“Are you trying to seduce me?” Jillian asked him.
I’m trying to find a way to save you, he ached to tell her.
“Would it frighten you if I was?” he asked instead.
“Yes,” she said simply, then added, “and no.”
“You’re so vulnerable, Jillian,” he said, and meant it from the best part of himself.
“And you are so very alone,” she said softly, not having any idea how shockingly accurate she was.
“You don’t know how alone,” he told her.
“Should I be frightened?” she asked.
You should be terrified. You should run as far and as fast as you can.
After having lived in both Tel Aviv and Moscow in conjunction with the U.S. State Department, Marilyn Tracy enjoys writing about the cultures she’s explored and the people she’s grown to love. She likes to hear from the people who enjoy her books and always has a pot of coffee on or a glass of wine ready for anyone dropping by, especially if they don’t mind chaos and know how to wield a paintbrush.
Something Beautiful
Marilyn Tracy
To my beautiful nieces, Penny, Sunday and Vicky
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
Steven Sayers turned his gaze from the lovely woman standing inside her sprawling adobe home to the waning afternoon sun. He closed his eyes against the red glow and held his palms outstretched. He felt the faint, delicate caress of ultraviolet light, took it inside his skin, letting it warm him, restore him.
He tried to remember what it had felt like to live in nothing but light, to be as insubstantial as the wind, as intangible as a dream. But ten thousand years of this body had stolen all but the dimmest of recollections.
Oh, to be one with the universe again, to stretch into infinity, a blaze of light, a burning star, pure reason and mathematics, blending with and sharing that searing core of energy.
Or to be here, once and for all—really, truly here—a mortal possessing all of a mortal’s chaotic longings, lusts, that eagerness for laughter, for joy. To feel a mortal’s simple acceptance of love, friendship, even pain.
But Steven Sayers was neither one nor the other. He was trapped somewhere in between. In many ways—in the sensations, the briefly intense moments of feeling—he felt he was more than he used to be. And then, when that brief moment passed, he always found himself less, aching for something he couldn’t quite grasp, couldn’t hold in his all too seemingly mortal hands.
For ten thousand years, longer than recorded human history, he’d roamed this earthly plane, forever searching for those few like him, those few whom he fought so fiercely. Ten thousand years of battles stretched out behind him, a harshly cut swath of destruction in a cosmic war started so long ago that habit had overtaken zealousness and painful memories of human contact made him shrink from what few offers of companionship had been given.
Those moments of contact, their shockingly swift intensity and their equally lightning-quick demise, had, over the years, made him reluctant to reach out, made him almost resentful of the very mortals he championed—if such as he could be called a champion.
So it was far easier to remain distant, to hold himself aloof from all forms of society. He’d tried entering it fully, and found it only brought pain and longing. And in ten thousand years, it was far simpler to disappear for decades at a stretch, waiting for the next portal carrier’s birth, spending solitary years reading, contemplating the secrets of humanity, pondering the questions of what comprised the soul, what separated the soul from the man.
Then, when he felt the portals born again, he would come forward, tracking their growth, following their development. And the battle would rage anew. And thus far, while he’d often failed to win, he’d never lost. Until now.
Now Steven knew with utter certainty that his ten-thousand-year hell was soon to end. The longings would end, the aching would fade away forever, no matter if he was victor or vanquished.
The autumnal equinox was only two weeks in the future, and the final battle would be waged on that night. With only two of them remaining, and so much hanging in the proverbial balance, no stalemates would occur this time. This one battle would end the war once and for all. Forever and, hopefully, for good. And only one could be deemed a victor.
In reviewing those ten thousand years, Steven decided he felt only two regrets. One was that he could never experience the single perfect moment he granted those unfortunate mortals who gave their lives for his war. He would never be able to snatch one day, one hour, from his ten thousand years and say, “Here it is, this is my finest hour.” Because for him there were only endless days and nights, all stretching together, links in a hellish chain, moments spent waiting for battle, fighting, only to wait again.
His only other
