the darkness.
He appeared then; his long black hair hanging well past his shoulders. He was bare to the waist; his body sculpted, starkly white in the dim lighting. She smiled, hearing the roar of the crowd over her own heartbeat.
Dig your grave
cold and deep
burn out your soul
then try to sleep
pray to the dead
for your soul to reap.
He bent over in a crouched position, the maniacal music sending out a harsh intensity.
Your words mean nothing
There’s no need to repent
When this life is over
the legacy’s spent
“Come on,” Rebekah said, taking hold of Maggie’s hand, pulling her through the straining crowd, closer to the front of the stage.
Breeding jealousy and malcontent
He’s twisted sadistic
Controlling
Simplistic
Maggie saw him clearly now. His nose was large and hooked, hinting at a Native American heritage.
The music changed tempo. The slow hesitant reverberations of the bass guitar sending a wild flutter deep into her suddenly shortened breath.
A soft breeze lifted his hair, turning it a deep purple as the stage lighting dimmed. He was well defined; his hips and pelvic muscles exposed above what could only be a loin cloth.
He stepped out, scanning the sea of faces before him, seeming to stop as they rested on her. She looked away, feeling a rush of heat. The lights dimmed to black. She felt his voice move through her like a current. She began to move her hips in a graceful dance.
“You all right?” Rebekah grimaced.
“You’re not going to—”
Maggie grinned. Her eyes dancing with a familiar light. She smiled sweetly, motioning back to the stage before sprinting off into the crowd.
“Awe, hell no.” Rebekah grasped. “Are you fucking kidding me!”
She cried, pushing through the masses, calling her name as the distance between them stretched.
Chapter 2
She looked like none who came to worship at his altar. She was as natural as rain; her long dark hair fell in a multitude of silken whorls to a lean and slender waist. She wore loose fitting jeans and a T-shirt several sizes too large.
Her hands were soft, her nails even and trimmed. They were not idle, those hands. She was forever creating, even the blank canvas of her shoes was not left untouched. They had been skillfully penned with delicate paisleys.
He drew back, watching her through a veil of dark lashes.
“Wake up, Maggie,” he intoned. His voice reaching her through the vast distance of an unnatural sleep.
Her eyes opened slowly, cautiously, looking at him with a widening expression of horror. She wanted to look away but couldn’t.
His eyes were changing, their color darkening, swirling, merging, from blue to green and finally to grey. His stunning gaze traveled from the top of her head to the tip of her toes, his unhurried perusal causing her inexpressible agonies.
He was dressed completely in black, from the spider web of material that shrouded his lean chest, to the indecently low cut of his leather pants.
He sat beside her, close. She was in a bed. His bed? She opened her mouth, yet no words would come. Her eyes darted away.
“Oh,” she whispered. Her voice rusty.
She seemed to diminish in size. All but her eyes. They stood out, large, and shining. “Hello,” he said gently.
“Hi.” She could feel the heat of his stare. “I’m Sorry.”
“For what?” he said softly.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, breathless. “Probably something—” she said, below her breath.
He caught her hand in his, holding it captive when she would have pulled away. He turned it over, bringing the delicate wrist to his mouth.
“Nothing has happened.” His hand was cold, his fingers long, nails painted black.
“You are safe.”
“Please…” she pulled free, searching wildly for a way to escape this particular moment. She stopped, stunned by the image she saw, hanging just above her head. Her eyes flew to the bottom right hand corner.
Magdalene Paine.
She couldn’t believe it; one of her paintings hung in his house?
“It’s actually rather good,” he said with a hint of pride. “It was your first if I’m not mistaken.”
Her eyes were fixed on the likeness of Jesus. It was a disturbing image, not the usual subjugated reflection of his suffering on the cross but an accurate depiction of the violence and torture he’d endured.
He rose with a languid stretch, covering his eyes with the same small black shades that he’d worn during the concert.
“We have company,” he said, turning his face away from the brilliant radiance enveloping the space right beside him.
A figure appeared, indistinguishable. A shadowy silhouette backlit by a brilliant sphere of light. It had imprinted itself across her vision, blinding her momentarily.
“Brother.” His voice was mild, friendly.
“What do you want, Lucien?”
He was unbelievably handsome, with long flaxen hair and almost colorless blue eyes. He turned to her, splintering her with those distinctive orbs.
“Perhaps a moment alone,” he said gently, giving the impression that he spoke to her.
He sighed, glancing at her briefly before leading the way through the room’s heavy wooden door. She was alone and abruptly so. She looked around taking in the rich furnishings.
“Rebekah!” Maggie whispered aloud.
“Where the hell are you?”
She looked at herself; she was wrinkled but fully clothed, so nothing bad happened, hopefully.
She had on several occasions, awoken to find herself in unfamiliar surroundings, but this took the cake. The sheer size of the place was outrageous. Her whole apartment could fit into this one
