Sacrifice In Stone (3 page)

“Yes, it’s balmy here.”

“Right.”

He’d bought it. But then she had
retreated to Lucy’s various homes around the globe more than once in the past
to get away from his noxious presence.

“I expect to see you in my office when
you get back. We have some trust fund business to discuss.”

“Whatever,” Mara answered, and punched
the end button. She glanced at Lucy. “I think we’re okay…for now. He didn’t say
anything about that nosy director calling him, so I don’t think he knows we’re
here.”

Picking up the journal from where she’d
tossed it on the bench earlier, Mara paged through, scanning the contents.
“There was something in here about the soldier’s life being sacrificed so that
my family’s assets would increase. It must be true. Waking Garrick for just a
few minutes apparently caused a ripple in the family fortune.”

“So, what if you’re successful in freeing
him totally?” Lucy asked. “Financial meltdown?”

“Maybe.”

“Your uncle would go totally psycho.”

“To put it mildly.” Mara glanced at the
clock on the wall. “Almost time for the museum to close. Now we see how
difficult this will really be.”

The expression on Lucy’s face was
resigned. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

* * * * *

In the end, it was ridiculously easy for
Mara to confound the museum security. As Lucy flirted outrageously with the
guard, Mara pretended to wave goodbye and made a show of leaving the building.
However, she doubled back and hid herself away in the ladies’ room. At one
time, this must have been the family bathroom on the first floor level of the
Victorian mansion that housed the museum.

The only difficulty was opening the
antiquated window, which had been painted partially shut. She closed the lid of
the toilet, climbed on top and broke through the paint seal with a nail file.
The sash was stubborn, but she quickly muscled the window up.

Lucy was on the other side with her
supplies. “I don’t like what you’re doing.” She handed the backpack through the
opening. “You’re going to end up dead…or a statue in this museum. I warn you
now. I’m only going to visit you on free admission days.”

“Have a little faith. Everything will be
fine.” Mara smiled, trying to project more confidence than she felt. Fifteen
more minutes until the museum closed.

After more assurances and promises to
call, Mara secured the window and slipped out of the ladies’ room to find
somewhere to hide. She quickly stumbled across the director’s office.
Dispensing with the lock by use of a skeleton key—thank goodness for
historic preservation—Mara cracked open the door. No one inside.

Footsteps sounded at a distance but then
came closer. Scurrying into the office, Mara scanned the four corners. Under
the desk? No. She’d be seen for sure. The desk was sleek. Cherry with Queen
Anne-style legs. No bulky drawers to hide her.

Spotting a door on the opposite side of
the room, Mara prayed it was a closet. Throwing open the door, she saw she was
right. She squeezed in and shut the door. It was cramped, but there was just
enough room for her body and the backpack among the office supplies, hanging
sweater and broken printer.

Eight minutes to six. She could stand
being cooped up in the closet for the time it would take the staff to close and
leave the building. It would only be ten, maybe fifteen minutes. There in the
dark, with the closet door at her front and the wall at her sides and back, the
air seemed stale. As if it didn’t have enough oxygen content.

Claustrophobia.

No amount of childhood counseling had
cured it completely. Mara had learned some tricks to control it. Breathing
deeply, she pictured strolling along a beach with the vast ocean stretched out
before her. Soon the mounting panic ebbed. She could make it. Good thing. For
someone trying to hide, it might not be so cool to burst out of the closet,
screaming.

She should concentrate on Garrick. Not
long now and she would find out if all of it was true or whether it was just
some kind of illusion, a fantasy. No, it couldn’t be. Lucy had seen him move.
Yes, but Mara had heard of shared hysteria. Maybe Lucy was sharing her delusion.

Was it a delusion that at seventeen she
seen the statue’s eye blinking at her? Brown. The color of melting chocolate.
Later that night she’d dreamed of kissing a handsome man clad in the uniform of
an eighteenth century British soldier. With mahogany-colored hair caught at his
nape with a tie, he had strong features…and a chocolate gaze. His arms banded
around her and his lips had touched hers so gently.

“Only you,” he’d said as his breath
whispered across her face. Mara awoke still feeling his hands on her body and
tasting his mouth.

Over the years there had been more dreams
of the soldier with the chocolate eyes. No boy—or man—could compete
with her dream man. She’d even slept with one candidate with horrible results.
The whole thing felt wrong. Like a betrayal.

What would Lucy have thought of the
dreams if Mara had had the guts to tell her? Psychosis fueled by raging teenage
hormones, hatred of her uncle and a martyr complex all rolled into one
not-so-tidy ball? Yeah. If Lucy had said as much, a part of Mara would have had
a hard time disagreeing with her.

Once she had the museum completely to
herself, she’d use the blood she had stored in the dry ice container in her
backpack. It would work. It had to work.

* * * * *

It didn’t work. The blood coated the
statue’s chest and arms. Stone chest and arms. The blood had made no effect. No
change. No movement.

Thinking that perhaps the cold
temperature was the problem. Mara used the microwave in the staff kitchen to
heat the bag of blood. She dipped her fingers into the warm stickiness and
painted some of the substance onto the statue’s hand. She waited. Nothing.
Nothing but a big mess of goo congealing on the statue and on the floor.

Now what? Clearly, the bagged blood
wasn’t going to do the job.

The only option left was to cut herself.
If that didn’t work? It would be a long night in the museum.

After arranging her first-aid kit
supplies on a nearby bench, Mara extracted her Swiss army knife from the front
pocket of her backpack. Swiping an alcohol swab over the blade, she prepared to
cut her wrist.

The blade scrapped along the ivory skin.
The hesitation cut measured about a half inch long and stung as if a flame had
touched her flesh. A few drops of blood welled and she pressed the wound to the
side of
Sacrifice
. Almost
immediately, a nickel-sized spot became flesh.

She would have to make a bigger cut.

Taking one, two, three deep breaths, Mara
inhaled one more time and held as she slashed. She didn’t want to hit an
artery, but had to get a good flow. The resulting gash was ragged and gushing.
Hurriedly pressing it again to the stone, Mara noted the lack of pain. She
would probably feel it later.

The room seemed to move around her, so
Mara leaned against the statue to stop herself from toppling over. Losing
consciousness wouldn’t be good. She had to be awake to stop herself from
bleeding out. Blinking, deliberately trying to clear her vision, she felt as if
a black fabric covered her eyes. Were her eyes open?

Mara, stop it, she shouted at herself,
forcing her lids upward.

Stay awake. Stay. Awake. Awake. Stay…

* * * * *

Mara opened her eyes to see a face above
her. This beloved face, framed with mahogany shoulder-length hair, was from her
dreams. She recognized its straight nose, full lips and eyes of the sweetest chocolate.
Those eyes stared into hers, a slight crease of concern between his brows.

“Am I dreaming again?” Mara fought the
mist clouding her brain. Were her eyes open or closed? What had she been doing
before she’d fallen asleep?

“No, my lady.” The dream man she’d always
thought of as Garrick smiled. His lips quirked with the left side higher than
the right. “You are finally awake.”

Mara felt the floor beneath her legs. Her
upper body reclined on Garrick’s lap, his arms strong around her.

“What happened?” Memory tumbled back. The
museum. The blood. “I did it!” she said. Her voice—weak and
faint—didn’t sound as triumphant as she felt.

“If by that you mean you almost killed
yourself, then you are correct,” Garrick answered with a frown. “How could you
have been so mad?”

“Thanks for the gratitude.” Mara jerked
upright and out of his arms. The room around her suddenly shifted as if she
were on a boat, a shaky rowboat. So when Garrick tugged her back into his arms,
she fell happily.

“I am grateful, profoundly grateful,” he
said. His hand framed her cheek and then caressed her brow. “Nevertheless, if I
had not the skill I learned from our regiment’s doctor, I could not have
stopped the bleeding from your wrist and you would have died.”

Mara glanced down at the neat bandage
over her cut and then toward the bench at her side. The first-aid items she’d
laid out had been put to good use.

“Well, it wasn’t my plan to pass out,”
Mara said. “I was going to patch myself up once I had you free. I was going
to—”

His eyes locked with hers. What had she
been about to say?

“Ummm,” she mumbled.

His lips were only inches from hers.
She’d kissed them in a dream. How would they feel against hers outside a dream
world?

“I can’t believe I did it,” she muttered
as she examined the slight indentation in his chin. She couldn’t help herself
from lifting her hand to place a finger gently to the spot. Tracing her finger
over his angular chin, she caressed a line down his neck. “You’re real.” She
felt the Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “I’m not crazy.”

“I—” She saw his heartbeat in the
hollow at the base of his neck. His chest rose and fell, a motion that
quickened under her examination. His face descended to within inches of hers.

“Stop,” he said, placing a finger against
her lips. “I would put that mouth to a different use than speaking words.”

Garrick had waited lifetimes in his stone
prison to kiss this woman. Mara had been fated to be his. Her hair was shorter
now than five years ago, but she was just as beautiful as he remembered. For
the first time he could not regret the suffering he’d endured buried alive in a
stone sarcophagus. That time had brought him to Mara.

Keeping his eyes wide, his mouth slanted
over hers. His lips moved against hers, searching, needily rough and then caressingly
soft in turns. He twisted, finding a new, deeper angle to drink from her.
Slipping through into the soft, warm cavern of her mouth, his tongue found hers
and the two tangled and played together.

The feel of her fingers clutching at his
hair, as if she were holding his head in place over hers, was more intoxicating
than any wine he’d ever tasted. She held him to her as if she could not get
enough of his kiss, his touch…

Her hands swept downward, stroking his
back before settling at the waistband of his trousers. They hovered before they
moved to clutch at the cheeks of his buttocks through the rough wool uniform
fabric. His cock went hard as granite. Straining. Aching. Her hands on him were
such pleasure it was painful. The feel of her breasts, even under the cotton of
her dress, tormented him.

He dragged his mouth from hers. “Aghhh.
We must stop,” he groaned out. If this sensuous torture did not cease he would
take her here on the floor. She deserved more consideration, particularly when
she must be weak with blood loss.

Licking her reddened lips, she blinked up
at him. “Yes, you’re right.” She scrambled to her feet. “Let’s get out of here.
We can go back to my hotel.” Mara took hold of Garrick’s arm and pulled him
toward the exit.

At the front door, Garrick stopped
abruptly.

“What is it?” she asked. Her eyes
searched his for the answer he was afraid to give.

“There’s an alarm sensor at the front
door but it’s okay.” She tugged at him again, but he was immovable. “We can be
long gone before the cops arrive.”

“I do not know what these cops are of
which you speak but ’tis not worry for them that halts me.”

“Then what?”

“I fear I cannot leave this place. The
magic keeps me here.”

“I don’t understand. You’re alive. You’re
completely flesh and blood. You’re free.”

Garrick stared at the floor. “I don’t
think so, my lady. Somehow the slab holds me. I believe my freedom from the
statue is but for a short time.”

“Fuck.”

“This is a word I know but I do not think
you use it as did the soldiers of my regiment. If you mean it as an oath, then
yes, I agree we have fuck.”

Mara knew the answer to their dilemma
must be in the
Transfero Vita
. They
retreated to the director’s office where there were no exterior windows to draw
the attention of the outside world. Garrick sat at the desk, studying the
journal with Mara gazing over his shoulder.