Maybe This Time Read online

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  “And you are not foolish.”

  Kevan mustered a thread of a smile. “Perhaps I am. I fell in love with a woman never capable of loving me back.”

  “Mmm. Unlike forever, never is a relative term.” The Elder stepped back into the mist.

  Perplexed, Kevan looked up, afraid to blink, afraid to breathe. “Elder?”

  Quiet authority filled the Elder’s voice. He lifted his chin. “Your devotion and perseverance have not escaped the recognition of the Council, Kevan. Thus, you have earned this reward: cast out the past from the Great Book. Remold your history, your destiny–if you dare. Your gift is to love Alyssa again, as you have loved her before.”

  Shock bolted through Kevan. He tensed against it. “And my trial?”

  The Elder’s expression grew intense. “To guide her to love’s light.”

  Kevan’s shock doubled. “The Council has interceded.”

  “On your behalf, yes.” The Elder sounded resigned . . . and concerned. “Accomplish this mission, and Alyssa Cameron will be yours for eternity.”

  Reeling, Kevan forced himself to think. Nothing came without cost. Nothing in life, or in death. His heart began a slow hard beat that pounded in his temples. “And if I fail?”

  “If you fail, you shall not fail. Seek your destiny and win.”

  He paused to decipher the message, in a sense relieved that it was cryptic. Loving Alyssa was his destiny. If he led her to love’s light, he hadn’t failed, but won her eternal love. If he wasn’t successful, then she, not he, had failed. Though both of them would suffer the consequences.

  Narrowing his colorless gaze, the Elder plundered Kevan’s soul. “Do you accept the Council’s challenge?”

  All or nothing. Eternal love, or its absence. And in the case of failure, for him, an eternity trapped in the Hell of unrequited love. He would never know peace. The risk, like the reward, was high.

  Solemn, Kevan looked up at the Elder. “I accept.”

  “Very well.” The Elder tipped his head slightly. His beard grazed his chest, and pity laced his voice. “Henceforth, you shall be known to the Council as the Prophet.”

  Sensing the Elder’s fear, Kevan stepped forward. “I need to know–”

  “I can say nothing more.” He raised his hand and turned his palm upward. “May wisdom realized through your gift serve you now in following your heart.”

  The Elder’s silvery image faded. The golden stones on the path again turned brown, and the faint sounds of the ticking clock grew distinct, loud.

  The vision was over.

  Kevan opened his eyes. Bathed in sweat, his hands trembling, he tugged his tie loose from his throat and took in a deep, steadying breath. His quest would begin soon. And, for the first time in his life, he wouldn’t have his visions to guide him . Only love. And fear.

  Never before had the Elder doubted Kevan’s success. But this vision was different from the hundreds he’d had in his twenty-seven years. It required no interpretation; its message was vivid and clear. This vision was of Alyssa.

  And it, like all the others, would come to pass.

  Shaking, his heart jackhammering, he took one last look at the familiar furnishings in his Canal Street office then stared at his blank computer screen. Again, he concentrated on the ticking clock. Waiting. Feeling stripped bare and frightened. Knowing that the visions wouldn’t come to him again. Knowing that his love for Alyssa would be his only guide in pursuing his quest. And praying that his love would be enough. Alyssa’s destiny, his destiny, depended on it.

  Unbidden words filled his mind. “Have faith in your humble servant.”

  Pain split his chest. Kevan Buchannan slumped forward and died.

  His quest had begun.

  One

  THE DEATH-WAIT would soon be over.

  Alyssa Cameron had lain for days, feeling her strength shrivel and the pain that throbbed in her head mushroom. Fifty. So young to die.

  Fifty? Fifty? She touched her hand to her temple. No, not fifty. Twenty-two.

  Twenty-two, and she would die alone.

  Few would attend her funeral. They said she’d killed him. Had she?

  Poor Kevan. She should have married him. Love, that alien emotion, had plagued poor Kevan. He’d loved her and yet he, too, had died alone.

  Shifting on the damp sheets beneath her, she plucked at her hospital gown, sticking to her skin. She’d allow herself that regret with Kevan, but no others. She’d been given time to put her affairs in order and couldn’t complain about her life. She’d had financial comfort, her computers to fascinate her, and more men than she cared to recall. Had she been married three times, or four?

  Droopy-eyed, she stared up at the white ceiling, at the blue and white dots dancing along the tiles. So hard to remember. So hard . . .

  Pain shot through her skull and bolted down her spine. She sucked in a sharp breath, grabbed the handrail and squeezed, praying for the throbbing to ease, for death to come and make the pain stop.

  Married? Had she been married? Fuzzy. Her memory grew more and more fuzzy.

  She concentrated hard. She’d worked. Computers. Twenty-two and never married. No. No, she’d never married. Poor, poor, Kevan.

  Another pain sliced through her temples, spiked down her spine, and set fire to her limbs. Stiffening, she sank her teeth into her lip and bit down until her mouth filled with the iron taste of blood. Done was done; tears wouldn’t help. Kevan was gone. She would greet death alone.

  And no one would mourn.

  Anger trickled through her like fizzling sparks on a dampened fuse. Every life lost deserved mourning, didn’t it? What mistakes had she made that not a single soul would grieve for her? What god-awful crime had she committed? What had she done wrong?

  The pain in her head exploded.

  Her blood seeped, no longer rushing through her veins.

  Her heart stopped.

  This was what it felt like to die. But she didn’t want to die! She didn’t want to feel her body grinding to a halt! Shouldn’t someone be with her? Kevan! Where was Kevan?

  She fought to concentrate. Nooo! Oh God! Oh God . . . Kevan was dead. Poor, poor Kevan.

  She couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t go through this alone. Someone should know. Yes. Someone. Anyone. Fumbling with the cord tangling with her IV, she pressed the nurse’s call button. Had she mashed it down? So weak. So . . . incredibly weak. Panic set in, she silently screamed. Kevvvvaaan!

  Her body went limp.

  She couldn’t move. Couldn’t feel the needle in her arm that had her skin an angry swollen red or the tube shoved down her once raw throat. The nauseating smell of antiseptic that had tortured her for days faded. Her vision dimmed to ink black. And the sounds of rushing feet disappeared.

  Silence. Sweet silence.

  Peace.

  Dead.

  Dead?

  She couldn’t be dead. Dead people don’t exist. And she did exist!

  Her thoughts, emotions, and ideas were still with her. Maybe she hadn’t died. Maybe she’d gone crazy!

  A sensation of movement surrounded her. Oh God, she was the object moving! She floated up, hovered at the ceiling, and looked down at the nurses and doctors crowded around her bed. Shouting orders, their voices were anxious, their movements jerked and frenzied. A jolt rammed through her body, shoving her out of the room, out of Tulane Medical Center. Darkness enshrouded her and she accelerated, speeding into the unknown.

  Clutching at her chest, she drew in a sharp breath. She could breathe and move again, but the darkness . . . Why the darkness?

  Warm air rushed past her hands, spreading her fingers. She reached out, stretching into the sinister pitch, trying to slow her speed. But her hands met nothing solid. She couldn’t focus. Her stomach lurched, and dizzy, she cried out. “Slow down! Would you please slow me down?”

  There seemed nothing present to cause an echo, yet her voice bounced back to her. No sights. No scents. Only the sensations of warm air rushing o
ver her skin and her speeding along. Was this some sort of wind tunnel? Where was this place? What was this place? Where—what—was she? She crossed her chest with her arms, and strained to see, but only the darkness was out there. Only the . . . darkness.

  The sense of speed lessened to a smooth glide. She lifted her hands and shifted her weight, trying to steer, but nothing altered her course. Odd. And even more odd, she wasn’t afraid. Anyone in their right mind experiencing this would be terrified. She should be terrified. So why wasn’t she?

  For a long moment she felt nothing. Then it struck her. That nothing was the absence of pain. She pressed her fingers against her arm where the IV had been. No knots or swelling—and her head didn’t hurt. She wasn’t suffering any of the symptoms from the tumor that had caused her death—if she had died. For the first time in days, her memory was sharp and clear. She vividly remembered dying. Yet, if she were dead, would she be here? Wouldn’t she just be . . . dead?

  “Hello?” she called out. Pinching herself, she winced. New pain was possible then. “Hello?”

  No one answered. But finding her own voice comforting, she called out again. “Where am I going? Did I die? Is this the way to Heaven? Hell? Some other place I haven’t heard of? Hello?”

  Still, no answer.

  Supposing she had died. Was this what came after a lifesearch, then? An eternity of floating through this darkness? She shivered. She’d always hated the dark, and now she was engulfed in it. What if this was eternity? What if she did nothing more than float, isolated and alone, forever?

  Her heart began a slow hard beat and her skin crawled. She rubbed hard at her arms until the gooseflesh disappeared. Panicking wouldn’t help her now. Would anything?

  In her distant path, a brilliant light appeared. Its rays spilled into the darkness in glistening shimmers that were warm and appealing. Anticipating being enveloped in it, her limbs tingled and alien feelings of safety and security welled in her stomach. Poignant tears stung her eyes. Feeling them fall, she touched her cheeks, then touched her wet fingertips, confused, awed. But she never cried. Never . . .

  Tiny pastel bubbles depicting her life’s joys and sorrows flickered in perfect miniature around her. Her parents, who had died years ago, were together, smiling at her from inside a pale pink sphere. Beside it, encapsulated in a translucent blue globe, she saw her own funeral, the empty pews inside the church.

  Her heart pounded. Once she crossed the threshold, she’d never again be alone. Certainty filled her. Happiness, contentment such as she’d never known, would greet her in the light. So close now that the radiating heat warmed her, she cried out to move faster; eager, longing.

  A massive and flowing shadow loomed ahead. A sentry? Her throat went dry. Would it refuse to let her pass? Tensing, she called out to it. “Move. Do you hear me? You have to move out of my way!”

  The ominous shadow grew larger, blocking the heat from the light’s rays. Chilled and desperate to again feel that wonderful warmth, she screamed. “Move! Damn it, you have to move!”

  Her forward momentum slowed to a near halt. Squinting, she just made out the shadow’s silhouette. An image began to form—a man.

  Near him now, the wind died, and she stopped. She tried reaching for walls, but there were none. A ray of soft light beamed down the tunnel and shone on the sentry. He was a magnificent giant, standing on a crystal platform. Firm, muscular, and heavy-boned, he stood statue still. His hair, thick and glossy black, curled low on his strong neck. His eyes were closed; his mouth, wide and set in a firm line that didn’t welcome or shun her. A crystal amulet hung at the hollow of his throat from a strip of leather coiling around his neck. A belt riding low on his hips embraced a gleaming silver sword, its hilt encrusted with fat emeralds and rubies the size of plump cherries. And his broad chest, bare and covered with a soft-looking down, showed no evidence of his breathing.

  Her heartbeat sped to a canter, and she expelled a soft swoosh of breath. He was totally masculine. The epitome of manhood. Beautiful.

  Then he looked at her.

  “Dear God!” she gasped. “Your eyes . . .”

  Glinting flecks of the coolest gray, his eyes whispered secrets of wisdom, purpose, and authority. His force, raw and unearthly, withered her, somehow draining her strength, yet she couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to look away.

  Why didn’t she? What power did he hold in those eyes? Without touching her, he’d imprisoned her. Was he an idol? God?

  “Alyssa Cameron.” His tone, rich and smooth, comforted her like a warm cloak on a wintry night.

  He spoke a language she’d never heard, yet she understood him. “Yes.”

  He touched the hilt of his sword, and a crystal platform like his formed beneath her. Warmth radiated from it, crept up through her feet to her thighs, then spread through her body to her head. For some reason she didn’t understand, she smiled. When he smiled back, she felt dazzled. Something strange was happening inside her; she was being molded into someone else. But that was impossible, wasn’t it?

  Compelled by an overwhelming urge to touch him, she stepped forward. But the dark distance between them didn’t shrink, it expanded to a full three feet. Quickly, she stepped back.

  The giant looked down at her, his face shadowed. “I’ve waited for you.”

  Her stomach fluttered. “Waited?” She’d never seen him before in her life. If she had, she definitely would have remembered. “Who are you?”

  Prophet paused. She didn’t know him. He’d known that she wouldn’t, but it still hurt. He’d loved her throughout time. “I am the Prophet, Alyssa.”

  “You’re a psychic?” Alyssa asked, her expression perplexed.

  “Of sorts,” he hedged.

  The color drained from her smooth cheeks. “Am I . . . dead?”

  Her voice being steady worried him. Where was her fear? Without it, their mission would be impossible. “You died two days ago.”

  She shut her eyes, shielding from him the green that rivaled his emeralds. God, how he hated it that he must put fear in her eyes.

  “I thought I’d lost my mind.” She looked up at him from under her silver-tipped lashes. “That was bad enough. But dead . . .”

  His stomach churned. He swallowed and softened his tone. “It takes getting used to. But once you accept it, you’ll do fine.”

  Wary, she licked at her lips. “What do you want from me?”

  His heart twisted. He wanted everything. Her humor and temper, her quirks and faults—all of her, good and bad. But most of all, he wanted her love. “I’m your guide. My mission is to help you.”

  “To do what?”

  “On your journey.” Again he hedged, unable to put her mind at ease and unwilling to reveal what he could until she was prepared to listen to it.

  She stepped out of one of her high heels and rubbed her arch over her other foot. “Where am I going?”

  This wouldn’t sit well with her. But he had no choice. “I can’t say.”

  “If you can’t tell me, then how are you going to guide me?”

  Still no fear. And none of her usual tenacity. This wasn’t good. “We’ll manage.” He rubbed at his temple. What would spur the old Alyssa into surfacing? Ah . . . “You’ve no reason to fear me. I won’t harm you.”

  She frowned and swiped at a wrinkle in her skirt. “I don’t fear you. And I’m capable of helping and protecting myself.” She tilted back her head. “Are you new at this guiding business?”

  “New?” Better. With little reassurance, she was handling the shock of her death well. But then Alyssa would; she looked within to fulfill her needs, not to outsiders. That truth hurt, but it was also why they were here and not on Earth; living out their lives.

  “If you were more experienced,” she said in a haughty tone that was transparently forced, “you’d know that the dead don’t need guiding. They need burying.”

  He swallowed a chuckle. “Didn’t you see your funeral in the sphere?” He pointed to her jac
ket. “Look at your clothes. Aren’t they the same?”

  She glanced down and fingered her lapel. “This is the cream suit I saw.” Again frowning, she looked back up at him. “Where are we? And if I’m dead, then why do I still feel and look like . . . like me?”

  How like her to accept that proven without qualm or emotion. Part of him was glad, but another part of him wished she’d needed consoling. God knew he could use a little. Where in blazes was her fear? That facet of her character clearly needed restructuring, too. “You feel like you, because you are you, Angel.”

  “Angel?” Her skin paled even more. “I’m an—an angel?”

  She sounded torn between elation and despair. Now what should he make of that? “Not as you picture an angel, no.”

  “I didn’t think so.” She slid him a look laced with doubt. “You’re not very accomplished, are you? No offense, but even a new guide shouldn’t see me as an angel.” She slid her foot back into her high heel. “Don’t you know what to do with a corpse?”

  “You aren’t a corpse. And, though you have much to discover, you are an angel, Alyssa.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you heard the saying that a rose can’t deny its petals?”

  “Hasn’t everyone?”

  He rubbed at his temple. “Here, you’re the rose, and your destiny is the petals. You can’t deny your destiny.”

  “Wait a second.” She lifted a hand. “Look, I appreciate a smooth line just as much as the next woman, but aren’t you stretching this? I mean, roses? And angels are pure and gentle, aren’t they?” She smiled her skepticism. “I don’t think I’m a likely candidate for wings.”

  “You aren’t—now.” He watched her pulse throb at her throat. She was nervous. Not afraid, but nervous. Well, that settled it. A detour before they began their mission was necessary. “And, yes, angels are pure and gentle.”

  “That proves my point.” She smoothed her hair back. Its long silvery strands captured the light and sparkled. “I’m far from pure or gentle, and I’m even further from soft, so let’s get down to the real business—”