.
She blinked once, twice. Oh, no, not again, she thought, rolling over to look at the alarm clock on her night table. The picture of herself and her father was blocking her way, so she moved it slightly. Even as she watched, the big red digital numbers blinked to read 2:30. Damn. Again. Xanna flopped back onto the pillow and stared blindly at the ceiling. Her mother had been right again. It had been just a week since the end of school, and already she was wishing she were back there, that her freshman year weren't over.
Well . . . maybe that wasn't quite true. She was indeed glad her first year was over. It was just that she missed all the people she'd met over the year. She missed her classes . . . sort of. She missed her Biology classes, her Philosophy classes, and the couple of foreign language classes she'd had. But physics, math, chemistry? Didn't miss those one bit.
Maybe I miss more than my classes, she thought. I guess I miss the whole atmosphere of school. And the people, of course. Especially Mikhail . . . . Her mind wandered back to the evening they'd met, and then she realized she was becoming more and more awake as she thought of him. Damn! Now I'll never get back to sleep. She flung back the covers and swung her feet to the floor. Before she had taken three steps, her toes forcefully made contact with a large and rather heavy book laying on the floor. "OW!" she muttered, swearing under her breath and massaging the abused toes. Unsteadily, she reached down and grabbed the offending volume. In what little light the moon afforded, she read the title. It was The Complete Works of Shakespeare, which she had set on the floor earlier when she had gotten too sleepy to read. She had always loved reading Shakespeare, feeling the beauty of his speech. But now, she threw the volume onto her bed, and, reminded by the lesson that she still had not put some of the books she'd brought home from school away, carefully picked her way over to her dresser.
Her dresser was right next to her window, so before doing anything else, she paused and breathed deeply of the cool night air. Her eyes closed in pleasure. You know, she thought, as she had so many times before, Daddy was right. I think I like the night's beauty better than the day's. Her eyes opened again, and she stared down toward the lake, by craning her neck and leaning out the window to her waist. The house stood on the far edge of a slight hill. The lake was all the way across the flattened top and down toward the foot. The slope was just steep enough to obscure the entire view. The moon was over the lake; she could see a hint of reflection off the water. She ducked back in the window, and skinned out of her nightshirt. She searched hastily for the jeans she had worn that day, and a clean top, and pulled them on. Grabbing her boots and a pair of socks, she tiptoed out the door and down the creaky stairs, being extremely careful not to wake up her mother. She remembered this routine well; she had done it many, many times in the past before leaving for college. Once she had gained the kitchen stoop, she sat down and laced on her work boots. That done, she could sneak away from the house toward the lake, without worrying about the wet ground. It had rained so much lately! Ever since I got home, she thought. All right, only almost all the time. But it's only been a week, and when it rains 5 days . . . you just gotta wonder. This was only the fifth time she had been to the lake in the last 3 days.
It was still the lake to her, and it probably always would be. Her mother had taken to calling it the pond, but to Xanna, it hadn't changed. The distance still seemed just as great as when she was a child, and frequently snuck down the slope to the water, and had just as frequently gotten into trouble. The house was out of sight behind the slight rise, and she was alone in the world. The only difference between being six and being nineteen is that it takes much less time to cover the same stretch of ground, she thought.
So, within very few minutes, the curve of the shore was in sight. The sand wBas pale in the moonlight, while the water was dark, reflecting the late night sky back, mirror-like. The trees were a black shadow on the far shore. Brush had grown up on this side of the lake; sumac, milkweed, even a few black raspberry bushes. She picked her way through them, her feet crunching on the stones of the path she and her father had worn years ago. It hadn't yet grown up to brush; it was too firmly used. Then her steps made no sound; she had gained the silvery sand. This wasn't the first time she had come here since returning from college, but, as always when she visited the lake, she felt a swelling of her heart, a sense of coming home.
There was a large rock off to her right; she had often sat there with her father, after she had learned to swim in the lake. She would rest with him, and he would tell her stories. Tales of dragons, of maidens fair, of brave and handsome princes, and kingdoms in far off lands filled her ears, and sparked her interest in reading. Jonathan would always start a story, tell it until his voice grew hoarse from talking, then say, "Sorry, pumpkin, but I can't tell you any more."
"Oh, please, Daddy? Why not?" she would always ask, eager for more.
He would laugh and say, "Because, Xanna, I'm so dry I could drink a waterfall. Let's go back to the house, and I'll show you the book I read it from when I was just a little older than you . . . ." And back to the house they would go, content, and Xanna would struggle with the words in the big book. Finally, after most of a summer of this, Jonathan would say, "Pumpkin, get my book and read to me, please?" And Xanna would run to the bookshelf, carefully pull out the heavy book, plunk herself down by her father's feet, and ask, "Which one would you like to hear, Daddy?" Jonathan would smile and give her a title, or say, "The one about the princess in the tower," or whichever one he wanted her to read. Xanna was lost in the world of the Brothers Grimm in no time at all, and nearly read the print off the pages of that wonderful old book. She was satisfied with it for a little while, then after starting second grade, started to pester her parents for more. More terrible dragons, more beautiful maids, more noble princes, but they had to be different. "I've read all these stories, Mom, I want some new ones!" Little by little, her collection of the Fairy Books grew, and soon, no books were safe from her voracious appetite.
Xanna smiled, staring sightlessly at the rock, lost in the memories and associations it conjured. She crossed over to it and sat down, not minding the damp that still clung to it. Clothes would dry, she reasoned, and it will probably be more comfortable sitting here than on the wet sand. She gazed out at the lake, watching the ripples on the water from the breeze. The full face of the moon shone down on the water, so there seemed to be a perfect luminous circle floating up from the bottom of the lake, surrounded by star-studded velvet.
Her mind wandered out of her childhood, into the past couple weeks, and she remembered the dream that had woken her. The man with the yellow eyes again, with the shaggy black hair like a mane, with the voice of an absolute angel . . . or devil. She sighed. She had done very little in the past week since returning home but think about him. Why does he haunt me so? she wondered. What is it about him?
It was easy for her to recall when she first saw him. It was the night after all the finals at college had finished. The mandatory move out was the next day, but that didn't mean there weren't parties going on that evening. She had hopped from one to another for a while, finally backtracking to the one taking place in her own dorm. It was on the floor above her, so she wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway, and it was where most of the friends she'd made were. It had started just after 7 that evening, and was still going strong at 11; in fact, it had spread throughout the building by the time she made it back. The outside doors were propped open, as were the fire doors on each floor, so people from just about anywhere could pop in and out. There were some students serving alcoholic beverages, but for the most part, the people in Xanna's building played by the rules. The resident advisors were all out to their own "End of Year" parties, so there wasn't really any authority to take charge of those serving alcohol. Xanna told herself, If you just stay away from the guys who are totally drunk off their asses, you'll be all set. And you know that it's mostly the guys who are smashed anyway. Viv' won't touch a drink, so find her. Xanna and Vivien had gotten drunk together exactly once, and that had been enough. Their hangovers the next day had been spectacularly painful, and they had had no desire after that to repeat the experience.
Xanna made her way up to the woman's floor in their dorm, and found Viv' in the room they shared. Xanna had already taken down her posters, and Viv' was in the process of taking hers down as well. Empty Coca Cola and Mountain Dew cans were strewn liberally about the room, and there were a few empty Budweiser cans as well. Viv' saw her eyeing the cans, and looking at her, so she exclaimed, "They're not mine! A bunch of the frat guys from downstairs left them here!" She spoke loudly, and still, Xanna was barely able to hear her over the music blaring throughout the building.
Xanna answered in the same tone, "I know, I know!" She delved into their small refrigerator and found the last can of soda. "Dibs!" she called as she popped it open.
Vivien pouted and made a half-hearted grab for it. "Hey, that was mine!"
"I bought it. I think it's mine." Then they looked at each other and laughed. Finding a kindred spirit in a roommate was always a pleasure, just as living with someone who was your complete opposite was bound to cause trouble.
There was a knock at the open door, and they both whirled around to see a strange man standing there.
Well, actually, Xanna reflected, picturing his face in her mind, he didn't really appear much older than either of us. But there was something, some aura of age about him, that gave that impression. Neither of them had seen him before. They would have remembered such a handsome, well-built man. His hair was blacker than night, and a little long and shaggy; it waved softly over his shoulders. His face was full of character; there were a few laugh lines about his mouth and eyes, his forehead was creased lightly with a small number of worry lines. His nose was straight and looked like it had never been broken. His lips were full and red, which contrasted vividly with the stark whiteness of his skin. He was tall- a little taller than Xanna, who was fairly tall for a woman at about five foot ten inches- and was broad chested.
But his eyes! His eyes drew Xanna's and held them. They were a vivid yellowish, almost amber color, that reminded Xanna of wolf's eyes, or perhaps her own eyes, when she wore her contact lenses. They seemed to glow from within. Something, something, drew her over to him as he stood by the door, as if unsure of his welcome. "Hi," she said, her natural friendliness coming to the fore. "You're new here, aren't you?" She walked over to face him more fully.
He seemed to grow wary at her question. His long limbs made him look awkward, ill at ease with himself. "Well . . . new to here." His voice was deep and pleasant. It was the kind of voice that sounded faintly of singing, that said this person had seen incredible sights, had viewed wonderful lands, and seen terrible sins, without even speaking of them. It was a storyteller's voice, one that could hold a person enthralled for hours. And he hadn't even said five words for her to hear this. "I've . . . been around for awhile. I heard the party . . . or parties . . . in this building from the street, and wondered if it was private, or if anyone could join." He glanced around, shrugged, and, as his eyes came to rest on her again, smiled. "I guess anyone can. No one stopped me from walking up."
She grinned. "No, I guess they wouldn't. They're probably all bombed anyway. Would you like something to drink? All we have is Coke," she glanced guiltily down at the can she still held, "and I seem to have opened the last one. I can get you something else, if you want, because there's got to be something stronger around here somewhere . . . ." She noticed his hesitation.
"No, thank you, but I'm fine on that score. I just came up to meet some people and have a little fun. I still have to drive back, so . . . ."
"Oh, hey, no problem," she replied, a little stung that she couldn't have read him better, and known he hadn't wanted a drink. She was usually so good at it, though. And she'd felt the moment she'd seen him at the door that she'd known him forever. Maybe it was the thumping of her heart that was distracting her. It seemed so loud in her ears. "If you're sure."
"Yes, I'm sure. Really."
"Hello?" Vivien interjected, becoming annoyed at being ignored. "Hello?"
"So, where are you from?" She was inherently inquisitive, and it took her over once again. She didn't even hear her roommate. She had completely forgotten there was anyone but this strange and, yes, exciting man in the room "Did you go to school here? Or are you from one of the other schools in town? Where are you living? Do you originally come from somewhere nearby? What's your major?" She eventually stopped to take a breath.
He appeared quite taken aback, and had lost his wonderful smile. He looked as if he were about to back out and run away. "I'm sorry . . . ."
She realized what she'd been doing. "No, wait. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bombard you like that. Let's start over. Hi, I'm Xanna." She held out her hand.
Slowly, he took it, and his smile crept back onto his face. His touch was quite chill, but her heat quickly warmed his hand. "Hi, Xanna. I'm Mikhail, and I think that's an interesting name."
She grinned, and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. Its dark brown waves just brushed below her shoulder blades. "Oh, that's just the nickname my father gave me when I was small. My real name is Roxanna. Roxanna DeCourt." She suddenly noticed they were still holding hands, and a bit self-consciously, dropped hers to her side. But she continued smiling at him.
A bit piqued, Vivien said, "If you two will pardon me?" She pushed out of the room past Mikhail.
Mikhail looked a bit sheepish. "Did I offend her somehow?"
Xanna laughed. "No, I don't think it was you that did the offending. I think she didn't like me monopolizing the conversation. Which is like the pot calling the kettle black, considering it's usually her doing the monopolizing." She looked at him again, and noticed how black his hair was in the light, and yet how pale his skin. "Are you Irish?"
He looked perplexed. "Uh . . . a bit. It's from a long way back. Where did that come from?"
She shrugged. "Sorry, I just ask a lot of questions before I think if this or that might offend. I didn't mean to, if I did. I don't know what made me ask. I guess it's just the way your skin and hair and eyes all come together made me think you were Irish, that's all."
He stared at her in astonishment, and she again got the impression that he was ready to bolt. "Look. We've gotten off to a really bad start. If you give me one more chance to talk to you, I'll prove I know how to be polite. Really. My parents did manage to beat that little bit of consideration into me." She smiled. "Let's go somewhere else. It's just too loud for me to think in here." She caught hold of his hand again, to lead him from the room. It was cold again in her grasp. And here it was, the middle of May and already a balmy 60 degrees, she thought. Well, maybe not balmy, she amended quickly, but certainly not cool enough to warrant this kind of chill. Oh, well, maybe he just has poor circulation.
Xanna led Mikhail outside. The crescent moon was shining wanly above. The stars were pale and invisible against the lights of the city. They walked down the slope of the hill, down toward the lawn on the edge of campus. She guided him to a small grassy knoll, screened by bushes and trees. She breathed deeply of the crisp night air, and stretched her muscles to their fullest. She felt at peace here, and said as much to her companion.
Mikhail glanced at her. She could see, despite the weak moonlight, that he'd quirked an eyebrow at her, could almost see the surprised question on his lips. She had exceptional night vision, and let him know by her words. "Don't raise your eyebrow at me, young man," she said in mock exasperation that inexplicably became real as she continued. "I'm from the country. Have you ever been to Western Massachusetts?" Her voice grew wistful as she spoke. "That's where I'm from. Nestled in the Berkshires, there's a little town called North Glasgow. It's small, probably no more than 1,500 people. And it is the most beautiful place in the world. Around our house, there are trees. There's even a lake I love to go to in our back yard. There are actual yards between the houses and sometimes you can't even see your neighbors because of the trees." She returned to Crixton, and her voice grew a bit harsh. "I've hated every second here in the city that I couldn't go barefoot, could only smell the reek of the pavement, where the only freshness is in clean laundry. Even the rain doesn't make everything fresh and new here." She sighed, and laid down in the grass, eyes closed. She heard him sit next to her. She opened her eyes and raised herself up on one elbow, facing him. "But I was going to prove to you that I could be polite and civilized." Her breath gushed out of her again. "Another bad start. I just can't seem to do things right."
"No." Mikhail's voice came gently out of the darkness beside her. "No, I think I much prefer you this way. I don't like living in these dirty, smelly cities, either. I've learned to much prefer what people call the country life, if you know what I mean."
She nodded, not caring if he could see or not, but somehow knowing he could. "At least, I'm pretty sure I know."
She saw the white gleam of his teeth as he grinned at her. "At least you're 'pretty sure' about what you know. In that, you're miles ahead of some people I know your age. Real life is just too full of uncertainties as it is and just far too short to sort them all out. I'm glad that . . . ." He trailed to a stop and looked away.
"You're just glad what?" She reached out and put a hand on his arm. He flinched at the contact, but didn't pull away. She decided to take a chance. The thudding of her heart urged her on, telling her this was the right thing to do. He needed comfort; even she, almost a complete stranger to him, could see that. "You can tell me. I know we haven't known each other for very long, but I feel like I've known you all my life. You seem to need to talk about it . . . whatever it is that's bothering you. I'll listen and won't try to judge or even give advice if you don't want it." Please." Pleading replaced the eagerness in her tone.
I have known this woman forever, Mikhail thought, facing her again. He found he could not make the harsh response he wanted. "I'm sorry," he said softly, his cold, strong fingers taking her chin and lifting it slightly. "But it is really far too complicated for me to explain. Maybe someday it will work out, and can be explained. All things change, and hopefully, for the better." He looked wistful, and despair seemed to settle on him like a weight of the ages.
Pity washed over Xanna, and she held his hand. "I understand, Mike."
His eyes wandered off to stare at the grass as he became lost in his own thoughts again. "I feel like I've known you forever, too, and I have, ever since I saw you. That's never happened to me before . . . or to you, I'll bet. But I couldn't have . . . . Not and missed you all this long while." A faint smile touched his lips.
"Maybe you have. Known me forever and just missed me, that is. It is possible, Mike, especially in a world like ours."
He sighed. "I suppose it is. But then again, you haven't lived as long as I have, either."
She grinned. "You don't look a day over a hundred."
He turned shocked eyes to her. "What did you say?"
Her smile faded. "I was just joking. Neither of us has lived for over a hundred years. You don't have enough lines, wrinkles and white hair, and I know exactly how old I am." She gave him a lop sided grin. "You know, a joke? You're not helping by not laughing."
"I just find it hard to laugh about age. I'm a lot older than I look. Much older. You have no idea, really. Maybe I just . . . " he started to laugh a bit. "Maybe I just age well." For reasons totally his own, he continued to laugh, but the hysterical note wasn't lost on her. It made her a bit nervous, and worried for him. He wasn't going to crack, was he? She knew she would stay, if he did, but she wouldn't be able to help him.
"Hey, whoa, Mike. Steady down." He sobered as she rested her hand on his arm. When he turned to face her, he looked a little sheepish, as if ashamed of his outburst. Oh, Mike, you don't have to be ashamed, she thought. People have their reasons for doing what they do.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lose myself like that. It's just that particular aspect, as it pertains to me, I find very funny."
"Are you all right now?" she asked, concerned. She was still holding his arm. When he nodded, she reluctantly let go. They sat in companionable silence for several long minutes. Then Mikhail asked quietly, "Have you ever felt like you didn't have enough time, and yet you have all the time in the world?"
She said nothing for a moment. "Do you mean . . . Have I ever felt like I don't have enough time in my entire life to do everything I want to do, and then realize that I have more than three-fourths of my life yet to live?"
"That's fairly close to what I mean."
"No. Never felt that way." Then she smiled at him and corrected herself. "I feel that way most of the time. I think of all the things I want to do, and there are so many! Some of them- most of them require a lifelong commitment. I want to fall in love, and get married, and have a bunch of kids. Well, two anyway. I am an only child, and growing up got pretty lonely, especially after my father died." She reflected for a moment. "I think . . ." she said slowly. "I think that's why I have so many other things I want to do, besides what I told you. My dad was great. He and I were so much alike. I got my Mom's looks and my Dad's temperament. But when I was young, he made me start to enjoy so many different things. If I'm a bookworm now, it's because he told me stories, and then wouldn't repeat them. That's why I learned to read at six." She smiled, seeing her father again in her mind.
"How did he die?" Mikhail inquired gently.
Her face clouded. "He died because he wouldn't go to the doctor until it was too late." She looked at him, and saw his confusion. "He worked in a chemical company. I don't know what they made, or exactly what he did there. But he died of cancer. It was very extensive. I don't know very much about it; my mom wouldn't tell me, and I can't say as I blame her. She and my dad loved each other very much.
"You know," she continued thoughtfully. "You remind me a little bit of him. Not so much in looks, but more in . . . in . . . Oh, damn!" She stopped, frustrated.
"Yes, I know." His tone was understanding. "I don't have the word for you either. I can't even think of anything reasonably close."
"Well, who said we need reason? If you can think of something unreasonable, that may be it. You never know."
He smiled. "You just may be right, although I'd never think of this that way."
"But, Mike? Why did you ask me about time, and how it seems to me?"
He looked at her steadily; she could see his amber eyes glowing in the darkness. "I was wondering how you traveled through time."
She was puzzled. "How I . . . what?"
"Do you just trudge through time from day to day, or do you have both hands out, ready for each moment? Do you experience time linearly, or does it back up and do strange things to you?" He paused, then continued intently, "Why do you seem so familiar to me, as if I'd met you and known you years and years ago?"
"Sometimes, time does weird things to me . . . . I'll sometimes have an incredibly strong sense of deja vu, and everything will get kind of faded and fuzzy around the edges. If I try to sort it out, it goes away, and I'm lost as to what happened." She smiled. "That's why I'm trying not so hard not to think about why you're so familiar, because I'd lose the connection I have with you."
"Connect . . . ." He trailed off as he realized what she meant. If he concentrated, he could almost tell what she was thinking.
"You're probably a little easier to read than I am," she said, but offered no explanation for her reasoning. "Or maybe it's just because I'm so tired."
Suddenly, the day's exhaustion caught up with her, and Xanna started to keel over, and before too long, was leaning her head on Mikhail's shoulder, eyes closed, breathing peacefully. She felt safe with him; even though they had just met, even though they had only known each other for an hour or so, she trusted him implicitly, and had known him forever. Her sleep was dreamless and deep.
Soon, too soon, she felt a hand shaking her. "Xanna. Xanna. Wake up." The voice was familiar, and . . . loved? In her sleep induced fog, she couldn't deny that within their short span of conversation, she had fallen in love with him. Or, perhaps she had loved him forever, and simply found him again. Her eyes fluttered open, and she gazed drowsily up at him. "Good morning, Mike."
He smiled gently down at her. "Good morning yourself, Xanna. But it's not quite morning yet. I thought you might want to sleep in your own bed for a while, before leaving today."
She nodded. "Yes, I think that would be nice." Mikhail stood, and, reaching down, grasped her hand firmly. To her surprise, it was much warmer now, after the cool night outside, than it had been earlier. He drew her up easily after him.
And he brought her back to her room. The building was completely dark and silent. Students slept where they had fallen. Some were in the halls, most had managed to crash in someone's room; not necessarily in their own, but out of the way. When she had lain down on her bed, he even covered her with a blanket. Xanna, a week later, still shivered in pleasure at the memory. Before she had drifted off to sleep again, Mike had gently kissed her forehead, and crooned something soft and sweet to her in Gaelic.
"Why do I think of you as Mike?" she wondered aloud. "I know your name is Mikhail, and that's close to Michael, but it seems so natural to call you Mike. Not Mickey, as I might, if thought of you as Mikhail." She sighed. "I guess it's just too odd for me. You are Mike to me, and you will be if I ever see you again."
In the space of the hour or so she had been outside, remembering, the moon had coasted silently across the sky, and now was only reflected by the water on the far side of the lake, by the trees. Inspired, she leapt to her feet, and started to pick her way over the rocky shore. Oh, this is crazy, she thought. I might break my neck in the dark doing this. But it's something I just have to do. I've been just on this side for the whole time I've been home. It's time I visited the other side.
Soon, she was brushing away the tree branches that slapped her face as she tried to push through. She was forced to go even slower. The gurgle of the stream let her know when she had reached the opposite end. Xanna threw back her head and howled at the moon in triumph. The sound of her bay was eerily similar to that of a real wolf. But, seeing as wolves were definitely not prevalent in this area, she tried to keep it to a decibel level that wouldn't have their few neighbors screaming either for a wolf hunt, or for her blood. She grinned happily at the great silvery orb above her. Ah, what a beautiful night! she thought, hugging her own shoulders. This has got to be the best night I've had in a week.
Suddenly, she was grabbed violently from behind. Strong arms seized her and kept her from flailing about. She tried to scream, but a hand quickly clamped over her mouth and muffled the sound. She rammed her elbows backward into her attacker's abdomen, but she didn't hear the explosion of breath that should have accompanied such a forceful blow. All she heard was a soft grunt. As she was struggling with her captor, she thought she heard a voice whisper, "That wasn't very nice, child. And I don't mean to hurt you." The voice seemed achingly familiar, as if from a distant, half forgotten memory, and for a moment, she stopped squirming. Her moment of hesitation gave her attacker all the time he needed (Well, wasn't it a man? No woman could have this strength, she reasoned later.) to pull her back beneath the trees, out of the view of anyone who happened to glance in that direction. "It won't hurt after a moment, child. You won't feel a thing . . . ." This, whispered against her neck, was the only inkling she had into who it might be, whose voice sounded so familiar to her . . . .
Then the pain began. There was a searing pain on her neck, as of a ripping of tender flesh. Fire coursed through her veins, and her heart pumped agony instead of blood. Slowly, so slowly that she wasn't even aware that she was falling, she sank down to the ground. Her attacker- could it be Mike?- had moved his arms from pinioning hers to holding her shoulders as she crumpled into the mud and dead leaves by the stream. She tried once more to call out, to cry for help, but no sound at all came from her paralyzed throat. She gasped in anguish, feeling cold air on her neck where there had but moments before been heat. It flared in that small area, and spread to engulf her entire body. Xanna froze, and felt nothing else but pain.
After what seemed an eternity, she heard a loved and loving voice call out to her. The cold lump that was her body was leaning against something incredibly warm. It was another body, and its arms were wrapped around her. "Roxanna," it whispered. "Roxanna. Wake, Roxanna, and live again . . . ." It broke as if fighting back tears. "Do you want to live forever?" The whisper seemed to grow deeper and harsher as it spoke.
Somehow, she still had the ability to nod her head feebly. The pain had receded with the coming of the voice. " . . . yes . . . ." was all she managed to murmur. In the sudden brightness that was her mind, the sudden clarity, she thought, Forever, but only with Mike.
As if from far away, she thought she heard a gasp of pain. Then, she was presented with a cup. The voice whispered, "Then drink, my love, and live . . . ." In her mind, it was a royal blue glass goblet, filled with her parent's favorite wine. They had let her taste it once, and it was so sweet and flavorful . . . .
But this . . . this wasn't her parent's wine! This was a bitter vintage indeed, if it were! One of her hands weakly cupped the goblet, and, as the clarity faded from her mind, she noticed it didn't have the long stem she imagined, and had a texture something completely other than glass.
"I'm so sorry, ionuine. I truly am."
Xanna's eyes flew open as she truly recognized the voice this time. "Mike?" Her limbs were shaking like a leaf in a gale. Despite her palsy, however, she managed to flop over onto her back. The body that had supported her was gone, and she was lying on the ground. There was no sound to be heard but her limbs uncontrollably thrashing against the earth, and her labored breathing.
On to Chapter 4.
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