cautiously. "Yeah, he's ... he's a lucky man. His nervous eyes began darting around, wondering how he was going to bring up the old lady, but again he avoided the subject, and pointed to a far wall. "You know, I think I'll..."

Finally Suzette's patience came to an end and over the clatter of pens, paperclips and other office clutter she said, "King, what is it? If you've got something to say, spit it out."

Broc looked uncomfortable, but forced the words out hesitantly. "Suzette, I ... what is the relationship between you and the old lady that lives in Harper's Woods?"

Suzette's eyes widened, then she quickly lowered her head and spoke with trembling lips, "What ... what makes you think that old lady and me have a relationship?"

"Because, Broc said, looking at her closely, his unsure words, strong now. "I saw you, Suzette ... you know, the day it rained so hard? I followed you and saw you go into her house."

"Followed me? she exploded as she raised her head and glared at him. "What were you doing, spying on me? What gives you the right to spy on me!"

"I wasn't spying, for God's sake. I just happened to see you, and since then I've noticed you make frequent visits down there. All I'm asking is why? Who is she? Who is she to you?"

"It's none of your business, do you hear? None of your damned business!"

"Suzette..."

"No! she yelled, the silence ringing with the sound of her voice. And then her voice lowered, her eyes flashing green fire. "I'm warning you to stay away from her, do you hear?"

Broc's eyes widened at the threat. "Suzette, I just..."

All at once her face crumpled, and her words took on a pleading sound. "She'll take you away from me, Broc. She'll take you away!"

"Broc? Why the hell do you keep calling me Broc? I'm King, remember? King Stevenson? What do you mean? Who is she Suzette, tell me!"

"She won't see you, she doesn't want to see you ... ever again!"

"Ever again? Broc repeated, then said, "What in hell ... Suzette, you're not making any sense."

"You left her, don't you understand? You had your fun, then you left her pregnant, and alone."

Broc's eyes widened. "My God, he muttered.

"That's not the worst part. I'm pregnant too, Broc!"

Broc's eyes widened, and anger crowded into his gut. "You're lying, you bitch! You're just trying to keep me here."

"Sure. Go ahead and leave me like you did her. You're running true to form, Broc Sanford. What do you do, go around getting girls pregnant, then leaving?"

"What the hell is all this mumbo jumbo you're spilling out? You're talkin crazy, Suzette, he shouted. "I never ... I don't..."

"Just leave me alone! She shouted, then turned and ran away, crying.

Broc watched her stumble out and considered going after her, but when he turned and saw the crowd that had formed, he lowered his head and walked away quickly, the piercing stares of the crowd going with him.

* * * *

Broc spent the rest of the afternoon mulling over what Suzette had said, and couldn't make any sense out of her babbling. Somehow he couldn't bring himself believe that the old woman was a witch, but knew there was a relationship of some kind there. Suddenly Broc had a thought, and wondered if Suzette could simply be honoring the old woman's wishes. He didn't know why the old woman stayed alone, but for some reason she had let Suzette come close, and he wondered why. He knew it would do no good to question Suzette, so he did the only thing he knew to do.

That night when he locked up, he stood by the French doors until he saw the old woman turning the corner, then crossing the street while tapping her ever-present cane. Broc didn't hurry out, but secretly watched her while she lowered her head against the cool, crisp wind to pay careful attention to her shuffling steps. He watched her long dress dance around her legs, and the leaves swirl around her comfortable, wide-heeled shoes that kept her weak ankles steady. She walked slowly, almost painfully, the echoing taps of her walking stick getting lost in the cavernous treetops on this dark and lonely night. She leaned heavily on its crooked strength as she stepped up and down curbs, and along rough, uneven spots that might cause her feeble knees to buckle. He quickly stepped back into the shadow of the door when he saw her hesitate and look toward the mansion as if she were trying to see through the windows. Seeing no one, her head turned, and he saw her glance dart around the yard as if she were looking for someone ... maybe him. As she finally turned to continue down the leaf-strewn path, he gently opened the door and stepped out, but the moment his feet began to tread on the dry leaves, her head turned toward him.

"Good evening, he said, his words getting lost in the crisp night wind.

She didn't respond, only pulled the brim of her tattered hat further down in front of her face.

Broc rushed forward and walked along the fence with her. "I guess you didn't hear me, he said, feeling stupid. "I said good evening. When she continued to ignore him, he told himself she might be hard of hearing, so he lifted his voice. "Good evening, chilly night, don't you think? When he seemed to be getting nowhere, he realized her silence was intended and lowered his voice. "You know, it's rude not to acknowledge it when someone speaks to you. Still getting no response, he wondered why the unusual silence since she'd always seemed to be friendly enough before. It suddenly dawned on him it could be because of what happened this afternoon. Suzette had apparently told her all about it. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt Suzette, or make her cry ... I just... His voice trailed off when he realized she wasn't listening, then anger began building up inside him. "Look, I just want to get to know you. Who you are, where you come from. Is there something wrong with that? I see you on this friggin path almost every night. I... His voice faded away when he realized he wasn't doing any good. "Well, what the hell, he muttered, deciding to resort to ridicule since nothing else was working. "Well, I guess if you're a witch, you'll put a spell on me, right? What can I expect, a few boils on my backside ... or an onion growing out of my head? Or maybe you're a millionaire that dresses in rags, or a goddess that comes out only at night and worships the moon."

Suddenly the old woman stopped. She turned to look at him with an angry scowl, and as she spoke, her voice crackled with old age. "So ... you want to add another story to the others already floating around. Well, choose the one that most appeals to you, young man, I'm sure I couldn't care less."

"My God, she speaks, he said, making a big deal out of it. Then putting out his hand, he said, "My name is King Stevenson. And you are..."

"What do you care? she snapped. "The truth is not nearly as mysterious as the wild stories invented by foolish minds. Her aged eyes raked over his face. "Does that disappoint you? And why aren't you afraid of me? Either you're very courageous, or just plain stupid. How do you know I won't put a spell on you and turn you into a toad, or something. Then the sagacious eyes narrowed on him from beneath her shadowed brim. "You're not afraid, because you know that I'm just an old woman with an allergy and insomnia."

"I have to admit, I had my doubts for a while, but sure, I know none of the stories are true."

"Then why do you watch me?"

"Lots of reasons, I guess. You fascinate me for one, and I'm curious. But most of all I worry about you, Broc said as his eyes darted around at the swaying, grotesque-looking shadows caused by an ill wind. "Why aren't you sitting by a warm fire instead of walking down these dismal streets? It's cold and dark, aren't you afraid of being mugged?"

She began walking again. "My dear, I have nothing that anyone would want. Besides, who would mug a witch?"

"You have something I want."

Broc's words pierced the old woman's ears, stopping her in her tracks.

"Your identity, Broc whispered. "Who are you ... really? That's all I want to know. I've heard all the stories about the old woman that lives in the woods that comes out only at midnight. No, I don't believe that you're a witch, or that you eat cats or make love to demons. But there is a story, he said, peering into the darkness created by her shabby hat, "and I'd like to hear it ... all of it. Who you were ... how you came to live in the old house in the woods. All of it ... everything."

"But why? You're young. You should be out dancing and having a good time with your girl. I'm just an old woman that had her time, but now it's over. What could it matter to you, or anyone how I came to live in the house?"

"I don't know why it should, but the truth is- He looked at her with kind eyes. "-it does matter ... very much."

His simple words touched her, and tears appeared in her eyes when she looked into his chiseled face and thought of the love she had lost. "Go ahead, she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion, "believe the stories, and let me go home, pull the shades, and make love to my demon."

While her dark face was turned up to him, suddenly a traitorous wind came and blew the brim of her hat back and Broc caught a glimpse of her eyes shining from within the darkness. Oh my God, he thought, they're a misty blue-green ... and intense ... like a wild ocean. "Ravyn, he whispered. "My God, you're Ravyn St. James. Suddenly he was scaling the short fence, and when he jumped over it, he reached out and snatched her hat off her head.

She reached up to try and catch the hat before it was whisked away, but when she couldn't, she pleaded, "Give it back, please."

Broc kept it away from her grabbing hands like a bully in a schoolyard because he knew she would hide herself from him. Instead he lifted her chin with his hand, and feasted his eyes on the face he hadn't seen in over fifty years.

Being exposed to the harsh moonlight, she quickly turned her face aside, trying to hide herself as if ashamed.

Broc could see that she had aged, just as he had, but beneath all that he saw the Ravyn he remembered, and she was still beautiful. Her black, glossy hair was white now, but her beautiful eyes still held a hint of danger, and her mouth was soft and full as if begging him to cover it with his own. "Don't you know me, Ravyn? he whispered.

She looked at him strangely. "Should I? she whispered back.

"I'm Br... he began, then suddenly remembered the youth spell and grabbed the tops of her arms. "Look at me, for God's sake. Who do I look like?"

"No ... no, she said, shaking her head and struggling in his arms. "That was a long time ago, and you're too young."

"But I'm not, Ravyn. Really, I'm not. Please believe me."

"But you haven't aged a day. You couldn't be the man that left me on the train platform."

"But I am. I can't explain everything now, but I came back to you, Ravyn. I admit it was years later, after the old Victorian house on the hill had been abandoned, but I did come back. When I saw the house all boarded up I looked for you, but I couldn't find you. If anyone knew where you were, they wouldn't tell me. I told myself you were dead. I couldn't bear the thought that you might be with someone else."

The old woman struggled. She wanted to believe him, but she couldn't, so she shook her head and tried to get around him to continue on her way.

He jumped in front of her, knowing only one way to convince her. "Ravyn, darling, do you remember the boardwalk? The way we used to..."

"No, she whispered, her agony intensifying. Her old eyes raked across his face, tears shining in her eyes.

To convince her, he quickly lifted his hand, pulled back his cuff and showed her the raven. "Look, it's still there. I got it at the tattoo parlor on the boardwalk. The man was fat, remember? All sweaty in jeans and a tee-shirt? Remember the tattoos he had all over him, and remember how he lifted his under shirt and showed us the tattoo of a ship on ocean waves. He could make them move with the muscles in his stomach."

"There's one in every parlor, the rasped, clearly struggling with what she was hearing.

"My beautiful darling, he said, cupping her face with his hands. "That was the day I told you I loved you, and had the raven put on because I wanted something that would remind me of you when we were apart."

"B-but it c-can't be. You c-can't be ... there's no..."

Suddenly she felt him embrace her, and in a weak moment she responded with tears pushing their way past her closed eyelids, and down her wrinkled cheeks. The memories were painful, but the pressure of his young lips as they brushed against her dry, cracked, aged ones, was pure bliss.

All too soon he pulled away, his eyes pleading as he whispered, "Please believe that it's me, my darling."

Ravyn's eyes raked across his face, and was tempted, but suddenly her soft look of love turned hard and cold. Her next words shattered him. "It's a joke, she hissed in anger, "a cruel joke that you and your friends think is funny. She grabbed her hat out of his hand, and with tears spilling down her face she pulled it down over her head. "Apparently you found out a few things about my life, and now you want a big laugh at my expense. Well, it won't work. Maybe you and your so-called friends are amused, but I am not. Believe me, if I were a witch, there would be a lot of cruel young people covered with warts by the first piercing rays of the morning sun. With that, she pulled away from him and continued on down the path. But Broc couldn't let it end like this, so he reached out and touched her shoulder. At his touch, her eyes closed.

"But I am Broc Sanford, he whispered. "How could I know all these things if I weren't?"

She whirled on him. "I don't know how you know, but I warn you, don't play with people's lives young man. I don't know who you are, she whispered, "and even if by some chance ... some miracle ... you could be the Broc Sanford I knew, it's too late for us. We can't go back."

"But I can, and I am. On February twelfth I'm going back to the past to be with you. That's when our fondest wishes will come true, and we'll be together again, just like before."

"Really, she said sarcastically. "To be deserted again ... on a train platform ... in the fog ... with my heart breaking? You must be joking! She turned her head quickly, her ragged, tattered hand covering her mouth to muffle her sobs. With a cruel jerk, she insistently pulled herself away from him and began walking. She hesitated slightly when she heard him call out to her, and felt the same old familiar longing that she'd lived with all these years ... but she refused to let herself stop.

"Don't leave the platform, Ravyn, he called out. "Wait for me. I'll be back."

She heard his urgent voice all the way down the path, then just before she ducked into the woods, she looked back at the young, handsome man that insisted he was her long lost lover. Why is he doing this to me? she wondered. Is he insane? It can't be him ... it can't! She continued walking, the faithful cane helping her as she walked over the uneven path to her house. As she finally entered the clearing where the old house sat silhouetted against a huge moon, the dark, naked woods seemed to melt around her as her thoughts went back.

After Broc left, her father had tried to marry her off to someone else, but when that didn't work, he tried abortion, only to find she was too far along by that time to even consider it. The only other thing he knew to do was hide her from prying eyes. His actions became strange. Instead of sending her away he bought a piece of land, built a house, then moved her into it.

Have your baby, he'd said with anger consuming him, but don't ever darken the door of the St. James mansion again. That right is only reserved for my family, friends and invited guests. You are none of those things.

It was then that she realized just how much he hated Broc. Naturally that hate extended to his child which she carried, and to her, who had not only taken Broc's side against him, but had been ruined by him. In his eyes she was a fallen woman ... tainted. And since he could hardly stand to look at her, he exiled her. She begged him to send her away, out of the country, maybe, but he refused. Instead he wanted to bury her, hide her, make it hard for Broc to find her. Only he knew where she was, and as a punishment, forced to her to watch from the sidelines as the St. James family lived sumptuously. They were the richest family in town, and their trips abroad as well as their lavish parties were well publicized. The edge of the woods were adjacent to their ballroom. The parties spilled out onto the wide patio, and fountain. Many times she would walk to the edge of the woods and lean against a tree while looking up at the massive, elegant mansion. She watched the dancing and listened to the music and laughter that she had once been a part of. Many times she saw her father standing at the edge of the patio peering down into the woods. Tears would fall down her face, and she would sob, "Daddy, wondering if he could see her. Then came the day when she had her baby ... a boy ... Broc's boy. A boy that grew up under another's roof. She cried when her father and a thin-lipped social worker snatched the baby up and gave it away. She'd wanted Broc's baby. She wanted something of him to remind her of their love. Instead she had nothing, the old woman thought as she made her feeble way up the uneven path, nothing but a wasted life.

Even though she had no money, she had planned to leave after the baby was born, but by that time she had developed a rash that spread all over her body. When the doctor examined her, he told her she had become allergic to the sun. He gave her several perscriptions that helped, but advised her to go out only at night, and apply the creams and ointments if the rash came back.

So, she had been cheated again. Since she couldn't bring herself to go out into the world the unsightly lump of humanity that she'd become, she found herself once again caught in her father's trap with nowhere to turn. The years slipped by, and when the St. James clan finally died off she tried to take up residence in the family home, only to learn that her father, with all his money, hadn't paid taxes on it, and it now belonged to the state, leaving her with nothing.

It was the final blow.

It seemed that even the gods were against her. Her youth had been wasted, and with her rash she had become a prisoner of the night, forbidden to live among normal people. She had to keep herself covered, sweltering in the summer months wearing long dresses with long sleeves, and even had to throw shawls around her head and shoulders and keep her face covered. She tried several doctors, but the problem could only be treated, not cured. She had the money her family had left her, so she got along, but it was not without difficulty.

Slowly lines began to crease her beautiful face, and aches and pains began to assail her body, and slowly both she and the house took on a haunted look, making her existence in the woods almost primitive. She did her chores at night by the light of an oil lamp. She had none of the modern conveniences, and washed her clothes in a caldron outside. When she worked in her vegetable garden she carried the lamp around with her. It was no wonder people began talking about her. She must have been a strange sight to those that spied on her, but she couldn't help it. By this time she had become the main character in the stories that children told each other on cold, winter nights in front of a roaring fireplace. No one knew who she really was. No one knew that the cane-tapping old woman that was wrapped up in rags ... the woman that walked the streets at midnight in a trench coat and a tattered old hat was in reality the beautiful woman with whom Broc Sanford had had a wild and wonderful affair, then left pregnant at the train station.

The stories about her were plentiful. When everyone learned about her nightly strolls, they were convinced she was out looking for blood. There were stories about her eating cats and dogs, and how she kept children tied up in her basement while she drank their blood. No one knew her name, and that only added to the mystery. The latest story was that a giant bird perched on top of her house, and that it could take on human form, and was the old woman's lover on dark and starless nights. Then when a full moon came out, the old woman, and her curious, stretching shadow, could be seen walking the streets wrapped up in rags. A chill crawled up everyone's spine when they heard the mysterious tapping of her cane along the street. Eyes would peer through windows as the old woman stumbled by, but they didn't venture out. They didn't want to be looked upon by the evil eyes that were shadowed by her tattered old hat.

The old woman didn't mind the stories that much because they were made up by imaginative children that she knew were spying on her as she crept through the woods. She probably would seem strange to them, but when she thought about how these stories were embraced by adults that should know better, she only shook her head. Sometimes she was almost glad of her reputation because it kept people away.

"Let them be frightened, she mumbled as she climbed her front stoop carefully, and shuffled into the dark house. As she entered, she was reminded of the day her son came knocking at her door. The shock had almost been fatal. He told her he'd been looking for her for five years, his search interrupted only slightly when his daughter was born. After that, with the responsibility of a new baby, and later with his wife dying in an automobile accident, he had almost given up. She couldn't take her eyes off him, knowing he was the product of her and Broc's love and passion. He was such a handsome boy, so much of Broc in him, his mannerisms, his humor, his mischievous eyes.

Then the day came when he had to leave.

The boy tried to get her to go back with him, to live with him and his daughter, but she refused. She didn't tell him her real reason for staying. She didn't tell him that Broc was here, in Northclyf, and that she wanted to stay here and be close to him. She knew that the old man didn't know who she was when she walked by the home, but she knew him, and got a little pleasure out of looking up at him as he sat by his window each night. Maybe she was being foolish, but she couldn't imagine being anywhere else but where he was. The boy left reluctantly, with the promise that he would keep in touch and visit often, but she never saw him again.

Only money came, but never her son.

She knew he was busy, had a life of his own, so she didn't hold it against him, but she wondered often about her granddaughter. Then one day she walked in, beautiful and blonde, loving and sweet, and she was there to stay. The old woman knew that Suzette had been deprived of a female presence in her life, and didn't know what that could do to a child, but when she got to know Suzette, the morbid thoughts were pushed right out of her mind.

While eyes were turned away, the real Suzette began to emerge.

King, the very image of Broc Sanford had entered the picture by that time, and the competition for the male's attention became active. The burning affair of Ravyn and Broc was constantly on her mind, and somehow she transferred it to King and the old woman, especially when they talked to her about each other. She became constantly afraid that her grandmother might take King away from her, and felt a need to keep them apart. Ravyn had tried to tell her it was foolish, that an old woman like her was no competition for the beautiful Suzette. But when King expressed an interest in the old woman that was when everything seemed to come down on her. She became desperate in her need to hold on to King, and thought sex would bind him to her. When she found herself pregnant, and King told her he was leaving, it somehow got all mixed up with the fact that Broc had left Ravyn when she was pregnant. It was happening all over again, and she could feel him slipping through her fingers. That's when King and Broc began blending to the point that she couldn't tell one from the other. That's when she began losing hold on reality.

How could Ravyn have known that the stories she told Suzette about her affair with Broc had been feeding her dementia, and that Suzette's fascination with a smiling photograph, coupled with Broc's sudden youth would be the thing that pushed her over the edge? How could she have known that Broc's burning appetites would make him surrender to an unholy seduction, take Suzette into his bed, and become the father of his own granddaugter's ... illegitimate child!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Long, sharp raindrops resembling the jagged blade of a killer's knife relentlessly stabbed at the East Coast. A man speeding along a country road put a cigarette in his mouth and tried to light it while squinting through the blowing storm beyond his windshield. Taking his eyes off the long ribbon of road for just an instant, he looked down at the flame, touched it to the end of his cigarette, then drew heavily. While the smoke was filling his lungs, the man looked out through his wildly swishing wipers and saw the dark silhouette of a man standing upon a ridge looking down at him.

Suddenly his car began skidding out of control.

He slammed down on the brakes with his one good leg, causing the car to fishtail wildly. He turned the wheel, trying to gain control, but suddenly saw himself smashing through a wooden guard rail and careening over the bridge. When he saw the rocks of what had been a dry bed stream hurtling toward him, he howled and shrieked until his tormented cries were muffled out in death.

The moment of impact caused an explosion, and the tall, lanky figure upon the ridge stood looking down at it with his legs spread. The angry wind blew through the part in his coat, causing it to flap wildly, and an ugly, twisted grin pulled the man's lips upward and he turned, allowing the gray sheets of rain to shroud his descent.

Later, while pulling his coat up around his neck against the wind and rain, the man slammed out of his car and ran up to the front door of Northclyf.

A pounding knock sounded on the cold wood, and a nurse opened it up to a pair of dark blue eyes that cut like a knife as they peered down into her face. She stumbled backward when the dark-haired stranger pushed his way past her into the foyer. When he peered beyond the brightly lit entrance into the shadowy salon with its high ceiling and flowing staircase, he seemed pleased. His eyes remained riveted toward the domed ceiling as he pulled his expensive coat off and shook it thoughtlessly. "I've come to see King Stevenson, he said, with his back to the nurse.

The nurse seemed unusually engaged in the puddle the man had made on the tiled floor, but finally asked, "Is he expecting you?"

"No, I'm afraid not, he replied while digging into the breast pocket of his jacket. Then with a swift movement he brought out a card and handed it to the nurse between two fingers. "This should introduce me nicely."

She peered closely at the card. "Please have a seat ... Mr ... uh ... Mr. Laurent, she said, smiling up at him as if pleased that she had just accomplished a great feat. "I'll tell Ki ... uh ... Mr. Stevenson you're here."

"Yes, thank you, he muttered, then strode toward a chair and took a seat on the edge as if he were anxious. He squirmed for a time, trying to make himself comfortable on a piece of furniture that seemed too short for his long legs. After a while he stood back up and paced as he waited.

As the busy nurse handed the card to Broc, her hurried words were spoken to him in a hushed mumble. "He asked for you."

Broc looked down at the card as she strode past him, hastily attending to her duties. He frowned, not recognizing the name, so he turned and walked out on the bottom landing. It was late in the day and most of the residents were in their rooms, so only the foyer lights were on. From within the hanging darkness, Broc had a perfect view of the man in the circle of light as he paced beyond the salon's double doors. Again he stared down at the name on the card, then searched the man's face for some kind of recognition, but there was none.

The man's imperious body language was apparent. He seemed to be filled with an impatience that comes with arrogance ... arrogance and money. He looked as if he was insulted at being kept waiting, and continuously glanced down at his watch.

Broc had no idea who this man was or what he wanted, and instinctively felt a disquiet as he looked at the dark-clad figure. He could hear the pounding rain overhead as he slowly turned to make his way toward the first step of the stairs.

The dark, foreboding sky created a gloomy atmosphere around the domed room, and as the rain rolled down the tall windows, it cast moving reflections of ghostly bugs crawling on the walls and carpet.

Broc stepped in puddles of reflected rain one step at a time while keeping his eyes on the foyer light that fell across the carpet.

Its brightness caused the late hour darkness to seem enigmatic and mysterious. No longer did the large palms lend beauty, suddenly they cast monstrous pools of tangled shadow while an inside breeze, generated by softly whirring ceiling fans, caused the fronds to sway mysteriously like dark, flailing arms.

His attention was taken by the French doors as they rattled from the wind and slashing rain that cut across the yard. Naked tree limbs bowed and swayed, scratching their bony fingers against the tall windows while casting their murky, death-like reflection along the stairs where Broc hesitantly descended.

When he at last reached the lower level, he stopped, keeping himself hidden within the dark, looming shadows while he once again looked down at the card the nurse had given him. As he stared at the dark, perfect lettering he racked his brain trying to figure out what business this man could have with him, but couldn't come up with a thing.

Finally, not being able to put it off any longer, he pushed the card down in his chest pocket, pasted a smile on his face, and entered the well-lighted area.

"Mr. Laurent, he said, extending his hand. "I'm King Stevenson, what can I do to help you?"

The man had his back toward Broc, but at the sound of his voice, he whirled around and grasped his hand.

Broc's sharp eyes traveled over the tall, raw-boned figure, seeing a sophisticated, graying man that must have been in his forties. He was extremely handsome with a cleft chin that looked as if it had been molded by an expert hand from a sharp point to an appealing, round, softness. As handsome as he was, he had prissy, high cut nostrils, and full lips that were constantly curled in arrogance and cruelty. His eyes, though attractive were cold, as if made of glittering glass shards. He wore expensive clothes, and looked as if he would be right at home attending an opera in a tuxedo. Upon closer examination the skin around his eyes revealed thin, spidery lines that could be mistaken for laugh lines, but Broc somehow knew better. Something told him that this man never laughed. He was sure a smile would turn his face to a twisted grimace, and any laugh he might try to make would come out dry and forced ... something like crackling, smoldering ash. Sure, maybe he scowled, maybe he frowned, and even snorted ... but he never laughed.

When Broc dropped the stranger's hand, he unthinkingly wiped it on his jeans as if he had just handled something dirty. He invited the man to sit down, then accepted an envelope stuffed full of important papers. He opened it, digging out a letter of recommendation along with a detailed resume of past employment.

"I don't understand, Broc said, looking up at the man with questions in his eyes.

"I've come to fill the position your head mistress left. It is still available, is it not?"

Broc nodded, "Yes ... but how did you know..."

"Mr. Stevenson, the man began, glancing down at his watch, "can we get on with this? I'd like to..."

"I understand, Mr. Laurent, but the job hasn't even been..."

"May I smoke? the man interrupted unpleasantly.

"Yes ... yes, of course."

A quiet rustle of his expensive clothes filled the well-lighted foyer while the man pulled out a long, gold cigarette case. He snapped it open and pulled a fragrant French cigarette from within the bands of the holder, and placed it in his mouth. At the exact moment the man's sharp nail scratched against a match head, the lights flickered off, and a flare illuminated the man's cold eyes.

The whole building was dark except for this one small, hellish circle of brightness, and then the flame suddenly doubled ... one blaze reflecting in each eye.

Broc felt a chill.

Seconds later the lights came back on, and Broc rattled the papers closed, put them back in the envelope and held them out to the man. "I'm afraid..."

"You don't understand, the man said as he snatched the envelope out of Broc's hand. "You think I'm here for an interview. The man's eyes bored into Broc, and his words became gritty. "Be realistic, Mr. Stevenson ... an interview ... with you? Then looking down his nose at Broc, he continued, "I've already been hired by Shelbourne Associates. Seeing the puzzled look on Broc's face, he continued. "I'm sure you're aware that the association is the owner of several Nursing Homes on the East Coast, Northclyf being only one of them. When you informed them of Ms. Garrison's resignation, they called me."

"But I haven't been told any of this."

"And why would you be? he said defiantly while rising from his seat. "After all, you're only a hired hand around here, am I correct? He enjoyed watching the look on Broc's face when he gingerly dropped his car keys in his hand. "Yes, I'm here to take up residence, so if you would be so kind as to show me where I will be staying, and unload my car. He strode quickly toward the stairs, then turned back to Broc. "Oh yes, my bags are in the trunk."

"Then if you don't get them, Broc spat as he threw the man's car keys in his direction, "they'll stay out there. Quickly turning, he strode toward the telephone, picked it up and punched in a number.

The man's nostrils flared with anger as the keys slapped against the palm of his hand.

When someone answered on the second ring, Broc said, "Martin Shelbourne, please."

Realizing Broc was checking out his story, the man's eyes narrowed on the phone, and suddenly it went dead. Broc pulled the receiver back from his ear and looked down at it, puzzled. Bringing it back up, he began pounding on the disconnect bar. "Hello? Hello! When all he heard was static, he cursed the storm then slammed down the receiver.

"Too bad, the man said while adjusting his cuffs, and cutting his deceptive eyes toward Broc. "The storm seems to be doing a lot of damage."

"There's always tomorrow, but in the meantime there's a motel down on the Beach Highway. It might not be quite as nice as you're used to, but any port in the storm, right? As Broc turned away from the man, his voice floated over the breezy, manufactured air. "I believe you can find your way out."

The man's hooded eyes followed Broc as he walked out of the foyer and began climbing the stairs. At that moment it was his fondest wish that the stairs would turn into a steep slide, causing Broc to fall on his face and tumble and roll, but Broc continued up the steps unhurt, and the man whirled in anger and slammed out into the pouring rain.

* * * *

The next morning, directly after breakfast, Broc went to the front desk to make the call again. He put the receiver to his ear and was relieved to hear a dial tone. After punching in the numbers, he listened to several rings while he glanced outside at a blinding sun that seemed brighter after the rain. When he finally got Mr. Shelbourne on the phone, he described the events of the previous afternoon and asked why he wasn't contacted that someone was coming.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Stevenson, I thought my secretary had notified you. He chuckled, his voice dipping low as if he didn't want to be heard. "She just got married, you know, and I'm afraid her mind hasn't been on her job. You understand."

"Yes, of course I understand, but I was put to a disadvantage, Mr. Shelbourne, and made to look like an idiot."

"I'm very sorry. Is Mr. Laurent there? Maybe it would help if I explained things to him."

"Uh ... no, when I couldn't get in contact with you, I sent him to a motel. I'm sure he'll be showing up soon."

"Have him call me, would you? I'll explain the situation, then get the rest of the information I need regarding his company insurance policy. It seems that his treatments..."

"Treatments? What treatments are you talking about? The man's not a psycho, is he?"

"Oh, goodness no, Shelbourne said. It's just that with his bum leg..."

"Bum leg? Broc asked, surprised. "Mr. Shelbourne, the man that came here yesterday afternoon didn't have a bum leg. In fact he seemed to get around very well."

"Oh, yes, Mr. Stevenson. Mr. Laurent has a bum leg, and drags his foot around. You couldn't have missed that."

Broc felt a deep dread go through him, and his voice began a dull, descriptive drone. "Tall, dark hair, dark blue eyes, expensive clothes?"

"Why, no. Mr. Laurent has light brown hair, an acne-scarred face, and a bum leg that he got in an accident only a few weeks ago. In fact he just got out of the hospital, or he would have been there sooner."

"Oh, my God, Broc drawled through a whispery breath, as he caught a glance at the morning paper. He grabbed it up quickly and looked at the picture of a car turned upside down on some rocks just beneath the glaring headlines...

BEACH HIGHWAY CLAIMS ANOTHER VICTIM

Then in smaller print...

Car spins out of control on twisting highway

Shelbourne employee killed instantly

Just then a nurse walked up and placed a note in front of him.

Mr. Laurent wants to see

you in his office.

"What in hell? Broc said, snatching up the note. His eyes lifted toward the wing that housed the office and knew that something wasn't right. Through a fog in his head, Broc heard the voice on the other end of the line go on and on, but he'd heard enough. Enough to know that the man who walked in here the day before was not Max Laurent. But if he wasn't ... who was he?

"Yes, of course, goodbye, Broc mumbled in the middle of Shelbourne's discourse, then slammed down the phone while he was still rambling. He quickly turned and ran up the steps two at a time and entered the wing where Northclyf's business affairs were handled. When he arrived at Rena's old office he didn't knock, but slammed in, finding the man who called himself Max Laurent leaning back in the leather chair with his elbows resting on the arms. The man's head turned when he heard the door open, his shrewd eyes boring into Broc, and a smirk twitching on his lips. "I must admit you're prompt, he said.

Broc rushed over to the desk, leaned over it, and looked into the dark, glittering eyes. "I don't know who the hell you are, but you are not Max Laurent."

"So, the man began, his voice irritatingly smooth as he picked up a letter opener and held each end of it with his fingers. "You finally talked to Shelbourne. Tell me now. Just what was it that gave me away?"

"Max Laurent had a bum leg, light brown hair, and an acne scarred face. Look in the mirror, you bastard, that doesn't describe the man I'm looking at."

"No, I don't suppose it does, but it doesn't matter because I'm here, and here I'm going to stay."

"You killed him, didn't you? I don't know how, but you killed Max Laurent before he could arrive, and now you intend to walk in his shoes, live his life. Well, I may not know who the hell you are, or why you're here, but you'll never get away with it, I'll see to that!"

"Oh, I'll get away with it, and what's more, you'll help me."

"The only thing I'll help you with is your suicide!"

The man's teeth clenched in anger as he brought the letter opener down and the point stabbed the desk between two of Broc's fingers.

Broc pulled his hands back quickly, then began rubbing them while watching the silver shaft rock menacingly with its point embedded deeply in the desk.

"That's too bad, the man said while rising from his chair behind the desk, "I was hoping we could be friends."

"Don't make me laugh, I'd sooner be friends with a rattlesnake."

"Oh well, Max began, placing his hands comfortably in his pockets, "it doesn't matter since I'll be hiring myself a secretary."

"To do what? Broc scowled, his eyes following the man as he paced around the room.

"Oh, lick my stamps, and my ... whatever, he said, picking up a piece of bric-a-brac and looking at it curiously. "After all, why should you have all the fun?"

Broc felt his anger reaching the boiling point. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

Max turned slightly while he put the small statue back in its place and a twitch of evil mirth played along his twisted lips. "Don't be stupid, Broc, I mean exactly what you think I mean. He paused, his eyes dancing with evil glee. "Actually I have her all picked out. Her name is Suzette ... uh- he snapped his fingers, "-what's the last name? Very unusual. Oh, yes, Danaus ... that's it. Beautiful girl. There'll be a lot of night work, you know. He hesitated in front of his desk, gingerly placing a finger on the top of the wavering letter opener, his words sliding seductively. "I understand she's very bright and capable ... in many areas."

"You bastard."

The man sat down on the edge of the desk and yanked the point of the letter opener out of its cavity and began turning it in his hand. "I'm your boss now, King, he said, concentrating on the silver object, "I'd be careful how I talk to the boss if I were you."

Broc began backing up toward the door. "My God, you're crazy. You kill someone in cold blood, no one knows who you are, then you come in here and think you can take over."

The man's cold eyes slid over to Broc. "You learn fast. My compliments. As for my name, you can call me Max, or Mr. Laurent ... nothing's changed.

Broc's eyes narrowed, and his hands clenched, while wondering if he should take a punch at this guy. Then suddenly coming to a decision, he muttered to himself, "Why the hell should I get involved in this mess, I won't be here that long."

"Oh? And where will you be?"

"None of your fucking business, he said, then turned toward the door. Just as he put his hand on the doorknob, he heard a loud thwack, looked toward the sound and saw the letter opener rocking threateningly not an inch from his neck. As he jerked the door open, he heard a loud, raucous laughter coming from Max and knew he was wrong. The man did laugh ... when the occasion called for it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Max stepped out of a steaming hot shower and quickly grabbed a robe to cover his shivering body. As he pulled it on he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror that was attached to the inside door of his bathroom and couldn't resist fawning. Just the merest trace of a smile curled one edge of his lips as his admiring eyes caressed his image. He pulled the sides of the richly textured velour robe together, turning his head this way and that, noticing how the deep scarlet color complimented his swarthy complexion. You're a handsome devil, he thought while he smoothed his eyebrows, looped the thick tie into a knot, then pursed his lips as if tempted to kiss himself. No one had the least suspicion of who he was, not even Broc, so that left him free to start things moving with no interruption.

He stepped into the living room of the apartment that still bore Rena's godawful Egyptian taste, and sat down on the bed. It was because of her he was here. If she'd followed his instructions, she'd still be alive, and he wouldn't have to do her job. He endured the constant reminders of her because he couldn't be bothered ... he had more important things on his mind. He looked at the wall of windows that provided him with a stunning view of the ocean, waved his hands dramatically, and the wall began reconstructing itself. While the wall shimmered into focus, he created shutters for the naked windows, and closed them with a turn of his wrist until the room was deep in shadows. He then turned to the giant screen, lifted his hand as if he were holding something, and suddenly a remote control appeared. He pointed it toward the screen and a muted click filled the darkness with flickering pictures and chaotic voices. Max smiled as he watched planes crashing, volcanoes overflowing, and men getting blown up in war. He held his breath as earthquakes destroyed buildings, walls caved in on people, and fires wiped out whole cities. He loved it. All of it. Death, destruction, wars, famine, plagues. He could collect souls by the dozens. As he sat savoring the destruction, allowing his eyes to dart from one scene of death to another, it happened, just as he knew it would. Without thinking, his hand moved down and lovingly cupped his crotch. He couldn't resist, what an aphrodisiac all this was. Slowly his hand began moving ... rubbing ... causing his cock to throb and pulse. He couldn't afford any interruptions, so he looked toward the door, and just his thought caused a click, securing him in his own private hell. He looked back toward the madly flickering scenes that were, along with his teasing hand, carrying him higher and higher into a carnal euphoria. Then suddenly a mass murder with dead bodies bleeding and bombs falling caused his busy hand to cease its teasing fondle, and begin to grope, manipulate, grasp, and clutch. He was slowly succumbing to the rude handling with jerking breaths. He wanted it to last longer, but all this death was too inspiring. His eyes, now lowered with passion, continued to bore into the screen while he watched men's stomach's being ripped out ... women being raped and their tongues being cut from their mouths. Then when he saw children being tortured and killed in so many creative ways, he tried to turn his face away but it was addictive. He found himself wanting to wallow in their blood, and when he closed his eyes he could see himself covered with human carnage. It was too beautiful ... so beautiful he couldn't contain himself. He had to reach fulfillment ... become bathed in the evil of the world, so the hand that had brought his sensitive organ to life ... closed possessively around it and began moving swiftly. "Ohhhhhhh! The sound burst instantly from his lips, and his handsome face became twisted in ugly passion. There in the dark room the destruction of the world was fucking him ... death and destruction flickering on his face ... on the walls ... taking his breath away ... he couldn't stay still. He could feel it like a lover coming down on him. The moving shadows of the screen was transferring its horror onto his body ... digging ... tearing ... caressing. He heard the screams ... felt knives plunging ... hearts being torn out ... and it caused his arousal to intensify until the taste of sacrificial blood was in his mouth ... bubbling over the side ... covering him ... bringing him to his highest peak ... causing him to begin writhing and thrashing on a bed of blood and passion. Then suddenly he exploded in orgasm, his thrashing body falling limp, and his twisted, grimacing face slowly becoming softened. It was then that he let out a long sigh, and the reckless spewing from his cock drenched his rapidly moving hand ... with his hellish seed.

When it was over he lay perfectly still, breathing heavily and basking in the evil of a violent, killing world. After a while he slowly moved to get up, his breath still hard and labored. As he struggled from the bed, he managed to lift an arm and wipe the sweat of his forehead against his sleeve. With halting steps he made his way into the bathroom where he cleaned himself up. By the time he came out he was breathing normally, and a complacent, satisfied smile had found his face. Eager to continue, he sat down on a chair's edge, clicked the remote control, and heard voices.

"I send her here, and you let her get mixed up with some bum who gets her pregnant?"

When the picture finally brightened, the old woman was looking up at someone, and had tears streaming down her cheeks. "I tried to tell her, she sobbed, "I tried to tell her not to get mixed up with him but she wouldn't listen ... she just wouldn't listen."

Max curled his lip and yelled, "Kill the fucking bitch! He could tell the man was resisting, so he flashed a picture in his mind of Suzette and Broc thrashing around in bed. Come on, he urged, "kill your mother, sonny boy!"

The picture of the writhing couple sent Suzette's father over the edge, and he began moving toward her.

Seeing the sudden change in him, the old woman's eyes widened in fright. She moved to take a step backward and stumbled against the furniture.

It was getting good, but Max needed to check on Broc. He pressed another button on the remote control, and a different picture suddenly appeared up in the left-hand corner. While the angry man was closing in on the old woman, the small screen revealed Broc running down Cliff Road, and turning onto the path leading into Harper's Woods.

"Bastard! Max mumbled while leaning toward the screen. "He's going to ruin everything."

Although Broc didn't quite know what to expect of the new head master of Northclyf, he was glad the whole thing was out of his hands so he could focus on Ravyn.

Since he had found her, he could hardly stay away. If there was a way to convince her that he wasn't just some young kid having fun at her expense, he had to find it. The thought of leaving Ravyn, especially since he'd just found her, haunted him, but he had no choice. He had a whole life to make up for, a life full of love he wanted to give her, and a whole life was better than a part of one anytime. He didn't know if he could do it, but he was going to try with everything in him to reclaim what he'd thrown away so many years ago.

His steps stumbled over tree roots, mud puddles, and slippery leaves as his thoughts tumbled about in his head. He finally came to the clearing where the old house stood and thought he heard raised voices. He freed himself from the tangle of trees and ran up to the house. Even though it was early afternoon, it was dark inside and the voice that carried on the wind sounded angry. Broc jumped upon the porch, caught the handle of the screen door and slammed it open. His eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom, and he saw a man stalking Ravyn.

"My God, Broc cried when he saw the man suddenly swing his hand out and slap her in the face. He saw the impact of the slap cause her to stumble against the wall, then fall to the floor. Not realizing anyone else was in the room, the man jumped, fell on the old woman, and had his hands around her throat when Broc leaped forward, grabbed the man's collar and jerked him up. "You bastard! he shouted, then pounded the man in the stomach with his fist. When the man doubled over, Broc raised his fist and hit him in the face, causing blood to spurt.

"No! the old woman shouted from the floor with an arm raised toward Broc. She scraped a chair along the splintery floor and pulled herself up while trying to make her way toward the two men. "Stop, please!"

When the man crumpled to the floor, Broc pulled himself away, quickly hurrying to Ravyn's side and helping her to a chair. "Are you okay? He looked at the red welt on her face, and caressed it lovingly. "Ravyn, I'm sorry. I should have been here to protect you. Who is this bastard, anyway?"

"He's your- The old woman wanted to go on, but doubts began to assail her. "-my son."

Broc's eyes widened. "Your son? My God, Ravyn, you have a son? Wh..."

"Please, just leave, she urged, her eyes harboring ugly secrets, and her voice deepening to a tormented rasp, "you don't know the whole story."

"Ravyn, I don't give a friggin damn what the story is. This bastard can't come in here and attack you like this! The two of them were holding each other when they heard a sound, and saw the man begin to move.

He immediately cut his eyes toward Broc and growled, "Get your goddamned hands off my mother! His eyes immediately shifted toward her face, then looked at Broc. "What the hell did you do..."

"Me? Broc shouted, then tore himself away from the old woman. With his fists clenching and splaying at his side, he stalked toward the man who saw Broc's anger and began backing up. "This is not my handiwork, you bastard, it's yours! You get some kind of perverse pleasure out of beating on your own mother?"

"Me? But I ... I couldn't...

"I'm gonna start counting, you bastard, and when I reach ten, if you're not buckled up nice and tight in your seat belt, I'm gonna wrap it around your fuckin neck, put the car in drive, and send it over the cliff."

"But I don't rem... Even as the words moved over his lips, the memory flashed in his mind, causing him to flush a deep red. "My God, why would I... Just then his pleading eyes looked up at the old woman, shame etched on his face. "I'm sorry, mother, I don't know what got into me."

"One ... two ... three- Broc began, ominously.

"All of a sudden I couldn't- his worried eyes darted over at Broc who was still counting.

"-four ... five ... six- he continued, while slowly advancing.

"-think ... straight ... I didn't- he suddenly became uncomfortable, and began backing up toward the door.

"-seven ... eight ... nine- Broc counted, his voice soft, his eyes piercing.

"-mean to ... then seeing Broc stalking toward him, he turned abruptly, ran to his car, jumped in and began backing out.

"-ten! Broc shouted after him while angrily throwing the wobbly door open and causing it to pound relentlessly against the wood of the old house. "And don't come back, you weasel!"

The screeching tires of the moving vehicle lifted loose dirt into a cloud as it whipped around, skidding into a fishtail, and making a hasty retreat past the trees that hid the ocean until it safely reached Cliff Road.

When Broc turned back, he saw the old woman hiding her face in her hands, crying and trembling. In one swift movement he was kneeling before her, taking her in his arms. "Ravyn ... baby ... don't. When she lifted her face, Broc pulled her to him and kissed her.

She struggled out of his arms as if he'd just done something incestuous. "Don't ... please."

"Why? We still love each other don't we?"

When she looked at him, her eyes said so much. Hiding within their turbulent blue-green beauty, was lost love, hurt, conflict, pain ... secrets! "You're young ... not much older than ... Suzette."

"Ravyn, Broc said, jumping up. "I'm decades older than Suzette. You still don't believe me, do you? I'm eighty-six friggin years old, for God's sake! Even you're much younger than I am. You used to call me an exciting older man, remember? Then he knelt down again and stroked her aged lips. "Our kiss wasn't wrong, sweetheart, it was right. Our kisses have always been right because love made them right. Sure, His voice became seductive. "there was lust ... God ... crazy, wonderful, hot, boiling lust, but it was beautiful ... and right ... and it'll go on being right until we're both in our graves. Hell, I was a jerk. I should have stood up to the old man."

"What old man? she said, turning to him. "My father? Then I was right. You ... you did take the money!"

Broc lowered his head, wanting to kick himself for his slip of the tongue. Figuring the damage had been done, he shrugged slightly. "You may as well know. Yes, I took money, Ravyn. Money for my mother, money for a career. He looked at her, his eyes begging her to understand. "Without it, I couldn't have finished school. Don't you remember? When we met I had just quit school, come back here and resigned myself to washing dishes ... sweeping up floors ... then your father ... God, Ravyn, it took years of schooling... Becoming impatient he snarled, "My God, try and understand. I had to grab it while there was still time. Then ... afterwards ... well, things didn't happen right away. He looked at her shocked eyes and jumped up, raking his fingers through his hair. "Hell, we had to live, baby. We had doctor bills, medicine, more money going out than coming in. I had to take anything that came along until I caught a big one. God, when I think of the chances I took in that courtroom just to catch the attention of the media. I did everything but cartwheels. It's a damned wonder I didn't get sent up on contempt charges. He punched his fingers down in the rear pockets of his jeans as he paced. "By that time I was making a reputation for myself, and had to keep it up ... use all the tricks I'd been taught ... hell, even invented a few of my own."

"But I had money."

He knelt back down in front of her. "You were only eighteen. You wouldn't get your trust until you were thirty. I didn't need that money in twelve years, baby, I needed that money then- he rasped, clawing his fingers and pushing them in her face, "-in my hands. Broc looked at her ashamed. "What can I say? I knew I was selling out, but it was a Godsend. It got my mother the help she needed ... helped me scratch my way to the top."

"But I was pregnant with your child."

Broc's eyes widened. "No, Ravyn. The old man told me you got an abortion, that you didn't want to..."

She glared at him. "You didn't want to believe it. You didn't want anything to get in the way of your precious career. She said the last two words as if they were dirty.

Broc was silent for a few erratic heartbeats while he thought over what she said, and then with a low, hurt voice he said, "I don't know ... hell ... maybe that's true. All I know is I was young, just staring out, scared that I wouldn't make it. But it didn't mean that I didn't love you. I loved you then, and I love you now. Ravyn ... baby, He reached out and touched her chin, turning her face toward him. "if I had it to do over, I would never leave you. You've got to believe that."

* * * *

Max punched the remote control with an angry movement, then whirled around in his chair. "Hellfire! he snarled. "I'll have to get rid of the old woman. As long as she's around, Suzette's chances with Broc are in the toilet. His evil eyes became thoughtful, and his long fingers stroked his chin. All at once his evil eyes brightened. "If the old woman loves him enough she just might follow him into hell. Hah! he yelled, "two for the price of one! With a whoop of maniacal laughter, and an abrupt twist of his chair, he whirled around. "I just might get a bonus!"

* * * *

Still kneeling before her, Broc glanced at his watch. "Ravyn, I've got to go now. Don't go out tonight. Wait here for me, I'll be back at midnight."

"No, she said stubbornly, "I need my exercise."

Broc lifted himself up on his knees, cupped her face in his hands and said seductively, "You want a workout? I'll give you a workout. You remember how it was, don't you? Us, together? Do it for me, baby. There's so much we need to talk about ... so much we need to catch up on. Let this night be ours."

"No, the old woman said, sounding tormented, "it's wrong, can't you see that?"

"Ravyn, it's only wrong if you don't love me. But if you do, then be here."

"I c-can't."

He clasped her hands in his. "Yes, you can, he whispered as he slowly backed away. "Ravyn, if you believe I am who I say I am, you'll wait ... if our life together means anything to you, you'll wait ... if you love me, you'll wait ... and let me prove my love for you."

"But Broc, there's nothing left, can't you see that? I'm ... we're too old. We missed our chance, and there's nothing ahead for us ... only darkness ... death."

"You're wrong, Ravyn. If things go the way I think they will, we'll have our whole lives ahead of us. But for now, just remember what you said."

"What ... what did I say?"

"You called me Broc."

The old woman put a trembling, wrinkled hand to her mouth, realizing she had called him Broc. When her eyes lifted to the door ... no one was there. Had he disappeared ... gone up in smoke ... had he even been here? She stared at the empty doorway feeling as if she'd been talking to a ... I wonder, she thought. That would explain his youthful appearance ... how he knew so much about their past. But he had touched her ... kissed her. It was a wild thought that she couldn't make herself believe ... because if he was a ghost ... then she wanted to die too.

* * * *

As Broc made his way back toward Northclyf, his thoughts stayed on Ravyn. Even though he had just left her, he was anxious for the day to be over so he could be with her again, but there were things he had to take care of, and it was getting late. He worked around the mansion until it was time to feed Fancy. He was walking her down a narrow hall on their way to the kitchen when they met Max Laurent. As soon as he saw them he stopped in his tracks and stiffened.

"Get that filthy beast away from me, he said while Fancy growled, hissed, and spat at him.

Broc tried to hide a grin as the man began to edge himself around the beast, giving her a wide berth.

"Back, you Tarzan reject, he said as her glittering yellow eyes followed each step he took. By this time Fancy's sharp teeth had become bared and dripping with saliva, and her growl had deepened into a dangerous roar.

"You miserable feline, he said, his voice trembling, "one step toward me, and I'll strip you of your fur and make it into a coat."

Fancy challenged him with a sudden move while lifting her head in a growl that jarred the whole place right down to its foundation. The sound made Max jump, giving out a loud wail as he skittered away like a coward.

Once he was gone, Broc knelt down beside her and scratched the cat lovingly. "Good girl, he whispered, then turned to watch the swiftly moving man lose himself among the shadows. He looked back down at Fancy and continued to caress her. He had to give her credit, she was a good judge of character.

While Fancy was eating, Broc wandered into the Salon and gazed out at the garden that had become neglected since DeLane had died. When he looked at the pedastal from which the statue had fallen, he could see the ragged tear in the base. Broc felt a chill, knowing that it had been no accident, that some powerful force had literally wrenched it from the base and tried to crush him with it. Moving his eyes along the familiar sight, he focused on the smooth ground that he had begun landscaping and noticed that the wind and rain had already ravaged the ground that he had cared for so lovingly. Just the thought of the garden caused him pain now, but he had no desire to finish what he'd started. He turned away with a sinking heart.

After all the chores had been done, he lay on his bed with his arms crossed behind his head, counting the minutes until he would see Ravyn again. Thoughts of her filled every waking moment. Gardens no longer interested him, and Suzette ... Suzette was a flame that had died when he'd found Ravyn. Laying there he dozed, slipping into the depths of sleep where he saw a calendar before him, the months fluttering by ... each day burning up as it passed. Panic filled him, forcing him awake ... causing him to lunge forward into a room dark with mystery.

Broc was disoriented for a moment ... then fumbling in the dark he found the lamp and turned it on. His dream had infused him with the feeling of time passing swiftly ... hurrying by ... making him late for his date with destiny. He grabbed a calendar and looked at the time he had left. Suddenly the crosses he had used to mark off the days mingled with a dream he'd had of being a corpse. He was alive in a dead body, and struggled while his mouth and eyes were being sewn shut. He could smell the pungent odor of wet dirt pushing against his chest, threatening to press the air out of him.

His death was coming, he knew it, but tried to shake the feeling. He looked back down at the swimming calendar before him, tried to consider the crosses in a sane manner, and wondered if the calendar was correct. The garden wasn't the only thing he had neglected ... he had even forgotten to mark the days off on his calendar. The terrible fear of being late filled him again, so he threw it down, then ran to the door. He jerked it open and barged out, running down to the front desk. He swerved around the large wooden counter and grabbed the logbook that recorded daily visits. He grasped it in his hands, knowing he could trust this one to be kept up to date. He quickly brought it up to his unfocused eyes and saw that he had only five more days until he had to be at the train station.

Oh, my God, he thought, where has the time gone? I had weeks ... now, only days. What happened? He looked around at the shadowy room. "Am I still asleep? he mumbled. "I've got to wake up, I've got to wake up! He turned abruptly, causing a loud clatter when putting the day timer down, and barely managed to get back up to his room. There was still so much to do, he thought as he looked at the clock beside his bed. It was still early in the evening, but he couldn't take the chance and go to sleep and miss his date with Ravyn, so he stumbled to the rocking chair by the window and fell into it. As he sat there, a million things went through his mind. He thought of the deadline pressing in on him ... the calendar days burning ... burning ... burning away ... Aleksa trying to kill him ... the stench of grave dirt all around him ... his date with Ravyn. "I can't be late for my date with Ravyn, he mumbled, and then slowly, with all these things running through his mind, his eyes softly fluttered to a close.

* * * *

She couldn't deny it any longer. She believed. But the reason wasn't his persuasive powers, or any of the things he had mentioned so far about their life together. It was Aleksa. He had come to visit her tonight and told her everything. That's when she learned that the white-haired old man in the window of the mansion was the young man who told her he loved her. That's when she knew it was possible to do something to re-gain what they'd lost ... and she, too, made a deal.

The old woman sat perfectly still thinking about Broc's relationship with his mother. Tears crept down her cheeks when she imagined what it would be like to be offered a fortune when everything around you was crumbling ... someone you loved was dying. She remembered how Broc would beg his mother to quit working only to have the woman's bleeding fingers cup his handsome face, promising that it wouldn't be for much longer. With tears in his eyes he always relented, but knew the day would come when she would no longer have a choice, and hoarded any money he made for medicine and doctors.

Although Ravyn had been hurt, she couldn't blame Broc ... no, it wasn't Broc, it was her father. He couldn't let her be happy ... couldn't let her make her own decisions. He had never been in love. Everything for him was a business deal ... a contract ... a plan drawn up on paper. Cold, loveless, devoid of emotion and passion. Even his marriage to her mother had been in the best interest of the family businesses. A merger ... a coming together. Not of two bodies, but two pieces of paper ... bloodless paper. Only ink, legal terms ... a handshake being the closest thing to the throes of passion. Love, or anything close to it had never entered the picture except when his needs became so great he forced her mother into submission. Her mother was a quiet little mouse ... nothing like Ravyn. Ravyn was saucy ... spoke her mind. But all that changed the night Broc left. And when her father moved her into a house in the woods, she didn't care. She had no fight left in her because nothing mattered anymore. And then she began hearing about him ... a little at first, and then his name was on everyone's lips. Hope spiraled in her, and she gathered news items ... waited ... tried to believe ... but time slipped away, and she knew he was gone from her ... and would never return.

It was lonely here at night. The rustling black trees loomed forward, their skinny arms creating an overhang of branches that seemed to be reaching out ... wanting ... swaying ... threatening ... grabbing. Tonight the moon was full and chilled, and the long, gnarled limbs towered grotesquely against its icy brightness. The dying light draped the old house in shadows, and painted a murky phantom that with the passing of time stretched long and monstrous upon the cold, hard ground. It was the sort of night that would make the eyes of animals glitter like silver darts ... icy fire ... until they skittered away, frightened by the moaning of the wind through crackling leaves. The darker it got, the louder the night sounds became. The wind rustled the brittle tree limbs against each other, whipped up the leaves and swirled them around in the creeping darkness. The cicadas screamed their nightly serenade ... and the old woman continued to sit.

She stayed alert to every sound. The call of a distant bird ... the whine of a cold wind ... the thrash of a small animal in the brush. Her body sat stiff and lifeless ... chills ran rampant on her arms ... her teeth chattered ... until some time after midnight when the screen door squeaked open and a silhouette loomed. Seeing the husky shadow, the old woman became frightened, realizing it could be anyone. She sat, hardly breathing. I'm ready, she thought. I've had a long life, so whether it be devil, or angel, I'm ready. She watched the frightening shadow and held her breath. She wanted it to be Broc ... a new life ... a new love ... but she dare not move or speak.

"Ravyn, the whispering voice filtered out of the darkness. "It's me, my love."

She released her pent up breath, and with relief flooding through her, the old woman quickly whispered, "I'm over here."

Broc moved from the door and came toward her. He pulled the old woman out of her chair and embraced her while his lips peppered kisses on her face, her lips.

She knew what was going to happen and thanked God for the darkness. She couldn't bear for him to see her aged face, her sagging body. Then suddenly his strong arms picked her up, bringing back the memories of their passionate liaisons. She had always been nervous around him, even after they'd been together so many times. She was always afraid she wouldn't be good enough ... that he'd find some flaw ... some imperfection. Her nervousness back then was nothing compared to what she felt now, yet still her arms circled his neck as he carried her to bed.

Broc eased her down gently, then sat down beside her. Bathed in the silvery glow of the moonlight she was as beautiful as ever. Her hair, though filled with gray, still had its saucy bob, and he remembered the bright red lipstick she always wore. Her dark looks along with her shiny red lips always reminded him of a silent screen star. Now, her lazy eyes looked up at him and her lips parted as if ready for his kiss. Broc could feel the old longings rising up within him, and his arousal sprang forth, growing. He stretched out beside her with an overwhelming desire to make love to her, but he knew she was frightened ... shy. He had intended only to hold her ... caress her ... enjoy being near her ... but being so close to her made his wayward cock come bursting out of his jeans. As much as he tried to resist, he found his hand on the snap of his jeans tugging, freeing himself from the tight bonds of the denim.

"Ravyn, he whispered, "baby... And then with a sharp intake of air, he felt a hand on his arousal as it pushed itself through his open zipper. It was her consent, and when he realized it, his hot breath came out in a rush, and he whispered, "Oh, God, baby, thank you. He knew she was sensitive about the differences between them, so he decided to go slow ... be gentle. His fingers carefully unbuttoned her dress and pulled it back, revealing her breasts. His hungry mouth immediately came down and began drawing, then suddenly she grabbed a sheet to try and hide herself. His hand closed over hers. "Baby, don't. This is Broc, remember?"

"Maybe this is a mistake, she said worriedly.

Broc looked at the body that had become paler, softer, but no less beautiful. "It's no mistake, he said, his words becoming muffled as he buried his face in the soft curve of her neck, "just let me guide you, take you down memory lane."

She couldn't help herself. She instinctively pulled back, but he pursued her, parting her aged mouth with his kisses, caressing her ample breasts, and consuming them with his hot, fiery tongue. She wanted to respond, but instead of being filled with passion, her eyes darted around the dark room.

Broc sensed her uneasiness, but he couldn't stop. "Relax, baby, he urged, his hot breath burning her neck. "Let yourself go. You know I wouldn't hurt you."

"But how can I go through with this? I'm feeling old and foolish ... a silly old woman, and a young... She struggled in his arms, pushing him away. "Broc ... I c..."

"God, Ravyn, don't make me stop, he said, his voice rasping with passion.

She tried to push him away. "Imagine a woman my age involved in a wrestling..."

"Ravyn, Broc whispered, his breath burning her ear while his hands pulled at her clothes, "baby ... please. All at once he remembered her weakness and began to play erotic little games in her ear.

Before long the two of them were rolling, moaning, and enjoying each other as they had in their younger years. Broc's body was on fire, and he could hardly keep himself from ravaging her. As he opened her thighs, he didn't waste a minute, but buried himself inside her deeper and deeper until she winced at his hardness. He filled her up, plunging in and out until he heard her moan ... felt her clinging to him ... climbing him ... keeping up with every plunge. That's when he lost control and rocked into her, harder and faster. The two of them bucked, lurched, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, mouth to mouth, harder and harder until Broc rasped an "Oh, God, and emptied himself into her. It was heaven to be locked in her arms, and when he felt her dark, velvety canal grasping him over and over, he knew she had climaxed again and again. While still in the throes of passion, their lips met, and Broc felt he was where he was supposed to be, in the arms of the woman he loved.

He held her until the morning light.

Ravyn woke early, lifted herself and looked down at his sleeping face. After a night full of the turbulent passion she had known as a young woman, her body ached, but no one made love like Broc, and no one ever would. She couldn't count the number of times she'd seen his old gray head through the window of his room, and heard his old phonograph grinding out the sound of that tinny piano that always drifted down to her while he sat in his chair reliving the past.

And then suddenly he was gone ... no explanation ... just disappeared.

A short time later in walks a young Broc Sanford. A deal with the devil? The world says no, but not those with gray hair and wrinkles ... not those that know that the hour of their death may be in days, not decades. Her years on this earth had taught her something that few people knew ... that nothing was impossible. Not a demon like Aleksa ... not Broc's youth ... and not a train platform at midnight on February 12th. That's what Broc meant when he said they would be together again ... but with a gift like this ... how would either of them escape hell?

Allowing her aged eyes to take a few more minutes to appreciate the face she remembered from so long ago, she finally got up from the bed gently so as not to wake him. She went over to a desk, opened the drawer and lifted out a sheet of paper and a pen, and began writing. Occasionally she would look back at him and he would still be sleeping. Young and innocent ... and gorgeous ... just as gorgeous as he had been almost sixty years ago. She wrote for what seemed like hours, and when she was through, she folded the paper, put it in an envelope, scratched his name on it, and laid it on her pillow.

Ravyn then walked into the living room, and there stood Suzette. The girl pushed past her, making her way toward the bedroom. When she saw Broc, her face became etched in anger. Suddenly she whirled around, confronting Ravyn. "I can't believe it, she shouted, her nostrils panting with rage as she walked toward her. "You spent the night together! You slept with him!"

"How did..."

"I went to his room, that's how I knew, she said, anticipating Ravyn's question. "When I saw that his bed hadn't been slept in, I knew. There was only one other place he could be."

"Suzette..."

"I hoped ... I prayed ... I tried to convince myself he wouldn't ... that he couldn't. And then suddenly the look on Suzette's face changed, and her voice took on a mocking tone. "Did he tell you he loved you? Did he caress your wrinkled old body, kiss your ugly, dusty, dirty old lips? Did he fuck you old woman?"

Ravyn began backing up, clutching her nightgown to her chest. "Suzette..."

"What did you do, witch, she rasped, "put a spell on him? Put a potion in his tea perhaps, or get him drunk on your witch's brew?"

"Suzette, don't..."

"Because that's the only way you could have gotten him to touch you! she shouted. "Or maybe you turned him blind to all the lines, the wrinkles, the gray hair!"

While Suzette continued to rail, Ravyn bumped up against the wall, trapped. Suddenly Suzette flung her hand out and Ravyn felt a stinging blow, her head turning abruptly at its sudden force. Within only seconds she felt the pain of the pummeling fists of her granddaughter and turned, managing to reach the screen door and fall through it. She got up, succeeded in getting off the porch, but then fell again. She turned and saw Suzette coming toward her and tried to crawl, but when she couldn't move fast enough, she turned around and began inching backward on the ground. "Suzette, she cried, "what's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me? You're what's wrong with me, old woman. You've been after him, ever since you knew he was here. Well, you won't get him, understand? Because he's mine!"

She reached out to jerk Ravyn forward by her hair, but miraculously she got away and began crawling over the ground. While looking back in fright, she managed to get on her feet and run for a few yards before her weak ankles gave way. Then she began crawling, getting up, stumbling, then inching away from the psychotic sight of her granddaughter coming after her.

Suzette watched her, laughing. "You'll never get away from me, you bitch, she yelled, slowly following her, yelling insults and threats until they were almost to the edge of the cliff.

When Ravyn could go no further, she managed to grab hold of a tree, and get up on her feet. She stood there, looking down into the churning ocean, then turned to Suzette, her eyes frightened. She watched as the young woman came closer ... and closer still. The wind whipped at her hair, lifted her nightgown, and Ravyn's voice, almost obliterated by the high winds yelled, "Suzette, stop, please! You don't know what you're doing."

A smirk tugged at Suzette's lips, and her eyes danced with evil glee as they raked across the aged form shivering in the wind. "I'm surprised you survived his lovemaking, considering your age ... your old bones. Then Suzette's eyes cast a daggered look, meant to pierce the heart of the old woman. "Don't forget I've been there, I know it can get wild."

"Suzette, Ravyn rasped in reprimand, "it was wrong for you to sleep with him. He's your ... he's your..."

"He's my what? What could he possibly be, that I wouldn't want to sleep with him? Is he the devil in disguise ... one of those little green men perhaps ... the Ghost of Christmas Past? Out with it, old woman!"

"He's your- She hesitated. "-he's your ... grandfather!"

Suzette's eyes widened, and she began laughing. "My grandfather? Are you daft? Look at him, for God's sake. He's young ... handsome ... and you're trying to tell me he's my grandfather? Surely you can think up something better than that!"

"He's eighty-six years old, sweetheart. I know it's hard to believe, but magic water, that's what did it..."

Suzette's eyes glared at Ravyn. "You liar! It's not possible!"

"Think about it. He came to Northclyf just as Broc Sanford disappeared. Don't you remember? Even you said it was strange."

Suzette began walking toward her, her eyes narrowing in anger. "You're making me mad, old woman."

Ravyn's words came out quickly as her feet inched backward. "Does his room still have the 1920s memorabilia you said it did? Why doesn't he put it away ... throw it away? What possible interest could a young man have in all that old stuff. It's him, sweetheart, he's Broc Sanford in the flesh ... your grandfather! That's why I kept telling you not to get involved ... and that's why I did. I can't help it, Suzette, I love him."

"I've heard enough! I don't believe a word of it. You just want him for yourself. With all of hell's fury burning in Suzette's eyes, she continued backing Ravyn up toward the edge of the cliff. Then when the ocean raged in the background, and the wind whipped at their hair and clothes violently, Suzette reached out and pushed.

Ravyn swayed ... reaching out for the tree ... a limb ... something ... anything ... but there was nothing ... only a high wind that whipped around her, causing her to lose her balance ... and fall. As she went down, she screamed, her shouts echoing, rolling, stretching, out ... out ... out ... into infinity with ghostly torment, blending with the many rumbling sounds of the deep. Suzette looked down onto the rocks and saw her grandmother's torn, ripped, and twisted body lying on the craggy rocks being splashed by the swelling and receding surf. When she saw the gruesome sight, her face crumpled, and she turned her head away quickly.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Broc was sitting up in bed, his attention focused on a sheet of paper he was holding in his hand when he heard the door open. He looked up from the paper, his distressed eyes full of tears. When he saw Suzette he felt a pang of regret, and his voice broke with emotion. "Suzette, he whispered, "oh, God, Suzette ... I didn't mean ... I didn't know."

"It's okay, Broc, she assured him. "I forgive you. You're a man, and men are weak. It didn't mean a thing. She sat down on the bed gently and urged herself toward him. "It's over now ... out of your system. We can get on with our lives."

When she said his name, he felt a chill. He could tell there was something different ... something odd ... something strange. He didn't realize that for Suzette, King no longer existed. He was Broc ... the man Suzette would do anything for ... even kill. "No, it's not allright ... I took..."

"Shhhh, she indicated with a finger to his lips. It's over ... done ... forget it."

Suzette, I can't forget it. He lifted the letter toward her. "Do you know what's in here? Have you read it? It says that..."

"More of her lies! she spat vehemently.

"Then you do know."

"Broc, darling, don't you see? She wanted to keep us apart."

He felt the chill again when he saw the strange look in her eyes.

"She would've done anything ... said anything. It's all she had. Don't you see? She was old, Broc. But I'm young, she whispered, taking his hand and moving it along her cheek. "See? My face is smooth ... my body firm. Then she laid his hand on her thigh, but he jerked it away as if it had been burned.

"Get the hell away from me, he rasped, edging to the other side of the bed. Broc wanted to get out of there ... to find Ravyn and get as far away from Suzette as possible. When he started to get up he looked down, realizing he was naked. His eyes glanced around for his briefs, but he couldn't find them.

Suzette looked down, leaned over, and picked them up. She lifted the limp material, letting it dangle from her finger. "Looking for these?"

Broc immediately reached out for them.

As quick as lightning, she snatched them away, then giggled. "Why would you want to get dressed, you'll just have to get undressed again."

Her insinuation made chills prickle along his neck. "Forget it, he whispered.

Suzette reached out to stroke his face and Broc resisted her touch.

"What's wrong, lover?"

"What's wrong? he asked incredulously. "You know what's wrong. He looked at her curiously. "How the hell can you be so calm, Suzette? We've sinned, goddammit ... sinned in the worst way. I promise you I had no idea ... I..."

"Sin, she purred seductively, "I love that word, don't you? Then she shrugged. "Okay, we'll pretend if you want to. Pretend you're who she says you are. Why not? It'll be fun."

"This is not a game Suzette ... it's real ... don't you understand? It's fuckin real!"

"So, the old woman got to you with her lies, did she? Well ... not anymore, Suzette said with her teeth clenched, and her eyes shooting fire.

It suddenly dawned on Broc that Suzette had been talking about Ravyn in the past tense. "Where is she? he whispered, worried at what her answer might be. When she didn't answer him he raised his voice. "Where the hell is she?"

"She's gone, baby ... gone to where she'll never bother us again. Don't worry, I've taken care of it."

Panic filled Broc. "What do you mean ... taken care of ... what ... who?"

"Why ... the old woman, Suzette began, then flicked his chin and smiled, "that's who."

Suddenly Broc lunged forward and grabbed Suzette's shoulders. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Why are you getting so..."

Broc shook her, and yelled, "Tell me!"

"Easy, she began, then looked up at Broc as if he'd be pleased, "she's dead."

"You're lying, Broc rasped, looking at her with frightened eyes. "Surely to God you wouldn't kill your own grandmother."

"Don't you see? She was in the way. I had to do it. It was for us, Broc. Now we can..."

Broc released her slowly while sinking into shock. He stared at her, listening to her unbalanced, lunatic words. He couldn't believe the excitement in her eyes at having killed her grandmother. He realized at last that she was crazy ... probably had been all along. He tried to absorb the shock, but there was no way he could take it all in and remain sane, so denial kicked in.

Ravyn wasn't dead, she couldn't be. He could see Suzette's lips moving, but the words, the pictures that were whirling around in his head were all wrong ... so distorted. Ravyn, the woman he loved, hadn't been reduced to living in a shack in the woods, and their son hadn't attacked his own mother, and his granddaughter hadn't become a demented murderer, not to mention a sex object. No, it can't be, he told himself. It's a joke, that's what it is. A joke where Ravyn will jump out and yell, "Surprise! And his granddaughter will be well and whole. He looked around at the still room ... waiting ... but nothing ... nothing! God, wasn't there an escape button he could push?

UNDO! UNDO! DELETE! ESCAPE! PLEASE, UNDO!

He looked around wildly. Where was she? She couldn't be dead. Not when they'd just declared their love for each other again ... made love ... made promises. He wouldn't accept it ... wouldn't believe it ... then he looked back at Suzette waiting for her to tell him it was all a joke, but she only stared at him in her beautiful mad way.

Then it is real? This is no joke? Suddenly the stark reality of it crushed Broc and caused tears to form in his eyes. "I won't ... I can't ... believe it unless I see it, he whispered. "Where is she?"

Suzette looked at him as if she didn't understand. "Why ... the edge of the cliff..."

Before she could finish Broc jumped up, wrapped himself in the sheet, then pulled on his jeans and shirt. With a sudden burst through the front door, his shirt flapped open against the cold wind as he ran to the edge of the cliff and looked down. When he saw the ocean pooling around her broken body, he fell down on his knees and let out a tormented roar. "Aaaaarrrggggghhhh! He howled while rocking himself back and forth. "Oh, god, oh, god, oh, god, oh, god, why? Why did she do it? While his shoulders shook with sobs, he wondered how long Suzette had been unbalanced. She'd seemed allright at first. She'd acted crazy a few times, but he'd never seen any indication that she wasn't right.

There was so much Broc didn't know. He didn't know of her competitive nature, her twisted jealousy, or the depth of her attraction to his twenties persona. He was unaware that she had started confusing his two identities ... blending the two personalities. Yet when her grandmother had tried to tell her the ugly part of the story, she refused to accept it and accused Ravyn of trying to force them apart with a lie ... a lie that she knew in her heart to be the truth.

Now her dementia was complete, and Broc and King became one ... finally blended together in Suzette's mind ... never to be separate again.

But now she didn't care.

She wanted him, and couldn't stand the thought of losing him to her grandmother ... the woman who had been Broc's lover.

That's when the worst finally surfaced.

His shoulders shook with sobs, and he agonized for what seemed like hours. He felt so much pain he didn't think he could stand it. He looked down at the gruesome scene, feeling as if someone had ripped his heart from out of his chest, and considered jumping ... jumping so he could be with her. Suddenly the rim of that cliff looked so inviting. He didn't care if he died, he just didn't want to live without her. He began edging himself out ... closer and closer to the edge, his feet disturbing loose rocks, sending them over the cliff ... and then something happened. It seemed he could hear Ravyn's voice whispering to him from out of the wind. He felt her near, could almost see her. No longer was she the old woman in a trenchcoat, she was just as she'd been so long ago. Her voice drifted, echoing in the wind. She walked so close to him it was as if she was inside him, and he became infused with her love, comfort, and understanding. He couldn't move, but sat there, loving her and taking pleasure in her nearness for the last time. "Ravyn, he whispered to the floating presence that seemed to embrace him, "I love you. Wait for me, we'll be together someday. His hands reached out as she departed, then suddenly she was gone.

He looked around, and there was nothing but the roaring wind, and the elements that seemed to mourn the broken body on the rocks. Knowing what he had to do, he turned and ran back into the house and gathered up the old woman's things. With the strange bundle in his hands, he half walked, half skidded down the path to the rocks. He worked around the body tediously, his torment turning to anger, and when he finished, he slowly and deliberately went back into the old house to confront Suzette.

When he walked into the bedroom she stood surrounded by a room full of flickering candles. She stood with her back to him, the robe she wore wrapped around her seductively, falling well below her naked shoulders. When she turned he saw that she clutched it in the middle, allowing it to part slightly to show her legs and the cleavage of her breasts. His eyes slid to a chair where her clothes were laying, and when he looked back at her the robe fell, and she stood before him ... naked.

"Put it back on, he rasped in anger.

"You don't really want me to ... do you?"

Her blonde beauty looked ethereal in the candlelight. She looked like a beautiful, demented angel as she began walking toward him. "Look Suzette, he said while backing away, "this can't happen. His eyes caressed her body. "I ... I don't care how good you look, he glanced around for a means of escape, "or how willing you are, and ... and in what manner you want to ... to continue this debauchery, it just can't happen ... not now ... not after..."

"Can't it? she purred, her eyes burning into his. "Why not? What's stopping us?"

"Everything decent. The laws of God, for one."

"Whatever, she smiled, "but give me an orgasm first ... then we'll be philosophical. Ooooh, she said, lowering her lashes, "what a sexy word."

He frowned. "My God, Suzette, how can you be such a smart ass? Don't you know what's going on? I can't make love to you, I'm your goddamned gr ... gran... he couldn't say it, "I'm your..."

"My grandfather? Is that what you're trying to say? She laughed in ridicule. "She tried to tell me the same thing. Surely you don't believe all that crap do you? Really, Broc, it was just her way of trying to keep us apart."

"Ravyn wouldn't lie ... not about that. He leaned down and grabbed the paper and held it out to her. "Don't you see? She must have known somehow that she was going to die, that's why she wrote it all down."

"Did she? Suzette whispered, sounding totally disinterested. By this time she was standing in front of him with her green eyes glittering and looking up at him. They were lazy in the romantic candlelight, and as he looked down at her bright red lips, he began sweating. "Oh God, he whispered, feeling a delicious, lustful warmth surging through his groin, "I ... I wish to hell there was a way to turn it off."

* * * *

Max Laurent was sitting in front of his giant screen, looking on with glee. "Turn it off? No way! This is your waterloo old man ... this is what we've been working toward. This is where the rubber meets the road, mister, and I defy you to act like anything other than the sex maniac you are ... and always have been."

* * * *

Broc made a futile attempt to get away, but when he touched her she burned like fire against his skin. She caught his hand and brought it up to her mouth and began sucking his fingers erotically, then placed his hand on her breast. He could feel himself falling under her spell. He wanted to push her aside and run, but then he felt her reaching down inside his jeans, and shuddered.

She was reminded that he wore no briefs, and could feel him growing in her hand. As she teased his thick cock, she put her red mouth against his ear and told him all the things she would let him do to her.

Broc struggled, the obscene language doing ugly, vulgar things to him. Suddenly, with a passionate moan she began kissing his throat ... his chest ... almost attaching herself to him. Her firm breasts were pressing against him, trembling it seemed, anxious to have him devour them. Broc couldn't take anymore, suddenly he lifted her up, and her legs went around him. He quickly whirled around and slammed her against the wall, high, and held her hands out. She looked like a beautiful example of The Woman Taken in Adultry being nailed to the cross. By this time his jeans were down around his knees, and his cock was stiff and trembling. He was beyond controlling himself, so he brought her down over its thickness, and both of them moaned loudly. It was a hellish seduction that started as a standing kiss, but ended up against the wall, on the floor, and on the edge of the bed where he rocked into her so hard and so fast that he nearly broke her back. Just after their climax whipped them both around like a mad whipcrack, she sunk low before him and captured his shaft in her mouth. He remembered the first time it happened. It was the day she swollowed him whole, and brought him to such a climax that he cried out for mercy. He understood now. She'd loved him, even back then, and wanted all of him. She wanted to fuck him, drink him, own him ... she wanted everything of him. All along the little bitch was psychotic, and he had been feeding her psychosis. He had to get away from her, so he pulled himself out of her hands and began dressing, but even now she was as tempting as Eve must have been. She lay there looking at him with her lazy eyes, wild and wanton. Her white hair, with glints of gold was spread out on the pillow and her skin seemed to glow ... burn ... with hot radiance in the candlelight.

Suddenly she lifted herself up, her firm young breasts moving with a saucy bounce, and whispered, "You'll be back."

Being embarrassed that she knew him so well, he ran out of the bedroom with tears streaming down his face. As he burst out the front door he thought of his ugly appetites, and what he was doing to his granddaughter because of them.

He stumbled along the path, shame eating him up. Aleksa had won. He wouldn't fight anymore, he deserved hell. When he got back to Northclyf he locked himself in his room, and sat in his rocking chair, dazed. His eyes stared straight out, but his mind was planning. He didn't care about calendars anymore, or how many days it was before his appointment with destiny. He wanted to burn. So what if she'd seduced him? She wasn't responsible. He was the one. He didn't have to give in. Suddenly he buried his face in his hands and cried. He'd wanted it, that's why he gave in. And he wanted it because he was evil ... corrupt ... and depraved!

He mourned ... hurt for a long time ... the pain killing him ... then when he didn't have a tear left in him, he finally came out of his torment long enough to realize he had to report Ravyn's death.

He quickly went to a phone and mumbled into it ... he wasn't sure he was coherent ... then quickly hung up. After everyone had come and gone he stood looking down on the jagged rocks. It was over so abruptly ... a life ... a human life ... discarded as if it were nothing. Broc felt empty ... her death so final ... he would never see her again ... know her passion ... feel her in his arms.

He went back to his room in a daze and sat there until he became numb. Finally he noticed twilight finally settling in, and knew the nurses would be gone, and the residents in their rooms. Moving slowly and deliberately he rose from his chair and went down to the kitchen and got a knife. He found Fancy, stroked her, played with her, and let her lick his face. Then when it was time to say goodbye, he did it with tears in his eyes. Finally he got up to leave, but instead of staying there, she began to follow him.

"No, stay here Fancy, he cried, "stay!"

She looked up at him with her yellow eyes, and when he moved, she moved.

"Okay, let's see, he said thoughtfully. "Eat ... that's it, I'll give her something to eat. He reached up and pulled down her favorite between meal treats, but she ignored them. Then he tried giving her milk, and a little of her regular food until he had a string of things laid out in front of her. "There it is, he said, "everything you like, so eat up, huh? While Fancy was looking over all the tasteful bribes in front of her, Broc moved away from her quietly, thinking he had successfully distracted her. Once out of the kitchen, he began running up the steps, but happened to look back and saw her trailing him. He stopped, turned around and said in a loud whisper, "Go away, Fancy! Got it? Go ... away. He watched her for a moment, hoping she understood, then turned and continued up the steps until he noticed that she was still following him. He stopped again, and turned around. "What the hell is it with you? Are you hard of hearing, or what? I said go ... leave me alone, capeesh? After a while he had reached the top landing, and became irritated when he found her still following behind him. He immediately swung around and began walking backwards while flailing his arms in a dramatic swooping motion. "Don't you understand English? Go! Vamoose! Scat! Sayonara! Aloha! Suddenly remembering she was an Egyptian tiger, he said with a note of sarcasm, "Sorry, but I don't speak ... Egyptian ... or Arabic ... or whatever the hell it is they speak in Egypt. He abruptly turned to go, but still she followed him, so he quickly squatted down next to her and pointed down the hall. "Look! A boy tiger! Go get him, Fancy, huh? Good stuff, right? The obedient tiger glanced at where Broc was pointing, then looked back at him with her lovesick eyes. Broc raked his hand through his hair, stood up and began walking and yelling down at her as she trotted next to him. "Look, you beast, I said get the hell away from me, okay? Can't you see I don't want you around anymore? Finally, when he saw that she wouldn't leave, he stopped and whirled around. "God, what does it take to get rid of you? You're a bitch, see? You're a- He got a look at her trusting eyes and his insides twisted up while he pushed the words that he didn't mean out of his mouth. "-you ... you're a b ... bothersome little bitch that I'm tired of, so ... just ... just leave me alone!"

After saying those damaging things to her, he whirled around and began running, but the tiger loped after him. When he at last stood at his door, he looked down at the doorknob, about to turn it, when his eyes slid toward a gathering of shadows where she stood. There was just enough light to see what looked like tears in her eyes, and he felt a pain shoot through him. "Don't do this to me, Fancy, he whispered. "Go find someone else to hound the life out of. Turning slowly, with his head hanging low, he grabbed his doorknob, turned it and saw her take a step in his direction. "God, don't you understand, you overgrown baby? he yelled. "You can't go where I'm going so get the hell lost! Having said his goodbye the only way she would understand, he angrily pushed the door open, then immediately slammed it, the lingering sound reverberating through the halls, making it sound so ... final.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

With the events of the past few hours weighing heavily on his mind, Broc slumped down in his chair with the knife clutched desperately in his hand. When he gazed out the familiar three-tiered window, he was reminded that he would never see the old woman shuffle along the street again. A sob tore from his throat as he lowered his head and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. He recalled how he'd gathered up her clothes, including her trenchcoat, her hat, and her cane, took them down on the rocks and tried to put them on her. He didn't do it for Suzette, but for Ravyn. He knew that no matter what Suzette had done, Ravyn wouldn't want her to be punished for her death, so he went through the motions while tears shook his shoulders and his hands caressed her soft, lifeless body. He remembered picking up her cane and holding it's thickness in his hand, then raising it high over his head and banging it against a rock. It was an outburst of anger as much as making it look as if it had happened in the fall. After that he looked around, making sure the scene was set just right, then reported the accident. Accident, he thought. That was what he'd called it, but murder...

"Oh, God! he agonized as he buried his face in his hands, and felt the tears drip between his fingers.

He thought of the high-pitched sirens in the distance that never failed to make his blood curdle, and the grim looking cops that sauntered around the scene arrogantly with their flashing badges. They shot question after question at him, then finally had her broken body removed from the rocks. He lied, telling them she must have slipped ... that he'd found her there this morning. It was an easy lie. He made sure they thought what he wanted them to think ... that while out walking she had ventured out too near the edge, and the wind, being unusually violent had swept her over the edge. They didn't doubt him since they knew that was her habit, and because it was just the old witch ... no one of any importance ... no one to mourn her death. When he heard these cruel words being expressed by the thoughtless authorities he turned away, struggling with the pain he felt, and furtively brushing the tears from his eyes. When they noticed his strange reaction, the words he had to say choked him, but he denied ever knowing her. He explained that she had helped him once, and he was sorry he couldn't have been there for her. So, with a few good natured pats on the back, they told him not to blame himself, that it was over ... forgotten ... time to get on with your life. Broc received the good wishes, but knew he would never be the same. And as far as his life was concerned, she was leaving ... to be measured for a coffin.

* * * *

Now, as he looked out at the dark street full of naked tree limbs, shimmering street lamps, and a few scattered glowing windows, he could hear the cold blast of the ocean wind. It sounded as empty and lonely as he felt. By now word had probably spread throughout the neighborhood that the old witch was dead, and next would be a disposition of her belongings. When that happens, it will only be a matter of time until they discover who she really was, and the news will no doubt blast this neighborhood to Kingdom Come. Who knows, maybe a few of them will even have something good to say about the old woman that shuffled along nightly ... giving them chills ... coloring their imaginations. With her gone, the dreams and fantasies of the children will be limitless, and the haunting story of the old witch of Harper's Woods that turned out to be the rich and beautiful Ravyn St. James will take on a new slant, and just might grow to become a legend.

He knew the time had come.

He had planned it well.

There'll be no one to interrupt ... no one to save his sorry ass at the last minute. He looked around when he heard a scratching sound at the door and could see Fancy's paws trying to reach underneath it. He never knew Fancy to be so persistent, he thought, then he looked down at the knife and drew his thumb along the sharp edge. Love is like that, I guess. Deep ... never-ending ... unselfish ... forgiving ... unconditional.

Then he thought of another kind of love ... a higher love. "Please forgive me, he whispered into the imaginary ear of God, "for this- he said, looking down at the knife he held, "-and for so many other things. While Broc slowly positioned the knife on his wrist, he ignored the scratching, and the deep, pitiful whines that haunted him, and focused on the blade glinting in the lamplight. Sweat began to shine on his forehead and above his lip as the sharp edge of the knife pressed painfully against his veins.

This was real, he thought.

He wasn't asleep,

he wasn't in a trance,

he wasn't being held captive by a spell,

he wasn't hallucinating,

and he wasn't crazy.

He knew exactly what he was doing, and as he brought the sharp edge of the knife down over one wrist, then the other, he saw a burst of blood fly through the air,

flowing,

spurting,

gushing,

blinding,

red.

His head fell slowly backward, his grip weakened and the knife slipped silently out of his bloody hand. Giving in to death, he slid easily into unconsciousness, knowing that hell might be horrible, but having to live with the shame of what he had done to Ravyn and his granddaughter would be worse.

* * * *

Darkness began to descend. Broc felt himself embraced by it, surrounded ... carried in the arms of a controlling current that was taking him lower and lower ... deeper and deeper into the bowles of hell. The pain was gone, and he succumbed to the giant whirlpool that wanted to suck him down into its insane circle. Broc felt himself falling and didn't resist his journey. Suddenly he saw a reddish glow, and knew it was hell. Fire ... brimstone ... dark caves full of tormented souls ... long, gaunt faces ... empty death in their eyes ... some headless ... some walking around with knives sticking out of them ... nooses around their necks. Souveniers, Broc thought. Souveniers ... reminders ... of the way they died. He wondered what they would do with him. Maybe they have a special hell for child molestors. A place where your manhood is beaten, bruised, or thrashed in some way before you're emasculated. Broc knew that whatever it was, he deserved it. He wanted to feel the heat, join in with the tormented souls crying out, but instead, he felt a heavy weight on his chest, and the scouring of a sandpaper tongue on his face.

As his lids fluttered open, he saw the lovesick eyes of a tiger staring down at him. He was dizzy and weak, but he wasn't out of his head and knew the feline face he was looking into was Fancy. He looked around, fighting the bright light he saw shining in his eyes. Beyond the light he saw a machine with a bag hanging from it, felt a sharp prick in his arm, and a man in white. Where was he? He was supposed to wake up in hell, what had happened? Just then he saw the light disappear, and a scowling face replacing it.

"I'd do the job for you if I weren't so relieved that you're still alive."

"Nice bedside manner, Doc, Broc said weakly, barely moving his lips, and trying to keep his eyes open. His mind was whirling with questions that were difficult to ask. "What is...? I mean ... I don't ... understand. What- His weak eyes looked around. "-I ... th ... thought I'd wake up in ... hell."

"You nearly did."

"But ... I was alone ... door locked, Broc said, trying to focus on the doctor, but his head was swimming, "the nurses ... everyone ... all gone ... everything ... planned ... per..."

"It was the cat. That's why I haven't put her out of the room. She was instrumental in saving your life. What the hell, I figure you two deserve each other."

"No, not Fancy- Broc whispered, his face etched with a frown, "-she was outside ... locked ... she couldn't ... come ... in."

"Oh, she didn't get in, the Doc said. "She must have smelled blood. It seems she was pacing back and forth in front of your room, then suddenly went crazy and began rearing up on your door, rattling it, and making some kind of godawful sound. She was superb at attracting an audience. You should have seen all the gray heads, bent up bodies, and clanking walkers crowded around your door. One of them had an ounce of sense and called me. Even found the extra keys to the doors in the drawer of the nurse's station downstairs."

While he was talking, Broc noticed the condition his clothes were in. "But ... how..."

The doctor looked down at his white jacket. "When we managed to bust in, you were sprawled out in your chair covered in blood, and I thought you were a goner. When I began reviving you, all of a sudden you came alive and began fighting me. Told me to get away and leave you alone. In the midst of our struggle, I yelled at someone to call 911, and you began using your fists. You said you weren't going to any hospital, that you were on your way to hell ... where you belonged, I might add, the doctor said with a raised eyebrow. "Then you blacked out completely, and I managed to drag you to the bed. While you were out I had them bring in the equipment, and did the job here as best I could."

"God, Broc agnoized, when the tragic memories of the day burst upon him like a dam. "Why, doc ... why the hell didn't you just let me die?"

"Sorry, the doctor said as he scowled down at him, "but the medical school I attended didn't tell me how to do that."

"If you knew- Tears welled up in Broc's eyes.

"-it wouldn't make a bit of difference, the doctor finished for him.

"I'm not so sure, Broc said, then lapsed into silence as he looked at the doctor's clothes. "From the way you look, I must have given you a hard time. Cutting his eyes over at the doctor, he said, "I got the best of you, huh?"

"What was that? the doctor questioned.

"When we wrestled ... I got the best of you, right? I mean... Broc looked around, feeling a little better, "I'm not in a hospital, so..."

The doctor looked insulted. "For your information I examined you, and since you weren't as bad off as I thought, I patched you up. Still incensed, he said, "I can do that, you know. I am a doctor! He began mumbling. "When the day comes that I can't wrestle down a man that's half dead, I'll hand in my stethoscope."

"Then why didn't you wrestle me all the way to a hospital? Broc asked, fighting off a sudden weakness. "Instead you bring in all this junk..."

"Look, I- the doctor began, then finally let out a rush of air, and said, "-oh hell, I might as well tell you. The truth is I'm breaking the law by not reporting this. If I registered you in a hospital I wouldn't have any choice. They'd stabilize you, then as your doctor, I'd have to sign you into a mental institution. That's what happens when someone makes an attempt on their life. They examine their heads ... fill them full of drugs ... keep them for about ninety days. He shrugged. "I just didn't want that to happen to you. He became uncomfortable, thinking Broc's stare was accusatory. "Okay, so take my damned stethoscope away! I made a decision based on what I know of your mental health. Hell, you're not crazy ... at least no crazier than the rest of us ... and you'll live. You'll be a little weak ... dizzy ... due to loss of blood, but you'll be okay. Just then the doctor leaned over him and gave him a threatening look. "But if you try this again, I'll sock you so far behind institution walls you'll need a roadmap to get out."

"Thanks ... I guess."

"Don't thank me yet, wait'll you get my bill, he quipped as he dropped his noisy instruments into his bag. "I charge double for wrestling matches."

"And worth every penny, Broc said, smiling at the gruff doctor.

The doctor nodded toward Fancy. "Quite a cat you've got there. Scary as hell, but aren't we all."

"I suppose I should be grateful..."

"Look, the doctor scowled down at him, "I don't know what the hell brought all this on, but this is not the answer. It never is. Whatever it is that's got you by the balls, look it straight in the eye and win, goddammit ... WIN!"

"Win, Broc mumbled. "Yeah! he said, with a slow smile spreading across his face. "Like I did in the old days."

"Old days? the doctor snickered. "Someone your age doesn't have old days."

"Doc, Broc looked at the man thoughtfully, "when something's broken you fix it, am I right? Not waiting for the doctor to respond, he went on sadly. "There's something broken here Doc, been broken for a long time, and I need to fix it ... I need to fix it bad. Do you know how I'm going to do that? Broc asked.

"No, but I'm sure you'll tell me."

"Simple, Broc said. "I'm going back in time ... back to the night it all went wrong ... and make it right."

"Lovely. Now he's going back in time, he tells me. All I know is, if you don't stop this insane babbling, I'm going to re-think my decision, and lock your ass up so tight you'll see nothing but bars for the next fifty years."

"Hey, it's okay if you don't believe me, I don't expect you to. Broc looked up at the doctor's scowling face, and continued, "Put your mind at ease, Doc, I'm not crazy ... a little dizzy ... weak maybe ... but that's all ... and thank you."

"That's better, the Doc said as he snapped his bag closed. "Right after our little wrestling match I administered a sedative to calm you down. Not a strong one, I wanted you relaxed, not knocked out, so you should be feeling sleepy soon. I want you to have complete bed rest. Whenever you feel like it, get up, begin moving around, but don't over do. If you start feeling dizzy, or weak, get off your feet and rest. I want you to drink lots of orange juice, and consume a lot of protein to get your blood back up. Just then he spotted the knife, and stooped over. "Uh ... I'll just take this, the doctor said as he retrieved the bloody instrument from the floor. Then when leading Fancy out the door he met with some resistance and turned to Broc, "Why the hell couldn't you just have a dog like everybody else?"

Broc couldn't resist, he had to laugh. Then his eyes caught several bloody towels pushed over in a corner that had evidently been used to wipe up his blood ... and felt a chill.

* * * *

The lights were out and Broc was just beginning to feel drowsy from the sedative. All at once he heard a loud click and his eyes shot open to a turning doorknob. The room was close and hot, and Broc could hear his own breathing ... loud ... nervous ... jerking. As he focused on the slowly turning metal, a stab of fear went through him, taking his breath. He lay there watching until the slice of light pierced the darkness, then quickly closed his eyes. While pretending to be asleep, he heard someone creep in softly, and slowly opened his eyes to a silhouette looming tall and dark against the brightness in the hall. Aleksa, Broc thought. Oh, my God, he's come to take me after all. Like a child Broc squeezed his eyes shut hoping the monster would go away, but instead the dark presence began moving toward him in a quiet, stealthful manner until he towered above him. When Broc finally opened his eyes again, Max Laurent was looking down at him with the same piercing eyes of Bela Lugosi. Breathing a sigh of relief, Broc turned his back to him. "Sorry, my blood's all gone."

"You're a very funny man, Max said, turning to close the door. "I just came to see how you were. I didn't want to come in while the doctor was here. You know... "interrupt his examination, and all."

"I'm fine. Close the door on your way out."

He smiled down at Broc, then scratched his chin. "You know ... I don't understand why we can't get along. He shrugged and lifted his hands. "So I told a little lie ... so what?"

Not wanting to be in the dark with a sinister creature like Max Laurent, Broc raised himself up and leaned over to turn on the lamp. "I'm not in the habit of making friends with killers, liars, and cheats."

"You could make an exception, Max's deceitful eyes slanted toward Broc. "after all, I am."

Broc frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Only that I'm willing to be friends with a- Max paused, his lips twitching in an unexpressed smile. "-child molester."

Broc's face turned pale, and his voice became low and murderous. "What in hell did you say?"

His reply was soft, but sinister. "I believe you heard me."

The two men faced each other, and for the first time Broc looked beyond the surface of the dark-haired man with the curling mouth and flaring nostrils. "My God, you're Aleksa."

Max raised his voice and pointed toward Broc. "Give that man a Cupie Doll!"

Broc raised himself up on his knees, the needle in his arms restricting. In anger he ripped it out, then fought back a swirl of dizziness. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Coming here, pretending to be someone else. Keeping an eye on me? Should I be honored, or do you give all your clients this kind of attention?"

Max looked down at his sparkling white cuffs as he adjusted them. "Only those with genius IQs, he said, then slid his arrogant eyes over to Broc, "and those that think they can outwit me."

Broc laughed. "So the big man is worried, is that it? Well ... I'd say that's quite an accomplishment right there."

Max was insulted, but ignoring the comment, he walked over to his dresser and picked up the calendar. He cut his eyes back over to Broc. "Take a look, he said, throwing the calendar down on the bed.

"I've seen it, Broc said, ignoring the calendar.

"You've better look at it, Max said, giving him a slanting look.

Broc's eyes dropped to the calendar, did a doubletake, grabbed it and brought it up before his unbelieving eyes. "My God, tomorrow night? Tomorrow night is the twelfth?"

"Better get your running shoes on."

"But it can't be. Only yesterday ... or was it a couple of days ago ... I had at least five days."

"Well ... Broc ... a lot has happened sinc then. Death, murder, incest..."

"Shut your filthy mouth!"

"At least I only say it ... while you on the other hand ... uh ... do it!"

Broc jumped up off the bed, fighting off the blackness that wanted to overtake him, and began stalking Max, forcing him back toward the door. "You knew who she was, yet you handed her over to me like a sacrificial lamb. You had us both figured, allright. Me, with my harmones raging, and her ... my granddaughter for God's sake! You knew she was a psycho ... a beautiful psycho ... that had a fixation on a prohibition lawyer named Broc Sanford. You slammed us together like two taxi's on Broadway, and when the time was right you let me find out and try and kill myself rather than live with the shame."

"Now who feels stupid?"

"Not me, you bastard, because this is not over yet. Come tomorrow night I'll put my running shoes on allright, and I'll be at that train station come hell or high water. You just make sure you keep your end of the deal."

"You know, Max's face frowned in puzzlement, "I've never understood why you want to go back. How do you know what you'll find?"

"How touching, Broc said with a sarcastic sound to his voice. "He's concerned about my welfare. Then suddenly his voice turned deadly. "I don't know what the hell I'll find, you goddamned fire-eater, but it's gotta be better than what's here!"

"There you go again with those stupid put downs ... Broc..."

"Get out! Broc said, walking toward him.

"What? Max said, jerking his head around.

"You heard me, Broc said, crowding himself against Max and forcing him backwards. "I said, get the hell out!"

"But you can't... Max began while backing up toward the door with a surprised look on his face.

"What the hell do I have to do, draw you a picture? I said, get your fucking ass out of my room and don't come back!"

Max couldn't believe what he was seeing as he found himself crowded against the door. "Who do you..."

Broc pushed his face into Max's, and began softly, gaining strength as he continued, "God, God, God, God! God! God! GOD!! GOD!! GOD!!"

"Yeeeoooow! Max yelled, slapping his palms over his ears, then angrily positioned his sinister, claw-like hands as if to cast a spell on Broc when he remembered it was against the rules. "Drat! he mumbled. To try and save face, he chuckled nervously while glancing down at his watch. "Oops, gotta go. You know what they say, time flies when ... well ... you know the rest. He turned and scooted out the door, taking one last look at Broc through the crack before closing it.

Max stood outside Broc's door fuming. "That bastard's not afraid of anything anymore, he mumbled. "He even ordered me out! Then his eyes looked upward. "I had him! I had him dead to rights and you come up with a tiger? You couldn't find anything better than a friggin tiger? He raised his fist and railed it against an Invisible Force. "Get off my back, you... Suddenly lightning flashed, thunder roared, and Max cringed. "M-my my- he said with a shaky voice, "-s-s-s-storm coming."

CHAPTER TWENTY

The day dawned dark and cloudy. Another heat wave had hit the East Coast and the entrance of Northclyf stood open. Broc's shadowy form took a relaxed stance at the screen door while he felt the moist, balmy wind blowing against him. The clouds hovered close to the ground making everything seem so eerie ... even the atmosphere.

A lot could be blamed on the chants of the children. As they played their games, their haunting voices carried on the wind as they thoughtlessly recited childish, morbid rhymes about the old witch. The constant incantations ... the hissing drone of the chilling words ... made Broc angry. He had discovered that the world wasn't a good place to be without Ravyn in it.

He had already heard the cruel gossip about her ghost being seen prowling the woods while others reported seeing her walking the streets at midnight, her dark form blowing in the wind as she shuffled along the edge of the cliff. He considered it a desecration to her memory.

He reached up and rubbed his neck, trying to calm himself down. His nerves were on edge. This was a pivotal day for him. Perhaps this was the day he and Ravyn would be reunited ... or perhaps it was the day his soul would burst hell wide open.

He had until midnight.

Putting the thought out of his mind, he turned away, knowing he had a whole day to fill before he had to be at the station, so he tried to keep himself busy. He did his usual job around Northclyf while trying to stay away from Aleksa, whose piercing gaze under the guise of Max Laurent was unnerving to say the least.

When he finally came to a stopping point he knew he was going to have to relax, or have his insides spring apart like some cheap clock that got wound too tight. Rather than give Aleksa the pleasure of seeing him come completely unglued, he took a leisurely walk along the beach, then wandered up into the woods and leaned against a tree. While looking at the old abandoned house he couldn't resist the tears that began to pool in his eyes. He gazed at her garden, vines heavy with vegetables that needed tending before they dropped off and began rotting, filling the air with the smell of decay and dirt. Although the house had been little more than a shack before, now it seemed like only a shell ... a grayish, rotting skull with a dreaded darkness filling its windows and door, the porch providing an open chasm where it's teeth spread wide in a death-like smile ... calcified old bones falling into dust and ashes. At night the house looked dark, evil, spooky, but in the bright light of day, it was the shade of fog ... a misty gray. The leaden, ashy color of the house was in varying degrees, causing the structure to melt into the woods, taking on the mask of trees and rocks and ground mist. The mist was like the web of a spider. It's swirling tendrils became tangled in the limbs of the trees while it draped the old house in its misty shroud. Then gathering along the base, the gray mist hid the first step that led up to the porch, making it appear to hover, or levitate, almost as if it were a specter in the jungle of trees that robbed it of sunlight. It seemed to be fitted into the corner of the clearing whose air was scented with damp earth and rotting leaves. Even the squirrels that played in the yard looked around as if sensing something was missing.

Broc was just about to turn back when he saw a dark figure slowly appear from behind the house. He sucked in his breath. The woman appeared old. She shuffled along slowly, her head covered in a ragged old scarf, and she wore a long dress and shawl. She had gathered the corners of her apron in one hand, fashioning a bag and walked slowly along the rows of vegetables, picking them, then dropping them into its depth.

Broc stared.

He seemed mesmerized ... spellbound.

His heart pounded in his chest.

"It can't be, he whispered. "Ravyn is dead ... her body broken on the rocks. I touched her ... I saw them take her away."

The form gathered the two sides of the apron that was heavy with the vegetables into one hand then lifted her long skirt and turned to go back into the house. Before she could get to the door Broc burst from the darkness of the dense trees and ran across the clearing until he reached her. He immediately grabbed at the mysterious figure, jerking her around. When he saw her face he almost went into shock. Blonde hair was edging from beneath the scarf, her face was drawn, and there were dark circles under her eyes. It was Suzette ... beautiful Suzette ... insane ... crazy ... demented ... Suzette. Her eyes, cold and cloudy looked up at him, but he wondered if she really saw him.

"I waited, she whispered. "You didn't come ... I thought ... I thought if I looked like her..."

Broc's eyes filled with tears when he realized he had caused all of this. His choice of Ravyn over Suzette had pushed the girl over the edge, causing her to kill her own gradmother as well as slowly take on her personality by dressing up in her clothes.

"Do you love me now, she whispered, her cloudy eyes pleading, "can we be together?"

Broc looked down at the young face that was becoming old by sheer will, and smiled. He didn't know what to do except humor her. "Sure, he whispered, taking her hands in his. With tentative steps he began backing up and indicating toward Northclyf. "But I just have to ... do something. I'll be back."

She said nothing as she watched him leave, and Broc knew that she probably wouldn't even remember that he was here.

He turned and began running, but as soon as he got out of her sight, he fell against a tree and began sobbing. Everything had begun coming together. It was Suzette that had been seen. Naturally everyone thought it was the ghost of Ravyn, just as he had, but who would have ever guessed that the young girl's dementia had driven her to assume Ravyn's identity ... taking over her life ... walking ... living ... growing old. He stayed there until the sun began sinking low, then brushed the tears away and continued trudging along the road ... back to Northclyf ... back to hell.

He slammed into his room and leaned against the door, the tears still creeping down his cheeks. If he was determined before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. Everything was wrong, and he had to change it ... somehow. He couldn't allow Ravyn to have rotted away in a dark broken down shack all alone, or for his granddaughter to become unbalanced ... sentencing herself to the same future ... all for the love of ... oh God ... someone who didn't deserve the devotion of either of them! He didn't know what was ahead, but he was going to fight like hell to right the wrong he had done, even if it meant his life.

He walked into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face and grabbed a towel. As the towel lowered gradually, his coffee colored eyes met the reflected ones in the mirror and raked them over his face. He knew his youth would be gone soon, and slowly lifted his hand and stroked his strong jaw. He had enjoyed having a line-free face, dark lustrous hair, and strong teeth that could bite down into anything without the fear of cracking or breaking. He looked down at his strong, muscular physique, comparing it to the dried up, aged body he'd had before, and felt wistful. His newfound youth, while thoroughly enjoyed, had certainly brought complications into his life. Youth always brought complications ... decisions ... choices ... that most young people were too immature to make. He knew that now, but he'd take those complications anytime to stay young.

Somehow, up to now, he had beaten Aleksa, but he knew he hadn't done it alone. He thought back to all those that had come to his aid, or played a part in his battle, and thanked them silently. A shadow crossed his face when he allowed his thoughts to linger on DeLane Kiley who faced a battle of his own, and Ravyn, who, as a result of falling in love with the wrong man, was sentenced to live her life in shadows.

He had to try and help her.

Even Rena and Suzette had played their part ... maybe even helped in their own demented way. Then there was Fancy. Strange as it seemed, it was her he regretted leaving the most. Life is funny, he mused, since he had started out hating her. Broc exhaled a heavy sigh as he threw the towel in the sink. I guess that's everyone, he thought, then suddenly he stopped what he was doing, and his lips turned upward in a wry smile when he remembered one more. How could he forget the inquisitive Roxanne Holt? He remembered her wild red hair, the pencil she always had stuck behind her ear, and wondered where she was now. Out hustling someone else for a story to sell, he figured. Now that his mind was relatively clear, he remembered that she pumped everyone ... always asking questions ... always sitting back with her feet propped up, writing. When she was in deep tought she always ate her erasers. Every pencil she had, had a chewed up eraser and she had to buy the pointed ones by the gross. He had never met anyone like her. Yes, the wild redhead had even done her part in getting him to this point. None of them knew the battle he was fighting, or what part each of them played in helping him attain his goal. But the final, and the biggest test would come tonight ... and it was his ... and his alone.

* * * *

The day grew darker and darker, until the night was complete. Broc stood in the middle of his room putting on his jacket. He glanced at the clock that seemed to be ticking unusually loud as if to remind him that time was passing.

"Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! the voices rasped as they drifted around him.

The hands on the clock told him he had plenty of time, but he felt pressured ... frightened ... nervous ... and was afraid to wait any longer. He looked around his room one last time at his snapshots, the memorabilia, and grabbed it all up. While he was rushing around his eyes caught something glinting in the lamplight. It was a cross ... a cross Ravyn had given him a long time ago. Her parents were trying to keep them apart, and the two of them declared their love for each other, holding the cross between them. They kissed, feeling like starcrossed lovers ... a modern Romeo and Juliet ... and knew that God sanctioned their love. Nobody could have predicted the turn of events that would part them, and Broc felt a crushing hurt, knowing the fault was his. The pain in his eyes was apparent as he looked at the trinket, hanging almost obscurely from the post that ran up alongside his mirror. He didn't know if it would help, but if nothing else it would be luck. In one swift motion, he pulled the chain over his head, then stuffed the cross down into the collar of his shirt. He turned quickly and wrapped all the memorabilia up, along with the tabloid and the journal he'd been writing, and slammed out the door. He'd put everything in that journal ... everything from his meeting with Aleksa, their deal, up to the incestuous relationship he'd had with his granddaughter, and how it had led to the death of Ravyn. He held nothing back. Finally he tripped down the flowing staircase and out the French doors to a tree in the backyard. He looked down at the plastic-wrapped package and wondered why he was doing it. Not having time to analyze ... acting on nothing but pure instinct ... he plunged it down a knothole, then turned and left.

He didn't know what was going to happen now, but as he ran down the path to the station, he looked back one more time ... back at Northclyf, sitting tall and massive, like a tattered old duchess on a throne. Her towers and spirals seemed to reach high up into the clouds where she reigned supreme against the raging East Coast. The sky behind her was churning ... clouds turning in and out, the brightness of lightning flashing from within their folds. Broc didn't know if a storm was coming, or if Aleksa was turning all of hell's fury on him, but he lifted his hand to his forehead, then flipped his fingers out, giving her a mock salute. "Goodbye, you brazen hussy. It's been- He hesitated, then used the same word Roxanne Holt used to describe his wild sex. "-unforgettable! Turning quickly, he skipped along the asphalt toward the old train station.

As he ran, trees, fences, houses, and barking dogs emerged from the shadows, then fell just as quickly into the background. He jumped curbs, turned corners, then suddenly slowed when he heard a scream. He turned but didn't see anything, still the screaming continued. He stretched his neck, following the sound, then caught sight of a little girl drowning in a pool. "Oh my God, he mumbled, quickly jumping over the fence to save her. He ran into the yard and was just about to leap into the pool when it turned to a lake of fire and brimstone. He skidded on the pavement, stopping just in time. He wondered what the hell was going on for a moment, then realized it was one of Aleksa's tricks. "Bastard, he mumbled then backed away from the blazing inferno, and watched it slowly dissolve into nothing. He looked around, wondering where the people were that lived there and began to slink away ... hiding behind trees ... in bushes ... as if afraid he might be seen and accused of trespassing. Once over the fence, he carefully made his way out to the street and continued on.

After he had gone a little further he heard a disturbance up ahead ... voices shouting ... obscenities being yelled from a man who was beating up on his wife. The woman was running across the yard, trying to get away from him, but he caught her, his voice bellowing out, threatening to kill her. Broc began running toward them, then remembered the little girl, and stopped in his tracks. It didn't take a house to fall on him to know Aleksa was at work here. He watched the two while wringing his hands, and saw the man cruelly grab the woman by the hair and begin slapping her around. Broc's teeth were set on edge at the sight. He wanted to step in, but being sure it was one of Aleksa's tricks his halting steps left the scene, turning his back on the screaming woman. But what if it's not? What if it's real? The thought kept going through his mind until he heard the tormented woman cry out to him.

"Help ... please help me! the woman shouted.

Looking at her torment ... the blood ... the horror written on her face, Broc wanted to run into the yard and bash the man's head in, but he cruelly turned his eyes away, forcing himself to ignore her ... to keep walking ... his teeth clenched ... his face, granite. "Keep going ... keep going ... keep going... he mumbled to himself when he passed by, and the woman's screams pierced his ears.

"Help me! she cried over and over. "What kind of man are you?"

Broc's eyes filled with tears as he listened to the taunting words, but he gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and kept walking. Aleksa would do anything to slow him down, he thought as he reached up and covered his ears, trying to keep the cries from destroying his resolve. He couldn't afford to become involved, or take the chance of getting killed, which is undoubtedly what Aleksa was hoping for. The screams continued for a while, but just as he suspected, as soon as he had passed the house, the cries, and the people, disappeared into thin air.

He breathed a sigh of relief and continued on, but with each step he took he saw scenes of murder and destruction materialize all around him. People were being killed in the street, teenagers were hanging themselves from tree limbs, and even gang rape, murder, and burglaries were taking place. He put his hands up to his ears again, but couldn't keep out the sound of gunshots, sirens going off, and people yelling. He was being grabbed at on all sides from people wanting help, but Broc cruelly jerked himself out of their grasp and continued, his eyes on the path ahead of him. Finally the killing around him slowly disappeared back into Aleksa's imagination.

Broc had won again.

All at once Broc felt himself moving in slow motion as if he were in some kind of dream. Try as he might, he couldn't make himself move faster. He ducked when he saw things being hurled at him, hardly being able to move out of the way. He felt as if his feet were sinking down in sludge ... quicksand. The sticky substance made him fall, and when trying to get up he raised his hands and saw strings of the goo stretching from his hands to the ground. Suddenly he felt something moving over him, and when he looked down the substance was creeping up over his body, growing like a living organism, trying to glue him to the ground. Broc struggled to his feet, then just as suddenly as it started, the soft, sticky element disappeared, and everything became quiet.

He knew something was up, but didn't venture to guess, until he saw a loping tiger in the distance. "Oh, no! he yelled. "Not now. I can't deal with this now. He turned and began running, trying to get away from her, but she gained on him, getting in front of him, jumping up on him. He tried to push her away, then ordered, "Fancy, go back home! Now! When she didn't respond, he decided to ignore her. He turned away from her lovesick eyes, and into the gruesome scene of a headless horseman stampeding toward him on a steed that was breathing fire. "Oh my God! Broc cried, jumping out of the way. He just made it, landing on his stomach, and turned to watch as the galloping horse burned a path up higher and higher into the churning sky.

He was getting up when he saw Fancy laying on the ground. He edged over to her, touched her fur, and brought his hand back covered with blood. When he realized she'd been trampled, an anger he couldn't contain came spilling out of his mouth. "You bastard! he yelled, raising his eyes and looking around for Aleksa. "What the hell has she ever done to you! He held his hand out as if to show him what he'd done. "See that? You're an executioner, you low-life beast, and if you were a man you'd show yourself! He whirled around wildly, looking in every corner of the sky until his grief took him to his knees beside her body. Everything around him was quiet except for the deep, gut-wrenching sobs that were shaking his shoulders as he lay his body over hers and tried to embrace her one last time.

He finally forced himself up, knowing he had to continue, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her there. He drug her body over into a ravine and covered her with leaves and twigs, then reluctantly backed away. He had to force himself to turn away, and as he walked he brushed at falling tears and whispered, "Goodbye, Fancy. He finally began running ... trying to escape the pain ... while looking back at her frequently.

Finally the station came into view, but it seemed the faster he ran the farther away it became. He continued to run, but felt somehow like he was spinning his wheels. Oh, God, he thought. What if I've already reached it, and I'm running past it? How can I possibly win against a bastard like Aleksa whose tricks are never-ending? It's impossible to tell the real from the fake. Then suddenly he looked up and saw the horrible image of Aleksa bearing down on him like a bat out of hell. His face was scowling, he eyes burning, and his thick eyebrows were casting a tangled shadow over the rest of his pointed face.

"Aaaaarrrrggggghhhh! Broc yelled, throwing his arms up to shield his face. Then all at once a tiger, perching on a limb from within a jungle of trees jumped the dark figure, growling and snarling while he ripped out his throat.

"Fancy! Broc yelled, then ran toward the cat realizing the other had been an hallucination ... or maybe this one was ... or they both were, he didn't know anymore. She was crouched over Aleksa's body, her fanged mouth smeared with blood, and pulled back in a feral snarl. When she looked up at Broc, suddenly he slid to a stop. All at once she began backing away, and lost herself in the brush ... disappearing into it like a mirage. Why did she do that? Broc wondered. Maybe she was a mirage ... maybe ... he didn't know anymore, his mind was foggy. All at once he got a tremendous urge to follow her ... find her.

He looked into the large, gaping hole she had got lost in, and it looked warm ... inviting ... friendly. It began pulling him, and he willingly walked toward it. Where did it lead? To some utopia, maybe. He felt he could spend the rest of his life there with Fancy ... living together ... happy ... content ... then he suddenly realized he was being led like a lamb to the slaughter. All at once he stopped and yelled, "No! God, no ... I ... I can't... He resisted the pull that promised him a perfect happiness if he would just follow Fancy into the warm, inviting darkness.

As he stared, he saw Ravyn slowly appear. She slowly walked to where Fancy was standing looking like Eve in the Garden of Eden. She was young ... beautiful ... and she was calling to him. Seeing the two that he loved most in the world urging him to come was more than he could bear. He began walking toward them when he happened to notice that the friendly, inviting hole had grown into a giant, shimmering mouth ... the mouth of hell. He knew if he stepped into it, he would die. His eyes slid over to those he loved reaching out to him, and felt a longing so fierce he could hardly ignore it, but forced himself to stop.

As he turned to walk away, his body seemed to go one way while his flesh stretched toward the dark hole, and Broc struggled ... not only with the temptation, but with the pain of his flesh being almost stripped from his body. The last thing he saw was blood seeping from his pores, and his flesh being sucked into the hole. The shock ... the pain ... it was too much for him ... he passed out. He didn't know how long he'd been out, but when he woke up, he was on the ground not knowing where he was.

He jerked his head around and looked toward the tangled trees trying to remember something and was immediately given a mental picture of his brain. He saw it covered with dust, cobwebs and ashes, and for a moment he couldn't think. His thoughts scurried along, trying to remember. He looked around. What was he doing here? Where was he going? He seemed to remember that there was something he had to do ... someone waiting for him. He vigorously shook his head, then suddenly caught the bloody sight of Aleksa laying on the ground and everything came back.

He wasn't stupid enough to think you could kill a demon, but was hoping Fancy had slowed him down a bit. He drug the body to a grassy field, figuring he would pay Aleksa back for what he had done to him. It seemed strange that a pick and a shovel were there waiting for him, but he grabbed them anyway and dug a hole while keeping his eye on his watch. He wasn't worried. He could look up and see the train station from the empty field, so he had time ... plenty of time. He dug the hole nice and deep, then threw the tricky demon into it and covered him up. He looked around and saw a couple of boards and a bit of string that just happened to be handy. He fashioned them into a cross, and snickered. A cross was a brilliant idea, Broc thought. It might not hold him forever, but it might make him uncomfortable ... even immobile for a while ... just long enough for Broc to do what he had to do. Then with a maniacal gleam in his eye he held the crude cross high above his head, and against the icy orb of the moon that peeped eerily behind the churning clouds, he plunged the point down into the freshly dug grave.

Suddenly Broc's head jerked up when he heard the lonely sound of a train whistle in the distance. He looked down at his watch. What was happening? It wasn't time yet. Why was the train coming early? By his watch he had at least a half hour yet. He got to his feet and ran out of the field and into the street. He had only to cross the street, and he would be there. He began ... putting one foot in front of the other ... getting nearer ... nearer still ... then all at once he heard a loud ungodly sound and turned around. It was Aleksa. His tall, gaunt form was standing upon the rise of the grave, covered with smelly grave dirt, and bloody flesh falling from his neck. He lifted a foot and arrogantly kicked at the cross that fell flat and trembled in the whipping wind.

"Did you think your little trick would hold me? I'm disappointed in you, Broc. That trick only works with vampires."

"I don't believe it! Broc yelled back at him. The cross is love, salvation, all things good and holy ... everything you're not. You make a big show of kicking the cross around, but can you touch it with your filthy flesh? Crumble it up in your bony fingers? Destroy it ... or its meaning? No! Surely a person ... and I use the word loosely ... who can't stand to have the word GOD mentioned in his presence must also be allergic to the cross."

"So what? Aleksa smirked. Besides these two splintery boards that now lay powerless and broken, there are no crosses within miles, and your little speech, though I'm sure would be dynamite in a courtroom means nothing here. Suddenly Aleksa's eyes narrowed when he saw Broc scratching at his neck, desperately pulling out a shiny object he had hanging from a chain.

Broc's trembling hands held it up against the demon, and began backing away ... heading toward the train station. "You can't touch me, he said. "While I have this, you can't touch me!"

When Aleksa saw the cross, his face became pure evil, and he moved to step down from the rise. "You think that little trinket will help you? Think Broc, use your IQ. It's only a cheap material made of tin, and its glitter gives false hope. I could yank it from your neck without even trying."

"Then do it, Broc challenged.

Aleksa's face darkened, but he made no move.

"Why are you doing this? Broc yelled at the dark presence. "Why can't you just keep your word?"

"Only stupid people take the word of someone like me. Aleksa said, his eyes cutting into Broc. "Yes, Broc, you're stupid. Genius's often are. But it's all irrelevant now, isn't it. It became so when I found out you lied to me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Only that you told me you wanted to say goodbye to your lady love ... now I find you want to change things. His ugly, curling mouth pursed. "I can't let you do that."

"A lie? Broc yelled in anger. "You're upset over one lousy little lie? You've done nothing but lie and make my life miserable from the beginning, you bastard. Lie? You're the leader of lies ... the duke of deceit ... the king of chaos..."

"My, my, I keep forgetting what a way you have with words, he said, his lips stretching, exposing his slattish teeth. "You may as well give up, his voice rasped, dripping with pure evil. "You're magic words won't help you here. And you won't catch that train, Broc ... not in a million years."

"You watch me, you miserable cave dweller, Broc said, then turned and began running.

When Aleksa saw Broc turn and run, he opened his mouth wide and filled the night air with his dark, guttural, maniacal laughter. "You think you can get away from me, you miserable old bastard? Maybe I can't touch you, but I can still stop you! Before Broc could get out of his sight Aleksa lifted a claw-like finger and pointed it, his eyes playing an evil game as they cast a piercing look that cut as deep and sharp as any sword.

As soon as it hit, Broc stumbled and fell. He tried to get up, but stumbled again. He looked down at his hand and saw that it was becoming wrinkled. He reached up and felt his face that was becoming lined. He knew he was getting older by the second, but couldn't let that stop him. As the years cropped upon him, he continued running ... stumbling ... falling ... getting up ... stumbling again.

His hair turned from its glossy darkness to become streaked with gray. His eyes, once sharp became cloudy, and his ankles and knees suddenly ached with pain. He looked and saw a thick tree limb. Grabbing it, he used it as a cane until Aleksa shot a flaming arrow into the air, and burned it up in Broc's hand. He fell, glanced backward at the dark presence behind him, then turned and looked at how far he was from the station.

He clutched at the cross, knowing that as long as that cross was on his person, he at least had a chance. Maybe the demon could take away his youth ... impede his journey ... make it as hard for him as possible, but he couldn't kill him, and as long as he was alive he had a chance of catching that train. The cross was like a force around him, an impenetrable force that Aleksa couldn't penetrate, but if Aleksa somehow got it away from him, he was lost. His shaking hand continued clutching it as if it were a lifeline.

He felt as if his lungs were going to burst as he managed to drag himself up, then with a few leaps, a hobble, and a stretch of his arms that had taken all his energy, he was in the station yard. With his energy gone and his bones aching, he had no choice but to crawl along the ground. By this time his hair was completely white, and his face full of wrinkles. His clothes hung on him, and the old muscles in his body were screaming for rest.

He continued to crawl, then at last reached for the platform, pulling himself upon it. The lonely echo of the train whistle was closer now. Where should he be, he wondered. Near the edge, he decided. He needed to be near the edge. He looked back and saw Aleksa coming, and again held the cross out against him, causing the demon to stop in his tracks when he saw it.

Finally the abandoned ticket house was behind him, putting it between him and any burning arrows Aleksa might want to throw at him. He leaned against the creaking wood, his breathing loud, erratic, and short. His eyes darted around, expecting to see Aleksa at any minute, but for some reason the demon didn't show. After he had rested a minute, he pulled himself forward and made his way out near the edge.

His eyes peered down the long tracks into the darkness until he saw a tunnel of lights sweeping the brush. The soft rumble became louder and his eyes lifted, seeing a cloud of smoke billowing against the night sky ... white ... gray ... turning to soot ... smoldering soot flying in the air. The grains burned bright as they shot upward, forming a burning bouquet, then turned black and fell to the ground. Broc could see the train now as it came around the bend. It looked like a train from hell. The screeching of the wheels on the tracks caused sparks to fly and burn the grass nearby, turning it black. The sound was loud now ... the train was getting near ... pulling into the station. Broc looked back to see where Aleksa was, and saw his cape flying above the station house.

"Oh yes, the demon yelled, his slattish teeth wide in an evil smile. "There's something I forgot to tell you. You'll have to catch it while it's in motion! he shouted, a pleased sound to his voice.

"What? Broc yelled. "But I can't ... that's not fair, I..."

Aleksa's face grimaced into an even wider smile. "I know."

Broc's old eyes glared at him. He must have grown ten feet. He looked like a giant, standing on the old roof with his hands on his hips, daring Broc to even try and catch the train. Broc knew he would have a hundred tricks up his sleeve to hinder him, but he couldn't let that stop him. Whether it was in motion or not, he had to catch that train.

He turned away from the leering face of the demon and looked down the track at a train that seemed to be going so fast it would shoot right by the platform. It had to be going a hundred miles an hour. Broc's was scared ... how could he possibly catch it? The wheels screeched as if they were going to stop, but only slowed down ... and even at that it was whizzing by, causing a hot wind ... a wind from hell ... to bear down on him.

The time was now ... he had to catch it now.

Aleksa watched as Broc struggled, his back bent, his gray head shaking, and his legs wobbling, trying to stand. He reached out ... tried to run. He almost caught the rail beside the door that was passing, but fell. Aleksa laughed loudly, but his demented chortle quickly stopped when Broc stumbled back up, reached out again, and caught the next one. It jerked his already aching body, and his feet drug along the ground, his wrist getting weak, his hand slipping. Aleksa saw him struggling against the wind, trying to get the other hand up, and knew he would never make it.

And then Aleksa's wicked smiled turn to one of sudden shock. The old man had caught the friggin train! He couldn't just stand there, he realized, so with a turn of his wrist, the high grass and weeds turned to grabbing hands. They grabbed at his legs ... his feet ... reaching ... grasping ... pulling. But Broc kicked at them, and stubbornly clutched the rail while grunting loudly, using every ounce of strength he had. Aleksa's wrist flicked again to turn the iron rail to bubble gum, but was too late. By this time Broc had pulled himself up and was sitting on the top step of the train, still clutching that tiny cross! He raised his hand again, but just then the train went around a bend, and the demon found himself in the dark station alone. All at once he began cursing himself and jumping up and down on the roof that finally caved in, leaving him on the floor of the ticket house covered in boards, bricks, and plaster.

Broc leaned his head against the iron rail ... feeling its coldness, while gripping it with his hand ... afraid to let go ... afraid he would tumble into hell. His tired, cloudy, bloodshot eyes looked down the tracks, thanking God that they were finally out of the reach of Aleksa's evil tricks.

Aleksa sat among shards of plaster, and splintered wood, dazed. He couldn't believe what had happened ... that a weak old man that could hardly walk two steps without a cane had successfully caught a moving train. Again, he had made the mistake of underestimating Broc Sanford ... a mistake he'd made too often. He had barely begun his tricks when the old man grabbed a hand rail and refused to let go of it. Now Aleksa had to go back to hell ... back to the old man empty handed.

* * * *

Still getting his breath, and grimacing with the pain of his sore, aching muscles, Broc suddenly realized if he had missed it ... if he'd had to let go ... if his strength had failed ... it would be over for him. Now he knew why Aleksa wasn't as aggressive as he could have been. He had underestimated the situation. He had thought by taking away his youth at just the right moment ... just in time to keep him from catching the train ... a moving train ... he would be ensuring his victory. It seems his little cat and mouse game had lasted a little too long. Broc felt a chill, knowing if he had fallen as Aleksa had expected him to he would have become mangled in the trains iron wheels and killed. Aleksa would have had his soul with no need to keep their agreement ... it would be over. "Thank God, Broc murmured while watching the dark terrain go speeding by, and moaned while every bone in his body ached.

He finally laid back, feeling every bump, every turn, and looked up at the moon. It was full ... large ... with shadowy craters ... hills ... valleys. Long before anyone had ever thought of going to the moon, he and Ravyn had fantasized that the moon was made of sugar, calling a full moon a sugar moon, reminiscent of his favorite whiskey. He had kissed her many times under a sugar moon ... back in the days he had heaven in his arms and didn't even know it. Back then he'd had his girl, his whiskey, and his moon ... what more could any man want? As he lay looking at it, a flood of nostalgia rushed through him, and he felt as if he could reach out and touch it.

It was a good omen ... his sugar moon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Suddenly the whipping wind began to chill Broc. He hugged himself and scooted back against the wall of the small platform. He looked up at the door and wondered if he could go inside ... and if he did ... what he would find.

Just then he heard a distant roar and looked around to see where it was coming from. The sound grew, then all at once it burst, the sound all around him. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. It was a train ... a phantom train running alongside of them, but going in the opposite direction. He lunged forward, grasping the rail as the train chugged along. "Oh my God, he whispered when he caught a glimpse of himself behind the dingy glass of the train. What was happening, he wondered. The train still moved ... traveling down the track a hundred miles an hour, but the long-ago image of himself hovered in space.

Broc looked at the sad frown on the young man's face as he leaned his head against the glass and stared out at the passing scenery. He knew he was thinking of Ravyn ... the way he'd left her, and the doubts that haunted him. He'd tried to tell himself that she was just a woman like a million others. She had been an affair, that's all. They would both find someone else and have a life ... probably a better one. But if not, someday ... someday when he had made it ... well ... maybe he'd come back to her. He'd be rich by then, and could give her everything she was accustomed to. The best house ... clothes ... anything she wanted. He looked down at his threadbare suit and fingered it. It had been a sad look, but when he lifted his face back up he saw another look. It was a determined ... almost cruel look ... a look that said nothing or no one was going to get in his way. Broc knew what was ahead for the idealistic young man. He would finish law school, get his degree, then spend the next half of his life in courtrooms ... without the woman he loved ... without a family ... living on a combination of restaurant food ... newspaper clippings ... affairs ... the attention of the media.

He would be big allright, but it would come at a price ... a high price. He would struggle with an emptiness that would claw at his gut like cancer. He would prepare for cases existing on nothing but black coffee and ripped, torn, nerves ... afraid the next one would be the one where he would fall on his face. Ambition, that's the disease that would get him, and it too would grow ... and spread ... eat him up until there was nothing left but old bones, white hair, and pain ... not only in the body, but in the heart. He would walk the floor of countless courtrooms ... walk in the success of blinking neon lights ... walk to his grave. Broc heard the lonely whistle ... taking the young man not only miles, but years away from Ravyn. He watched as the ambitious youth finally lay back in his seat and closed his eyes to sleep ... the last peaceful sleep he would get.

Suddenly the image disappeared, drug along with the rest of the rumbling cars that were slowly getting swallowed up by the billowing smoke from the engine. As Broc watched it chug out of sight, he happened to notice the number 2034 printed in large white letters on the brick-red caboose. Strange, he thought. A number on a ghost train as if it were real ... as if it meant anything. He wondered for a moment, then put it out of his mind.

Broc fell back, mentally exhausted. He had to find a place to rest. He finally pulled himself up and slowly opened the door that would take him inside. When he slammed the door shut, the loud chugging sound of the train became muffled, and it was warm. His eyes quickly scanned the inside, but the train was empty. What did he expect, after all? Ghosts walking the aisles? Others traveling along with him back to their own pasts? He began walking down the narrow aisle and saw curtains of thick cobwebs gathered in corners, some stretching from the seats to the roof of the train. There was dust on the seats so thick it looked as if someone had just dusted them with talcum powder. It was musty, old, and the smell ... like old newspapers ... choked him. The fabric on the seats were worn in some places, and torn in others. He saw rusted metal exposed beneath cracked and gaping holes on the walls of the train ... then he received another shock. The number, printed up over the door at the end of the aisle, was 2034. Realizing it was the same train, his eyes automatically moved ... flew ... to the seat he had occupied years ago. Was it his imagination, or could he actually see the spot where he had leaned his head against the glass. He ran to it, and wiped his fingers against it. "Brilliantine? he asked himself as he put his fingers to his nose and sniffed. He couldn't believe that the fragrance was still pungent. "My God, he mumbled, then looked down at his fingers that were wet with the heavy grease men put on their hair back then. Had it happened fifty ... sixty years ago? It seemed like only yesterday. All at once it was too much for him. He suddenly forgot about the dust that was clinging to his clothes, and the brilliantine that stained his fingers, and leaned back. With a sigh he closed his eyes, and his exhaustion, along with the warmth, put him right to sleep.

Broc slept as if he were drugged. At first the blackness that surrounded him took no evil shapes, but he simply floated as if in someone's protective arms that rocked him like a baby. Then suddenly there was a sound. He looked around when he heard something that sounded like the bonging of a clock. He felt afraid. He was late for something. The clock was sounding, and if he didn't hurry, he would miss it.

All at once the bonging stopped, and he looked up and saw the giant round face of a clock with roman numerals hanging just over his head. With agonizing slowness the clock turned and the numerals slid from the face and began falling on him. As each one struck, he felt their sharp points, stabbing, cutting, piercing, each one clanking loudly as it hit the floor, then lay quietly around him. Again he looked up, and the faceless clock hung ... waiting ... it's strange numberless face quiet ... unnaturally quiet.

With a chill Broc noticed that the hands were long, sharp ... too long to fit on the face, it seemed, their points extending far beyond the rim. He could imagine the long, sword-like hand piercing him ... draining his life. All at once he heard an ungodly sound and noticed the odd looking clock was tearing away from the black nothingness ... and falling ... dipping ... rocking ... hurtling ... faster and faster, growing larger ... stretching into deformed shapes as it fell. The bonging sound became sharper ... piercingly painful. He lifted his hands and clamped them over his ears, then just as the giant face of the clock was about to crush him, he pitched forward, waking himself up.

He turned quickly and saw that the train was pulling into a station. He wasn't late after all, he thought, remembering the hideous clock in his dream. He pulled his sore body up, stumbled to the door, and out onto the small deck. He held onto the iron rail at the side, and watched as the train slowed, coming to a complete stop directly in front of a small set of red steps ... like a footstool. They seemd to be inviting him ... urging him to step down.

He saw nothing, only a swirling of smoke drifting past the train. Something was wrong. The train station was nothing but rickety buildings, high grass, and abandoned trains on pieces of tracks. It looked just as it did when he left. Had he made a complete circle? Had he come back to the station he left instead of going back to the one in his past? Because of what happened, had Aleksa summoned him back, refusing to keep his part of the deal after all?

Nothing moved ... everything was silent and still except for the smoke that drifted from beneath the train ... the train that seemed to be waiting for him to get off. He leaned out, looking down the length of the platform and saw no one. It was a ghostly, eerie picture. He hesitated as he took the first step. What would happen if he refused to get off ... where would it take him? And if he did get off ... where would he be? In some nightmarish land? Hell, maybe? He was confused. He had known it would be the same station ... he expected it to be ... but it was supposed to be changed ... be like it was back in 1931. Oh God, he thought as he looked around. He didn't know why, but somehow it hadn't worked.

There was nothing to do but get off.

Get off and be at Aleksa's mercy.

Slowly Broc began to descend the steps. Frightened ... unsure ... wondering what had went wrong until the mystical moment that his foot and the platform met. Suddenly the scene changed ... even Broc. He looked down at the old sack suit he remembered having, then saw his briefcase standing beside him. He moved his hand up and stroked a smooth face ... he was young again. He looked around ... voices were shouting, red caps were carrying luggage, and people were milling around on the platform, some saying goodbye to their loved ones, others boarding the train ... a new shiny Silver Eagle. The fog had become thicker, and the buildings looked new, even the sign, swinging in the wind, looked freshly painted.

Broc looked around. The women wore hats and gloves, and the men, old fashioned brown belted suits and hats, or caps. But something was wrong. When he looked down at his scuffed shoes, he realized ... all the feelings he'd had then were back again. The sight of his shoes sent a surge of embarrassement through him. His eyes moved to the worn material of the only good sack suit he had, and he felt ashamed. Even back then he couldn't wait to trade these threadbare rags in for the expensive material of a dark pin-striped suit, a bright tie, and a sexy fedora that would set at an angle on his head.

What chance did he have, Broc thought. No wonder he had wanted to get away ... make something of himself. His poverty was a heavy weight around his neck, his clothes an embarrassement. He felt like a hayseed going to the big city. Then suddenly he heard a voice and looked toward it. A face appeared out of the fog. It was Ravyn. What was she doing here? Her father had said she hated him. Her presence confused him.

"Ravyn, what are you doing here?"

"Broc, darling!"

"You shouldn't have come, Ravyn, Broc said, and instantly wanted to take it back. What he really wanted was to take her in his arms and tell her he loved her, that he didn't want to leave her, but he couldn't seem to control what he said, or how he felt.

"I had to come ... to beg you not to go. Don't leave me, darling. I just know if you do, we'll never see each other again."

"I have to go. Don't you see? I have to make something of myself. I'll be back, I promise. Broc couldn't stop himself. He was saying all the wrong things, his words being controlled by the ambition and determination that ate him up in those early years.

Ravyn began crying. "No ... you won't!"

Just then Broc caught a glimpse of a dark figure in a corner, and knew what controlled his tongue. Leaning against the building, surrounded by a tunnel of darkness, was her father who had come down to the station to make sure he left. Broc slowly slid his eyes back down to Ravyn, his voice anything but steady. "You've got to go, the train will be leaving soon."

"Broc, it doesn't matter to me what you do, she sobbed. "You've got enough education. You can get a job anywhere, darling. We can be together."

He pushed at her hands that seemed to be scratching for him ... pulling at him ... begging ... pleading with him not to leave. "Ravyn, it's not just a job I want ... I want to be a lawyer. I want a profession ... a respectable profession. I've got to make something of myself. Can't you see that? He felt a certain desperation as his eyes darted between her and the man in the dark corner. "God, Ravyn, don't make it so hard. I have to go. I have to do something with my life. I can't live on your money."

"Don't you love me? she sobbed.

"You know I do, but that's not the issue. I've got to get out of this town, I'm ... I'm suffocating. Can't you see that I'm doing this for you ... for us?"

Suddenly a voice bellowed out, "All aboard!"

Broc looked around, feeling harried. "I have to go."

Before he could leave, she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him. Their lips pressed together, bringing to mind all the wild, wonderful intimacies they had shared.

She clung to him, and as the heavy fog encircled them with its misty tentacles, Broc suddenly felt stifled, trapped. Her lips were soft ... luscious ... tasted like berries ... moist and warm ... so warm.

Broc never forgot that moment. He would think of it many times, and regret it. This is what Broc had asked for ... to experience that kiss one last time ... to feel her in his arms, warm, soft, and willing. But instead of enjoying it, he felt trapped ... couldn't breathe with her hanging all over him. He felt he had to get out, or suffocate, so he took a step backward, pulling himself out of her arms, then turned and swung himself up on the first step of the train.

Broc felt as if he were caught in a time warp. He knew what he was supposed to say ... what he was supposed to do ... but couldn't shake the feelings he was having. He remembered them now ... and they were a big part of why he left ... the disease called ambition had already infected him, and was eating him up. He wanted to stop himself, but he couldn't. It was as if everything had been set in motion ... a snowball getting larger as it headed downhill ... a killer tornado that destroyed everything in it's path.

He felt helpless when he saw all the events being played out just as he remembered them. You can't change things, he thought as he saw himself going out of her life again without saying all the things he had wanted to say ... without taking her in his arms and letting the train go on without him. Why, he agonized. Why can't I stop it? Then suddenly Broc saw the conductor remove the steps, and felt trapped on the train. It began pulling out, and Ravyn ran alongside it, reaching out.

He looked down at the platform. The train kept moving ... gaining speed. He looked up, and the fog was thick, almost obscuring her from his sight. Then he suddenly felt such a longing and reached out ... almost touching her. The train was chugging ... going faster ... when he suddenly became assailed with doubts that he was doing the right thing. His eyes darted between the steps that were no longer there, and the weight of the fifty thousand dollars in his briefcase. Then suddenly it didn't mean much. Nothing was important except her ... and their life together.

He looked down at the platform that was becoming blurred with the speed, and knew that drop was nothing compared to decades of years that would crop up between them. It was then that he came to his senses. "My God, what am I doing, Broc asked himself. He looked up and saw that he was losing her in the fog.

Losing her ... losing her ... losing her ... losing her.

That was the hiss the iron wheels of the train were making, and it whirled around in his head going faster and faster. He knew he had to act fast ... before the train gained anymore speed, so he quickly lunged forward ... and jumped off. As his feet hit the platform, the two lovers ran toward each other. When they met, she leaped into his arms, and they began laughing and turning, giddy with happiness. Neither one was aware of anyone else until in the midst of their happiness ... Broc heard the blast of a gunshot. He happened to see a bright flash explode from the dark corner where her father stood, then the love of his life ... his Ravyn ... slumped in his arms.

All at once everything disappeared, and the station was old again. Tall weeds and grass surrounding bits and pieces of rail where abandoned trains stood, was back again, and the faded sign that hung precariously from one chain, squeaked eerily in the wind. Broc felt crushed. Her father had shot her ... killed his only daughter. Was the bullet meant for him? Or had his rage controlled him so thoroughly that he pointed his gun and randomly shot into the crowd ... where his daughter just happened to be in the line of fire? Now Broc knew what would have happened had he jumped off that train.

He was meant to lose her ... one way or the other, and since he had stayed on that train he had saved her from one kind of death, only to be traded for another. All at once he heard a whistle in the background, and looked around. A train ... a different train ... a haunted train ... was chugging into the station, and stopped mysteriously. It sat there in the night, waiting. What was it waiting for, Broc wondered. Was he supposed to board it ... go back to the time he came from?

And then he saw movement within the train, and the door opened. Broc's eyes widened when he saw the old woman, still dressed in her old trenchcoat, and shabby hat. "Ravyn, he whispered, and watched her as she slowly came out on the train deck. She was frightened ... looking around. He could tell she was unsure about where she was, and asking herself the same questions he had asked. She apparently didn't see him, since her eyes scanned past him.

She stood on the steps of the train looking around, trying to decide what to do when slowly one foot came down to the next step. Only one more step to go, Broc thought. Take the next step, Ravyn, Broc silently urged, knowing what would happen when she did. At his urging, it seemed, she moved her foot down, and the minute it touched the platform, everything changed. She suddenly became young again, the familiar trenchcoat new, the tie pulled around her small waist, and her hat saucily angled down over one eye.

Their eyes met.

Ravyn gave a little squeal, and they ran toward each other with their arms outstretched. Broc lifted her up, spun her around and they both laughed like children. After kissing her until he was breathless, he asked, "Ravyn, I can't believe you're here. How ... what happened ... I don't..."

"That night on Cliff road, do you remember? It was when you first discovered who I was. I was supposed to die in a few days, so that night Aleksa appeared, willing to make a deal. You'd said some strange things ... something about going back in time ... not leaving the platform ... anyway, it gave me an idea, and I asked for the same deal. Thinking he had me where he wanted me, he told me about you, adding that in return for payment he might be willing to take me there."

"Payment ... you mean your soul?"

She nodded. "He was playing us against each other. He was confident of your death, and thought that he had an ace in the hole. The only problem was, he had to get me out of the way so you could concentrate on Suzette, his ace in the hole. So, we arranged for my death."

"Your death ... you helped..."

"I had to ... it was the only way."

"But didn't that make your soul accessible to Aleksa?"

"Yes, but instead of taking me to ... well he put me in some kind of ... I don't know ... netherworld, or something ... until the time came to..."

All at once Ravyn broke and tears flooded her eyes. "Aleksa knew, she sobbed. "He knew what hell would be for me, so the deal was that if you died, I ... I was destined to become a ghost, doomed to wait here for a lover that never came back. That would have been my fate ... the consequences ... my payment to him if it didn't work out."

"I can't believe you agreed to that."

"Broc, I had to. I would have agreed to anything to have the chance that we might be together again, and he knew it."

"The bastard, he manipulated you, Broc growled, hatred for the demon burning inside him.

"Anyway since there was no doubt who you were, I asked Aleksa not to take me until ... until we ... made love.

"My darling, he whispered, holding her close against him.

"Well, it finally happened and ... I ... I knew ... I was going to die, I just didn't know exactly when, or how ... but I never thought Suzette ... anyway, that's why I wrote the letter, I..."

"Oh, God, the letter, Broc interrupted with a tragic look on his face. "When I found out, I couldn't live with myself. His eyes looked at her, ashamed. "That night I knew I was doing exactly what Aleksa wanted me to, but I didn't care. I just couldn't live with the shame."

"It's okay, she murmured, stroking his face.

"Apparently Suzette ... well ... Aleksa had put her there for both of us. That bastard used my granddaughter to..."

"Shhhh, she said, putting her fingers over his mouth. "It's all behind us now."

He grabbed her hand and kissed it. "Thank God you're here, he said, loving the sight of her.

"Thank God we're both here. If you hadn't defeated Aleksa, this foggy platform would have been my doom."

"Now that we're together, I'll never let you go, Ravyn."

"Never, Ravyn said as they embraced once again.

All at once Broc released her, looking down at her with wonder in his eyes, "Ravyn, do you realize what has happened here? We've kicked that demon's royal ass right back down to hell, and we're young again ... with a new life ahead of us. Oh, God, sweetheart, what could be better?"

Filled with the excitement of their new life together, Broc lifted Ravyn and whirled her around. Then weaving their way through the shouting people, redcoats, and the steam rising from the train, they left, passing a trash bin on the way. The two lovers hesitated only long enough to drop in all the trappings of their former lives ... a briefcase stuffed to overflowing with college applications, one trenchcoat and one hat.

Without a backward glance.

PROLOGUE

After years of married bliss Broc and Ravyn eventually made it back to Northclyf, but not before an aspiring author found a strange package wrapped in plastic stuck down in the knothole of a twisted old tree. The book he wrote told the dynamic story of a mob lawyer, and the cover was that of a handsome, action figure dressed in a pin stripe suit and sexy fedora. Resting on his arm was a submachine gun pointed at the top of the book where bullets blasted out the title, Man of Fire. The fantasies of young women everywhere kept the hero of that novel young forever, making the book a huge success.

Unfortunately, no one at the home realized that the man of fire himself was sitting across from them at the table. But if they had looked closely at the photographs that had been strategically placed within the novel, they might have recognized the coffee eyes that have become dim, winged brows that are now white, and two mischievous dimples on a chiseled jaw that over time have been pressed into wrinkles. And even though the name of the dynamic hero is a fictitious one, there is a pair of stormy blue-green eyes that knows ... and remembers.

They also remember the wall of sand that is swept along the edge of the cliff nightly, the sound of the surging sea that moans and grumbles like the growl of a tiger, and the dark terror of Harper's Woods that for years swallowed up the tapping of an old woman's cane.

Today, the tapping continues, and the moving form, shadowy and frightening, still walks along Cliff Road, but when the curling fog separates, you'll see not one ... but two old bodies shuffling along slowly, while silhouetted against a giant ... sugar moon.

THE END

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Strictly Bi-: Best Bisexual Erotica-Jamie Joy Gatto

Suddenly Sexy: 20 Ultra-Hot, Ultra-Short Stories-Jamie Joy Gatto

Sweet Tastes of Seduction-Victoria Manley. A new collection of mind-bending erotica!

The Abduction of Anna - Rod Harden

The Boy Toy-Victoria Manley. Every young man's dream: to be seduced by an experienced older woman.

The Hostage - Lady Blade

The Hunting of Bambi - Rod Harden

The Perfect Wife: A Tale of Male Dominance - M. J. Rennie

The Queen's Slave Woman Book I: The Punishing of Jendri -

Susanna Valent. Another modern masterpiece of Sapphic B&D.

The Queen's Slave Woman Book II: The Training of Jendri -

Susanna Valent.

The Taking of Keeley - Reese Gabriel

The Training of a Concubine-Jim Miler. She was trained to serve.

The Sintown Chronicles Vol. I., II, III - David O. Dyer, Sr. Three complete adult novels in each volume! All about the dot on the map residents called "Sintown USA!"

The Watcher & Other Tales of Passion Unleashed - Rod Harden

The Woman's Around-the-House-Guide to Masturbation - Tina Hess

Tracy in Chains: A Tale of Sexual Punishment and Humiliation-Claire Thompson.

Trail of Seduction: A Novel of Frontier Passion-D. Musgrave

Trans-Sexual: Tales Along the Gender Devide-Jean Marie Stine

THE BEST OF CLASSIC EROTICA IN SIZZLER E-BOOK EDITONS

(From the Victorian Age to the Roaring Twenties)

The Altar of Venus

Autobiography of a Flea

Boudoir

Crumbling Facade

A Crumbling Facade

Darling

Depraved Angels

Ecstasy On Fire

Eveline

Fanny Hill

Innocence

Kama Houri

Lady F.

Love Pagoda

Mastering Mary Sue

Maudie

Memoirs of Madeline

Memoirs of a Young Rakehell

Misfortunes of Mary

Miss High Heels

My Life and Loves

Nadia

Night in a Moorish Harem

Nunnery Tales

Pauline

The Pearl Vol. I

The Pearl Vol. II

Perfumed Garden

Pleasures and Follies

Presented in Leather

Prodigal Virgin

Professional Charmer

Sacred Passions

School for Sin

Slave Women of the Czar

Suburban Souls, Volume I

Suburban Souls, Volume II

Suburban Souls, Volume III

The Love Pagoda

The Sweetest Fruit

Venus in India

Venus in Furs

Vice Park Place

Wanda

Way of a Man with a Maid

Whipped Into Shape

White Thighs

Young Adam

Youthful Days

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