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Chapter 3.

Almost a month went by after the morning I woke screaming without knowing why.

It was an eventful month – being beaten up by the Rattrays, and being rescued by Bill, Malcolm, Diane and Liam's little visits and the visit to Fangtasia, the loss of my virginity and the loss of my connection with my brother Jason, even though it was cautiously returning…most of all, so many deaths. My beloved Gran, Dawn, Maudette, the Rattrays, Uncle Bartlett, Malcolm, Diane, Liam and Bill's friend Harlen plus an unknown human. I was not the same little waitress from Bon Temps, that's for sure.

The night before Bill and I answered Eric's summons to Fangtasia, I took Bill's blood to make me stronger and help my control of my telepathy. This was pretty exotic stuff for a telepathic barmaid from northern Louisianna…

Once again I am standing at the top of the stairs, but this time I'm shocked beyond belief. The grasses are shorn and the remaining stubble is gray, the crossbeam has cracked vertically, and the righthand section has completely collapsed, and the steps are now shattered and barely useable, only a narrow winding tread remains amongst the rubble piled on and around them. Everything is decayed and desiccated. Even the weeds growing through the cracks in the concrete and marble are spotted and diseased.

I take the first step and draw back in horror as a small black snake slithers rapidly across my path and disappears into the rubble. Peering down, I see more snakes going backwards and forwards, up and down and across the remains of the stairs. Snakes have always terrified me, and to proceed further is suicidal.

But, something stronger than my fear is pulling me down those steps.

Unlike the earlier dreams where I was constrained to follow the path, I realise I can make my own decision. Do I turn away and avoid the very visible risk there in front of me, or do I impulsively follow that invisible pull, even though it may turn out to be just as much of a risk?

My two sides, the controlling one and the driven one war within me, yet my bare left foot takes another step down and bears my weight, then my right lifts and moves forward. The decision is made – no regrets.

With each step, the snakes disappear into the rubble, even the largest one taking up what remains of the bottom step only gives a cursory hiss before sliding away nonchalantly.

The marble floor is cracked and littered with shards of stone, concrete and glass, but my eyes and feet are, as always, drawn to the window. The cladding on the frame is shattered but the opening remains, and again I draw myself up onto the sill to peer out hopefully.

My hope is not rewarded. The hills have great inverted v-shaped crevasses where slips have taken out large chunks of rock and soil, and the lake seems shrunken and dirty. Trees have fallen everywhere, and large jagged branches of the magnolia are strewn on the moss and across the stream, which looks dried and diminished. The shadows cast by the harsh light of the setting sun through the broken remains are not soft or warm, and their knifelike edges only exacerbate the damage.

Only the large boulders beside the stream and in the moss remain rounded in all their shades of gray. One long one under the shadows next to the trunk of the magnolia stands out, almost pearly. In the dimming light it's even harder to see so I slide over the sill and walk towards it through the rubble and broken branches.

Only a few steps and I see it's a person, lying on one side in a foetal position, head, arms and legs tucked up against a pale torso. A few more steps and I can see lines and dark splashes across the visible parts of the long body.

I know this man, I know who he is! He has pulled me towards him from the first, and now the pull is even stronger.

My heart quickens and I move faster, ignoring the lash of twigs and the sharp rocks under my feet, and not pausing before I rush though the sullen trickle of the stream and helplessly drop to my knees beside his head.

He is completely still, pale and naked, and the once powerful frame seems thinner and vulnerable, dirty and raw with livid unhealed wounds on every visible part of him. The greasy strings of blond hair cover his face and stick to the open wounds on his shoulders and back. I can see broken rib bones sticking out from his back…

And he is so still.

I can't bear it. Tears drop from my eyes onto his skin, and hesitantly I raise one hand to brush them off. Even in his death and disfigurement, he is too beautiful to be smeared.

But, where the tears have beaded and under where my fingers have touched, the wounds begin to close, the new pink skin growing before my eyes. It takes a few moments before I can believe what I see, and another few before I hesitantly use my wet fingers to purposely wipe a tear onto a wound, and watch it heal. I try another, and then another, and they all heal, leaving the tears sitting like fallen raindrops on the skin. I pull one strong wrist out from his chest and wipe the tears on the weeping scars, and slowly they heal and close, the new skin stretching out to cover the exposed tendons.

Will this work on the exposed and broken ribs? I wipe my hands over the tears beaded on the healed skin and carefully lean over him to press them to the exposed bones, wincing as I see the exposed and damaged organs beneath the splintered ribcage. The healing is slower, and the tears on my hands are tinged with blood when I lift them away.

I look down at his head so close to my knees. If my tears can repair his skin, is he truly dead? Wiping my reddened palms on the moss, I carefully brush the hair from his face, hoping to see some signs of life. But he is still and white – only the dried blood on his wounds and the gold of his lashes, eyebrows and hair showing any colour.

Yet in the dim light there is a faint glow coming from his skin, and I realise that as the sun has disappeared this light is strengthening and I can see him even though there is no other source of light.

Carefully I push on his upper shoulder and lift his head so I can reach the wounds on his chest and lower arm.

But as I do, there is a soft rumble, almost like a purr which resounds through my hands from the cool skin they're touching. I feel movement under my left hand as I start to look down, and the weight of his head is less as I feel it turning towards me.

The long creamy eyelids are flickering and the beautiful mouth has a tuck in one corner as if a tentative smile is forming, and I feel a corresponding smile on my own face. I brush one or two more wounds on his chest with the remaining tears, and then cannot resist stroking my free hand down his long arm, watching as the muscles gently flex under my fingers.

As my hand reaches his, it turns and captures mine, and the brief gentle connection halts my breath before it comes again in a sharp gust as the hand is snapped from my grasp and the head from my touch.

With superhuman speed he is on his feet, towering over me, his face a mask of fury, the glacial eyes piercing mine, his presence as overwhelming as a blackening stormcloud. Even his nakedness does not take away from the force of his presence, rather he appears as primeval man, strong and sure within himself.

'What have you done to me!'

Rather than a question, it is an exclamation, the voice deep and harsh. Before I can gather myself together, he is gone. Lifting fast into the night sky, leaving only the tears on my cheeks and on my fingertips, along with his blood.

For the first time, I fear him.