Chapter Four

I rose the next morning in the sort of daze that one often does when waking in a new place. Remembering all the events that brought me to the little cottage, I spent a few moments absorbing my new surroundings. There was a small dresser next to the bed, and a braided oval rug upon the wooden floor. A breeze gusted through the open window and below me on the porch I heard the wind chimes clatter in protest.

I looked out at the stretch of thick green trees. From the second floor the river was only barely visible as a dark thread running through a sheet of green. It would be a good day to go exploring, with thin high clouds in the sky and the sun not overly warm.

I put on my dress. But instead of stockings, which it was too hot for, I went barefoot. Downstairs, I was greeted by the sight of my aunt in the kitchen, standing before the stove with a spatula in her hand. In front of her, a skillet sizzled with bacon.

I marveled that she could be so proficient without vision. She must have sensed my presence, for she turned in my direction and said, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I replied in a cheery tone.

“The bacon’s almost done. If you’d like to help yourself to some coffee in the meantime. And I do have a quick favor. Would you mind heading down to the bridge and drawing some water for us? The cistern is low and the sheriff isn’t checking on me again until Sunday. There are yellow jugs outside in the shed. Each jug holds about five gallons. Should be enough for us for more than a few days.”

Feeling free for the first time ever, I left the cottage without putting my shoes on and set out. The morning was bright, lit by shards of sunlight that dappled the path. The river oozed along beside me. It made me a bit uneasy, the water pressing against the banks, rolling along with gentle ripples. I decided the safest way to gather water was to pull it from the bridge area, where the riverbank had the least amount of undergrowth. I could lean over the side of the bridge and scoop up the water.

I came to the bridge and just beyond it the forbidden gate. But, with no one around to discourage me, I indulged my curiosity and walked right up to it. In the center of the gate, a wreath had been forged. It depicted in the center a man sitting on a throne, and people kneeling around him handing him offerings of grain, wheat and corn. The offerings were not the dark iron, but golden colored, and I imagined that they were covered in a gold leaf.

What a strange group indeed. I peered down the road. There was nothing exceptional about the path that led into the forest of cypress and live oak. It was beautiful, the trees lining the road, the moss skirts of the oak trailing the ground and dancing in the wind. But it was exactly the same scene that I just walked upon from my aunt’s cottage. They were identical. Perhaps it was the gate itself that tempted me. Maybe I craved the forbidden. I eyed the lock. The gate wasn’t merely shut, it was chained and locked. Remembering the dark-haired man from yesterday, another possibility came to me. Perhaps his words acted in the same manner as the gate, unwittingly sparking my curiosity though nothing could come of it.

I went to the bridge, took a few steps onto it, lay down on my stomach, leaned over the side and dipped the jug into the river. I watched as the water filled the container, and as I did so, I heard the distinct clank of the chains from the gate rattling. I wanted to look up, but I risked falling in if I did. I had to wait for the jug to fill, and then I reached with both hands to lift it. I heard the sounds of an engine, and peered up to see Navarre unlocking the gate while his motorcycle waited behind him.

I tried to pull up too quickly and foolishly dropped the heavy jug into the water. It slipped from my fingers and splashed into the river sending a rooster tail of water up into the air that splashed over my face and dress. Worse, the yellow jug was already sinking into the water and I was forced to dash over to the other side, lie down and stretch as far as possible so that I could scoop it up. It was sinking as it moved along and I almost had to dangle from the bridge to retrieve it.

I was too busy focusing on saving the jug and was surprised to turn around to see Navarre standing and staring at me. He had a strange expression on his face, something close to concern.

“You’re too thin to dangle over the edge. You should be careful the water doesn’t take you in and pull you away.”

“You should be careful not to stare.” I wiped some of the water from my face and picked up the jug again, determined to regain at least some of my dignity. “Or give advice when none is asked.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what you just did? Give me advice?”

“Maybe.” I took a few steps, holding the jug with both hands as the sloshing water pulled me in different directions. He tried to help me with the jug, but I twisted away from him and in a fit of anger I let go of the jug suddenly. It slammed to the ground. “Can you just leave me be? I thought you don’t like strangers.”

But he had a strange expression on his face. He stepped closer, reached out and lifted the ring that hung around my neck. I almost jumped to feel him touch me. He examined the ring, pulling the necklace so tight I couldn’t move.

When he spoke his voice had a strange quality. “Where did you get this?” He was intently focused on the ring, rolling it between his fingers as he studied it.

“What does it matter to you?” I tried to pull away.

He shot out an arm and held me tight by the shoulders, forcing me to stand there. He stared at me, his eyes glittering. “Tell me how you got this.”

“It was my mother’s,” I said. “Please, let me go.”

His look was cruel. “You have no idea what you wear around your neck, do you? A girl like you shouldn’t have something like that.”

“A girl like me?” I said hotly.

“Yes. Like you. Half-starved and afraid of everything. Quivering. This ring is meant for a woman.”

His words made me red-in-the-face angry. “I’m not afraid. Or quivering. And I am a woman.”

“You’re afraid. I can see it in your eyes. You’re scared of your own shadow. You’re scared of the wind.”

I felt like he was toying with me now, drawing me in. But for what purpose? A new sensation fluttered inside me, and I felt very uneasy and strangely very excited, too. I put on a show of bravery and said hotly, “I’m not scared. Not even of your crazy drums that I heard last night as I tried to sleep.”

“So you heard those?” His expression changed. He took a step forward and stood right in front of me, inches from my face and stared straight into my eyes. “Were they calling you?” he said. It was hard to decide if he was threatening me or toying with me, but he seemed interested in what I had to say.

I thought of the drums, the cries of…ecstasy? Passion? I wasn’t sure. “No,” I whispered.

I looked toward the entrance, at the strange golden wreath. He followed my gaze and said in a somber tone, “You don’t know anything about us. And you never will.” He walked back to his bike, turned around and said to me, “Curiosity is a dangerous thing, Zara.” Then he jumped on his bike, started the engine and sped away.

I walked away without turning back and listened as the motorcycle roared down the road. As I passed the gate, something caught my eye. I turned and saw a woman staring at me. She had dark hair that fell loose past her shoulders and thin legs that stretched up and disappeared under the hem of her dress—conveniently unbuttoned above her knees. She caught me assessing her and gave me an unkind, knowing smile. I saw her sharp, pretty features clearly. There was a disheveled languidness about her, a bedroom sort of beauty. “You shouldn’t speak to him that way,” she said. “If you knew who he was, you’d be more careful.”

“I already know who he is,” I said exasperated by the whole endeavor. “He’s crazy.” I stepped carefully, feeling the weight of the water pulling at me as it sloshed around in the jug.

“Crazy isn’t the right word, is it?” She grabbed on to the iron bars, and spoke a bit louder now as if she were pleading her case, “You know there’s something about him. All women seem to know that.”

I let go of the jug, and it slammed to the ground. I looked at her again, but instead of seeing her, my eyes were drawn to the golden wreath that had been designed into the gate. It was a wreath of wheat, and I recognized it from the fertilizer bags that we used at our farm.

Her whole demeanor changed. “What’s your name?” she asked coyly, and then added, “I’m June.”

“Zara.”

“Zara, take it from me, one woman to another. That’s not a man you want to tangle with.”

“Well, you don’t have any worries then.”

I walked away from her and didn’t look back. I carried the water back to Aunt Cleo, poured it into the cistern. I tidied the upstairs, which wasn’t as neglected as my great-aunt had feared. After that, I helped prepare for the laundry. Aunt Cleo had no clothesline; she normally hung the items from the porch. But I didn’t want the clean clothes to soil on the wooden posts, so I found a rope in the shed, a bit thick, but it would do the job, and ran it from the easiest spot—just outside my second-floor window, down to a pine tree near the road. Then my aunt called me in for breakfast. I poured a cup of coffee and we sat down together to eat. “Aunt Cleo,” I asked between bites, “How do you stay so independent?”

She laughed. “The one gift of getting older is the years of routines that I’ve built up. I count on those routines. I know this house inside and out. I know how long it takes to cook bacon, to fry an egg. Beyond that, the sheriff checks in on me and helps with whatever I need. He also drives me to church on Sundays.” Looking up from her meal, she added, “Church is in three days. I do hope you’ll join us.”

“Of course,” I replied. Remembering my wish from earlier I asked, “Do you think it would be okay if I explored a bit today? Had a look around?”

“Of course. I think you’d really enjoy that. You might want to go and walk upriver. It’s away from the town, too, and should be quiet for you. Have a mind, though, dear to stay away from the compound next to us.”

“Are they really that bad?” I couldn’t help but to ask.

“Yes, Zara. They are.” She set her coffee cup on the table. We finished our meal in silence.

I was lost in thought. There was so much about my mother’s family that I didn’t know. My mother was always so reluctant to speak of her childhood. Now I couldn’t help but wonder why.

After breakfast, I cleaned the kitchen while my aunt gave me directions.

“You won’t get lost. It’s very simple,” she said.

I set out for my adventure right afterward. My stride was brisk. After years of enduring, of simply surviving each and every day, a day to myself was a luxury. Even the world around me seemed to celebrate my lighthearted mood. Patches of sunlight danced on the ground and birds chatted happily all around me.

I came upon a heron standing still as stone and winter white as it stood on one leg in the water. As I watched, the bird darted its head into the river and emerged triumphant, a wiggling fish in its beak, which it tossed expertly into the air before swallowing it whole. The poor fish created a wide bulge in the bird’s neck, but the heron didn’t seem to mind the wiggling lump, and it resumed its frozen stance.

As I approached the gate to the Lucians compound, I grew more somber. The massive brick fence shielded so much from my view. I had only the small window that the gate provided me to peer through as I passed by. I wondered what could be so very terrible about the things that occurred beyond our sight. What did the sheriff and my aunt fear about them? About Navarre?

If only I could be a bird and fly above the compound! It would at least satisfy my burning curiosity. I would linger in the air until I knew all their secrets. But right then my destiny was only to set out on a light adventure.

I made my away across the bridge hesitantly, hoping one day I wouldn’t be so frightened of it. Before I knew it, I was on the road and walking north. My feet crunched on the gravel and far away I heard the muted horn of a train passing by.

I was soon drenched in sweat, swatting at mosquitos, and wondering why I had been so foolish to want to explore. I walked beneath the trees next to the water, and to my surprise came upon a man at the water’s edge. Vials and bottles were strewn around him. He turned and watched me approach.

“Hello there,” he called out in a friendly voice and took his hat off to wave. He was very tall, with coppery blond hair and a sunburned face.

I was startled, but recovered quickly and waved back to him. As soon as I did he approached me. He wore a khaki uniform, and I recognized the emblem on his chest. He worked for Roosevelt, for the WPA, same as my father did.

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” I said.

“Not to worry. It’s a nice surprise to see another person when I’m working.” He held out his hand, then thought better of it, took it back and wiped it on his pants before extending it once again. I laughed and shook it. Then rather sheepishly he said, “I just saw you right now, and sometimes I don’t think before I act. Name’s Everett. Everett Karst. I work for the WPA, and I’ll just say right off the bat, I’m a Roosevelt man.”

I laughed. “Don’t worry. I like Roosevelt, too. I’m Zara Pendleton. My father works for the WPA, too, fighting the drought.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, he’s planting trees. We…he, I mean, was a farmer. Before the dust storms came. And all the financial troubles.”

“I’m a geologist myself. And I probably wouldn’t have work if wasn’t for the WPA. So, don’t look ashamed when you speak about a man finding work. We’re all in the same boat. Me? I’m just happy that I make a wage doing what I love.” He spoke with a boyish touch of pride. “As a matter of fact, that’s why I came over to say hello. The WPA is doing a geological survey in this part of Florida. We’re mapping all of the tributaries and streams. Maybe you can answer a few questions? I’m trying to prove a theory. It’s just a hunch, but I’m excited about it.”

“I don’t know what help I’ll be to you. I only just arrived in Florida. So, I’m not a local. But, I’m happy to assist if I can.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Even if you just keep an eye out it might be helpful,” he said in a reassuring voice. “All I’m asking is that you watch out for something.” He dug in his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card and handed it to me.

I looked at the card. “What do you want me to watch out for?”

“It might be best if I showed you, rather than explained it. But, remember, either ring the department or drop me a postcard if you come across anything unusual at all. I don’t know if my notion will pan out.” He shot me the most expectant look. “I hope it does, though. I would be the happiest man around.”

His excitement was contagious and I found myself rooting for him without yet knowing what his theory was. I stole another quick look at him and realized he was probably five or so years older than me, maybe twenty-five. Fresh out of college, I reasoned, and I reminded him gently, “Are you planning to show me what your theory is?”

He slapped his hand against his forehead. “I forgot. Of course.” He walked over to a rough trailhead and held aside the branches. “It won’t take but a moment.”

“You expect me to follow you into the bushes?” I shook my head.

He laughed. “Aw, don’t be skittish. I gave you my card, you see my uniform. I’m official, and besides, I wouldn’t hurt a fly. Really, it’s just up the way, not two minutes farther up the trail. I promise you’ll be wowed.”

In the end, my curiosity won me over and I followed him as he bushwhacked in front of me, seeming to know exactly where he was headed. “Care to give me at least a hint?” I asked.

He kept swiping away at the brush, but paused to call back to me. “I have this idea about Florida. See, most people think of beaches and palm trees when they think of Florida. I did, too, at least before I became a geologist. When I first took this job and came to Florida, I saw all these sinkholes, all these strange rivers, and I thought ‘there’s got to be a reason for these strange features.’”

We were deep in the trees now. Mosquitos buzzed all around me and tried to settle on my skin. I was just about to give up, to tell him I was turning back, when he said. “Ah, here we are.”

Everett stepped aside, held back a stubborn palm frond and I went and stood next to him. In front, the ground collapsed inward into the shape of a cone, and in the center, like an aquamarine jewel nestled in a ring’s setting lay a pool of the clearest, brightest blue water I’d ever seen. So very different from the dark river that ran nearby.

“I can’t believe it,” I said. I looked at Everett, and he had the most childish expression of joy and satisfaction on his face.

“Believe it.” He pointed to the water. “That’s a spring. Freshest water you can imagine, straight from the belly of the earth. When I started researching and found these little springs spotted all over the land around here, I thought to myself, there’s something really unusual happening here.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

He continued on without stopping to take a breath. “Let me explain. In Florida, the ground beneath us is porous, like a sponge. I think—” he held up a finger excitedly “—I think, that the small holes connect together to form an underground network. That’s why there are so many sinkholes.” He grabbed a leaf from a nearby tree and placed it on top of his hand, which he held perfectly straight. “Pretend you’re this leaf. You could just be innocently standing on the ground and then poof!” He yanked his hand away, sending the leaf fluttering to the ground. “The roof collapses on a cave you didn’t even know was there.” We both stared at the poor leaf, which had landed on his boot. “Then you see what really lurks beneath the surface.”

I was mortified. “Right beneath us?”

“Right now. You’ll never know. Not until it’s too late.”

He said, “This pool was always here. Always. We only see it now because the earth on top collapsed away. There might be a passage that links this pool to another. That’s my big idea! Far upriver there’s an enormous sinkhole, eons old, with a pool of spring water. I poured fluorescent dye—it’s natural, and glows orange—into the spring. Now I drive around, mapping the state, and waiting for the dye to appear and prove my theory. Of course, nothing has happened yet. But I have a hunch this water is flowing all over the state. For hundreds of miles, it flows in caves and caverns hidden beneath our feet, and if I’m right, the orange dye will eventually show itself. I don’t know where, but it will. Trust me, it will.”

“And that’s what you want me to look for?”

“Exactly!” he exclaimed, like a proud teacher at a slow student who finally catches on. “I believe that the dye might appear in a sinkhole just like this one.”

“A sinkhole?”

“Yes. But it could show up anywhere. It may surprise us where we least expect it.” He looked at me with pure pride, as if he had designed the entire state himself. “That’s the clearest water you’ll ever see. Would you like a taste? You want to head down there?”

I peered down over the steep vine-covered slope. “No. Not me. Right now, I don’t even want to stand on the ground, but I guess I have to. The rest, I’ll leave it to the scientists.”

Everett said, “I understand. It takes a certain mind to wonder about these things. Come on, I’ll take you back to the road.” He looked at me shyly. “Thanks for indulging me. I know I can be a bit enthusiastic. My mother could hardly take it—I was always bringing home rocks.” We headed back to the road together. The trek was far easier now that the path had been cut. The sun burned higher in the sky when we returned, and not only were my clothes damp from the dew, but now also from my sweat.

“I think I should probably be going,” I said, “but thank you for the detour.”

“Where are you headed? If you don’t mind me asking. I’m going to town.”

“I’m headed back home. I’m tired and hot. But if you are going to town, we’ll be walking in the same direction for a bit.”

“Then I’ll join you. That is if you want company on your walk. I’m leaving today.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. He was so friendly and jovial, for a moment I felt as happy and uncomplicated as Everett.

Promising Everett that I would send a note, we said goodbye at the bridge. I crossed the bridge without losing my balance, but as I stepped onto firm ground something caught my eye. A pine tree had fallen from our property over the wall. It was an old tree with sharp limbs that resembled claws writhing in the air. Its thick trunk shattered the wall and lay solidly wedged in the structure.

Had the tree been there yesterday and I just didn’t notice it? It was entirely possible. Earlier that morning when I left I was headed in another direction and wouldn’t have bothered to look. In fact it would be hard for anyone to see, set back as far as it was.

I thought I should tell my aunt about it, but that perhaps it would be best if I inspected it personally. She might be liable for the damages since the fallen tree originated on her side. That was the logic I used to indulge my curiosity. I soon found myself once again climbing through the woods, though without an enthusiastic scientist to forge ahead of me.

I came to the tree. Its canopy was gone, taken by some long ago affliction. Bark had peeled away from the trunk revealing the light wood beneath. The tree was practically inviting me to climb it, if only to take a peek over the other side.

Without stopping to give my better judgment a chance to catch up to me, I put one foot on a limb, testing the strength of it. It was sturdy. Grabbing on to the branches I pulled myself up, sending bits of the remaining bark everywhere. Like a tightrope walker I weaved along the trunk until I stood above the fence. In front of me the trees parted in a strange manner, almost creating a walkway that was carpeted with vines.

It was too tempting to resist. So I jumped to the ground, feeling the shock of the landing in my feet. I dusted off the bits of bark from my dress and stepped onto the path. Everything was lush and bursting with life. Pink hibiscus bloomed on either side of me. Purple flowers dotted the carpet beneath my feet. It was as if I had landed in the Garden of Eden. I plucked a hibiscus flower and a few of the purple flowers at my feet and followed the path.

I came to an opening, approaching it hesitantly, fearful of some trick, of a trap. But no, before me was a glade, and at the center stood a pool of the bluest water. Muted light and sparse rays played tricks upon the water. Above the pool, on the far end of it, a bougainvillea bush curled over the water, creating a natural grotto.

I peered into the shaded area beneath the covering and saw the ghostly white statue of a woman. Goose bumps scattered over my flesh. I wondered who it was. I touched the ring that hung at my neck, thinking of my mother all of a sudden, because there was something so forgotten about the statue. So very neglected. Like all people who had died before us, and been relegated to small pockets of memory. Already the undergrowth was reclaiming the statue. Vines gathered at her feet, their tendrils brazenly climbing her gown. No one should ever be forgotten in such a manner.

Looking at the flowers in my hand, I made an impetuous decision. Some might say I reacted to an urge. I set the flowers gently on the ground, then slipped off my shoes and socks. The vines were soft as velvet under my feet. I took off my dress and tossed it aside, leaving on my cotton slip for some protection. Then, I picked up the flowers, walked to the pool and dipped a toe in.

It was warm. Inviting. Cajoling. I took a step, then another. Before I realized it, I was waist deep, my slip floating diaphanously around me, my skin bare beneath it. But nothing mattered at that moment, nothing except moving closer to the statue. I slipped deeper into the water and it rose past my breasts to my necklace.

When I reached the statue I saw her eroded beauty. She was ancient. Venerated so often with loving hands that her features were worn smooth. Still, she was beautiful. Simple and feminine, with full lips and tendrils of hair that curled about her face. Her ghost-white eyes pleaded blankly and I longed to know the real woman behind the statue.

A marble bowl lay at her feet. As soon as I saw it the flowers felt warm in my hand. Somehow I knew I must be clean to lay an offering before her. I dipped under the water, fully wetting my hair. Then I took a few petals from the hibiscus bloom and crushed them, releasing a sweet, heady fragrance. I approached the bowl, watching her. I was unsure of exactly what to say or do, only aware of some deep need to recognize her. To acknowledge her in my own small way.

I bowed slightly and lay the petals in the bowl, scattering the pink and purple blossoms. I lingered, tracing my finger along the petals, watching the mysterious woman. How long I stayed like that I cannot say. Only that time slowed and seemed to bend with the strange light that hit the pool.

I was jolted back to reality when a man’s voice spoke behind me. “Your curiosity got the better of you,” I heard the voice say. A strange, breathy warmth bloomed within me. Navarre. I went perfectly still, my finger frozen on the petal. A single drop of water ran down my back like a fingertip tracing the water.

He spoke again. “Tell me, Zara, do you know what you are doing right now? Do you realize that you worship at the feet of a goddess?

Pulling away my finger as if I had been burned I said, “No. I don’t.” I wanted so badly to turn around, yet I stayed still.

“Oh, but you do. Worship, that is. And quite well actually. I would say you’re a natural. Look again at the statue in front of you.”

I looked down and saw her featureless white face staring back at me. She implored me with her distant, sorrowful smile.

“She is Demeter. It strikes me as no coincidence that you stand before her. She is the goddess of agriculture. Look in her hand. Do you see the shafts of wheat? She is offering the secrets of the harvest. And you the daughter of a wheat farmer just honored her. It’s a shame you weren’t here before the dust bowl. Or the drought. Maybe those tragedies could have been avoided.”

Remembering my poor father’s suffering, I replied hotly. “How dare you say such a thing to me?” I turned around to face him, anger and embarrassment swirling inside me. On the one hand I was ashamed at being caught red-handed doing something so foolish. But on the other hand, he implied things that felt threatening, foreign and scary. Gods and goddesses. Worship. I was going to give him a piece of my mind. But once I got a good look at him all my bravado fled.

He looked otherworldly, as if I’d conjured him from my deepest imagination. The garden seemed too small for him. He watched me hotly, strangely, with a gleam in his eyes I couldn’t yet identify though it made me nervous. Some warning bell sounded within me. I looked down to see that I was standing with my torso above the water, my slip soaking wet. See-through. The shape of my breasts was obvious, and my nipples were dark, shadowy circles beneath the fabric.

I quickly immersed myself in the water. But the damage was done. Now I understood the look in his eyes. I knew that being caught in his garden I would face some sort of trouble. Looking at him now I wondered if the trouble might be more dangerous than I previously had anticipated.

“What brings you here, Zara?” he asked softly. “What would drive you to disregard warnings and barriers and seek this exact place? A place no one has ever told you about. A place you know you don’t belong.”

He had struck at the heart of it. A question that he knew I didn’t have an answer for. I fumbled around until I said awkwardly, “Well, the tree fell over your fence and I just thought to peek over and then I saw the vines carpeting the ground. It practically invited me. That’s why I’m here.”

But, what exactly did lure me? I wasn’t sure. The only thing I knew at that moment was my racing heart and the strange tightness in my chest.

“No.” He walked languidly around the pool of water. “That is not why.”

“Then why?” I asked with mock bravado.

“I’ll tell you.” He moved and now he stood at the edge of the pool close to where I stood in the water. His eyes glittered a bright aquamarine color. “You cannot deny the pull inside you, drawing you here. Even I see it. I feel it. Why do you think you knew exactly how to worship? And your willingness to shed your clothes and place an offering before the goddess is no coincidence. It’s proof that you are one of us.”

“No!” Grasping for some sort of denial I said, “Then why did you tell me that I shouldn’t look down the road? You warned me away and now you tell me that I belong.”

“I didn’t see the necklace at first. I didn’t see the ring that marks who you are. I didn’t make the connection. I didn’t think the scared girl who trembled in front of me could possibly be the one…”

“The one what?” I asked hotly.

“Never mind,” he said sharply. “I was certain you could never, ever belong. I know exactly how you were raised. A proper young woman. A decent, churchgoing girl, waiting for a man to come and marry her.” He gave me a wicked smile. “I bet you even teach Sunday school.”

I felt embarrassed and irate that his words should be so close to the mark. I felt like a child now, and I felt a need to show him that I was no child. “That is far from the truth.”

“Not very far. There’s no denying you are an innocent.”

I looked up at him awkwardly, and then quickly away, certain he could see my cheeks reddening.

“And yet you step so willingly upon my land, and now stand before me. Quivering still. But, you stand before me and that is all I need to know. It tells me your true nature.”

The conversation was getting away from me, like a cat and mouse game that I was losing. I was unsure how to proceed, and all I could do was mutter, “And what is my true nature?”

“Your true nature is the ring that dangles at your neck. It is your legacy. It means that you belong to us in mind and body. In your heart is passion. Ecstasy. For you are a Lucian—I know it in my blood.”

I was horrified. “You lie to me.”

He shook his head. “I can prove it,” he said, his voice suddenly low, his eyes gleaming sharply.

“Go ahead and try,” I said bravely. Foolishly.

If only I had kept quiet. For no sooner had the words left my mouth than he leaned over the water, grabbed me beneath my shoulders and snatched me from the pool. As I sailed through the air in his strong arms, I thought of the heron nabbing the little fish from the water.

He landed on the grass in a half-reclined position with me sprawled clumsily over him, soaking his shirt and pants. Our eyes were inches from each other. I noticed how thick and black his eyelashes were, far too pretty for such a rugged, handsome man. He was far from pretty. He was intimidating. Manly. I had never been this close to a man. Certainly not a man like him.

The sun threw a blinding, dazzling ray over us, and whatever small fears I had evaporated. There was only now. I needed no encouragement. No thoughts clouded my mind, just a need, a wild hungry need to feel him. I wound my hands in his shirt. He drew back, and gently traced my cheek. He said, “Maybe you’re too innocent for me.”

I had never been so close to such a rugged, handsome man. Every part of him was a mystery revealed. The hard line of his chin, the curve of his lips. All so masculine. He even smelled mysterious, like sandalwood and sage. I could not be turned away from this, so I replied boldly, “I don’t care.”

“Indeed,” he said. He toyed now with the edge of my slip. The fabric clung to my leg, and he peeled it back and rolled it beneath his fingers, and though his touch was gentle, something told me that if I tried I couldn’t move his hand away.

“You see,” he said in a low voice, “I know who you are, Zara. Even your name betrays you. I couldn’t believe it when I first saw you. You seemed so prim, so scared of the world. But that is only a facade. You descend from a line of women with very special status in our group. Irreplaceable.”

I looked away nervously. “You are speaking nonsense.”

“Am I?” he asked, and looked at me very strangely. His body was hard as stone, lifting me with every breath he took. Events had become so strange that I almost wondered if I was dreaming. That was when he kissed me.

I was expecting it, hoping for it. Nevertheless when his lips touched mine I responded in a way I never thought I would. The pure maleness of him overwhelmed me. He was strong and hard and demanding something of me. Though I couldn’t guess what. Without thinking, my tongue reached out to him. He responded instantly, crushing me to him, proving to me that my response inflamed him. His lips claimed me, owned me. His hands roamed my body, pausing at every curve and swell of my figure.

My nipples hardened. I had been kissed before. Kisses stolen from behind the barn with the neighbor boy. Dry, clutching kisses with bumping noses and awkward looks. They were child’s play.

This was a man’s game.

I was aware of my breathing coming in gasps, of him kissing my neck. An ache, a need began to spread between my legs.

The glade must have had some magic aura that lulled me into a kind of lethargy, so when he shifted his weight and lowered me upon the grass I could hardly protest. Then his mouth…his mouth trailed fire down my neck, past my mother’s necklace to hover just above my nipple, barely veiled beneath the wet fabric that clung to it.

He ran a thumb over it and my skin puckered. He made a sound like a hiss as he watched, and then put his mouth down over my nipple, over the fabric. Oh, I felt the heat of his mouth a thousand times over, and I moaned. I shocked myself by running my fingers through his hair, exploring him, savoring his body.

He was demanding, wanting more. His hand slid lower, past my hips until he reached the lacy trim of my slip. He roughly pulled that cold, wet fabric upward. I looked down then, and saw my nipples and they were shamefully swollen beneath the fabric. Farther down, past my navel, I pressed my legs tightly together forming a V.

Now his mouth was upon mine again, distracting me, his hands sliding up my legs. Easing them open. I felt his touch at my most secret spot, felt two fingers opening my lips. A jolt, an awareness of acute pleasure passed quickly by me and so surprised was I that I overreacted to the sensation, rising upward and crying out.

His voice was cajoling, soft. “Can’t you see you are meant for this, Zara?” His touch turned firm as he slid a finger inside me. He began trailing a slow pattern. First inside me, and then out, slipping higher until he touched the place that made me cry out. At that moment, I lived only for the searing pleasure of his touch. He nudged my legs wider. I was too swept away to protest, leaving me exposed and at his mercy.

He stopped moving, shifted his position so that he had a perfect view between my legs. He stared intently. I followed his gaze, and saw my triangle of golden curls.

He said, “You are most beautiful at this moment. Open and waiting for me.”

I took a deep breath, embarrassed, and tried to close my legs. His arms were steel. I couldn’t move.

“One day, Zara.” He said in a strangely harsh tone. “Not today, but one day soon.” He said simply, “Today I give you this.” And then he lowered his head. He put his mouth on my most tender part. The shock of it scared me and I jumped back, trying to scoot away from the unfamiliar sensation. He reacted roughly, grabbing my buttocks and dragging me back to his mouth only to descend on me wildly, almost like a madman. His hands held me perfectly still, and his tongue swept across me again and again.

Who knew that heaven could be like this? Searing pleasure, unfamiliar sensations. What words could there be to describe such a feeling? I only knew that I drifted at the mercy of his mouth. I wilted against the grass, moaning. Each of my moans seemed to inflame him. He in turn went wild and inflamed me. On and on we went, winding tighter, until I could burst.

Whatever shyness I possessed over that secret part of me melted away and my legs fell open. My hips rose to meet him, to demand more of him. Only then did he release the tight grip he had on me. He sat up, leaned forward and grabbed my hand and brought my palm to his crotch, lifting me from the ground as he did so. He was stiff as a board and bigger than I ever dreamed possible. It was proof of his arousal, of his desire for me. Shocked, I tried to pull my hand away, and again he held me still, flattened my fingers and pressed them against the length of him.

He was so hard. It was so shocking and so exciting that I gasped. Navarre’s hand swiftly encircled my back. He lowered me gently to the ground and then his tongue was back at it, making me moan and cry out. Everything blurred together. Sensations and sound and light until I was untethered. A tight little knot of sensation swelled beneath his hand. Then exploded, flooding my body and limbs with an exquisite numbness. I moaned and grabbed at him, needing something. He rose then, covered my body and gave me the deep, possessive kiss of a victorious man. As I returned his kiss, he pressed the stiff promise between my legs. Not now, he had told me.

I lay panting, spent, knowing at that moment that I had indeed entered the Garden of Eden. That I had just tasted the sweet bite of forbidden fruit. He lay motionless, breathing hard atop me. When he looked at me I felt acute embarrassment. I tried to curl away and shield my body from his gaze. How could I have behaved so wantonly?

“What’s this?” he asked, reaching out and stopping me.

“I—I—” I stammered, “I didn’t mean to get so…wild.” Whatever had come over me?

He forced my arm so that I faced him. “Zara, don’t ever apologize for that. A man could live a thousand years—no, ten thousand—and be lucky to have a woman who responds to him in such a way. There’s no shame in that.”

I heard it then, the thin high voice of my aunt, calling from the porch. Reality descended crushingly fast. It was already dusk and would be dark at any moment. “I have to go,” I said. I shook his arm off, rose and raced toward my clothes, awkwardly covering myself as I dressed. I slipped on my shoes without the socks, balling them in my hand. Then, I smoothed my hair and pushed the curls back into place. All the while I looked around in wild confusion, trying to figure out exactly what just happened. I turned to him. What does one say after a tryst? Goodbye? My cheeks were hot with embarrassment as I stumbled for some word to say.

Navarre lay propped up on one elbow, relaxed and casual. “You’ll be back.” His words sounded so assured, so very smug.

“You’re wrong.” I wanted to say more, but I knew now that it was best not to taunt him. I felt his eyes watching me as I rushed from the glade. And strangely, as I looked back, in the still water of the pool I saw a cloud of orange dye billowing beneath the surface. I ran, and this time I didn’t look back. Scraping my hands, I grabbed on to the tree limbs and climbed over the fence, landing in a heap on the other side, and running wildly for home.