One
Better to die here.
Ki’san curled up on the cold floor of the bridge. The slow, painful journey from the galley had been for nothing. His healer’s skills were of no use here; the other warriors aboard—the two who should even now be hunting this rare and precious world to capture mates—were already dead.
He held his hand against his ribs, gritting his teeth as he applied pressure to the wound. Ki’san coughed and tasted the tang of blood.
Internal bleeding.
It was a dispassionate thought, considering his impending end, one that would have done his teachers at the healing arts academy proud. Born two years before the Scourge ravaged his kind, when Hir was still a vibrant, powerful world, he was an unlikely candidate to be a healer. There was too much of the Brother suns in his blood, too little of the cool intellect of the triple moon goddesses—or so he had been told. The master healer, charged with the daunting task of overseeing the training of one so ruled by fire, urged Ki’san to reconsider his path, to choose the life of a g’hir warrior instead.
He refused.
He did not return to his clan’s enclosure, not even for the winter gatherings, and kept his full focus on his studies. With time and practice, he cultivated that elusive coolness in his heart, calmed the waywardness of his hot blood. By the end of his training he had won even the honored elder over. It was the healing master’s recommendation that secured him this coveted mission: to act as physician to the precious human females who would have returned with them to Hir.
Should have made for sickbay instead of the bridge.
But sickbay was a deck down. He would never make it now.
He lifted his gaze to the Karnack’s shattered viewport, to the last sight he would ever see: the clean, beautiful woods of Earth . . .
“You sure about this?”
“I’m sure.” Tara breathed in the scent of polished wood and pine, the clean mountain breeze floating through the mansion’s open door stirred her hair. Sunlight brought the stained-glass windows of the second floor landing alive, dotting the grand foyer with bright colors. Angels, their chubby faces frozen in merriment by the woodcarver’s skill, adorned the sweeping staircase.
“This place gave me the creeps when we were kids.” Behind her, Brice shut the heavy front door, his footsteps cautious on the marble floor. “And it’s even creepier now.”
As Vanderbilt was completing his ‘little mountain escape’, Biltmore, their great-grandfather had begun construction on Heatherbell. The château was a gift to his first wife, Rose, but that flower of New York society hadn’t lived to enjoy the house for even a year. It was Allaster’s second wife—and their great-grandmother—Leta, whose portrait now hung over the Italian marble mantle.
“It’s not creepy!” The mansion reminded her a little of the Met, with its gilded mirrored music room and Victorian furniture, the paintings and sculptures purchased at auctions forced by the fall of so many ancient European houses. “It’s elegant.”
“It’s rococo.” Her brother’s cornflower blue eyes made a dismissive glance at the dining room with its table for twenty, the wide crystal chandelier, the trompe l’oeil ceiling of blue sky and clouds. “And costs as much to keep up as it’s worth.”
He’d wanted to sell the place when their father died. His own preference was for the Hamptons or Palm Beach—or, apparently anywhere that didn’t remind him that their family’s fortune was built on the ruined lives of others’. He wanted nothing to do with a grand estate European mansion in Middle-of-Nowhere North Carolina.
Brice shifted his keys from hand to hand. “I don’t like the idea of you being up here all alone.”
“I won’t be alone,” she reminded him—again. “The caretaker’s lodge is just down the drive. Hannah will be in and out of the house to see to things. And the town’s not far. I know it’s not New York but—”
“Not New York? Brittle Bridge is barely a village! The nearest hospital is thirty minutes away and the local doctor probably moonlights as the town vet.”
“No more hospitals, Brice,” Tara said quietly. “And I’ve had enough of doctors.”
Her brother’s shoulders hunched. Where Brice was blond—the proverbial golden boy—she had chocolate brown eyes and hair. He’d always borne his strapping good health with contrition, an anathema beside her pale frailty. With scarcely life enough in their mother to carry her twins to term, he bore guilt for her death and the conviction that somehow, too, he had taken more than his share from his sister as well.
When they were little, Brice would bound into her room, eager to scramble up onto her bed and share his toys until all too soon her fatigue would cause Nurse to shoo him away.
As she and Brice grew older she sometimes didn’t see him for days at a time. His school days lengthened into lacrosse team practice and sleepovers with friends. When prodded into her room by a nanny or their father to keep her company, his gaze would slide away from hers, eager to return to running and horseplay, things she couldn’t do.
The bulk of her education had come by way of private tutors. Tuition for her prestigious academy seemed a waste since she missed more days than she attended, always the new kid again. During the rare times when she was well enough to go she was the odd outsider who didn’t know how to be a kid, fashioned so by her long days of isolation.
“If this is—” His voice was thick. “If it’s really what you want—”
“It is.”
“I guess—It’s not so bad here.” The tall windows of the parlor showcased the verdant gardens. Hannah’s husband, William, kept the grounds perfectly tended, year after year, just as Hannah kept the house, unoccupied now for nearly ten years, ready in case the family—now just Tara and Brice—should ever have need of it. “We’ll try it for a few weeks, and see how you do.”
It was an absurd pronouncement; Heatherbell was half hers. She was neither his ward nor a child and, at twenty-six, younger than he by only minutes. Thanks to careful management—and despite her constant medical expenses—she needed neither his money nor his permission to live here or anywhere else, especially not for what were likely her last months. He had no right to dictate whether she could stay in her own house or for how long—only the illness invading her body could do that.
Her brother loved her; she was the last of their family. She knew that somehow—by making it sound as if he had a say in the matter—he was trying to hold onto the illusion of control. She should say something comforting, something that would ease his guilt.
But she couldn’t muster the strength for it today. She’d long since worn herself out in buoying up the spirits of others—her father’s, Brice’s . . .
“I’ve got this,” she assured.
“When you’re ready to come home—”
She stepped into his hug. “Absolutely.”
“I’ve to get back to New York.”
He wrenched himself away. She hadn’t wanted him to come at all. She’d wanted to come alone, but the drive from the city would have been too much for her. And now—
“Brice!”
She caught up to him in the curved drive. He turned, catching her in his embrace.
“I’ve got this,” she said again, her cheek on his shoulder. He hugged her tighter.
The crunch of gravel made them look up. Will drove toward them slowly, his dark blue Mazda looking simple and sturdy as he parked next to Brice’s white Mercedes.
“Mornin’ Mr. Douglas,” The caretaker was silver-haired now, his skin ruddy and wrinkled from the sun, his brown eyes cheerful as he rounded the Mazda. “Miss Douglas.”
“Good morning, Will,” Tara said. “How’s the knee?”
“Better. ’Course my pro football career is over. And that thunderstorm last night sure didn’t help it any. Sent it aching for a whole day before.” The corners of Will’s eyes crinkled with his smile. “Hannah’ll be up shortly to get you settled in. She’s got the flower suite all set for you—best view of the formal gardens in the whole place.”
“Perfect,” Tara said, though she hadn’t been here since she was a teen and couldn’t recall which bedroom he meant. The house had twelve, after all.
“Hannah’s prepared the green rooms for you, Mr. Douglas.”
“I’m not staying after all. I’ve got a board meeting in the morning.” Brice shifted his weight. “But Tara—”
“We’re right up down the drive and just a phone jingle away.” Will indicated Brice’s Mercedes. “I’ll get your bags inside, Miss Douglas.”
“Thank you,” Tara said.
“Got time to take me over to the airport?” Brice asked, pulling his own bags from the Mercedes.
“Sure thing,” Will agreed.
Tara’s brow creased. “You’re flying back?”
“Can’t leave you in the middle of nowhere without a car,” her brother said, jumping in to help move the bags. Likely he too noticed Will was limping a little. Brice shut the trunk and cracked a grin as he tossed her the keys. “Don’t give me that look. You’re a fine driver.”
“Just not a very practiced one,” Tara mumbled. The keys were still warm from being in his hand.
“Well here’s your chance. Besides—” He indicated the surrounding North Carolina forest. “What are you going to do, whistle for a cab?”
She waved as they drove away, the Mazda too soon around the curved driveway and out of sight. Then there was nothing but birdsong and the sprawling château. The house was immense, absurdly large for one person and far too remote, too isolated for someone so very—
Tara squared her shoulders. “Right.”
She marched inside and shut the door behind her. She already felt better here than she had in New York, stronger somehow. In a burst of determination, Tara snagged one of her suitcases and carried it up the stairs by herself.
The sightless eyes of the carved wooden angels followed her progress to the second floor. If the flower bedroom overlooked the formal gardens it was in the back of the house, and it didn’t take her long to find it.
The double doors at the end of the hall—doors that were always kept shut—now stood open.
Tara put her bag down, the wheels clattering against the wood floor. Leaving the suitcase in the hallway, she crept closer, stopping just at the threshold.
Windows overlooked the Victorian maze below, the garden’s flowers a delight of spring colors. The sitting room was cheerful and bright, furnished with a fainting couch, upholstered chairs and a lady’s writing desk tucked into the corner. Through another set of doors, the canopied, carved bed too was a riot of floral fabrics, the theme repeated on the pink silk wallpaper.
This suite belonged to the lady of the house, though neither her grandmother nor—if family legend told true, her great-grandmother—had ever used it.
No one had.
Not since Rose.
These rooms had always been strictly off limits. Her grandfather, a stout, apple-cheeked man, gave her and Brice the run of the place during their summer visits. On one of her rare well days she’d come at a giggling run down the hall and thrown these same doors open, only to stumble to a halt a few paces in, frightened at the strangeness of the afternoon light through those tall windows, at the faded flower scent of the space . . .
Her grandfather had called to her from the doorway, his voice uncharacteristically tight. His rounded face was strained, as if the shade of his father’s first wife might appear at any moment, her silk dress rustling as she hurried into the sitting room to confront the intruders, her brows knitted with stark disapproval at her usurper’s son.
And she was supposed to stay in here?
They were pretty, feminine rooms, and William was right; the view was stunning. Clearly Hannah had gone to a lot of trouble to make this suite comfortable. The crystal sparkled in the sunlight, the wood polished to a high shine, fresh flowers were everywhere.
And it was ridiculous really, to be afraid of a ghost . . .
Tara gave a sudden laugh. She—of all people!—should be overjoyed to see a spirit. Any spirit, even the shade of her great-grandfather’s vengeful first wife. At least then she’d know she had a shot at an afterlife.
A few steps and she had her bag in hand again.
“Move your ass, Rosie.” Tara strode through the sitting room and into the equally cheery bedroom. “This is my room now.”
Her family had always kept a housekeeper, a nanny and—for her—nurses. And, since living in Manhattan meant that take-out and delivery was always accessible, Tara could barely make herself a sandwich.
It was mortifying to lurk about the place, her stomach rumbling, waiting like a child for Hannah to come make her something to eat. Especially when a pristine white Mercedes sat right outside and its keys were in her pocket.
Hardening her jaw, Tara settled into the driver’s seat, directions to Dolly’s Diner already in hand, eager to discover if Dolly’s still served that same chocolate turtle pie they had when she was a kid.
It was a bold decision to go off on her own into town, a strong one.
Just not the best choice for Brice’s car.
Steam—or smoke for all she knew—was still rising from the front of the car’s crushed and crumpled front as the tow truck driver climbed around the Mercedes, wiping his hands on the grease-stained rag. The tree was a bit worse for wear too.
“How bad is it?” Tara called.
From his place in the muddy ditch, the mechanic—Drane—squinted up at her. “Well, it ain’t good.”
“Three of them just”—she indicated the thick woods on the opposite side of the highway— “Just bounded out of nowhere and right into the road!”
“White-tail deer, probably. They’s all up through these mountains. Gotta keep an eye out for them, especially in spring.”
Tara rubbed her forehead at this unhelpful—and sadly belated—advice. She was damned lucky Drane and his tow truck had happened by at all. Clearly her Upper East Side cell phone had no intention of slumming it by finding a signal here in the mountains, and in all the time Drane had been examining the Benz not a single other car gone past.
“Good thing you didn’t hit one,” he continued sagely. “Last year I towed a Chevy what had a deer go right through the windshield. It sure weren’t pretty.” He indicated the Mercedes. “And least it’s the car what’s mashed up into the tree and not yerself. Ground’s still soggy from yesterday’s rain. If the tree hadn’t stopped you, the car could’ve slid halfway down the hill.”
“That’s me, lucky as ever.” She’d been white-knuckling the steering wheel, at half the speed limit when the deer burst from the woods and straight into her path. “But you can fix it?”
“Sure thing.” He shrugged his pudgy shoulders. “Take a while though.”
Tara frowned. “How long is ‘a while’?”
“Ain’t a lot of call for Mercedes’ parts around Brittle Bridge, ma’am.” His grubby baseball cap read ‘Drane’s Garage’ and he pushed the hat back to squint up at her. In his early thirties at most, he already showed the stamp of sun and beer and tobacco. “I’m gonna have to order all the parts. Can’t even start till we get everything in and I can’t say how long that’ll take.”
“Couldn’t you tow the car to Asheville?” She’d never owned a car and the way his eyebrows shot up had her wondering just how stupid a question it was. “They’d have the parts there, right?”
“They might, but then again they might need to order some all the same. That’s a long-distance tow, though, and you gotta find someone else to do it ’cause I don’t. But it ain’t gonna save you much in time if they need to wait for parts there,” he warned. “And it sure ain’t gonna save you any money to tow it all the way to Asheville.”
“How much will it cost to repair?” Not that it mattered. She had to get Brice’s car as spotless as the moment he’d left it with her or she’d never hear the end of it.
No, that was wrong. Her brother might rail at her for a few weeks, a few months maybe.
Then I will hear the end of it; then I won’t hear anything at all . . .
“Can’t even say what it needs,” Drane indicated the smashed front. “Not till I get it up on the lift and take a look. Then I gotta price the parts—”
“But if you tow it to town you can fix it there?”
He shrugged again. “’Course.”
“All right.” It wasn’t like she had much choice. “Do you need a check or something to get started?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Where you from?”
“East Seventy-Second Street.”
“Don’t drive much, huh?”
She glanced at the polished front bumper now curved around the unfortunate oak. “Not much, no.”
“Tow’ll be one-oh-nine but I’ll waive it if my boys do the work. You want a ride to town or you got somebody coming?”
“Actually, what I need is a ride back. It’s not far up the road—Heatherbell.”
“You just start there?” Drane’s bow knitted. “I thought Will and Miss Hannah were the only—”
“I’m the owner. One of the owners, anyway. I’m Tara Douglas.”
His gray eyes widened and Tara knew her car repair bill had just doubled.
“Man,” Drane put his hands on his hips, his beer belly straining the worn cotton of his gray button-down shirt. “I hear you could fit half the town in that place.”
“It was built a long time ago,” she demurred. “Families were bigger, dozens of house guests—you know.”
“Well, I can’t say as I do.” A bumblebee, fat as his thumb, hovered near his ear and Drane waved it away as he started up the hill. “But I do know I done missed dinner yesterday thanks to that damn thunderstorm. Lived up here my whole life and I ain’t never seen lightning like that but Vera wasn’t hearing it on account of me missing supper twice already this week. Late one more time and I might just be asking to sleep on that fine porch of yours, Miss Tara. And if you’re wanting a ride in the other direction too, you best let me get to it.”
Tara sat in the truck while he worked. He’d left the air on for her but it didn’t cool the cab much with him hopping in and out, muttering curses under his breath as he maneuvered to drag the car from the ditch. Between the slope of the hill, the tree, and the angle, it was five forty-five before he worked the Mercedes free.
“What time’s supper?” she asked as he put the truck in drive, turning toward Heatherbell.
He pressed down on the gas petal, his face pulled with worry. “Six-thirty.”
She hadn’t told Hannah or Will she’d be going out, so unless they deliberately looked for her they wouldn’t even know she was gone. If Drane hadn’t stopped to help she’d still be sitting there beside the highway with a useless phone and a crumpled car.
“You don’t have to take me all the way to the door,” she offered, the pavement speeding by. “You can just drop me off at the turn. I’ll walk up to the house.”
“You sure?” he asked, relief plain on his face.
“Absolutely. The caretaker’s house is near the road. I need to stop by and tell them what happened anyway. You know, if you ever get tired of mountain living”—she flailed at the cab’s ‘oh, shit’ handle to keep upright as Drane took them barreling around the next curve—“come to New York— you’d make a great taxi driver.”
“I might just, if Vera’s made her momma’s cornbread and I ain’t there when it comes out the oven,” he muttered darkly. “She’s got herself one hell of a temper these days.”
His tires sent the drive’s dirt flying and Tara was thrown back against the seat as Drane slammed on the brakes.
Stone pillars, each bearing a bronze plaque engraved with three heather stalks—and a marked resemblance to the French royal fleur-de-lis— marked the entrance. Around the bend in the dirt road, the roof of the caretaker’s lodge peeked through the pines.
“Here ya go, Miss Tara.”
He shoved a surprisingly heavy plastic toy car at her. It was white, styled to look like a fifties hot rod and had ‘Drane’s Auto Experts’ and a North Carolina phone number emblazoned in orange across the roof. He reached past her and pulled the handle, opening the door in a none too subtle prompt for her to get out.
A bit fearful he might just follow up with a shove, Tara scrambled down onto the road, the plastic car clutched in her hand.
“Gimme a call tomorrow afternoon.” He gestured for her to close the door. “Should have an idea what we’re looking at by then.”
He let the brake off the instant the door shut. If she hadn’t jumped back he would have run right over her foot. Drane had the truck turned around in a roar of engine and rubber, already racing back toward Brittle Bridge and the hot-headed Vera.
Tara held up the plastic toy car in her palm. The metal along the sides gave it away.
It’s one of those pocket multitool things.
Tara glanced the way Drane had taken off. Out here in the country this was one business card you’d never toss in the trash. You’d keep this thing handy in the glove compartment, tucked into your jacket pocket, stashed in the catch-all drawer in the kitchen.
That beer-bellied redneck with the filthy fingers was smart.
And her car repair bill was probably going to triple.
Sighing, she dropped the car-shaped gadget into her bag. She pulled her crossbody’s leather strap over her shoulder and headed up toward the caretaker’s cottage. The warm golden light yielded to the cool shade of the tree-lined lane, the road gently sloping upward as she trod. Her fine wool cream-colored trousers were already the worse for the climb out of the ditch and she kicked at the dirt drive with her sadly scuffed Chanel flats.
Now she had to show up at Hannah and Will’s door, confess her driving debacle and ask for supper too.
Hardly how she’d wanted her first day of independence to go.
At least I’ll get something to eat.
She might have gotten some breathing room from her overprotective twin, but she could hardly call herself ‘independent’ when she—and the house—had two full time staff on call to—
“Goddamn it,” she muttered.
That wasn’t the caretaker’s lodge.
What she’d mistaken from the highway to be Hannah and Will’s stone cottage was in fact the crumbling remains of one of the many outbuildings.
Her grandfather’s efforts to make this a self-sustaining estate like Biltmore hadn’t come to much. Heatherbell was too far from the still tiny town of Brittle Bridge to lure local workers, and too remote for day tourists. As attracting a farmer or beekeeper or brewer to live on the estate became less and less feasible, and faced with the rising cost of the upkeep, her grandfather had simply let many of the outbuildings fall into disrepair.
And right now she had no fucking idea which one of those falling-apart buildings she was looking at.
Or in which direction the château lay.
Tara half turned back to the paved road, then hestitated. She hadn’t seen a single other car on the ride back either. Drane was likely ten miles down the road by now—and she doubted he’d come back if she called, no matter how plump her checkbook. A quick look at her cell showed calling him—or anyone else—wasn’t an option anyway. She still had no coverage.
But heading back to sit sulking by the highway awaiting a ride when walking a few more minutes would get her to her destination, seemed the epitome of Upper East Side brattiness.
At least she was somewhere on the two thousand-acre estate; the stone pillars near the highway were proof of that. This road was packed dirt, clear of seedlings and debris so plainly it was being maintained. It had to lead either to the château or to the caretaker’s lodge or to the supply building. If she followed it she was sure to at least see something she recognized, or maybe even hit one of those precious pockets of cell coverage.
Her stomach gave an indignant rumble as she trod up the hill, but thankfully she was well enough to take on the walk today.
I could have rented a flat in Paris for God’s sake! Paris is gorgeous in May.
Twenty minutes later Tara stopped, panting a little from the incline wondering if this road just meandered on and on the length of the whole damn Smoky Mountains. Until today her two-tone Chanel flats had only carried her from lobby to car to restaurant and back again, and her feet were feeling it. The soles were so thin she might as well be barefoot, and sweat ran down her back under her silk knit sweater.
Tomorrow I’m either on a flight to Charles de Gaulle or in town buying some damn hiking boots!
She still hadn’t caught sight of the sprawling main house or any landmarks. But she hadn’t been to Heatherbell in over a decade, and knowing her way through Central Park wasn’t the same as having a keen sense of direction in the woods of North Carolina.
Her phone still had no reception, but the sky was clear and she had at least two more hours of daylight. To the left was a gently sloping hill. To her right the hill continued downward into thick forestland. Ahead, the path continued to hug the trees, obscuring what might lay that way. Behind her was nothing but the crumbling outbuilding, an apparently rarely-traveled road and more dead zone for her cell.
Always before this moment, someone—her father before his death, a nurse or doctor, Brice, a housekeeper, a driver—was at hand to guide or decide or take care of things for her.
While other young women headed off to prom and graduation, to picturesque New England universities and roughshod European travel with friends, most days she’d been too ill to venture outside at all. The world had spun on without her, while she remained in her penthouse over the park with mostly books for company, forever poised and unable to soar, like a butterfly trapped in amber.
This strange path warmed by the southern sun had a softer, more peaceful echo of that arrested flight, as if somehow, here, she stood outside the world of parents and caregivers and peers—a place that existed beyond death itself . . .
She left the road.
Tara bent her head, fighting the incline, hoping the view from a higher elevation would reveal where the hell she was. Sun had helped dry out the road, but under the tree cover the ground was still soggy from the deluge yesterday that everyone kept talking about. Damp earth filled her shoes, but relief brought a smile to her face when she reached the hilltop. The château was a half mile off at least, but she could make that.
Tara steadied herself against a nearby tree to head back down. But there, on the other side of the hill, at the bottom of the gorge was—
Something.
If it was an aircraft, it lacked the shape and slope of any she’d ever encountered. Larger even than the crumbling outbuilding, it rested at a slight tilt at the bottom of the ravine among broken and cracked trees. The force of its landing and the damage around it lent it the frightful look of an object hurled down by a giant—and very angry—child.
Military?
The inner bark of the cracked trees around the craft was splintered and pale, untainted by time, the dark metal of the aircraft still gleamed in places.
Resting as it was at the bottom of the gorge, and with the woods as thick as they were, this craft would be hidden from sight from anywhere save the rim of this hill. It likely wouldn’t be spotted from the roads of the estate, the caretakers’ cottage, or even the highest floor of the main house.
Certainly she hadn’t seen it or heard the collision, not from the road and not from the house—but she’d only arrived a few hours ago. If NASA or the Air Force had dropped a billion-dollar craft on her property William would have mentioned it, but didn’t look like anyone had been out here at all. Someone must have heard—
The storm.
Tara’s grip on the tree tightened. If last night’s lightning and thunder was a bad as Drane said, that could have covered the sound of a crash, even one this big. Anyone who might have witnessed it would have been driven inside by the downpour.
No one knows it’s here!
A glance at her cell showed not so much as a single bar. Taking the road would get her to the main house to call 911; cutting across this gorge would get her to the château in half the time. This hill didn’t seem too steep for her to manage, not with trees to ease her way down and ones on the other side to help pull herself up.
And someone could be hurt down there.
Suddenly she didn’t feel the exhaustion or the hunger or even the grit in her ballet flats. All that mattered was getting there, being the first to help instead of the one always in need —
Even with her exercise usually confined only to city walking, making her way down wasn’t as tough as she’d expected; the slope was gentle enough, and gravity was on her side. Instinctively Tara turned her body sideways, using whatever tree was nearby to steady herself as she descended. She glanced away from the craft just long enough to find her footing, hardly able to keep her gaze from it at all.
Birdsong, bright as the spring afternoon, filled the sun-dappled woods as she reached the bottom of the hill. The crash had left deep gouges in the earth which she carefully picked her way across. Her skin tingled as she paused at the tear in the vessel’s side. The metal of the craft was warm under her palm as Tara leaned in.
She knew the smell of the city, the exhaust fumes of cabs, the hardiness of the Hudson river. She loved the scent of pine, a fragrance she always associated with Heatherbell. Too well, she knew the sickly aroma of hospitals when she should have been at birthday parties, semi-formals, graduation. But this scorched machinery held a preternatural nip that sent her heart pounding . . .
She should run, now, make for the caretaker’s cottage or the house, get Hannah to call the sheriff, get Will out here with his shotgun.
Any sensible person would.
But who’s got time to be sensible?
Her cell was good for one thing at least—it had a flashlight so she could see her way.
She was mindful not to cut her fingers on the jagged edges as she eased inside but not careful enough with her trousers, managing to catch and rip the hem. The interior of the vessel was gray metal, the floor matte black. There were bins affixed to the walls, some stacked as high as the ceiling.
Storage room?
Strange to think that whatever this was, whoever this craft belonged to, would need something as mundane as a closet. But whatever those containers held, it couldn’t possibly be as enticing as what might lay beyond the room’s door.
There was no knob, and a light experimental push got her nowhere. A simple panel, placed too high, as if it were intended to be used by someone far taller than she, was affixed to the wall beside the door.
A wave of her hand over the thing did nothing. Tara touched it cautiously, to see if it had any give—
And gave a yelp as the door suddenly slid open.
She froze, heart hammering, but nothing leapt out at her. The place possessed a silence as deep as a crypt.
Tara stepped inside. Faint blue-tinted light illuminated this room. The equipment was unfamiliar but the smell—the antiseptic sharpness of sterilized metal instruments—had long since seeped into her skin. Two very long beds—operating tables, maybe?—lay in the center of the room. One was dark, the other alight, its controls softly blinking in reassuring green.
Tara, who’d seen more hospitals from Manhattan to Zurich in her twenty-six years than most doctors would tour in a lifetime, had never seen anything like this.
The edges of the medical bed were smooth and warm to the touch. The room’s equipment was for the most part in order, despite the clear violence of the craft’s landing. Much of it was held in place as if designed to withstand rough weather.
The infirmary was unoccupied, but another door and another too-high wall panel beside it lay on the opposite end of the room.
Instinctively Tara tried to soften her footsteps but the heels of her flats made sharp clicks against the metal floor. This time she knew to rest her hand on the panel, and with a sickly scraping sound the door opened.
Faint lights ran along the baseboards of the deserted hallway. Light panels too ran where the ceiling and walls joined, illuminating the space well enough that she shut her phone’s light off to save power.
Heavy doors lay on either end of the hallway, one to the bow, the other aft. But whether this craft were outfitted like a plane with the cockpit at the front, or like a yacht with the control room amidships, in an emergency at least one of the crew should have made for the bridge. And the height of the vessel made it unlikely the bridge was on this lower deck.
She needed to go up.
The question was how to get there.
Tara turned right, heading for the bow. A touch of her hand to the panel opened the door, and she immediately wrinkled her nose at the burnt smell. The lights here flickered but halfway down this hall another, larger door stood open.
Elevator.
Tara gave the gleaming interior a distrustful look. Alone, with no service on her cell, she wasn’t eager to step into that thing. An alcove a few steps down showed she wouldn’t have to.
As long as she was willing to climb, anyway.
In theory she could climb a ladder. She’d seen other people do it, she’d seen it done in movies but never in her life had the opportunity presented itself for her to climb one. Neither her father, nor Brice, nor her many caretakers—whose livelihood depended on keeping her alive—would have permitted it anyway.
The doorway on the next level was lit by faint sunlight.
Scary elevator or scary ladder?
She pulled out her phone, using its light to get a better look. Between her and that doorway were metal rungs but unless she held her phone in her teeth she wouldn’t have enough light; she’d have to feel her way up through the darkness.
And if she fell—
At least it would be here, doing something, living, not lying helpless in a hospital bed. That was why she’d insisted to Brice she come here, wasn’t it? To fully live, for however long she had?
She wrapped her hand around the highest rung she could reach and gave the cold metal a tug. It felt firmly set into the wall, but it wasn’t the ones she could reach with her feet firmly on this deck she was worried about. Finding another way up there—like, say, a nice friendly staircase—meant more exploring with no assurance of success. The means to get where she wanted to go were right here.
Angling the light past that doorway revealed a smooth ceiling. Nothing should fall on her while she was climbing anyway.
Tara slipped her phone into her crossbody then swung the bag to her back and out of the way. She took one last tug on the highest reachable rung to test its soundness and stepped up.
It was awkward going. In her thin flats the metal cut across the ball of her foot and the rungs seemed too far apart, forcing her to use more of her thigh muscles to hoist herself up. She had to step up with one foot, then bring the other beside it, then reach for the next rung.
Hardly the speedy climb she’d seen in films.
Tara was halfway to the next level, in the darkest part of the tube, when it hit her that she had never been this far off the floor under her own power before. A glance downward made her clutch at the rungs.
Okay, don’t look down! Absolutely no looking down!
There were only a couple more feet to go. It would take her longer to climb down than up now. Tara forced her focus on the next rung and pried her fingers off the one she held to reach for it.
She was breathing hard, her legs burning, her whole body quaking when she reached the opening at the next level. There was a handle affixed next to the doorway, clearly to help one get from the door to the ladder and vice-versa.
It was also completely out of reach.
Tara scooted over, bringing her body as close as she dared. She hooked her left arm around the rung and reached out with her right hand to clasp the handle.
Standing safely on the floor below, she hadn’t really processed that getting through that doorway meant letting go of the ladder. She gripped the ladder painfully hard to her chest and the fingers of her right hand, clutching the handle, started to tingle.
I’ll climb down. I’ll just climb back down and go back out the way I came. I’ll find Will or Hannah, get back to the house where my fucking phone works and—
It was very soft, somewhere between a groan and a rumbling growl. If Tara hadn’t been holding so still, so utterly frozen, it might have been lost just in the rustle of her clothing.
It was the sound of someone suffering.
Tara yanked on the handle and used her momentum to get her right foot over and pull herself the rest of the way. As soon as both feet were on the deck she took a quick step into the safety of the hall.
I did it. I actually did it.
She rubbed at her tingly hand. On her left was the curve of the lift and a dark hallway beyond. To her right was sunlight—and whoever had made that sound.
“Hello?” Her voice was tight, strange to her own ears, as she edged forward.
The door gaped, as if it had broken part way and been forced the rest of the way open. Even with the door a quarter closed the doorway was a wide one, and Tara easily slipped through. The cockpit was surprisingly large. A vast curved window—partly smashed inward—let in thin rays of sunlight dappled by the shade of the tall trees beyond. The sweet smell of pine and the faint warm scent of cinnamon filled the room.
In the pilot’s seat, a man slumped forward over the dark controls, his broken arm dangling at his side. Another man, his back to her and his face turned away, lay on the floor. They were huge, both in height and brawn, but she had nothing to fear from them.
They were far past her—or anyone’s—help.
But a third man, sprawled as if he had been inching toward the cockpit’s broken window, lay with his face toward the light, bloodied but breathing. He too was powerfully built beneath his blue clothes, and his face . . .
Her heart thudding, Tara knelt beside him. He was clean-shaven, his brow, strong jaw and slightly hawkish nose suggestive of a stubborn nature. His skin was tan, like one more suited to the wild than the confines of any dwelling. There were touches of seriousness beside his generous mouth and eyes; his hair was long, black and silky against the metal of the deck.
But it was the ridged forehead that held her captive. With shaking fingertips Tara traced the furrows that ran from his brow to his hairline. From deep within his chest came a very soft rumble and his eyelids fluttered.
His gaze met hers, his golden eyes glimmering with otherworldly radiance—