Page 55 of Eternal Craving

The two sharp teeth that I thought I’d felt were now gone. My imagination spiraled.

Better never to speak of it again and deny it ever happened. Yet, as I recalled the sensuous sensations that I’d never experienced before, I wondered if I’d break my own promise.

Upon my arrival at Miranda’s house, I flew into a panic. Her home had been ransacked. Each room was in disarray, the work of angry men. Overturned tables, upside down chairs, and smashed glass were everywhere. Paintings had been ripped from the walls, their portraits slashed through, and empty jewelry boxes lay about, evidence of looting.

I ran from room to room, searching for a message or clue left behind that would reveal where they’d gone, but it was impossible to find anything amongst such a mess. And from the look of it, they’d failed to find what they came here looking for – just as I had.

I’d lost Alicia again.

Chapter Twenty-Four

When I reached Santiago De Compostela, the air was still. The soft touch of twilight brought me back to earth.

Lingering on the steps of my home, I took a moment to gather my thoughts. When I opened the door and entered the foyer, the reek of blood assailed me and stole my breath away.

I ascended the staircase with dizzying speed.

Miguel lay face down outside my bedroom door, and a knife emblazoned with the senatorial crest protruded from his back. The man who’d treated me like a son was now dead.

I opened my bedroom door and teetered on the verge of collapse, tears blurring my vision. Upon the bed lay Annabelle and our eldest son, Eduardo.

I settled beside their motionless bodies, gazing at their mottled skin. I looked around for Jacob, fearing I’d find his small lifeless body, but I couldn’t see him.

I hugged Annabelle. She lay like a rag doll in my arms. I ran my fingers through her spiraling curls. I reached for my son, and then pulled back, unable to bring myself to touch his cold, lifeless hand. I leaned over him and my tears dropped onto his pale cheek.

Shaking, I tried to make sense of what I saw and what I felt. I wanted to turn back the clock. I’d gone to save my sister and Salvador and had left my family here, vulnerable.

I removed Annabelle’s necklace and opened the dangling locket. Inside, our portraits were captured perfectly. My breath left me as the ache in my chest wrenched my heart so badly that I felt it could kill me.

I wanted it to.

On the bedside table rested an open book and an empty cup. The window was open, the lace curtains billowing in the breeze.

Time lost all meaning and, somehow, I found myself outside. Staring back at the house, my mind seemed to splinter as a numbness severed the pain. A breeze whirled dead leaves around me and they settled at my feet. I couldn’t remember what I’d been doing out here, lingering before a mound of earth, my fingernails filthy.

Whatever had tried to entangle me over the last two days had found its way in, but surrender brought little relief. My sense of smell was heightened, enhancing my awareness, sharpening my perception. My vision and hearing were keener.

Voices carried from the house, and I followed the ruckus, meandering back the way I’d come.

Twenty or so soldiers sat talking around the kitchen table, which was laden with plates stacked high with food and numerous empty bottles of wine. The murderers were having a midnight feast.

Again I heard that terrible chatter of voices, the strange illusion that more men were speaking than were present. For a fleeting moment, I considered the diabolical notion that I wasn’t only hearing their conversations but also their thoughts, as voices crossed over, clashing with each other, making no sense.

Movement in the corner of the room caught my eye.

God, no…

Jacob, my one-year-old son, played on the floor and he was filthy. I had to get to him before the madness got to me. Strolling past the soldiers, I was vaguely aware that they leaped to their feet and drew their swords. I reached Jacob, planting a kiss on his forehead, and then I carried him over to the pantry where I plopped him in and shut the door.

I turned to face the men. The living nightmare was caused not by their screams, but their silence – ending every dream, proving they were always doomed to fade. Their next moments were never meant to be, these monstrous villains – each were ended by my punishing hands.

Revenge came like fire, fierce and exacting, and it was only in the sting of completion that I found any kind of peace.

The claret tasted off.

I sat back, resting my feet on the kitchen table, taking a moment to consider if the grapes had soured before the wine had been corked, or if the fermenting process had gone askew. The wine’s consistency was too thick and its flavor unlike any vintage I’d ever had.

Ask Miguel about it.