Christmas in Atlantis Read online

  Alaric pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. “May I touch you?”

  She was startled by the grave courtesy in his voice, especially after “assholishness,” which was a new low, even for her. Damn. She’d probably end up on 60 Minutes next, as the American who ruined diplomatic relations between the U.S. and Atlantis.

  “Miss Fielding?”

  Alaric’s voice startled her out of her mental ramblings. In spite of very serious reservations, she felt like she had to agree.

  “Yes. But don’t do anything to me without my knowledge and explicit consent,” she warned him.

  His touch, when it came, was feather light and only lasted a few seconds.

  “I am truly sorry, Miss Fielding,” Alaric said. “The damage is too extensive. There is nothing I can do.”

  Even though she’d expected nothing—even though she wasn’t sure she’d accept ‘fixing’ if offered, the bleak words were like a punch in the stomach and she literally doubled over in pain.

  Erin leaned over and touched her shoulder. “Lyric! Are you all right?”

  Lyric managed to get her breath under control and nodded. “It’s just…it’s just the loss of the possibility. I don’t--"

  A horrible thought occurred to her. “You didn’t…you didn’t say that because I was so rude to you, did you?”

  “The rudeness was my own,” Alaric said softly. “I apologize for it, but it had nothing to do with my conclusion. The trauma is not something I can heal. I will contact you immediately should I ever discover a way to change that, if you would be agreeable.”

  “I—yes. Thank you. I really…would it be possible for someone to take me to my room? I’m quite tired,” she said, clenching her jaw shut tight to keep herself from breaking down.

  “There you are,” Dare called out from across the terrace; she could hear his footsteps rapidly approaching.

  She blew out a breath, her entire body relaxing at the thought that here he was: haven. Sanctuary.

  Dare.

  He strode across the terrace directly toward her, and she pushed back her chair and started toward him.

  “I found you--" he began, but then his voice hardened. “What is the matter? What happened?”

  “I…nothing. I’m just--"

  He reached her and pulled her into his arms, and she’d never been so glad to be anywhere.

  “Please, can we go to my room? I need to not be in the middle of strangers right now,” she whispered.

  “Absolutely. But here, hold this for me for luck. I brought it from my private collection just for you.”

  He took her hand and placed something in her palm, and then folded her fingers around it. It was the size of a quail egg, maybe, and felt cool at first, but then heated up quickly.

  “What--"

  “It’s an amethyst. I thought it would be good…it would help you paint. Or something,” he said, his voice trailing off and suddenly—if she hadn’t known better—she would have thought he sounded shy.

  “I want you to have it.”

  “Oh, Dare, I can’t take this…Wait.” She inhaled sharply as the stone heated up even more quickly, to the point where it was nearly, but not quite, burning her hand.

  Erin was shouting something, and Ven or maybe Alaric was yelling, too, but it all faded into a dreamy background of white noise as the gem’s tones pulled her into its magic, and begged her to sing to it.

  “Lyric? Lyric!”

  Someone was holding her arms and shaking her, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. Only the magic. She was holding the magic and it wanted to hear her song. She smiled and twirled around, laughing and crying, and then took a deep breath and began to sing a song she’d never heard before, and the world burst into brilliant, blinding light around her.

  She sang, and she cried, and she clutched the amethyst to her chest, dancing on the terrace, on the lawn, on air. It was as if she’d opened a door and walked directly into an Impressionist painting by one of the masters of the form; as if she danced inside the paint on the canvases at the Musée d'Orsay in Paris she’d visited with her parents when she was a child.

  She laughed out loud, delighting in the shapes and the colors and the light—oh, the lovely, spectacular light—and then he was there. Holding her in his arms.

  Keeping her safe.

  “I know you,” she told him, smiling with utter and complete joy. “You are important to me.”

  The light tried to take her again, and the stone demanded her song, so she tried to pull away from him, no matter that he was important, no matter that she…loved him?

  The amethyst pulsed again, against her heart, and she suddenly saw him. She saw through the starburst of color and light – so much light – to his dark silhouette directly in front of her. She reached out to touch his face, but unknowingly she'd reached out with the hand holding the gem, and the moment the back of her fingers touched his skin, a jolt like a lightning strike ran through her, and she could see his face.

  She could see his face.

  The shapes and angles of it – the colors. His hair was so black to be almost blue, and his eyes were the deep, drowning blue of the ocean seen from St. Augustine Beach in the middle of summer.

  He was beautiful – he was beautiful. Entirely masculine, from the planes and angles of his face to his sensual lips to his straight, Roman nose. Even the dark lashes that surrounded his unbelievable glowing eyes contributed to his beauty.

  Her knees gave out, literally gave out, like she was a swooning maiden in a children's tale.

  She didn’t care.

  “I can see you, Dare. I can see you.”

  She didn't know she was crying until she felt the tears running down her face.

  "I can see you," she repeated. "And you're beautiful."

  7

  "I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

  Down rippled the brown cascade.

  "Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.

  "Give it to me quick," said Della.

  Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

  -- The Gift of the Magi, O. Henry (1917)

  With a level of sensitivity he wouldn’t have expected from them, everyone else at the luncheon faded away, leaving him alone with Lyric.

  "You're so beautiful,” she said again, this time whispering as if only to herself. "Your eyes glow. They're glowing, Dare. All that lovely dark blue but with a hint of green in the centers. How can I see this? How can I see this?"

  He put his hands on her hips to steady her, because it seemed as if she might float away into the air. As if gravity itself had lost its hold on her.

  "This has never happened to you before?" He said it tentatively, but he wanted to know. He needed to know.

  She shook her head and only then seemed to notice the tears running down her cheeks. She brushed them off with the back of one hand, still clutching the jewel.

  "Never. I have a… Talent. A gift, I call it. This is going to sound ridiculous or at least very strange –"

  He snatched an unused cloth napkin from the table and gently wiped her face. "I just brought you to Atlantis. How can anything you say to me be more ridiculous than that?"

  His lame attempt at a joke accomplished its end; she smiled and even laughed a little.

  "Okay. Here it is: when I sing to the gemstones, I can sometimes see a little bit. I know it sounds crazy but it's true. Erin just tried to tell me I’m a gem singer, whatever that means. Alaric, too. And when I use the jewels in my paints I can see the play of light and darkness in the paints and in the images I create."

  Her copper-colored eyes were large and shining. In fact, her entire face seemed lit up from within.

  "I'm kind of surprised you don’t walk around carrying gemstones all the time then," he said, puzzled.

  "You don't think I’ve tried?
It doesn't work that way. It has to do with me with creating art. It has only ever worked when I'm painting, no matter the gemstone. I even tried more rare and valuable gemstones in case that made a difference. But a piece of quartz works just as well as a diamond."

  “Then why now--"

  “I don’t know,” she cried. “I don’t know, but I don’t want to lose this feeling. The paintings I could create with this…”

  He took her hand and squeezed it. "Let's walk in the gardens while we talk about this."

  She beamed up at him. "That’s a wonderful idea. I want to see what they look like now."

  He took his hand in hers, and they started to walk towards the middle of the gardens. Blazing color--a riot of beauty--lay spread out before them. Lyric's grip on his hand grew tighter and tighter, until he wondered if she might break the bones in his fingers, but he couldn't bring himself to care because she was touching him.

  And singing.

  She stopped, frozen, in the middle of the path about fifteen feet away from the fountain. "I can hear the water, of course, but I can also ... see something. Oh, Dare, I can see – I can see the light flowing and cascading."

  She whirled around and put both her hands on his chest, still gripping the amethyst. "Do you understand what that means? It means I'm actually seeing the water. I'm seeing the water play in the light in the fountain."

  He pulled her closer – he couldn't help it. He wanted to kiss her, and hold her, and breathe in some of the shining light and joy surrounding her. Inside of her. But before he could bend his head to do so, she whirled around again, releasing him, and took a tentative step towards the fountain, then another and another until she was almost running. He dashed after her to make sure she didn't collide with the fountain’s marble edge and harm herself, but she stopped inches away.

  Laughing.

  Crying.

  Emotions were pouring out of her faster than the water was pouring out of the fountain, and she was still singing. The song sounded familiar, and he suddenly realized why. She was singing an ancient Temple song of gratitude for a full harvest…in an ancient Atlantean dialect.

  How was that even possible? Had he somehow broken her mind by bringing her here?

  "It's so much. It's too much. I don't know how to process all this." She turned to him, clutching her head with both hands. "It's overwhelming me, Dare. I need a moment. I think I… I need a moment in a quiet place to comprehend all of this."

  "Are you sure?"

  She shook her head and flung her arms out to the side. "Of course I'm not sure. I'm terrified that if I walk out of this garden this experience will never happen to me again. My head feels like it's about to split open, the way it used to, right after the accident. Which makes me realize that I'm going to need to get some rest in a quiet place soon, or I might fall down and be out with a three-day migraine."

  "What's a migraine?"

  “It's the worst headache that has ever existed. And – oh no – it's starting now." She stumbled a little, and he swept her up off the ground and into his arms, lifting her with one arm under her back and the other under her knees.

  "I can walk, Dare," she hissed,. "Put me down."

  Her cheeks blushed a delightful pink, and he suddenly, fiercely wanted to lie her down in the middle of all the flowers and take her. Hard and urgent. Claim her.

  Possess her.

  He had to clench his jaw shut to keep from kissing her, because kissing would lead to more, and he wasn't entirely sure that she would want him to stop. But he knew he was no good for her – could never be good for her.

  There was no way in the nine hells he would allow his darkness to infect her light.

  "I know you can walk, Lyric. But this way I get the chance to play the hero, which will shock the hell out of people around here. Let me have a little fun, okay?"

  She laughed a little but then winced, still holding her head. "Okay," she whispered.

  He didn't wait. He headed for the palace with the steadiest and smoothest stride he could manage, to avoid jolting her or causing her further pain. When they walked into the palace, the cool shade must've helped, because the furrows in her forehead smoothed out, and he felt her relax a little in his arms.

  "I'm sorry, I don't know where my room is. Fergus took my things while we went to lunch."

  "Don't worry. I know exactly the room Riley was talking about."

  He walked up three double flights of stairs, grimly enjoying the shocked expressions on the faces of everyone he passed. He knew what they were thinking about him. Dare the pirate. Dare the reprobate.

  Dare the scoundrel.

  They probably thought he was taking this poor woman hostage to have his wicked way with her.

  At the thought of wicked ways and Lyric, both in the same sentence, his skin heated and his body hardened.

  "Bad timing," he muttered grimly.

  "I'm sorry. I –"

  "Not you, sweetheart. This was all on me."

  When they arrived at the rooms Riley had given Lyric, he saw that Fergus had placed her bags neatly next to the bed, unopened. Atlanteans were very careful to preserve privacy for others, since close quarters under the dome had made retaining privacy essential to civilization. No one would've thought or dreamed of opening her bags.

  Knowing Lyric, she probably would prefer it that way. Personally, he was wishing a night dress had been put out. He walked over and gently lowered Lyric to the bed.

  "What can I do? Tell me. Anything.”

  "You've done enough already," she protested. "I just need to rest."

  “I'll go get a healer or a glass of water. No, a glass of water and a healer. I'll get – I'll get the queen. I'll find somebody," he said, shocked at the torrent of words gushing out of his mouth.

  How everyone he knew would laugh to find the man they knew as coldhearted and steady in any crisis was terrified, but he was afraid. Afraid this headache might be the precursor to something worse. That whatever reaction had happened with the gemstones might have been the catalyst.

  By the gods, if his gift had harmed her – if he were the reason for her pain – he would not want to live. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn't. He'd already lost his ship and Seranth, but this loss ...the truth of it sliced through him. This loss would break him.

  She held out her hand, and he immediately took it in his own.

  “Just stay with me. I don't need anything but sleep right now but please stay with me," she asked softly.

  "Always," he promised.

  She smiled a little, but it wasn't until after he'd eased himself down on the bed next to her in a sitting position, and she’d moved to rest her head in his lap and fallen asleep, that he realized what he'd said.

  How could he give always to a woman when he didn't even deserve her now?

  8

  She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation—as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value—the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

  When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, Dear friends--a mammoth task.

  -- The Gift of the Magi, O. Henry (1917)

  She slept all afternoon. She slept through dinner; she slept through sunset. And throughout that time, all those many hours
, he sat and held her, stroking her hair. Thanking the gods--both his and hers-- for this brief moment of happiness in a long life that had been so seriously lacking in it. He nodded off a few times, for a few minutes at a time, but woke at her slightest motion or murmur. He would keep her safe, even from the inside of her own mind, if need be.

  Lyric began to wake at midnight. The dawn of a new day. It seemed fitting, somehow. She stretched, long and luxuriant, and he felt his body hardening again. He was finally in bed with her, something he’d dreamed of – fantasized about – on many long, cold nights walking the deck of the ship.

  But this wasn’t exactly how he’d pictured it. First he had been injured, and now she was. It was all a great cosmic joke by someone with a very bad sense of humor.

  She leaned her head back until it touched his abdomen. She froze, as if only then realizing that she'd been asleep curled up next to him with her head in his lap.

  "Dare?"

  "I certainly hope I'm the only man in your bed." He tried to make it sound like a joke, but it fell woefully flat. He knew he could have no claim to her future; she deserved better than a pirate. He couldn’t even hope for a miracle, because he’d resolved to stop giving himself hope that he didn't deserve.

  "I'm a pirate," he said, low and anguished. The words felt like they'd been ripped out of him, but he needed her to understand. He needed her to cast him aside, because he was becoming less and less sure he had the strength to leave her on his own.

  She rolled over onto her side and looked up at him. Although, he supposed looked was the wrong word. Unless she could still see – but no. He’d taken the amethyst out of her hands when she'd fallen asleep and put it in the basket on her dresser.

  Better to say, perhaps, that she turned her enormous copper-colored eyes toward his face and smiled.

  But why his brain was quibbling about word choice, he had no damn clue.

  "And I'm a painter," she said, yawning a little. Then she smiled. "It sounds like the title of a wonderful romance novel, doesn't it? The Painter and the Pirate. Ooh."