Echo Prophecy Page 10

  Silently, I vowed never to date again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Asleep & Awake

  Marcus lurked in my thoughts throughout my mom’s delicious dinner of roast beef and mashed potatoes, as well as our evening screening of a covert ops action flick. Though I’d only been out of the apartment for a few hours, the exercise and excitement had exhausted me. From the looks my mom kept flashing me, my weariness was poorly hidden.

  “Why don’t you go to bed, sweetie?” she suggested after she turned off the TV. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep, and you’ll be more comfy in your room.”

  Stretching on the couch, I yawned. “Good idea.” It didn’t really matter that it was only nine o’clock. I gave her a hug, stood, and headed to my room. “Goodnight, Mom,” I said before closing the door.

  I had just enough energy to wash off the light makeup I’d donned for the meeting with Marcus, brush my teeth, and change into flannel pajama pants and a lavender T-shirt displaying a cuddly cartoon version of the UW Husky. I slipped under the covers and fell asleep almost instantly.

  I was standing in a dark study filled with mahogany tables, built-in bookshelves, and rich, leather furniture. I was surrounded by the spicy scent of cigars and Cognac mixed with the musk of aged books. In the soft glow of a Tiffany lamp, a dark-haired man was leaning over a desk, his back to me. I moved closer, suspicion growing with each step.

  As I rounded the desk, my instinct proved true. Marcus Bahur. His face was taut with concentration as he studied photographs of hieroglyphs. I recognized most of them, but one specific set stood out beyond the others—the lion’s head above a half-circle paired with a full circle and two vertical parallel lines, one with a flag-like protrusion. It was the same set of symbols that had been evading my deciphering abilities for months.

  “Makes sense,” I mumbled, dismissing the pictures. My brain was just mashing together a bunch of the things that had been occupying my mind lately.

  Marcus leaned closer to one of the images, his expression changing. Two fine lines creased the space between his eyebrows, and his lips puckered minutely. For a moment, all I could think about was how much I wanted to truly know the mesmerizing man sitting before me—the same man who was handing me the career opportunity of a lifetime.

  Without preamble, the scene shifted in a dizzying swirl of colors. Marcus was the only constant in the chaos, remaining seated as the frenzied colors surrounded us. I became nauseated and had to close my eyes as I waited, hoping the endless swirling would stop. When I opened them again, I gasped.

  Marcus was still sitting in front of me, but on a short, gilded stool instead of an oversized desk chair … and he was shirtless. His golden-brown skin glowed in soft firelight. Smooth lines of muscle led from his shoulders down to an intricately woven belt, which was holding up some sort of white linen garment.

  He stood suddenly, displaying his odd attire—a calf-length skirt. After seconds of confusion, I realized it was the Middle Kingdom royal kilt. I laughed out loud, accepting that my imagination was getting the best of me, combining my new fascination with the professor and all of the recent excitement about the excavation.

  I took one last, lingering look at the immaculate physique my mind assigned to Marcus, then closed my eyes for a long moment, willing my consciousness to move on to another dream.

  Again, when I opened my eyes, the scene around me had transformed. I was in a long, arched stone corridor. Narrow, glassless windows lined the left side, letting in silvery moonlight. I almost screamed when I looked down at the floor. In the square of light coming through the nearest window lay a man, eyes open and sightless. There was a very deep gash cutting across his throat, and blood soaked the front of what could only be called a once-pale doublet.

  I looked up, away, anywhere but at the dead man. My eyes landed on a second body further down the corridor … then another, and another. Shadows and moonlight had tricked my eyes at first, but once I started seeing them—the dead—I couldn’t look away. There were so many. A dozen? More?

  Behind me, there was a masculine shout, closely followed by a grunt and a loud thump. It sounded like a fight. Is it whoever killed these people? I took several hasty steps in the opposite direction and promptly tripped, sprawling on the uneven stone floor. At first I thought I’d caught my toe on one of the stones, but when I looked back, I realized it had been the dead man—the one with the cut throat. “Ugh!” I exclaimed, skin crawling.

  Carefully, I stood and started picking my way down the hallway, away from the sounds of men fighting. I’d just stepped over the sixth body—a beautiful, dark-haired woman in a burgundy and gold gown whose neck was bent at a very unnatural angle—when I heard a guttural gasp, and the sounds of fighting stopped. I froze.

  The sound of rusty hinges preceded footsteps and two low, whispering voices. They were behind me, and getting louder. I found the alcove of a door a little further down on the right side of the corridor, and hid in its shadows, pressing myself into rough planks of wood. As the voices drew closer, I realized that one of the whisperers was male, the other female. I held my breath as they neared my hiding place.

  “ … too quick. I don’t know how he keeps finding me,” the woman whispered. She let out a harsh sob. “Oh God … Jane.” I could just see the top half of her cloaked and hooded body as she dropped to her knees and bent over the woman with the broken neck. Her shoulders shook and she rocked back and forth, murmuring something to the dead woman.

  “No, it’s his fault, not yours,” the man said fiercely, and I suddenly recognized his voice. Marcus. He gripped the woman’s shoulders and raised her back up to her feet, then wrapped his arms around her middle, drawing my attention to her swollen belly. She was incredibly pregnant, which was pretty much the only thing I could tell about her under the cloak.

  She placed her hands over his on her belly and whispered. “I don’t know where to go. I thought this would be my last stop, but—” Again, her body shook with the strength of her sorrow. “I don’t want to leave you again.”

  “Shhh …” Marcus’s voice was soft, soothing. “You must trust that you will find me.”

  The woman turned in his arms and reached up a pale hand to cup the side of his face. “I will always find you, my falcon, but for now, you must forget.” As she said, “forget,” the look of adoration slipped off Marcus’s face, and the woman withdrew her hand.

  A door banged open further down the corridor, and I turned my head to look. When I glanced back at Marcus and the cloaked woman, she was gone. There was only Marcus and a hallway filled with dead bodies.

  It was barely seven in the morning when I woke, well-rested from a long night’s sleep. I spent a few minutes lazily thinking back on my dreams, unsurprised that nearly all had featured Marcus. He was such a beautiful conundrum … my mind had been bound to latch onto him.

  Moving on to more practical matters, I stretched, dislodging Thora from her cozy position by my thigh. I had tired too quickly the previous day, and I needed to get back into active scholar mode by Monday—only two days away. My worthiness as a team member on Marcus’s excavation was at stake. As I rose from bed and readied myself for the day, I set out a plan, fully aware that the first part would be the hardest.

  “Morning sweetheart,” my mom said when I emerged from my room. She didn’t turn away from the stove as she spoke. “Breakfast’s just about ready.”

  “Is there coffee?” I asked, giving her a hug from behind.

  She patted my forearm. “Yep. In the pot.”

  I kissed her cheek and pulled away, saying, “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best ever!”

  “Oh, stop it, Lex. You’ll make me blush.”

  Smiling, I fixed myself a cup of coffee with milk and sugar and shuffled to the table.

  “Hold on, sweetie. Come carry these plates over.”

  Acquiescing, I helped my mom load the table with our fourth breakfast of way too much food. I’d pretty much accepted that my abili
ty to gauge my own appetite had gone wonky, and I was content to let my mom fatten me up like a Thanksgiving turkey. The current layout included blueberry muffins and a small mountain of breakfast burritos, most of which I would probably end up consuming.

  “Are you going somewhere?” my mom asked, setting her coffee on the table and sitting in her usual spot.

  “What? How’d you know?”

  “Your clothes, Lex—you’re already dressed. Usually that doesn’t happen until at least noon, if ever.”

  Laughing, I shook my head. “Yeah, I have some errands I need to run on campus. Some books to renew at the library, a little research to do … you know, the usual,” I lied.

  “I thought the quarter hadn’t started yet.”

  My heartbeat sped up, and I felt guilty for the coming lies … necessary lies. “No, you’re right, but that’s the life of a grad student—working on research projects even though the rest of the school’s on break. Plus, with the excavation …”

  She sighed, clearly preferring that I stay on the couch for another day of mom-monitored relaxation and recuperation. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “While I’d love your company, Mom, you’d be bored to death. Plus, I’ll be able to do everything faster on my own.”

  “You’ll just be on campus?”

  “Yeah,” I said, cringing on the inside. Damn, I hate lying to her!

  “Well, I know I can’t tell you no. You’re an adult. But promise me you’ll come home right away if you feel yourself getting worn out.”

  I smiled, feeling like a worthless piece of donkey crap. “Of course, Mom.”

  After breakfast, I gathered a few necessary items into my messenger bag, including my wallet and bus pass, a black spiral-bound journal, and my hospital release papers, and then left the apartment. I crossed the street to the Burke–Gilman Trail, which circumscribes the southeast edges of the university, and followed it straight to the hospital at the south end of campus—Dr. Isa owed me some answers.

  Unfortunately, when I reached the hospital’s info desk and asked the stick-thin nurse manning it where I could find Dr. Isa, the results were anticlimactic.

  “Dr. Isa? Do you know the doctor’s first name?” she asked.

  “Um, no. But she was my doctor in ICU last week.”

  The receptionist narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing me. “Are you sure you were in ICU last week?”

  Glad I’d come prepared, I pulled the release papers out of my bag and set them on the counter. “I was. See.” I pointed to the release date just in case she missed it.

  “Hmmm …” She turned to her computer screen, her skeletal fingers clacking the keys rhythmically as she searched the database for my records. “Ah, yes, I see your Dr. Isa. What do you need?”

  Barely suppressing my excitement, I said, “I need to ask her some questions. About some personal medical diagnoses she made.”

  The nurse tapped her keyboard a few more times before responding. “Well, she’s not here. Your records show you had another doctor assigned to you. He is in the hospital right now. Do you want me to page him?”

  I frowned. “Er … no. I really just need to talk to Dr. Isa. Do you know when she’ll be working again?”

  The nurse’s smile was condescending. “I’m sorry, but she’s not here anymore. I’m mean, at the hospital … she no longer works here.”

  Instantly, the hope-filled balloon that had been expanding inside my chest started to deflate as frustration and despair poked little holes in its surface. What about my answers?

  Trying not to sound too defeated, I thanked the nursed and left through the automatic sliding doors, hurrying to the bus stop. I had one more lead, and I wasn’t ready to give up all my hope.

  Miraculously, one of the many buses heading to Capitol Hill, my current destination, was just opening its doors as I reached the stop. I waited in line behind a bearded man who desperately needed a shower, a tired-looking woman in blue scrubs, and a young punk-rocker with spiked, electric-blue hair, multiple facial piercings, and heavy black eyeliner.

  The last smiled at me while nodding to the beat of whatever music blared through his earbuds. I assessed my reflection in one of the bus’s windows, wondering what exactly had endeared the young man to me, and found a surprisingly flushed version of myself staring back. The rosiness in my cheeks and lips paired with my dark mahogany hair and alabaster skin made me resemble a modern-day Snow White. I hadn’t really looked at my reflection in days, and this was a vast improvement from the skeletal stranger I’d seen the last time.

  Smiling slightly, I stepped onto the bus, showed the driver my pass, and found a solitary seat in the middle. Astonishing me further, my eye-catching admirer sat beside me and removed his black and purple earbuds.

  “Hey,” he said, his voice unexpectedly deep.

  “Hi?”

  “Your eyes are really cool. Are they, like, contacts or something?”

  “Uh … no. They’re just my eyes,” I said, confused.

  He laughed, his smile wide and his pale eyes earnest. He was really quite adorable, if I looked past the many holes and markings modifying his appearance. “They’re practically red … and they’re like that naturally? That’s way more awesome than contacts. Natural’s cool.”

  I nearly snorted, thinking my new friend and natural didn’t belong in the same room … or even the same country. I thought back to the reddish tint to my brown eyes I’d noticed several days earlier, and wondered if the red had become even more prominent. Can a person’s eye color even change like that? Why hasn’t Mom said anything?

  “Yours aren’t too bad,” I said, wanting to take the attention off myself. “They’re so pale.”

  He leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “They’re fake.”

  “Oh!” I said, laughing. “What’s their natural color?”

  “Hazel. Boring.”

  I nudged his shoulder with my own. “Hazel’s not boring—it’s multicolored. Besides, I read that it makes people seem more approachable because hazel’s a warm eye color.”

  He barked a laugh. “Oh, you’re funny. I doubt changing my eye color would do much to improve my approachability.” He stood and flashed another brilliant smile as the bus slowed to a halt. “This is me. See you around, red-eyed girl.”

  “Sure.” I watched him disembark, his demeanor reverting to the expected—sullen and angry—but I knew better.

  After three more stops, we reached mine at Broadway and Thomas. I pulled the cord and waited for the bus to stop, then exited through the rear door. Emerald City Fertility sat tucked inconspicuously between Harold’s Body Art and an adorable Irish pub aptly named The End O’ The Rainbow. Depending on my luck in the clinic, I thought I might end up sitting on a stool in The Rainbow in an hour or two.

  Taking a deep breath, I approached a glass door stenciled with Emerald City Fertility in clean, white lettering and pulled it open. I had to climb a narrow set of stairs to reach the fertility clinic’s nearly empty, second-floor waiting room. Only a young couple occupied two of the cushioned chairs, holding hands as they nervously examined their surroundings.

  “Can I help you?” a young, blonde receptionist asked. I wondered if she ever had issues with her hair sticking to the pink lip gloss smothered on her lips.

  “I hope so,” I said, approaching the desk. “I’d like to talk to Dr. Lee. I don’t have an appointment, but I can wait if he can squeeze me in between patients.”

  She smiled indulgently, looking like an all-American cheerleader, and explained, “Dr. Lee doesn’t usually see anyone without an appointment. If you’d like to make an appointment for a later date, we can schedule that now. We usually start with a two-hour consultation that includes both partners.”

  Partners? Consultation? “Oh! I’m not here as a patient,” I clarified. “My mom was. I guess you could say I wouldn’t be alive without Dr. Lee. I’ve been meaning to stop by for years, and I was in the neighborhood, so … I guess I thought
I’d just come in and thank him.” Lying was becoming as natural to me as breathing. It disgusted me.

  The receptionist’s expression transformed as I spoke, turning from fake warmth to genuine excitement. “Really? We rarely get to see the children as adults. I’m sure he’d be delighted. Can you wait here while I check with him?”

  “Sure.”

  She hurried down the hallway and disappeared around a corner, returning less than a minute later. “If you’ll follow me, Ms… . ?”

  “Larson. Alexandra Larson.”

  “Ms. Larson. I’m going to put you in the consultation room. Dr. Lee will join you in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you.”

  I sat on a comfortable couch set against the wall on the left side of the room and took out my journal. I started writing down questions that might give me some hints about my biological father. I had nearly a dozen listed when the door opened, admitting a dignified, middle-aged man with gray-winged hair and a kind face. His slacks and dress shirt made him appear more like a lawyer than a doctor.

  “Alexandra Larson. I’m Dr. Lee.” His tone was friendly, his voice deep.

  Standing, I accepted his outstretched hand, noting its dry warmth, and smiled. “Hello, Dr. Lee. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “Well, we’ve actually met, but it was a long time ago and you were about this tall,” he said, holding his hand less than two feet above the blue carpet.

  I laughed and sat back down. “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  “Of course not. I remember your parents well … lovely people.” He sat down in a leather chair across from me, a medical file resting on his lap. “So, what can I do for you, Alexandra?”

  “Well, I wanted to thank you for helping my parents and … I guess … helping me.”

  He smiled modestly. “You’re more than welcome. Helping young families is my passion.”