Chapter Thirty-Seven

Haunted

Yanked back to the present at the liquor cabinet in his study, Radolf poured a too-generous portion of cognac, sat in a chair, and faced the stained glass. “You, Golden Boy of deliverance, what do you have in store for me?” He gulped the glass empty and rose to pour another portion. “Am I a five or an eleven? His mind reeled, forehead creased. There were five guardian stained glass windows. Five was his and Jaclyn’s birth number; and it had been five years since he last slept with a woman. Of course, the five-year old boy he met in Turkey, Yasmin’s son would now be ten years old. So strange, Jaclyn trusts me. Trust is a five letter word,” he muttered.

His inner thoughts haunted and he could hear his voice, but it didn’t belong to him. The sound was the same, but it didn’t come forth. Every breath he took tormented. A part of him wanted Jaclyn. How could he endure this ache if he could not have her forever?

He went to the window, his hand raised, and his voice ranted, “How long is forever in your world, Golden Boy? A second? An hour? A lifetime? An eternity? If only Jaclyn and I can see and hear you, is it a manifestation of the legend? When did you start loud moans and howls? Did I not notice? Was I too blind? Are Jaclyn and I predestined to become life soul mates?”

He removed all his garments and donned his Turkish kaftan, relishing the feel of the imported silk on his naked body. The satin-lined curled-toe slippers cooled his weary feet. He glanced to the glint of hair that peeked through the deep v-neck of the garment. He thought to have it shaved like most of the Turks but found he held a fondness for his red hair. It set him apart from the Turks. Restless as hell, he paced back and forth. The more he paced, the more he fumed. Was his past a punishment in exchange for his future? Control. He needed to rein in his enraged emotions. He stopped and went to his chair. He leaned back into it and waited for some sign from the archangel. There were no sounds, no light streams, and no color changes. “I didn’t think you were a coward,” he spoke out loud. “Is this how you protect me?”

He spoke again. “Are you and I to have a gladiator fight to the death for the soul of this woman? Sometimes to defeat evil, one must work hard against the devil. Or one must embrace him. Which are you—evil or good—Golden Boy or Black Satan in disguise?”

The room brightened. A golden light streamed across the room to a shelf. It landed on a book, and with the bright force, the book slipped out of place and fell to the ground. Astounded, Wolferton inched away and gazed back and forth. Mesmerized, he watched pages fan open and stop. The light force withdrew. The book lay on the carpet. He listened, heard nothing, and he then went to retrieve the book. Hot to the touch, the singed chapter heading read, “Numerology: The importance of the Master Number Eleven.”

“Bloody hell,” he said under his breath.

A tap sounded on his door. “I do not wish to be disturbed!” he fumed. “Halbert, if it’s you, the house better be on fire, because I am.”

Then he hesitated, what if the devil he challenged had come to fight for his mortal soul? What weapons could he use to protect himself? Had the drinks addled his brain? No, he drank a bit, true, but his constitution was used to heavy spirits, and during his years in the war, the occasion always warranted. The Guardians were quiet. A fear he never knew before snaked his spine, and his lower body tightened.

“Who’s there?” he called.

There was no answer.

The superstitious forces in his life were simply a matter of fact.

He strode to the door, glass in hand and opened it.

It wasn’t his batman, Halbert.

In front of Radolf stood a fearless, barefoot, and magnificent Jaclyn in her night wrapper. Relieved, but intrigued, his words echoed his thoughts. “Do I have something you want?”

“I heard you shout and wondered if you were all right. The conversation was noisy. Has the person gone?” Her concern was more than obvious.

“No,” Radolf answered. “He and his companion wolf live here with me.”

She peeked in. “I don’t understand. May I come in?”

He opened the door wide, primarily to scare the wits out of her. “I warn you. If you come in as a virgin, you may not leave in the same condition. Am I correct you are still a virgin?” He bowed in mock obeisance as she entered. The door closed behind her. With predatory eyes, Radolf peered as she strode to him, stood on her toes, and slapped him…hard, an imprint left on his cheek. Because the blow was unexpected, it rocked him back.

“It must be the liquor that spills such words. Do come in and sit down and I’ll present you to my—our guardians, Jaclyn.”

She sat next to him and stared at the window, which now glowed. “I’d introduce you formally, but they do not have given names. To me, they are Red Wolf and Golden Boy. He’s an archangel.”

“How much cognac have you consumed in a short time?”

“Not enough,” he answered.

She arose from the leather chair, walked to the liquor cabinet, and poured herself a brandy. Jaclyn turned to him and then to the window, raised her glass. “Pleased to meet you.” She gulped the brew. The wolf’s eyes winked, and the angel’s mouth changed colors. “Do they also speak?” She refilled her glass and went to stare at the mythical figures.

“In the past, they only changed colors when they wanted to communicate. But now, since you’ve come, they utter sounds which are more like moans. Not sentences, just sounds.” He patted the chair beside him for her to sit.

“They are beautiful. Are we the only ones who can see them?” She turned to sit again in the chair.

“To the best of my knowledge, we are. The legend is that only the current duke and his true love can witness the manifestations. The guardians exist to protect us.”

“Radolf, do you have any idea what you’ve claimed? If I can see them, am I your true love?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know until now. I need to think and my brain is addled. Come, let’s go into the other room.” He dragged her to his private bedroom. “I never cared much for audiences.”

The moon dimly lit the room, but it was enough to see her raven-colored hair, and of course, those damn violet eyes. He drew her close so that there was nothing between them but slivers of cloth from his kaftan and her silk wrapper. His thumb worried her lower lip. Molten desire sluiced through him, an avalanche of lust. “You’re not afraid of me and what we might do?”

“No, I trust you,” Jaclyn answered.

“That is not the answer I wanted to hear.”