Primal Promise

Twenty

The darkness was complete.   No hint of anything to mark the passage of time, of orientation, of distance. In the shadows was existence, but nothing more. No joy, no sorrow, no warmth or cold. Awareness began to weave life in the abyss. Self.   He knew who he was.

He recalled a billion memories at once. Childhood and adulthood, happy ones, sad ones. The words to a thousand songs were recalled and the music drifted. Light, however, remained absent, time began to drift, marked by the sound of his own breathing, the dulled thump of his heartbeat.

He felt bereft. Something important he was not remembering. He wanted to, he tried, but there was a dull static sort of feeling, a fuzziness of thought that made it hard to access it with his head even as his heart was screaming it mutely. He stopped trying to think, let himself feel.

His arms were occupied, a warm smell brushed across his senses. It was female and heated, a tempting draw like bread in the oven or towels off the summertime clothesline. There was a liquid fire that wound around his fingers without burning, the smell of wet roses and leather, like a florist shop run by a dominatrix.  He felt a presence and he wanted to bow.  This was a queen.  A princess... a Contessa.

The static hissed and popped and he felt pain to think on the name, but he willed himself to focus on the face he could now see in his mind's eye.  The loveliness of her face, the flame of her hair framing it.   The eyes, they were the woods in their ever-shifting constancy. Changing, yes, but always the same. Verdant and full of life.  Lips that poured forth both spice and honey.  Even her anger was beautiful.   Her fear, however, was not.  

She was so afraid. He felt it like a fever from her skin, the smell of her was being erased, a pale smoke was filling the darkness, choking him with its cloying thickness, making it impossible to see her anymore. The darkness promised solace. Peace. The bliss of ignorance. It was like being devoured in a tar pit. The more he fought, the tighter it pulled at him.  Dragging him down into that place where there was nothing but darkness and silence. 

Jameson woke instantly as a rush of ice cold water fell across his chest and face, light smashing the darkness and burning his eyes. Sputtering he swung and kicked as he sought to get his wits back. He was in his bed, wet, the room was dark but the door was open and outside the bright artificial lights of the house were all burning. He saw Maggie with a now empty half-gallon pitcher in hand.

He panted and wiped at his face. "What was that for?!" His ire was instantly snuffed out when his eyes adjusted to the brightness. He could tell now that she had been crying, and might again.  His thickened brain was slow to engage.   He knew her though.  She wasn't one to go all weepy. Something was very wrong. Reality had come with the water, and the dream was fading swiftly from his mind.  "What is it, Maggie. What's happened now?"

Maggie was holding the pitcher between her hands so tightly he feared she might break it, her words coming fast and wild.  "I went to talk to her. But she was gone. She stole the truck from the resort. We tried to wake you but you wouldn't wake up." She sniffled. "Everyone's gone looking for her and then Isabella left us and ..." She was obviously frantic.

One thing in that sentence stabbed him hard though. She was gone. His mate was missing. Jameson was now fully awake, and utterly furious. "Out, Maggie." He noticed her jump and cower at his tone, and he forced a faint smile to his lips, making his tone softer and setting a hand on her shoulder. "I'm angry, but not at you, sweetie. I need to change. Go wait for me in the kitchen."

She nodded and closed the door behind her. A glance at the clock told him it was 5:42PM. He'd been asleep for almost twelve hours. Who knows how long he'd have laid there twisted up in that drug-induced sleep if Maggie hadn't intervened.