Stark panic drove her onward when she would have long ago fallen fainting
to the ground. Bare feet slapped some hard surface in irregular pulses,
long legs more than making up for her petite stature. More afraid to look
than not, she nevertheless risked a glance over her shoulder at the object
of her terror, but could make out only an indistinct shadow in the
distance. Closer -- it was gaining on her. If it should overtake her....
She flew through the night, her breath a rasp in the back of her throat. She saw it too late -- the shade that detached itself from the murk to bar her way. She was too close to stop, and she shrieked when strong arms closed around her shoulders, preventing her from moving on.
"Let me go! It is com--" A single shaft of light appeared from above, illuminating the shade's features, and blessed relief filled the woman at the sight. "Oh, Daddy!" she sobbed, throwing both arms around her father's chest and burying her face in the jacket of his tuxedo. "Oh, Daddy, you've got to help me! It's coming after me!"
"What is, Angelica?" Horn's voice was rich and smooth, like black velvet and silk. She loved to listen to him -- had always associated those deep timbres with comfort and security. She held on tighter.
"I don't know. I don't know what it is, but I know it's evil!"
Long fingers stroked her hair gently, giving her courage. "Maybe it's not evil, my darling daughter," Horn murmured reassuringly. "Maybe ..." The fingers stopped, tangling painfully, and yanking her head up. "... you are!"
"But, Daddy.... "NO!" Gone was the strong, handsome features she knew so well. Instead, bending close to her cheek was the decomposed features of a long dead corpse. Fetid breath blew into her nose and mouth, making her gag, and against her skin was the smooth nylon of a flight suit -- silver, she knew, with an odd patch on the shoulder.
"Let go! Let go!" She pushed with all her might, freeing herself from that abomination and feeling bony fingers snatch at her as she retreated. Turning, she plunged back into the darkness, sensing without sight the proximity of the pursuer. But what was it? What was this nameless, hell- spawned terror that pursued so relentlessly, carrying with it the promise of damnation itself?
She risked another glance behind, but long blonde hair blinded her this time, her feet tangling in the flowing negligee she wore. She went down hard although surprisingly there was no pain. She needed to get up, to run, to escape. But she couldn't, her legs were water, her head swimming. Terrified, she threw up one hand supplicatingly toward the pursuer, finally facing the foe.
"String!" she wailed to the now arrived figure. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" But the hated enemy, the demon who materialized out of the gloom was not Stringfellow Hawke.
It was herself.
Angelica Arista Maria Van Muller Horn jerked bolt upright, the sheets falling unheeded around her waist. She ran a hand across her forehead, wiping back the sweat plastered hair, and sucking in great gulps of air. Where was she? She looked around frantically, recognizing the dimly lit suite she called her own. Pink ruffled pillows bracketed her body, the rich satin comforter on the floor by the king sized four-poster bed. She glanced from one side to the other looking for any discrepancy to show she was no longer in the pleasant little bedroom her father had outfitted for her months before, but could find nothing out of order. The expensive pastels still hung on the walls, the flowers in the vase on the bureau were fresh. Maybe the discrepancy isn't with the room, she decided. Maybe it's with me.
Trembling badly, she struggled free of the linens and made her way to the ornate full-length mirror that sat in the near corner, turning up the lamp as she passed. She stopped there, staring at her reflection as if she'd never seen it before. And perhaps in many ways, she had not.
Platinum hair fell across slender shoulders in a cloud, haloing delicate features and pale skin. Like an angel, she remembered her father's words from so long ago. Angel -- Angelica. Her gaze traveled downward, skimming her nude body without appreciation. She'd lost too much weight over the past year, her ripe figure passing from willowy to gaunt, matching the new hollows in her cheeks and under her eyes. She touched her abdomen gingerly, feeling the ribs prominent under the once full breasts, the hip bones visible at her sides.
"I look like a skeleton too," she said aloud, the sadness in her voice a pale match to that within her heart. She looked full into the turquoise eyes in the mirror, some part of her recognizing that she was still, as People magazine had once named her, one of the most beautiful women on the planet. No man could gaze upon those exquisite features and help but be enraptured by their perfection -- Aphrodite, Athena, Helen of Troy. She had been compared to them all and rightly so. But there were subtle lines now forming on her forehead, more framing the turquoise eyes. Her mouth was no longer full and generous, but was rather pinched with a sobriety no lip paint could conceal.
"I'm only twenty-seven," she said wonderingly, her voice a far away drone in her own ears. "I look like a hundred."
At one time that thought would have been terrifying -- a loss of the perfection so prized by the one man in all the world who held her heart and soul in the palm of his hand. But then had come another into her life, briefly, a single brush of two souls and no more before the betrayal. Her betrayal of him.
"He did touch me, Father," she said aloud, seemingly unaware of the solo conversation. "He wasn't just a target after a while. He was a man."
She closed swimming eyes, summoning a picture of Stringfellow Hawke as she remembered him from their first meeting. Fine boned -- nearly as delicately featured as was she, but with a masculine strength and unbreakable will. Fair and handsome and charmingly shy with her at first, but she had learned the arts of enchantment from the finest masters in the world, and he had stood no chance against her wiles. She felt the blood rise in her face with the first tentative press of his lips against hers, the surprising passion of her own response.
It had been a singular shock when she had pulled away to find her disguised father peering at them from between the open elevator doors, and she'd resented the accelerated time table he'd imposed. To 'protect' her, she realized later, from getting too close to a target. "Perhaps you're even smarter than I gave you credit for, Daddy," she murmured through barely parted lips. "Not smart enough to leave me in Switzerland instead of bringing me here, though. But then, you always did appreciate having an audience for your little victories, didn't you?"
Beyond that moment there was little that she wanted to remember -- and nothing she would ever forget. The rush of her father's troops closing in, in Texas, the look of shock and betrayal that Stringfellow Hawke leveled at her and maintained as he was dragged physically from the landing field to the room where he would be tortured, drugged and brainwashed into fealty -- for her father and for herself.
False love, false loyalty, guilt and eternal regret. What else was there for her now? "I did it for you, Father." She opened her eyes, startled by the savage note in her voice. The room was no longer pink and cheery; at some point the red haze of malignity had descended, muting the light. That same red burned behind her eyes as well, growing from embers to flame as she stared at her own hated face, the abhorrence matched only by what she felt for her father. "Who do I hate worse, Father?" she asked rhetorically. "You or myself? And does it really matter?"
She watched fascinated as, as though in answer, the mirror image she regarded so scornfully, began to shrink, retreating into the distance and taking with it the likeness of a beautiful, troubled woman burdened with a guilt too strong to bear. It contracted until it was no more than a pinprick on the horizon of her vision, then reversed and began once more to grow. Angelica gaped with surprise as she watched this phenomenon, for the image had done more than change size -- it was assuming a life of its own.
"She knows what to do," Angelica whispered, greeting this second woman, a twin of herself. But where she felt only regret, this other held her chin high, turquoise eyes gleaming with decision. Her step was firm as she emerged from the glass, her posture unbowed with shame. Angelica opened her arms wide, embracing the lovely figure to herself, feeling her meld with flesh and bone, accepting burden and hurt, and returning new hope.
She blinked, surprised that she could be both participant and watcher, divorced and yet not. "Now we both know what to do," the new, dual Angelica said, slipping on a peignoir. She hadn't known it before, but there was only one path all along. Now that she knew the way, her step was sure and confident, her heart unburdened for the first time in many long months.
***
She flew through the night, her breath a rasp in the back of her throat. She saw it too late -- the shade that detached itself from the murk to bar her way. She was too close to stop, and she shrieked when strong arms closed around her shoulders, preventing her from moving on.
"Let me go! It is com--" A single shaft of light appeared from above, illuminating the shade's features, and blessed relief filled the woman at the sight. "Oh, Daddy!" she sobbed, throwing both arms around her father's chest and burying her face in the jacket of his tuxedo. "Oh, Daddy, you've got to help me! It's coming after me!"
"What is, Angelica?" Horn's voice was rich and smooth, like black velvet and silk. She loved to listen to him -- had always associated those deep timbres with comfort and security. She held on tighter.
"I don't know. I don't know what it is, but I know it's evil!"
Long fingers stroked her hair gently, giving her courage. "Maybe it's not evil, my darling daughter," Horn murmured reassuringly. "Maybe ..." The fingers stopped, tangling painfully, and yanking her head up. "... you are!"
"But, Daddy.... "NO!" Gone was the strong, handsome features she knew so well. Instead, bending close to her cheek was the decomposed features of a long dead corpse. Fetid breath blew into her nose and mouth, making her gag, and against her skin was the smooth nylon of a flight suit -- silver, she knew, with an odd patch on the shoulder.
"Let go! Let go!" She pushed with all her might, freeing herself from that abomination and feeling bony fingers snatch at her as she retreated. Turning, she plunged back into the darkness, sensing without sight the proximity of the pursuer. But what was it? What was this nameless, hell- spawned terror that pursued so relentlessly, carrying with it the promise of damnation itself?
She risked another glance behind, but long blonde hair blinded her this time, her feet tangling in the flowing negligee she wore. She went down hard although surprisingly there was no pain. She needed to get up, to run, to escape. But she couldn't, her legs were water, her head swimming. Terrified, she threw up one hand supplicatingly toward the pursuer, finally facing the foe.
"String!" she wailed to the now arrived figure. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" But the hated enemy, the demon who materialized out of the gloom was not Stringfellow Hawke.
It was herself.
Angelica Arista Maria Van Muller Horn jerked bolt upright, the sheets falling unheeded around her waist. She ran a hand across her forehead, wiping back the sweat plastered hair, and sucking in great gulps of air. Where was she? She looked around frantically, recognizing the dimly lit suite she called her own. Pink ruffled pillows bracketed her body, the rich satin comforter on the floor by the king sized four-poster bed. She glanced from one side to the other looking for any discrepancy to show she was no longer in the pleasant little bedroom her father had outfitted for her months before, but could find nothing out of order. The expensive pastels still hung on the walls, the flowers in the vase on the bureau were fresh. Maybe the discrepancy isn't with the room, she decided. Maybe it's with me.
Trembling badly, she struggled free of the linens and made her way to the ornate full-length mirror that sat in the near corner, turning up the lamp as she passed. She stopped there, staring at her reflection as if she'd never seen it before. And perhaps in many ways, she had not.
Platinum hair fell across slender shoulders in a cloud, haloing delicate features and pale skin. Like an angel, she remembered her father's words from so long ago. Angel -- Angelica. Her gaze traveled downward, skimming her nude body without appreciation. She'd lost too much weight over the past year, her ripe figure passing from willowy to gaunt, matching the new hollows in her cheeks and under her eyes. She touched her abdomen gingerly, feeling the ribs prominent under the once full breasts, the hip bones visible at her sides.
"I look like a skeleton too," she said aloud, the sadness in her voice a pale match to that within her heart. She looked full into the turquoise eyes in the mirror, some part of her recognizing that she was still, as People magazine had once named her, one of the most beautiful women on the planet. No man could gaze upon those exquisite features and help but be enraptured by their perfection -- Aphrodite, Athena, Helen of Troy. She had been compared to them all and rightly so. But there were subtle lines now forming on her forehead, more framing the turquoise eyes. Her mouth was no longer full and generous, but was rather pinched with a sobriety no lip paint could conceal.
"I'm only twenty-seven," she said wonderingly, her voice a far away drone in her own ears. "I look like a hundred."
At one time that thought would have been terrifying -- a loss of the perfection so prized by the one man in all the world who held her heart and soul in the palm of his hand. But then had come another into her life, briefly, a single brush of two souls and no more before the betrayal. Her betrayal of him.
"He did touch me, Father," she said aloud, seemingly unaware of the solo conversation. "He wasn't just a target after a while. He was a man."
She closed swimming eyes, summoning a picture of Stringfellow Hawke as she remembered him from their first meeting. Fine boned -- nearly as delicately featured as was she, but with a masculine strength and unbreakable will. Fair and handsome and charmingly shy with her at first, but she had learned the arts of enchantment from the finest masters in the world, and he had stood no chance against her wiles. She felt the blood rise in her face with the first tentative press of his lips against hers, the surprising passion of her own response.
It had been a singular shock when she had pulled away to find her disguised father peering at them from between the open elevator doors, and she'd resented the accelerated time table he'd imposed. To 'protect' her, she realized later, from getting too close to a target. "Perhaps you're even smarter than I gave you credit for, Daddy," she murmured through barely parted lips. "Not smart enough to leave me in Switzerland instead of bringing me here, though. But then, you always did appreciate having an audience for your little victories, didn't you?"
Beyond that moment there was little that she wanted to remember -- and nothing she would ever forget. The rush of her father's troops closing in, in Texas, the look of shock and betrayal that Stringfellow Hawke leveled at her and maintained as he was dragged physically from the landing field to the room where he would be tortured, drugged and brainwashed into fealty -- for her father and for herself.
False love, false loyalty, guilt and eternal regret. What else was there for her now? "I did it for you, Father." She opened her eyes, startled by the savage note in her voice. The room was no longer pink and cheery; at some point the red haze of malignity had descended, muting the light. That same red burned behind her eyes as well, growing from embers to flame as she stared at her own hated face, the abhorrence matched only by what she felt for her father. "Who do I hate worse, Father?" she asked rhetorically. "You or myself? And does it really matter?"
She watched fascinated as, as though in answer, the mirror image she regarded so scornfully, began to shrink, retreating into the distance and taking with it the likeness of a beautiful, troubled woman burdened with a guilt too strong to bear. It contracted until it was no more than a pinprick on the horizon of her vision, then reversed and began once more to grow. Angelica gaped with surprise as she watched this phenomenon, for the image had done more than change size -- it was assuming a life of its own.
"She knows what to do," Angelica whispered, greeting this second woman, a twin of herself. But where she felt only regret, this other held her chin high, turquoise eyes gleaming with decision. Her step was firm as she emerged from the glass, her posture unbowed with shame. Angelica opened her arms wide, embracing the lovely figure to herself, feeling her meld with flesh and bone, accepting burden and hurt, and returning new hope.
She blinked, surprised that she could be both participant and watcher, divorced and yet not. "Now we both know what to do," the new, dual Angelica said, slipping on a peignoir. She hadn't known it before, but there was only one path all along. Now that she knew the way, her step was sure and confident, her heart unburdened for the first time in many long months.
***