The Darkness in Dreams (Enforcer's Legacy, #1)(24)

Lexi had filled each room with happy memories. Bits of sea glass shimmered in the light. Shells spilled from a mason jar. Beside the jar was a polished half-dome agate, picked up during a research trip deep into the Coast Range. She’d been stranded by a freak winter storm and needed the search-and-rescue to find her, much to her embarrassment. Lexi could have found the way back, but the group of burly men had taken one look at her, drenched and bug-bitten, and had driven her home.

The agate was a favorite piece out of everything Lexi collected. Not because she’d been stranded and then rescued. The concentric lines in the stone resonated deep in her soul, black blending into amber as they contrasted with wider bands of white, with the little splash of crimson in the center, blood of her heart. Lexi wasn’t sure who the memory was for—she’d thought it was her grandmother. Now she wasn’t sure.

Nor was she sure if she was a guest, or if the fake intervention was continuing. Quickly, Lexi straightened the room before dressing in jeans and a yellow shirt, not her clothes but fitting as if they were. Generating more questions, which she would demand Marge answer before the morning ended.

But there were two things she did know: the dream still haunted her heart, and Gaia had been the first life. Gaia of the earth.

Lexi tied her damp hair into a ponytail and then went looking for the kitchen. The homestead was larger than expected, with bedrooms at either end of the living room. Windows overlooked the rolling, barren landscape. Sunlight punched through the slatted window blinds, spilling to the floor with transparent fingers. Nothing more than dust motes filled the quiet spaces.

Marge was waiting by the stove. “How did you sleep?”

Lexi sank into a chair, accepted a cup of hot coffee and held up her right hand. Two faint memory lines intertwined with a graceful curl. “How do you think I slept?”

“I expected more to emerge. Just being around Christan will do it.”

Lexi looked away. “It itches.”

“The warriors have tattoos,” Marge said. “I hear itching is a mild reaction.”

Lexi remembered the lines that shifted beneath bronze male skin, pagan and alive. She stared at her hand, resisted the tingling of ants squirming, not sure if she could live with such an exotic form of punishment long term.

She rubbed her thumb against the mark and watched while Marge moved around the kitchen. A glass of orange juice was placed on the table, followed by a plate of toast. Lexi accepted the mothering; it was what surrogate mothers did and Marge got more out of the nurturing than Lexi did.

Except, now Marge had Robbie to nurture. For a long moment, Lexi listened to the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. “Where is everyone?”

“They thought it would be easier if they weren’t here.”

Lexi stared out the window, listening to nothing, then said, “Why didn’t you tell me about Robbie?”

“I didn’t want to keep him secret.”

But tears still pricked. Lexi reached for the mug of coffee. She’d noticed the way Marge’s hair flowed around her shoulders, loose and slightly tangled as if she’d been in a lover’s arms. A place near Lexi’s heart began to ache.

“Will you tell me about him?” she asked after a moment.

“Where should I start?”

“How did he find you?”

“Oh, that.” Marge sat down and sipped her coffee.

“Yes, that,” Lexi teased gently.

“Well, it started with boob lights.”

“Kinky.”

“In a way.” But Marge was smiling. “I was struggling with the dreams, so I went back to an old therapy mentor to talk about them. I’d already researched dream theory, even past life regression, but I wasn’t finding any credible information. I thought it might be a psychological condition.”

“I’m sorry, Marge.” Lexi leaned forward, lightly touched Marge’s hand. “I wish I’d known.”

“And if we’d been friends then,” Marge said, “I would have confided.”

“So, what did your therapy-buddy have to say?”

“That I had early onset midlife-crises disease.”

Lexi sipped the coffee and asked, “Did he prescribe a red convertible and a lover half your age?”

“He suggested I break out of my rut.”

“How does breaking out of your rut involve boob lights?”

“In the usual way. I’m home, on my bed staring up at the ceiling, and wondering how my life had gotten rutted and how I could get out of it—not getting anywhere because I didn’t think my life was rutted. And I look up and see I have a boob light on my ceiling.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know those half-dome ceiling light fixtures that are everywhere?”

“With the little gold knobs that you unscrew when you need to change a light bulb?”

“Exactly.” Marge flicked her hand. “Nipples, right? Boob lights. And once you see something like that, you can’t unsee it. Then I realized they were all over my house. But the worst was the pendent light in the kitchen.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. A penis. There, above my dining table. My house was having more sex than I was and I had to do something about it.”

“Robbie?” Lexi suggested hopefully.