Disclaimer: HEY! I don't need one! Bwahahahahaaaa! I own this! All of this, and if you steal it...write me and tell me why ya did. lol d:
Stirling Twilight
Stations
"Stop the car! Stop the car!" Sandra pounded on the door.
Jerry downshifted, slammed on the brakes—throwing everything in the car forward to the screech of tires—even as her hand was on the latch. As he turned to demand an explanation, Sandra was halfway out of the car.
"Call 911!" she called over her shoulder.
He threw the Porsche into park, pushed the OnStar button and gave the operator their location.
"...I don’t know, she just started screaming call 911," he concluded, leaning over to look out the still open passenger door. "I don’t know, there’s a lot of construction..." He said that yes they would wait, and unlocked his seatbelt.
Opening the door, Jerry swung his foot out and placed it squarely in a pool of frigid slush. Cursing as the thick water slopped into his shoe, he extracted himself from the car and stood looking toward the train station. Wan streetlights barely cut the darkness.
Sandra was on her knees, bent over a prostrate figure that lay on the curb beside the vacant taxi stand. Alarmed, Jerry hurried to her side.
"What happened?" he demanded, raising his arm to shield his eyes from the slobbering mix of rain and snow.
"The front tire kicked up a rock and hit him! There’s an awful lot of blood and...what are you doing?"
Jerry had hooked a hand under her armpit and was lifting her.
"I don’t need to be tomorrow’s headline news," he groused as he carried her to her feet. "There’s no one around so let’s get back in the car and get out of here."
"Are you insane?" she barked, jerking her arm free and glaring at him. "He’s unconscious; it’s snowing; and you’re going to leave him?"
"I called for help, Sandy," he replied catching her arm again. "There’s nothing more we can do! The police’ll be here any minute."
"You called OnStar! If they check, you’ll be ticketed for leaving the scene of an accident!"
"No," he murmured, dragging her away from the prone figure, "I’ll just have taken my hysterical fiancée home. No one can blame me for taking care of my own problems first."
"Jerry..." Sandra stammered in tones of disbelief. She was struggling to free herself as he continued to hurry her around the piles of snow.
"Just get in the car, damn it! The lawyers’ll handle anything we can’t. That’s what we pay them for."
His grip on her arm brooked no argument. As he hauled her toward the car, Sandra cast a glance over her shoulder. Looking at the unconscious man, she gasped back tears of mortification as Jerry pushed her down into the warm interior.
"He would have been brought in by ambulance last night," Sandra repeated to the third volunteer at the reception desk. "With an injury to his face, by the eye." She pointed toward her own face as if to illustrate, realized how foolish she must look, and dropped her hand.
All of the women she had spoken to appeared well beyond retirement, and none were interested enough to actually check the patient list for her.
Frowning, Sandra tightened her grip on the bouquet, marched past reception and made for the emergency ward.
Enough of this stupidity, let’s cut to the chase.
Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light and Sandra saw herself at the train station, kneeling beside the wounded man. The rest of the station was hidden by darkness; there was only the two of them in a halo of light. It was as if she was looking through a telescope.
And then she was back in the hospital.
Staggering, she groped for the nearest wall. The bouquet fell from her cold hand as she reached to scrub her eyes and banish the afterimage. Indistinct voices questioned her, and a hand was under her elbow, supporting her as she murmured, "I’m alright. I’m good...I just, I just need to sit..." She felt a slight pressure at the back of her knees, and someone gently pushed her down. Slumping into the wheelchair, she heard the crinkle of tissue paper as the flowers were dropped onto her lap, and then felt someone lifting her feet onto the chair supports.
"Thank you, miss. If you would, please, bring her to my room."
The mellow, masculine voice had a slight accent Sandra couldn’t place, and was crystal clear. Groggily she looked up at the seething wall of pink and sea-green forms and fought to focus on the several attendants who fussed over her. She rocked back as the wheelchair lurched forward, felt a wave of nausea as her body swayed with the motion, and clamped her eyes closed. The sharp scent of disinfectant, and the insistent calls for errant doctors to answer their pages, assaulted her senses as she was rapidly moved to her destination. Sandra tried to imagine what had prompted the strange flashback, and why she had seen it all from such an impossible angle.
After a few minutes the chair glided to a stop; the nurse who had wheeled her was thanked and dismissed by the smooth voice.
"We’re quite alone," he assured her. "If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll get you some water."
"Thank you," Sandra whispered and cautiously opened her eyes to look around the room.
It was typical of the venue, being all bland colors that were sure to offend no one and to calm troubled souls. It was also quieter than she expected, which made it an oasis after the bustle beyond the door. Bemused, she raised her head, searching for her host. The sound of running water betrayed his location. Twisting slightly, she was in time to see a tall, lean man exit the bathroom, cup in hand. Sandra took a second to examine him.
Her first impression was that he was lovely. It was hard to think of a man, any man, as lovely, but the man who knelt beside her now, offering her the Styrofoam cup, was unlike anyone else she had ever seen before. There was a dressing over the right side of his face, obscuring one eye. The other was pale blue and incredibly clear. His hair, what she could see beneath the bandage, looked powder soft and was dove gray. She couldn’t hazard a guess as to his age. His features were strong, pleasing, and he appeared on the verge of a smile as he handed her the cup.
"Do I know you?" she murmured, looking at him over the edge of the cup.
"We met last night," he replied. "Though I believe you have the advantage over me, as I was quite unconscious at the time."
Sandra gasped, lowering the cup. "You’re the man from the train station!"
He smiled in reply, inclining his head slightly.
"But how did you know who I was?"
"Your perfume gave you away," he said as he rose. "Am I making a presumption in assuming these are for me?" he gestured to the flowers in her lap and thereby changed the subject.
"Oh," she laughed, searching for a place to set the water down. "Yes, they are. I came..." she glanced up as he lifted the cup from her hand. He was watching her, and under his gaze, Sandra felt the emotions of the previous evening return. Heat colored her cheeks as she wrestled with her embarrassment. "I came to see how you are and to apologize."
"Why apologize? Were you the one who threw the rock?"
"It wasn’t thrown; Jerry’s car kicked it up. I saw you falling and told him to stop. He called for an ambulance..." her voice faded but then she drew in a deep breath, sat up straight and met his wondering gaze. "It was wrong of him to leave, and even more so for me...I saw it happen. I’m very sorry, mortified really, that I didn’t wait with you until the ambulance arrived. You could have frozen to death on the ground, and all he was worried about was his reputation!"
"Jerry is your fiancé?"
Sandra hastily dropped her gaze to the colorful bouquet in her lap and to avoid the admission lifted it up, scowling at the battered lilies. "I’ll make arrangements with the hospital to cover your bill, please don’t worry about that. If there was damage to your clothing--"
"Thank you, miss...?"
"I’m sorry, how rude I’ve been. I’m Sandra Pares."
Knowing that they could potentially be in the Pares wing of the hospital, Sandra hoped no more explanation was necessary. The man bowed in reply, a hand over his heart.
"I am Philip Ioannidis, Miss Pares, and while I thank you for your generous offer, you’ve done more than most people would by approaching me, and I’m satisfied."
He put his hand out to help her up, and Sandra understood that she was dismissed. Knowing there was nothing more she could say, she allowed him to pull her to her feet and she set the flowers on the wheelchair.
"Thank you, Mr. Ioannidis."
"Good day, Miss Pares."
But it was not a good day.
She returned home and found that her father’s secretary, Ms. Blass, had called more than a few times, reminding her of the several receptions planned for the approaching weekend. Jerry, too, had left countless messages on her voice mail as well as her cell. He was desperately trying to apologize, to make her understand his motives, to point out that she would have done the same thing, and when all of these attempts garnered no reply, his last message was simply a warning of his impending arrival.
Looking for any excuse to hide from him and her father, she used preparations for the upcoming benefit as her cover, hurried back to the car, and fled.
While en route to the garage, she answered what messages she felt she had to. She called her father, to put his mind at ease. Dropping into the car, she called his secretary, and petulantly told the voice mail that she changed her cell number and could now be reached at—she made up the number as she rattled it off—and then snapped the phone closed. With a snarl she threw it over her shoulder and smiled with satisfaction as it bounced off the leather seat and plunked onto the floor.
Backing the car from the garage, she quickly drove the half-mile to the end of the driveway. Pausing, Sandra opened the sunroof and let the cold air suck all the warmth from the car. She’d start the day fresh, she decided, breathing in the crisp air and forcing herself to smile. Before her stretched a private straightaway, a communal driveway really, that was frequented by the rich and famous alone, so she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and thrust the gas pedal to the floor. The Mercedes leapt forward despite its protesting tires.
Less than half a mile later, Sandra’s foot stomped down on the brake. The ABS fought for control of the car as it slid, sideways, for another quarter mile.
The flash had come almost as soon as the car started forward. Looking into the circular opening that blocked all else from her vision, Sandra gazed at her smiling self...dancing in the arms of Philip Ioannidis.
The car came to a swaying stop on someone else’s lawn. Sandra sat for a moment, heedless to property damage on either side, panting and hanging on the steeling wheel. Another minute passed before she looked up to see if anyone had witnessed her automotive minuet. Throwing the car in park, she launched herself into the backseat, searching for the cell phone.
In a moment she was connected with information, only to hear that at the subscriber’s request, Philip Ioannidis’ number was unlisted.
She called her father, and got his voice mail. She called Ms. Blass and all but commanded the woman to locate the phone number and address of her mystery man.
"I don’t care who you have to pay off," she barked.
"At what number may I reach you?" Ms. Blass asked tersely.
"This one," Sandra snapped before she hung up, dialed information again, and waited while they put her through to the hospital. She was not surprised to learn that Mr. Ioannidis had discharged himself and that no, they couldn’t give her his address, no matter what kind of flowers she wanted to send him.
Growling, she urged the car back out onto the road and made for town.
By the time she reached the city, Sandra had an address and was dividing her attention between the GPS, and the street signs. Mr. Ioannidis lived in a well-to-do part of town, but not one she was familiar with. When she rolled the car to a stop before the Art Deco apartment building, she sat for a moment, gazing at the chrome and wood doors. The doorman’s hand was upon the car door, offering to help her out as the flash came to an end.
Staring into the hole in Time that only she could see, Sandra caught a glimpse of herself and Mr. Ioannidis in the throes of a climatic moment the likes of which she had never experienced. The afterimage, of their fingers laced together, left her weak and panting. For a charged moment she gaped at the doorman’s hand without comprehension.
"Miss? Are you all right, miss?"
"Thank you, Andrew," Mr. Ioannidis said as he caught Sandra’s limp hand and gently pulled her from the car. "Would you please park Miss Pares’ car?"
He didn’t wait for an answer as he scooped Sandra into his arms and hurried to the lobby.
"This is my fault," he whispered as he carried her through the warm foyer and into an elevator. "I’m sorry, Miss Pares. It’s the wound, I’m sure. I’m sorry, truly sorry."
Convinced she had no clue what he was talking about, Sandra simply relaxed into his arms and said nothing.
His apartment was populated by furniture from a more genteel era. Sandra couldn’t help but be impressed by her surroundings as they swept into the living room and her host carefully lowered her onto a chaise longue.
"Please, rest, Miss Pares. You poor thing...what you must be suffering." He excused himself, promising wine, and hurried for the kitchen.
Alone for the moment, Sandra forced herself upright, and her gaze raced around the room. She hoped to recognize something, anything, from her glimpse into the void, but the room and its furnishings defied scrutiny. The sounds of her host, busy about his task, reached her from the kitchen and she weakly rose to her feet and staggered toward what she hoped were the bedrooms.
Stoically she told herself that if Mr. Ioannidis felt he was the cause for her recent blackouts, then he owed her an explanation. This hostile reconnaissance of his home was only meant to confirm, or disprove, his involvement; so she threw herself into the search.
She looked in on a pair of bedrooms, a study, library, bathroom...none of them familiar.
"I believe," Mr. Ioannidis murmured from the living room, startling Sandra, "you’ll find what you’re looking for behind this door."
Whirling, Sandra found him beside a closed door she had yet to explore. She hurried to his side. As she neared, he leaned on the door, opening it, and then stood back as she raced past him.
The massive wooden bed was exactly as it had been in her vision.
Shaking her head in denial of this fact, Sandra backed out of the room.
"If you’d be so kind as to indulge me for a moment, Miss Pares," Mr. Ioannidis murmured as he moved to the open wine bottle. "I would like to explain recent events."
She looked at him, a puzzled frown on her face.
He poured two glasses and set hers across the table from where he settled himself.
"I didn’t put on perfume this morning," she whispered from where she stood.
"I know."
"How do you know?"
"I was watching you."
Mentally reeling, Sandra’s mind flew through her morning routine, and she imagined worse case scenario while aloud she demanded. "What do you mean? How were you watching me?"
"In the same way you’ve been seeing my thoughts when they involve you. Random flashes into someone else’s mind. I didn’t set out to watch you; it just happened. Just like it’s happening to you."
Comprehension hit her like a slap. "You were imagining...."
"Yes."
So it wasn’t the future, per se.
She was almost disappointed.
"But how?" she managed to stammer.
"I’m not human," he replied as blandly as possible. "I’m from a race of creatures that are almost as old as the Earth. My species is magical in nature and owing to my weakened state last night...this magic touched you. An unstable link formed between us. Please accept my sincere apology, Miss Pares.
"I’m also sure you won’t believe a word I’m saying. You’ll conclude that you met a certifiable eccentric and will move on without further thought on the matter. This is as it should be and cannot be helped. Again, Miss Pares, I’m--"
"Sandra."
"I beg your pardon?"
"My name is Sandra. Please call me Sandra."
Bemused, Mr. Ioannidis could only blink at her.
"When we were dancing," she went on, "what were we dancing to?"
It was a moment before he managed to whisper, "Biber."
"Hmm."
Silence reigned for a full minute before Sandra moved to her glass and lowered herself onto the sofa. Another minute passed as she sipped her wine. When she set the glass down, she looked into the lone eye of her host.
"Is it permanent?"
"The link?"
"Hmm."
"I don’t believe so."
Sandra looked across the room and softly concluded, "That’s too bad."
The sound of his glass dropping onto the table made her smile.
***
Mr. Ioannidis leapt to his feet as the tide of wine raced across the leather-top table. Sandra cried out in alarm, and together they sprinted for the kitchen. She paused long enough to locate the sink and then a sponge, before turning to retrace her steps. Her host was barring the doorway, his hand out for the sponge.
"Please, let me handle this. You’re my guest--"
"And while we stand here, the wine is making for the carpet."
She was grinning as she slipped past him. Dropping to her knees beside the table, she made short work of the task, squeezing spilled wine into the empty glass. Mr. Ioannidis completed her efforts, drying everything in her wake with a towel.
"Thank you."
"You shouldn’t thank me," she chuckled, rocking back. "I’m the one who caused the spill. You should throw me out for all the grief I’ve caused you, and yet here we are, playing house."
He looked up and smiled weakly. "You’re right," he agreed, his voice rife with misery, "and so I must ask you to leave."
Hurt and surprised, Sandra met his gaze, silently demanding an explanation.
"I believe the link will only be in place as long as my wound lasts," he continued, ignoring her implied request. "Rest assured that I will police my thoughts more closely than I have over the last few hours--"
"Why?" Sandra croaked, her eyes sparkling with tears. "What did I say?"
"Sandra," he soothed, "you’re a very beautiful woman, from a very powerful family. You’re also engaged and orbiting in spheres I don’t aspire to. You’ve suggested that my fantasies haven’t offended you, but encouragement on your part will only lead to my eventual unhappiness. Surely you can see this. I’m truly flattered you found me even remotely attractive and went to the trouble to locate me, but this is the end. It has to be."
She opened her mouth to protest, to point out just how...right he was. Bemused, she sat on her heels while he called the doorman and asked for her car to be brought around. It seemed mere moments before she was again behind the wheel, and her host had disappeared into the elevator.
Fighting off tears of disappointment, Sandra moved the car into traffic.
"I called you a dozen times today," Jerry hissed in her ear as they made their way around the dance floor. "I know what you think of me, but could you at least make an effort to pretend you like me? It’d make your father happy."
Sandra allowed her gaze to languidly drift across the room as she ignored the question. They had covered this topic more times than was necessary, and now was not the time for another screaming match. Jerry tightened his grip on her hand, silently demanding her attention, and Sandra continued to disregard him.
Her mind was in a midtown apartment, endlessly cleaning up spilt wine.
"Do you think the band knows anything by Biber?" she suddenly asked, blinking at Jerry as if she had only just woken up.
"Who?" he hissed with annoyance.
"Biber. I guess not."
"Are you feeling all right?" he frowned, confused by her disinterest.
"Hmm?"
"You’ve been acting weird since last night."
Sandra paused, pulling Jerry to a halt. "No," she announced. "I’m not. In fact, I’m leaving. I have a headache, and I’m going home."
"I’ll take you--"
"No, you won’t. You’ll stay here and flirt with whomever daddy’s talking to. It’s what you do best."
Without another word, Sandra disengaged from his clutches and made for the bar. She didn’t doubt her father would be there. He always lingered near the one place in the room everyone visited at least once.
Anthony Pares was there, entertaining the usual audience of sycophants. As with all toadies, they only wanted the Pares’ money and would laugh at her father’s jokes until the wee hours. This crowd appeared better behaved than most she observed, but then, the night was young.
Gripping her father’s arm to get his attention, she flashed him a weak smile and leaned to his ear. "I’m sorry, darling, but I’m leaving. I have a brilliant headache."
Without missing a beat, or dropping his smile, he softly countered, "What did he do this time?"
"Almost killed a man with the Porsche. I’ll forgive him in a month or two, but until then, I have a headache."
"Princess, you have a lot to learn."
"Yes, but not tonight, daddy, not tonight. I love you."
"I love you, too," he said aloud, kissed her cheek, and won a ripple of approving coos from those watching.
Sandra drove directly to Philip Ioannidis’ apartment building, parked the car in a nearby lot and prowled the street before the lobby, hoping for a glimpse of a man who lived fifteen stories above her. She couldn’t think of a reason for this side trip, other than a consuming desire to be near him. It was selfish, she knew, and disrespectful...but no matter how she scolded herself, she didn’t move toward the car.
When the biting cold finally claimed all the warmth from her feet, she decided to enter the lobby, warm herself, and leave. Clearly he was in bed, where he should be, and she was behaving like a schoolgirl with a crush.
As she neared the building, she was surprised to be greeted by the doorman.
"Miss Pares," he called cheerful. "I’m afraid Mr. Ioannidis isn’t back yet. Would you like to wait inside?"
Recovering quickly, she smiled in reply. "Yes, please. It’s Andrew, isn’t it?"
He nodded, pulling the door open for her. "It shouldn’t be much longer; they went out just before nine."
"They?"
"Mr. Ioannidis and Mr. Danas. They usually go to the Aegean for dinner on Friday nights. I didn’t think Mr. Ioannidis would go, owing to his accident, but he called for a car at his usual time."
He guided her to a chair on the far side of the reception desk where a small space heater valiantly struggled to accomplish the impossible. As she folded into the seat, he looked toward the door.
"That’s probably him now," Andrew offered helpfully as he hurried to his job.
Torn between fright and flight, Sandra suddenly felt the full weight of her infamy. Mr. Ioannidis had kindly asked her to keep her distance, and she hadn’t lasted five hours. Blocked from the door by the desk, she turned away and vainly hoped to remain undiscovered. She heard Mr. Ioannidis speaking to someone, gently insisting that he was fine and could make it to his apartment unaided.
"Would you help Mr. Danas to the taxi please, Andrew?" he concluded.
As the door thumped closed, he raised his voice. "Your perfume gives you away."
Sandra’s eyes rolled closed but she faced her mortification and rose, turning toward him. "Did you watch me put it on tonight?"
"Go home, Miss Pares."
She didn’t move, and he sagged slightly. "Please don’t make me insist. Andrew hasn’t thrown someone out in years."
Her eyes widened at the implication, but still she didn’t move. She couldn’t. Recalling the vision of them together in bed, she met his gaze and gasped with alarm.
He was gripping the desk, his lone eye wide and his pupil a mere pinpoint.
"Philip!" she shrieked, racing to support him.
Andrew was suddenly at her side. "Mr. Ioannidis! Should I call an ambulance?" he demanded, draping the stumbling man’s arm across his shoulder.
But Mr. Ioannidis raised his head enough to find his unwelcome guest as he hissed. "Go home, Sandra!"
Tears were threatening again as she wailed, "I can’t leave you!"
Struggling to stand on his own, the ailing man looked at Andrew. "Please call the police."
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, Sandra cried for an hour. Defeat and shame battled within her heart and poured down her face in a steady stream. When she was too exhausted to go on, she rolled onto her side and thought of how weak he looked as Andrew helped him to the elevator...
With a gasp her eyes flew open. He looked like she must have when she suffered from their shared thoughts. She had just imaged them in bed, looked up, and he was reeling!
Their shared visions worked both ways!
Panting and numb from the implications, Sandra tried to think of what to do. Could she seduce him with her mind? Should she call him and let him know she knew? Or, should she do as he asked and leave him out of her life?
Her miserable life.
All thought of Philip Ioannidis evaporated as her mind flew back through her life. Thrust into the horrible recollection of her sister’s suicide; her mother’s excruciating battle, and eventual loss to cancer; and her father’s eternal task of proving his self worth, Sandra moaned aloud and pushed herself up and out of bed. She wanted a drink. She wanted to wash her face. She wanted to be another person...
Halfway across the room she landed in a heap on the floor, unable to walk any farther. For several minutes she lay still and sobbed her heartache into the carpet.
And then he was caressing her shoulder, gently raising her up. Warm arms wrapped around her, engulfing her in a delicate mist of cologne, and shielding her in a protective embrace. His hand tenderly drew her head down against his chest and stroked her hair as he cradled her. Twisting, she pressed her face against him to hide her tears.
Sandra wondered, when the flash was over, if she had created it, or him.
‘Philip?’
Sleep, Sandra.
And she did.
When she awoke the next morning she was in bed with no idea how she had gotten there. Her thoughts flew to Mr. Ioannidis, wondering if he was awake yet. He didn’t seem the indolent type, and she imagined him in his kitchen, cautiously preparing breakfast as he learned to work with his new handicap. She wondered what he did for a living, and if he had to work on Saturdays. Did he have a girlfriend? She guessed not, owing to the doorman’s reaction to her. Andrew hadn’t acted like she needed to be hidden from a jealous lover.
Careful to keep her thoughts on him alone, she indulged in a few minutes of reflection. She saw him kneeling beside the wheelchair as he handed her the cup of water, she saw him hurrying to the kitchen to get her some wine, and then he was opening his bedroom door...
Hastily she forced her mind away from this train of thought. Instead, she wondered just how much of her day he was seeing, and if there was some way she could approach him, some token she could present him that would prove her sincerity.
Her first thought was the most obvious, and it was the one she had been hoping for a reason to carry out.
She would break off the engagement.
Rolling across the bed toward the nightstand, she found the clock and reached for the phone. It was just after nine, which meant that her father would already be at the office. She dialed his private line and was surprised to get his voice mail. Hanging up, she redialed and got Ms. Blass on the second ring. "Good morning!" she gushed at the secretary. "Is my father in?"
"He’s in a meeting. May I take a message?"
"I’m not sure. Would you see if he has any plans for lunch?"
"The only free time he has today is from 10:30 to 11."
"Pencil me in, please," Sandra laughed, throwing off the blanket and sitting up. In a minute, she was out of bed and had turned on her computer. While it warmed up, she stripped and made for the shower.
Her internet search on Philip Ioannidis informed her that he was one of the curators at the Met. He worked in the Classics Department.
"Ioannidis, Danas...dinner at the Aegean," she mused, and thought of his accent. "He’s Greek! Am I blind or what?"
At 10:20 she relinquished her car to the valet and hurried for the elevator. As she entered the anteroom to her father’s office, he was coming out to greet her.
"Feeling better?" he asked, kissing her cheek.
"Hmm."
"Hold my calls, Meryl, would you please?"
Turning to his daughter, he smiled and drew her into the office, closing the door behind him. "Did your gown arrive?" he asked amiably, placing her in a chair near the sunlit window.
"Yes, I’m all set for tonight, thanks."
"You don’t need anything from the vault?"
"I got everything I need, daddy," she assured him with a smile. "Look, I know you’re busy, and I want to say what I have to say quickly so we can move on, okay?"
A look of concern creased his features. "You’re here with bad news?"
She turned to look out the window, her voice soft and measured as she declared, "I’m breaking off the engagement, daddy."
"No, you’re not, princess."
Shocked, Sandra turned to face her father. His eyes were closed, and he was shaking his head.
"But--"
"No buts. Jerry is the perfect match for you, and that’s the end of this discussion."
"Daddy--"
"No! You’ll marry Jerry or you’re out on the street. Do I make myself clear?"
"But I don’t love him! Hell, I don’t even like him!"
"Love and marriage have nothing to do with each other."
Her eyes narrowed as her back straightened. "You can’t marry me to someone I don’t love because you think it’s what’s best for business! I should be more important than the bottom line!"
"Of course you are! You know you are! But Jerry’s personality and situation are exactly right for you. Trust me, princess, I know."
"I am not a princess, daddy, I’m your daughter. And I’m telling you, I’m not asking. I will not marry Jerry Fleischman. Period. Throw me out, I don’t care. Maybe on the street I’ll find someone who’ll love me for me, and not for my father’s money!"
"Someone like Philip Ioannidis?"
Surprised, she frowned at him. "What about Philip Ioannidis?"
"You had Brenner look him up yesterday. Why?"
"He’s the man that Jerry hurt with the Porsche."
"That’s not what Jerry tells me."
"And you’d rather believe him...I see." She paused to consider the implications. Rising, Sandra turned toward the door. "Thank you, Mr. Pares, for your time. I won’t trouble you again."
***
The message from her father, that he was sorry and that she was free to do as she pleased, was delivered amidst two dozen pink roses.
Happily, Sandra pulled the ring from her finger, called Jerry and told him it was over. She welcomed him to come collect the preposterous diamond and said that yes, she would listen to his pleas, but what was the point?
"Jerry, I told you that I would marry you, but I never said I would like you, and as you pointed out last night, I can’t even pretend. Why torture ourselves?"
Sounding completely miserable, he told her to keep the ring and hung up.
Sandra called her chauffeur, Dave, gave him the ring and told him to deliver it to the Fleischman house. As she watched the car drive away, she felt better than she had in months. Scooping up the phone, she called the florist and sent her father three dozen red roses with the simple message: I love you.
Preparations for the evening commenced four hours before the charity opera. The emotional high Sandra was on continued as she told the hairdresser to weave pink roses, and her mother’s pearls into her hair. While she had her makeup applied, her personal assistant reviewed the guest list with her. Back at the house she dressed in her new, pink silk gown and then hid it beneath a cream satin cape. Fortified, she climbed into the limousine, called her father and asked him to meet her.
As her car pulled up before the opera house, her father was waiting for her. In the press of people, her mind was once again across town with thoughts of how she longed for Mr. Ioannidis to be watching her now!
"I have a surprise for you," he father purred in her ear as she slipped her arm into his and willingly trailed beside him.
Smiling to the crowd, she leaned toward him. "I don’t need surprises, daddy. I only need you."
"But you’ll like this one."
"Hmm?"
"I’ll tell you at the intermission, how’s that? This way you can think about it and maybe guess."
"Is it something I can guess?"
"No," he chuckled as they entered the theater.
The first hour was spent smiling for the cameras, shaking hands, and putting faces to the names on the guest list. When the house lights announced the eminent opening of the opera, her father again collected her arm, and they made for their box.
"Did you see everyone you needed to?" she asked as they mounted the stairs.
"Almost. I’ll have to be--"
"At the bar during intermission," she concluded for him, laughing as she squeezed his arm. "How many people will be in the box with us?"
"Actually, I have to sit with the Pinzers."
"Daddy!"
Now it was his turn to laugh. "It’s Turandot, princess. You know how you cry during Nessun dorma. Wouldn’t you rather be among strangers?"
"No!"
He continued laughing as they lingered by their box, talking to people and greeting friends. When the house lights flashed again, Sandra kissed her father as he handed her into the box and took his leave.
The usher held the door and the curtain as she entered the dim room and came face to face with Philip Ioannidis.
She was sure her astonishment was equal to his. For a moment they stood, staring at each other.
"Mr. Ioannidis!" Sandra stammered at long last, her gaze sweeping the room for other people, only to confirm that they were alone.
"Miss Pares," he replied, bowing.
As he straightened, she saw that he had replaced his dressing with a simple black eye patch. Colorful bruising marred his cheek, but otherwise, he appeared fine. Very fine in fact. The gray hair she admired was gathered at the back of his neck. His tuxedo was the current fashion and fit him perfectly.
At a loss, Sandra forced herself to smile. "What an unexpected pleasure. I hope you aren’t doing too much in coming out tonight. You should be home, resting--"
"The museum received several tickets for this evening’s performance, and oddly my name was on the guest list. I freely admit I was more than a little surprised when I saw where my seat was and thought I detected your hand in my placement. I have since revised this assumption. You look as bewildered as I am."
She met his gaze and nodded. "Forgive me, please, Mr. Ioannidis. I used a private detective to obtain your address yesterday, who informed my father of my request. I’m sorry for forcing myself upon you in this way. My father said he had a surprise for me; I can only assume he meant you. Please, Mr. Ioannidis, if you would like to leave, I completely understand. My car will take you home. I can’t imagine what you’re thinking, but I’m sure it can’t be flattering, and I know it’s deserved--"
"I was actually thinking," he interrupted her, looking up as the lights faded, "that if we don’t take our seats we’ll trip over each other in the dark." He reached out, caught her hand, and bent to press his lips to her knuckles. "You look magnificent," he murmured against her skin.
His touch sent an electric current through her body and his kiss turned her legs to rubber. Sandra whispered her thanks and submitted to his direction as he drew her to the ledge.
"I always cry during Nessun dorma," he softly confided as he placed her in her seat. He took a moment to make sure she had a program and glasses before he settled himself on her left. Sandra couldn’t help but watch him, though she tried to not openly gawk. It was unfathomable that he was seated beside her, and would be for almost three uninterrupted hours.
"Sandra?"
Startled, she blinked at him. "Mr. Ioannidis?"
He chuckled and took her hand. "Call me Philip, please." His thumb brushed across the back of her hand, trailing fire, and gently pressed against the place where her engagement ring would have been. "I wanted to tell you...I thought you were very brave today."
For a lingering moment, the statement simply hung between them.
"You saw?" she finally whispered.
He nodded and made a soft noise of agreement.
"How much did you see?"
"You spelled my name wrong twice and have a birthmark on your left hip..."
Suddenly he moaned and hoarsely apologized as he released her hand and leaned heavily on the ledge.
This time she welcomed the blinding flash of light.
She saw them on the floor of the box, kissing with a passion that forced the air from her lungs. He was on top of her, and she looked down at the couple in the vision. Pink petals were scattered on the carpet, and her hands were wound into his hair.
Philip moaned again, and the vision faded.
"Miss Pares...Sandra, I’m so sorry. Forgive me, please, I beg."
Closing her eyes, Sandra imagined herself dropping to her knees before him and stretching up to kiss his lips. The same flash came, and he gasped in response.
In the vision, he caught her in his arms, and their kiss deepened.
‘Yes!’ she mentally cried. ‘Please, Philip! Please!’
His burning mouth seared a path down her neck and she leaned back, granting him access to whatever he cared to kiss. Suddenly his hands rose up from her waist, lifting her breasts from below as he forced them together and dropped his face down to sweep his tongue over her skin.
I...must...stop!
‘No!’ she pleaded in his mind. ‘Please, Philip, please don’t!’
His vision self tugged at her dress, frantically trying to expose more of her skin to his ravenous mouth.
Sandra! I...
‘Please, Philip!’
He finally reached into the silk and caught a hardening nipple.
The Sandra of their vision cried out as an orgasm washed over her.
Drawing her out of the dress, Philip pushed her down between the seats and spent the remainder of the first half making love to her skin.
At the climax of the act they grudgingly agreed that they were going to have to stop or risk discovery. In the vision, they kissed until the final notes died away and then released each other.
Trembling and weak, the couple determined that circulating was out of the question, but drinks were mandatory. Sandra summoned the usher, ordered for them both, and prepared Philip for the inevitable meeting with her father.
"He chose Jerry for me," she explained, fanning herself with her program. "He insisted. Like he said earlier, he thinks we’re an excellent match. I had no reason to protest, other than I thought Jerry was loathsome. But I love my father enough to have put up with him...until last night.
"You have to be aware of the fact," she went on more earnestly, "that the second daddy learns I’m interested in you, which I am, by the way, very interested...but when he sees this, you’ll be placed under a microscope."
He nodded gravely. "I understand."
She gazed up at him, her eyes full of wonder. "Philip?"
He reclaimed her hand and kissed her palm. "I’m interested in you too," he murmured.
This time she did slide from her chair and drop to her knees before him. Philip immediately leaned down to press his lips to hers. His arms were around her, drawing her closer as he slowly bent her back.
Sandra.
‘Hmm?’
Stay with me tonight.
‘Hmm...’
The meeting between father, daughter and Philip Ioannidis was mercifully short. Her father had been detained at the bar longer than he intended, and so there was very little time before the house lights were dimmed a second time. He smiled at them both, told Sandra he would see her sometime the next day, kissed her cheek and left them alone.
Back in the box, the couple sat and watched the opera while they sipped their drinks. When the long-awaited aria began, Philip imagined them standing together, his arms around her, and he sang along with the tenor, but for Sandra alone. As her father predicted, she did indeed cry, but these tears were unlike any she had ever shed before, and she reveled in their heat.
Once the song was over, and they had recovered from the flash, Sandra ordered her car. "Why wait for the crush? Let’s just go now."
Philip agreed with a bow and offered her his arm.
In the lobby, Sandra left a note with the usher for her father—thanking him for her surprise—and wishing him a good night. While she did this, Philip claimed their coats and helped her with the yards of satin cream. He complimented her once again on her fairy tale appearance and escorted her to the waiting car.
When they were settled, Philip twisted to face Sandra. His expression was sober enough that she waited for him to speak.
"I have to ask you, Sandra Pares, why it is that you so easily accepted my explanation as to our link. Most women would have viewed me, at best, as a psychic stalker and run for their lives rather than calmly sip wine."
She nodded in agreement. "You work in the Classics Department of the Met, correct?"
He inclined his head slightly.
"How many times have you been at a reception where you were approached by someone who shyly admitted that they were Cleopatra reborn? Or Caesar in other life? While I give you credit for a creative explanation, I don’t believe you can come close to the people I’ve met who claim to be from other planets, other universes or different planes of existence. When your father is a philanthropist, Mr. Ioannidis, you encounter all types. Your admission of being magical, and from another time, was nothing more than I expected."
"Are you saying you don’t believe me?"
"I’m saying I don’t care where you came from. It’s not important to me. Feel free to tell me your mother was a jackal and your father a ball of wax; I don’t mind. What I am interested in is sitting in the car beside me. The rest is academic."
"So if I tell you my father was a Unicorn and my mother a Roc, you’re willing to simply let it go?"
"Hmm."
"And that in my natural form you would call me a Pegasus? None of this bothers you?"
"In what way will it impact on my regard for you?"
He heaved a sigh, shaking his head. "Who can say before you actually see me revert?"
"Do you have reason to revert? You seem to be a well-established curator with little or no reason to suddenly sprout wings and fly. Am I right? Seriously, when was the last time you were in your 'natural form?'"
"Last night."
Surprised, Sandra blinked at him. "Why last night?"
He looked down the length of the car. "I didn’t want you to sleep on the floor."
Several minutes passed in silence as Sandra struggled with this intelligence. It was, truly, the last thing in the world she expected to hear, and she wasn’t sure how it made her feel. He plainly believed he was telling the truth, and was offering proof. In her experience, the crackpots she encountered always found excuses to change the subject when pressed for evidence of their claims. Philip Ioannidis was practically challenging her to doubt him.
Sandra was suddenly on fire with the thought that he was indeed insane and where did that leave her? "How old are you?" she whispered fearfully.
"Just shy of four billion years old."
"Stop the car! Stop the car!"
***
Grabbing his hand, she pulled Philip from the car and made for the park. The nearest entrance was a little way up the street, and she didn’t hesitate as she marched toward the opening in the wall.
"May I ask what you’re doing?" Philip ventured, righting himself and moving closer to her.
"I’m offering you a chance to prove your claim. If you can indeed make yourself into a Pegasus, then we can move forward; but if you can’t...I’m calling you a taxi and we will never see each other again." She stopped and looked up at him. "All right?"
He smiled, nodding in reply.
"You don’t want to talk me out of it?" she demanded with no little surprise.
"I’d rather warn you about what to expect."
"Okay, warn me," she commanded as she resumed walking.
"In my beast form, I’m of average equine height, gray, like my hair, with white wings. My wings fold like raptor wings, so I can keep them against my sides, but to actually fly, I need either room to run, or to drop from a height. Vertical takeoffs are for foals."
"How did you do it last night?"
"My apartment is high enough."
She snorted. "Even I know that city apartment windows are jumpers. You couldn’t possibly..."
"With money, all things are possible."
"Are you rich?"
"I could buy and sell your father about three times."
"And yet you go to work?"
"I want to be close to my home. Working with antiquities allows me to be, vicariously."
"Then why live in New York?"
"Because I find the political climate in America more to my liking."
They turned into the park, and he immediately pulled her toward the wall.
"It’s hard enough to find private space in Central Park," he mumbled as he stepped over a mound of snow and lifted her up with the chuckled command, "Jump." He carried her as easily as he might a child. "Let’s move over here," he continued as he pointed into a tiny grove. "I glow slightly; if we’re in total darkness, I’ll be obvious."
Sandra’s mind was reeling as he moved her around several trees, into the fringe of the golden streetlight. He was so confident and convincing was she was actually beginning to believe him, yet she was also positive that he was going to murder her. What choice did he have?
Placidly, she followed and struggled to make sense of it all.
When he was satisfied with their location, he turned to face her and dropped her hand. "Tell me what you’re thinking," he urged.
"I’m thinking I’m about to die," she replied frankly.
Shaking his head, Philip laughed away this assertion. "Are you sure you want me to do this?"
"Are you sure you can?" she countered.
Philip Ioannidis of the Ranking, Phi, reverted to his Pegasus beast form.
In appearance, he was indeed completely horse-like, with the inexplicable exception of his massive, glowing, white wings. Sandra didn’t know enough about horseflesh to put a breed name to the magnificent beast before her, but she could admire his delicate legs and arched neck. His mane and tail were paler than his hide and looked invitingly silky. His coat was glossy in the wan light and it flashed as, birdlike, he preened under her regard.
Philip spread and lifted his wings, displaying them for her, then turned his pale eyes on Sandra Pares.
"Now tell me what you’re thinking."
When Sandra regained consciousness, she was back in the car. Philip was seated beside her. The frown of concern on his face confused her.
"What happened?" she whispered, looking around in an effort to place herself.
"You fainted."
She mulled this over for a moment. "Hardly what one would expect," she wryly mused, "when one learns that the man she desires is actually a horse."
"Pegasus, please. It’s rude to say horse."
She blinked at him, her mind a tempest. It wasn’t until she realized the car was moving that she was able to grasp something tactile. "Where are you taking me?" she demanded.
"Home, Miss Pares. I believe you’ve had enough excitement for one night."
"But I don’t want to go home," she whined, rounding on him.
"I want you to. You need time, Sandra," he soothed, stroking her hair. "You can’t do it all in one night."
"I told you," she insisted, struggling to sit up, "I don’t care where you come from!"
"You say that now, but what happens in a month? A year?"
"You tell me," she murmured.
His expression turned soft as he smiled at her. "I’ve been married countless times in my long life, Miss Pares. I know the sorrow that comes with being ageless, and yet, after billions of years, I still find myself unable to resist when Love turns her eyes on me."
Elated, Sandra tried to clamp down on her excitement. "Do you love me?" she asked breathlessly.
"I could love you, Sandra, very easily."
She reached for him, and Philip sat forward, drawing her against his side. Sandra wrapped her arms around his neck and dropped her head onto his shoulder.
"I’ve never felt like this before," she softly confided. "I thought I was in love once, and what I feel when I’m near you makes me think that I couldn’t have been more wrong."
"You don’t love me, Sandra. You desire me; that much is clear. Love, true love, takes time. Believe me."
"I do," she breathed with conviction. "Completely."
The car stopped before the front door, and she sat up, reaching to let them out.
"Please come in," she pleaded, throwing herself from the car in her haste and turning to make sure he couldn’t just close the door. "You can stay as long as you’d like. My driver can take you back to the city whenever you’re ready."
"I don’t need a car, Sandra," he reminded her as he followed.
Eagerly, she hurried him toward the house, afraid that he would take flight before her eyes, and she would never see him again. In the foyer, she relinquished his hand only long enough to remove her cape before turning to confirm he was actually staying. Philip smiled at her sudden insecurity and said he would keep his coat.
"If I have to leave from another exit, it’s better to have it close so I don’t leave anything behind."
She digested this information for a moment and then looked up at him. "You really are magical," she murmured thoughtfully.
"Yes, I really am," he agreed with a grin.
"And your wives believed you too?"
"Of course. I don’t believe in secrets."
She laughed as she led him up the wide staircase to the second floor. "And they married you anyway?"
"So far I have a perfect track record."
"That’s because of your dashing good looks," she teased. "You should always wear an eye patch. Women respond well to rakes and pathos."
"What makes you think I don’t?"
This question made her stop and laugh as she turned back to face him. For a moment she stood on the stair above him, gazing into his eye. Slowly her gaze dropped to his lips and she leaned forward even as he tilted his head. As their lips met, she melted against him.
‘Philip.’
Sandra?
‘I want to stand here and kiss you for the next six years.’
And after six years?
‘We should move up a step and repeat.’
He smiled against her mouth and reached his arms around her waist. I’ll do whatever you’d like, if it’ll make you happy. But I should warn you--
Instantly wary, Sandra drew back and searched his face for a hint as to his next confession. "What?" she asked aloud.
"I have a lipstick fetish," he responded in kind, chuckling at himself.
She snorted at him. "Is that all? I have a developing equus complex. I think I win."
Turning, she caught his hand and pulled him toward her room. "Come on. You can pick the color."
Sandra fluidly opened the door, reached in to snap on the light and spun back to say something to her guest. Her bright eyes mirrored the smile on her lips.
Looking past her, into the still dark room, Philip suddenly stiffened, threw his arms around her, swung her around and pinned her against the wall beside the door. Sputtering, Sandra indignantly demanding to know what he was doing.
"Sandra, you can’t go in there," he hissed, but then better modulated his voice. "Please, trust me. Call your father and the police."
The color drained from her face as she stared up at him.
"Philip," she whispered fearfully.
He smiled weakly, placed a kiss on her forehead and stayed pressed against her as he whispered. "It’s okay, Sandra. You’re all right; I’m all right." Reaching into his pocket, he drew out his cell phone and handed it to her. "Call your father and tell him to come home. Please."
She dialed the number, put the phone to her ear, looked up at him, and burst into tears. Philip pulled her trembling body against his chest and held her while she sobbingly asked her father to come home.
"I don’t know, daddy," she panted. "Philip saw something in my room, I didn’t see it. He says I should call the police." She nodded to whatever his reply was and then held the phone out to Philip. "He wants to speak to you."
"Philip, Anthony Pares. Can you tell me what you saw?"
"Not without causing trauma." He kept his voice neutral, staring down into Sandra’s wide eyes.
"You think it was Jerry?"
"Doubtless."
"Can you take Sandra to your home?"
"Of course, but I believe the police will want to question me."
"Don’t worry about the police! I’ll give them your address. It’s not like you’re leaving the country. Just take her somewhere safe!"
"I’ll call you again when we’re at my apartment."
"Fine, fine."
"Should we call the police?"
"I’ll take care of that, the commissioner’s right here. Just take Sandra and go!"
Philip urged Sandra away from the door, gently pulling her toward the stairs. As he did, he dialed his apartment building.
"Twin Mirrors, Russell speaking, how may I help you?"
"Russell, it’s Philip Ioannidis...where’s Andrew?"
"Mr. Ioannidis! Thank heaven! Andrew’s in the hospital. A bunch of punks with baseball bats came in looking for you and beat Andrew pretty badly. He managed to lock down the elevators..."
"Are the police there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Please give them my cell number, but let them know that very likely the men who are responsible know it as well. Tell them I have Sandra Pares. I’ve already spoken to her father, who’s with the commissioner. Miss Pares and I are heading back into Manhattan. When we’re settled, I’ll contact them."
"Yes, sir."
He hung up, looked down at Sandra and kissed her damp cheek. "I believe that seeing my natural form has been eclipsed by Jerry’s petty revenge. And I vainly thought that I was enough for one night." He hugged her, then started down the stairs. "It’s humbling to be so thoroughly upstaged."
"You’re trying to make me feel better?" she whispered, tripping along beside him.
"I’m not?"
"I’m scared, Philip," she murmured.
"And you should be," he firmly agreed, "which is why we’re taking your car. The less staff involved, the better off we’ll be."
"Hmm."
He paused to kiss her again, flipped open his phone, and started dialing.
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
"Where?"
"Trenton."
"What?"
"Car, two cells, two cards."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah, you could say hello, Douglas. It won’t kill you."
"Don’t call me Douglas. My mother calls me Douglas."
"Maybe this is your mother."
"Then her voice got a lot more feminine."
Philip scooped up the satin cape as they hurried through the foyer and made for the garage. "Where is the staff?" he asked, surprised that they hadn’t seen anyone.
"Off. We should have been at the opera until midnight and then the reception at the Dodge Foundation until 3 at the earliest. When we’re out like that we typically give them the night off."
He grunted and quickened his pace.
As they drew near the door that connected the house to the garage, Sandra slowed. Instantly alert, Philip slowed as well. "What is it?"
"The lights in the garage are out," she whispered, retreating a step.
"And they shouldn’t be?"
"Not with daddy’s car still out...and where’s Dave with my car?"
"Come on," he hissed, turning them back toward the front door.
His phone was back in his hand, and he hit redial.
Douglas picked up right away. "When?"
"One hour."
"Where?"
"Jersey City."
"What?"
"The same."
"Two."
"One!"
"Are you crazy? I can’t get that together in one hour."
"Yes you can. I know you can, Douglas. One hour."
"Are you flying in?"
"I’m afraid it’s my only option."
"You amaze me."
"Yeah, me too."
Philip dropped the cape back in the hall, swept his coat off and wrapped it around Sandra.
"Can you ride a horse?" he demanded as he closed the buttons.
She blinked in confusion. "Not well."
"Good enough," he murmured as he reached into the pockets, removing gloves, which he watched her put on. "Sandra, listen to me. I’m going to revert and fly you out of here. It’s going to be unbelievably cold, so we’ll take it in stages, but right now I think it’s our best option. Are you all right with this?"
"Hmm."
"You have to concentrate, Sandra, all right? Promise me."
She nodded again and threw her arms around him, hugging him hard.
Philip smiled and returned the embrace briefly before making for the door.
Out on the lawn, he reverted in the shade of some bushes, kept his wings tucked, and called her to mount. He knelt, allowing her to scramble up with greater ease. Sandra discovered that his wings were practically at his shoulders so her options were to perch astride the base of his neck, or sit behind the wings all together.
"Sit forward," he cautioned her. "You can’t ride behind the wings, they’ll knock you off."
Sandra squirmed forward and declared herself as ready as possible. Philip ordered her to wrap her arms around his neck and hang on. He trotted out onto the driveway, and felt her bouncing uncomfortably. He knew it couldn’t be helped and broke into a canter as soon as possible. Unfolding his wings, he threw them wide and quickened his pace. In the distance he could hear the approaching police cars so he pumped his wings twice. Sandra screamed with alarm and tightened her grip as he skipped, forced his wings down, skipped again, and swept into the air.
***
Philip flew as low as he dared and alighted after only twenty minutes. Sandra was barely responsive, which didn’t surprise him, and he needed to judge how she was managing the cold.
There was very little snow on the tarred roof, but whole lakes of water, with their countless tributaries, had collected in every depression. Philip quickly moved into the inky shadow of a decorative water tank and reverted, twisting to catch Sandra as he did.
"My God, you’re frozen!" he hissed as she slumped against him. Her lips were blue as she valiantly fought the chattering of her teeth.
Opening the coat, he reached in and crushed her to his chest.
"My father’s element is fire," he breathed in her ear, "so I can do a little fire magic," and he ignited his internal furnace. Warmth flooded his frosted limbs and Sandra moaned, turning her face against his neck.
"And your mother?" she whispered.
Grateful that she was alert, his grip on her tightened. "As you would expect, air. We most closely resemble our father, but emulate our mother."
"That’s a very pretty thought," she murmured dreamily. "Philip...I can’t feel my hands."
He leaned away from her, pulling his gloves off and placing her hands on his chest. "No more flying for you. I’ll warm you some more and then we’ll go down to the subway. We need to get on the Path to Jersey City. Douglas will meet us there."
"It sounds like you’ve done this sort of thing before."
"Not for a very long time, but like Douglas, I’ve helped others. You can think of us as a sort of Underground Railway for magical creatures. Once we’re in Jersey City, we’ll be safer."
"But you wanted to go to Trenton," she sighed, snuggling against him.
"I wanted distance between you and Jerry."
She moaned softly. "You’re not going to tell me what you saw, are you?"
"It would only upset you, darling, so no."
A nervous giggled escaped her lips, and she rubbed against him. "You called me darling. That’s sweet."
His cell phone started vibrating then, and they both scrambled for the pockets of the coat. Sandra found the phone, glanced at the caller ID, and flipped it open.
"Hello daddy," she said, casting Philip an apologetic glance. She listened for a second and then held the phone out. "He wants you. He’s frantic."
"Then he’s either seen your room, or has been told," Philip affirmed as he took the phone back.
"Anthony," Philip began before the other man could speak, "It’s very likely that this number is known. You should be careful of what you say."
"We’ve had a call from the police at the house," the older man replied with a note of panic in his voice.
"I assumed as much."
"Do you know what you saw?"
"Enough."
"I’m counting on you to take care of my little girl!" His voice was laced with desperation as he fought his fear.
"I promise, Anthony," Philip assured him. "When we’re safe, I will call you again...in a round about manner."
"I understand. Hurry, please."
Philip handed the phone back to Sandra. "Talk to your father, darling. Let him know you’re all right. He desperately needs you right now."
Her eyes filled with tears as she nodded and did as he suggested. She forced herself to smile as she spoke, telling her father how she loved her surprise, how wonderful the opera was, and that she did indeed cry when he said she would. Laughingly, she complained that Philip was no gentleman, as he hadn’t yet asked her if she wanted anything to eat. She ended with assurances of her trust in her present company, and the promise that she would see him again soon.
When she hung up, she cried for a moment, and Philip simply held her during her breakdown. After a minute, he warned her that they needed to move again so she nodded, sniffing back tears, and pushed herself upright. As she rose, she worked on buttoning the coat again.
Then came a sound she had never heard before. She imagined that it was like the scratching of a thousand ravenous rats. Philip gasped, scooped her up, and ran for the edge of the roof.
"Trust me, and don’t scream!" he snapped in her ear as he reached the edge and leapt off the rooftop.
Sandra saw his wings—but still felt his arms—as she blacked out.
Shock kept Sandra asleep for the duration of the train ride. Philip carried her from station to station and when he reached Jersey City, he was thrilled to see Douglas waiting on the platform.
"She looks exactly like Josephine," was Douglas’ greeting as he lifted the sleeping girl from Philip’s arms.
"Yes, she does—with the same spoiled nature."
"Well, you’re nothing if not consistent," the large man chuckled. "I like the patch. Is that new, or are you finally giving in and copying me?"
Philip smiled, but went on in a business-like manner. "We were chased."
"Goblins?"
"Who else?"
"Damn scabs."
"You know I agree."
"Any word from Danas?"
"I’d rather not involve him."
"You’re the boss. The car is over there." Douglas gestured with his chin toward a black, Mercedes sedan. The fog of exhaust told Philip the car was running, so there would be no delays.
"And the cell?"
"In the car, charging."
"We’re going to need clothes," Philip went on, opening the back door so that Douglas could slip Sandra into the warm interior.
"You’ll be staying at the Hyatt; the GPS will show you, and I’ll send over what you need."
"You’re not coming?"
Douglas laughed as he closed the door. "Please! I’d be a third wheel. Everything you need is in the glove compartment. I know you’ll call if you need."
"Thanks, Douglas."
"Always a pleasure to see you, Philip. Now go get some sleep."
Once he put Sandra to bed, Philip took the cell and settled himself in the bathroom with the door open so he could watch her. He called the precinct closest to his apartment and was amazed to be put through to the commissioner at once. The man on the line grunted that they were expecting his call and there was a pause while Anthony Pares was summoned. During the lull, Philip leaned out to make sure Sandra was still sleeping. The link between them was quiet so he concluded she was and tried to relax. When he finally heard her father’s voice, however, he was instantly alert.
"Anthony? Philip. We’re in Jersey City, at the Hyatt. Sandra’s asleep. She’s had a long night."
"I’m back at the house," her father said, "and can’t believe what that monster did! I’m just glad Sandra didn’t see any of it."
"If I remember correctly, the rumor was that Sandra found her sister’s body."
"Yes, she did, and of course Jerry knew about it. He did quite a job recreating it all."
"I’m sorry you had to go through that again," Philip whispered with feeling. "All I could see was something hanging from the light fixture, and it was enough. I’m sorry, Anthony, very sorry for your loss."
"I blame myself," the man moaned. "My wife was dying and I didn’t spend enough time with the girls."
"You did what you had to, I’m sure. To look back and say you’d do things differently is only torturing yourself."
"Judy was the only who was allowed to call Sandra, Sandy. They were inseparable," Anthony finished miserably, his thoughts lost in the past. There was a moment of silence and then he sucked in a deep breath. "I’d love to get my hands on his neck! That bastard!"
"They’ll never pin this on him," Philip commiserated.
"I know! He’s already made a statement to the press from his family’s house in the Hamptons. He announced the break up so we’d all know he was far from the scene."
"I’d like to do likewise, if Sandra is amenable, Anthony. I have a villa outside of Athens."
Again there was silence. Finally, Anthony made a noise of agreement. "I’ll send Sandra’s passport to Kennedy."
"You can check with the Twin Mirrors, they have all my contact information. I’ll let them know to expect your call and have them send my documents as well."
"I can’t believe this has happened," he moaned once again, "but I’m grateful for your help, Philip."
Philip rose then, moving to look down at Sandra. "I’ll take care of her, Anthony, I swear."
"I don’t know why, but I believe you, Philip. Call me when you get to the villa."
"We will."
He closed the phone, placed it on the nightstand and carefully lowered himself onto the bed. For a lingering moment he simply watched Sandra sleep. Finally, he whispered aloud the keening of his heart.
"You’ve found me again, human child. It’s been 83 years, dearest, and I’ve missed you so very much." He bent and kissed Sandra’s cheek. "So very much."
Sandra stirred, blinking at him. "Am I dreaming?"
"Yes, darling," he whispered, smiling as he stroked her cheek. "It was all a dream. Go back to sleep and you can tell me about it in the morning."
She smiled, snuggling deeper into the pillows.
Reaching up, Philip picked crushed petals from her hair.