Dark Waters, page 8
“I know,” she murmured, like a child caught in a fib.
Marty released her. “And I know he’d love to hear from you. I know it the same way I know the sun comes up in the morning. But one of you has to make the first move here.”
“I know,” she repeated, and rushed away to take another order as fast as decorum allowed.
MARTY CAUGHT HELENA’S eye across the room. The two of them had conspired to bring Ethan and Rachel together in the first place. Now they were working desperately, if delicately, to get them to at least talk to each other.
Helena shrugged. Marty nodded.
IN HIS EFFICIENCY apartment on the city’s north side, Kyle Stillwater winced as he opened his eyes. He lay atop the covers on his bed, in nothing but his white briefs. The hangover rattling through his brain was the worst he could remember. As he stared up at the ceiling, he heard a fly buzzing against the window glass and Spanish-speaking children playing outside.
He swung his legs off the edge of the bed and sat up. What the hell had happened to him? His last clear memory was of swimming in Lake Wingra. He certainly hadn’t been drunk then. In fact, he hadn’t been drunk in six years—no mean feat with the alcoholism in his family. He fumbled for the remote on the nightstand and turned on the TV.
The smug weatherman said, “The forecast for today, Tuesday, is sunny and hot, with a slight chance of—”
Kyle sat up straight, his head suddenly clear. Tuesday? What happened to Saturday? Or Sunday? Or Monday?
He tried to stand, but his head swam as soon as he did, and he landed back on the bed. His stomach churned with nausea and panic. He crawled to the bathroom and vomited, then lay curled on the floor for a long time, too sick to even flush. He tugged a lock of his black hair over his eyes. At last he rose to pull the handle and glanced into the bowl.
He froze.
The contents of his stomach looked like lake water, algae, and silt. There was even a dead fish floating on top.
He vomited again and passed out.
WHEN THE BREAKFAST rush ended, the diner settled into the slow, comfortable space before lunch. The summer sun blasted through the windows and off the white walls made of dry-erase board. In addition to the day’s menu, some of the panels sported elaborate customer artwork, including some leftover “Welcome back, Rachel” messages that hadn’t yet been wiped away.
Helena’s shift had ended at ten-thirty. Clara was the only other waitress on duty, and she was clearly exhausted. She went into the kitchen and wiped her neck with a wet paper towel. “I thought,” she said, “that the summers weren’t as hot in the north.”
“No, they’re not as long,” Rachel said. “They’re plenty hot. And we have wonderful humidity.”
“I’ll say. I used to spend my summers doing volunteer work on an elephant sanctuary in Tennessee, and this reminds me of that. Without the smell of elephant manure, of course.”
“They have an elephant sanctuary in Tennessee?”
Clara nodded. “For abused zoo and circus elephants. They have all this acreage to roam on however they want. People can’t come and stare at them, either.”
“Sounds pretty freaky,” Jimmy the cook said. He scraped leavings from the griddle and dumped them in the garbage. “I wouldn’t mind wandering around on a big nature preserve. Seems kind of wrong that elephants get to do that and people don’t.”
“The elephants only get to do it because of the way people have treated them,” Clara pointed out.
“Yeah, well, some people have treated me pretty badly, too,” Jimmy mumbled.
Rachel’s eyes fell on Jimmy’s lean forearm. The muscles rippled beneath his skin, and Rachel suddenly recalled in uncomfortable detail the muscles across Kyle Stillwater’s back. He’d passed so close on that first day that she’d felt the heat from his body, every muscle hard and perfect. It was a memory that had replayed itself endlessly in her mind and dreams, especially since she’d glimpsed the man at the park. Had it really been him?
Yet her reaction was not entirely one of lust, although that was definitely a component. It was, instead, a kind of cruel fascination, reminding her that twice she’d missed the chance to touch him. And it made no sense, since she was still fully and desperately in love with Ethan Walker.
But it was no longer images of Ethan that filled her head in the darkness. For the past two nights, she’d writhed in a tangle of damp sheets, alternately frenzied and lethargic. She felt taunted by her own body and the powers that possessed it, but sleep never came in any restful form.
Now a haze of feverish, unhealthy desire settled on her whenever she let her attention stray from any immediate task. She wondered if any of the other women from the ceremony had experienced the same thing. Certainly they’d stared as hard.
Oswald Denning sighed and stretched, his fingers threaded together over his head. The ancient tweed jacket that he wore in all weather revealed a split seam beneath one arm. “I think I shall adjourn to the library,” he said as he stood. “Even at my age, ‘publish or perish’ still applies. Good day, ladies.”
As he went into the sun, a surge of AC-defying heat pushed its way inside. Clara fluttered the front of her apron. “I wish we had one of those airlock double doors like they have at Denny’s.”
Rachel looked up sharply. Before she could snap back, Jimmy said, “Don’t tell me I just heard the D-word!”
Clara saw Rachel’s expression. “Yikes, I didn’t mean anything by that. They have the same doors at Walgreens too.”
Rachel said, “We just try to live in a Denny’s-free environment. They’re our main competition. If we pretend they’re not there long enough, maybe they’ll go away.”
Helena came in through the kitchen door. She wore a white button-down shirt over a bikini top, and tight black denim shorts. “How’s it going?”
Rachel frowned at her and said, “What are you doing back here?”
“I just wanted to check on Clara,” she said.
Clara, clearing Professor Denning’s dishes, sighed loudly but said nothing.
“She’s doing fine,” Rachel said, loud enough for both women to hear.
“I like her,” Elton Charles said from his corner table. “She’s very perky.”
Clara winked at him.
“You see?” Rachel said to Helena. “You have to cut the apron strings sometime.”
Helena grinned conspiratorially. “I know. She’s just so serious, it’s fun to pick on her.”
“I can hear you,” Clara called. She did not sound amused.
Helena poked Rachel playfully on the arm. “By the way, Michelle just told me she saw you at the park for that male-stripper show on Saturday.”
“Yes, I went with Patty,” Rachel said. “It was quite a sight.”
Helena snorted. “Honey, to hear her go on about it, you’d think she was straight.”
So it even affected Michelle. “He was handsome, but I’m sure it was all just some stunt to get attention.”
“Then I think it worked.”
Rachel felt a rush of shame and snapped, “What does that mean?”
Helena’s eyebrows rose. “It means that in all the years I’ve been with her, I’ve never seen Michelle turned on by a man before. She’s the gayest woman I know.”
Rachel sighed. “Sorry. It must be the heat. Excuse me for a minute; I’ll be right back.”
She went into the ladies’ room and splashed cold water on her face. She felt like she needed a shower—not the cold kind but one that was hot and soapy and cut through grime. Yet as she studied her reflection, she saw that she was flushed even now across her shoulders and neck. She could blame it on the heat and humidity for the sake of others, but it did nothing to make her feel less … skanky.
And that bugged her the most. No one had any claim on her, and she could find any man she wanted attractive. So why did lusting after the mysterious Kyle Stillwater feel so fundamentally wrong?
I need my lake spirits, she thought as she wiped the water from her cheeks. I need them tonight.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KYLE STILLWATER STOOD at the edge of Lake Wingra, in a little cove hidden from the main body of water. He was deep in the Arboretum, a nature preserve at the heart of Madison. Here the forest remained as thick as when his people had first found it, even if the traffic noises from the nearby beltline ruined the overall effect.
He stared at the water, shaking like an addict going cold turkey. In a sense, he was; the urge to return to the lake had grown exponentially throughout the day until he simply couldn’t fight it any longer. And now that he stood at its edge, another desire overwhelmed him: to dive naked into its waters.
Everything in his world was wrong. He felt like he was in one of those Star Trek episodes in which the characters slipped into a parallel universe where everything looked the same but was the opposite of how it should’ve been. First his voice mail was filled with calls from his agent, the same agent who hadn’t returned a message in six months, telling him they needed to talk about his recent performance. Then the paper said that a man named Kyle Stillwater had interrupted a huge ground-breaking ceremony on Saturday—which, granted, he had been hired to do—yet he had no memory of anything between waking up that morning and the last time he swam in Lake Wingra.
He hadn’t called his agent, or his mother, or any of the other relatives who’d left messages wondering what the hell he was doing. He had tried to reach Henry Hawes, an old man who’d been a mentor to him as a child. Henry knew all the old legends, including the ones that gave Lake Wingra such a bad reputation, but he hadn’t answered his phone.
Now Kyle pulled off his shirt and stepped out of his shoes. Mosquitoes drawn to his exposed skin darkened the air around him. He looked around, but the woods were empty of other people—not unusual on a Tuesday afternoon. He pulled down his jeans and underwear and, naked, stepped into the water. The relief as he did so overwhelmed him.
GARRETT BLOOM ANSWERED his cellphone before Bono got through the first chorus of “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” on the ringtone. He recognized the number at once.
“It’s been three days,” he snapped without preliminaries. “I expected to hear from you sooner.”
He paused to listen, then said, “I know. We haven’t found him, either, but he hasn’t made any additional statements to the media. Maybe I was wrong about it being a conspiracy to discredit the project or me. Maybe he was just drunk.”
He listened some more, watching his own reflection in the window. Damn, he thought, I do look good for a man my age. Then he said, “What do you want me to say? It worked out. Sometimes things just do. So we go on to the next step.”
He closed the phone with a snap before the caller could say more, then paced to the window and looked out at the sunset. The staff was gone for the day, including Rebecca, whose mooning was beginning to worry him. He’d let some lines blur between them that should have stayed firm. He’d have to reestablish them.
There was a firm knock on the outer office door. He strode past Rebecca’s desk and unlocked it, anticipating one of the cleaning people. Instead it was a tall woman with dark hair.
He blinked in surprise. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” she said.
After a silent moment, he prompted impatiently, “How?”
“By coming with me,” she said. “To the park by the old mental hospital.”
“And why should I do that?”
“Because Kyle Stillwater will meet us there. He wants to explain why he was so weird at the ceremony.”
“Unless the reason is drugs or alcohol, I don’t want to know. And even then, I don’t care. He blew it, and that’s the last of it.”
“I think you’ll change your mind when you hear what he has to say.”
Bloom paused, intrigued, despite himself. “I’ll drive myself there.”
She shrugged. “As you wish.”
RACHEL LOOKED OUT at Lake Mendota. The water was black and still. There was no night wind, and the moonless sky above her was clear. The inert air was still humid, and the unseasonable heat had not abated. Except for the few fireflies in the bushes, nothing moved.
She stood naked on the rocks at the water’s edge. Her torso gleamed with perspiration. She wiped the sweat from her neck and beneath her breasts, feeling it trickle down her skin. She felt damp all over, but it was not her usual pleasant wetness. Rather, it was rancid, like the perspiration itself had somehow gone sour.
She glanced back up the hill. The park had been deserted when she arrived, but she’d still waited in the shadows for nearly half an hour, crouched and uncomfortable, to make sure no one appeared. And by “no one,” she meant Kyle Stillwater.
The ring of stones by the effigy mound’s head had not been disturbed, and they bothered her. The urge to scatter them was overwhelming, yet when she started to do so, she felt a stab of real terror. So she left them alone but felt their presence in the darkness like accusing eyes.
Tiny wavelets lapped at the lake’s edge, and she tried to recall the way it felt when they did the same thing to her body. The memory came easily, but the feelings that usually accompanied it—anticipation, arousal—were nowhere to be found.
Still, the thought of the lake’s cool water against her bare skin was undeniably pleasant. She rubbed her palms along her thighs and extended one foot into the water.
A voice from the darkness froze her in place, saying softly, “Hello, Lady of the Lakes.”
She jumped into the bushes, her hands flying to protect her modesty. “Who’s there?” she hissed, then added hopefully, “Ethan?” Because if it was Ethan, she’d cry with relief and joy, and not even worry how he’d found out about her online identity.
Instead, a figure emerged from the water, rising higher with each step. She recognized him at once.
Kyle Stillwater.
When he spoke, his voice sent tremors through places no mere words had ever touched before. It was as soft as a whisper yet reverberated like a call to arms. “No, I am not Ethan. But I am what you seek tonight.”
Her mouth went dry, as if the moisture was needed elsewhere. What was happening to her? She grabbed her clothes and held the bundle in front of her. “Look, I don’t know what you think—”
She could see him clearly now. The streetlights highlighted the strong planes of his face. His broad chest was damp and glistening. He was completely naked, and what the loincloth had covered on Saturday was now revealed. It was as impressive as the rest of him, and stood ready. Three days and nights of fantasizing and desperation returned in force, immobilizing her.
He said softly, “I know you have been thinking of me. I am not here to threaten you.”
She nodded at his erection. She was not a woman who dwelled on size, but he was big enough to both give her pause and make her tingle with anticipation. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
He ignored her irony and continued. “I don’t mean the thoughts of the past three days. For years you have wished for one of us to come forth from the waters and into your world. You were content to be the Lady of the Lakes in our reality, but you ached for the same fulfillment here, in yours.”
She could barely breathe. Something cold and cruel and irresistible shone from his eyes. Yet his voice was soothing, comforting, hypnotic, and his words struck her with physical force. Still, she fought to maintain control, because whatever the hell was happening to her, he was wrong about one thing. It wasn’t something she sought in real life. Or was it? Parts of her certainly seemed to, but …
“I am here to answer that wish,” he concluded. “Come to me, Lady of the Lakes, and be fulfilled, as you’ve always wanted.”
The blatant proposition broke the spell. Why, you stuck-up bastard, she thought. He was just another guy trying to get in her pants—at least metaphorically, since she wasn’t wearing any at the moment. “I don’t go around getting ‘fulfilled’ with total strangers, no matter how handsome they are. We’ll just consider this a case of crossed signals, okay? Good night, Mr. Stillwater.”
He moved closer. He seemed to be struggling with something, and when he spoke again his voice was different—softer and almost pleading. “Please, I can’t … I need you. You’re so kind, so gentle. I promise we’ll be gentle, too. You’ll enjoy it …”
She hadn’t expected to feel sudden pity for him, and it confused her. She said, “I think a man like you can probably find someone a little more willing without too much trouble.”
Then his uncertainty vanished and the arrogance returned. His voice rumbled from his chest and set up a distracting buzz in her ears. Her thoughts grew fuzzy, and the bundle in her arms felt suddenly heavy. What was she doing?
“But I am here only for you,” he said. “For you, I have left my world and come into yours, seeking only your touch, your caress.…”
He brushed her cheek with the back of one hand. At the sudden contact, a weakness she recognized washed over her, and her clothes fell from her slack fingers. It was the same leaden lethargy that had kept her in her bed the night before. Now it took all her will to even stay upright. She was wetter inside than she could ever recall, and her breasts felt heavy behind her tight nipples.
“That’s it,” he whispered encouragingly. “Feel your desire for me.”
She tried to raise her hands to cover herself, but her knees began to give way, and she grabbed at Stillwater for support. She sagged against him, every inch of her skin aching for his touch.
“Please,” she began, intending to follow with, There’s no way I’m letting you do this. But the rest of the words wouldn’t come—only a soft, drawn-out moan.
He put one hand on the small of her back, his fingertips brushing the cleft of her buttocks. His erection was pinned between them, hot and hard against her bare stomach. She couldn’t see, couldn’t think, but knew to raise her chin to his face. His lips came down on hers.
