Trefoil by Em Petrova Page A

and stumbled away, extending a hand to hold him off. “Will, I can’t do this now. He’s coming.”
    He shook his head. He reached for her.
    “I can’t talk,” she cried.
    And then John was there, encircling her waist with an arm. “Have you been enjoying yourself?” he asked.
    She managed a weak reply and allowed John to sweep her off to another room of the museum. The canvases blurred past her vision. She saw only the points of Will Cochran’s words. I see his mark on you .
    She threw a desperate glance over her shoulder to where Will stood frozen. As she rounded the corner, she saw him whip out a cell phone.
    Oh, my God. Oh no. Oh no. Oh God.
    Her heart tripped and fluttered crazily. Will was making a call to Nathan. She knew it. As John towed her along, she prayed for something—anything—to distract him and allow her to return to that modern art exhibit.
    “Ah,” he said suddenly. “Lily, there is that gallery owner we met last visit. Do you remember?”
    She nodded, knees weak, heart hammering. “Do you mind if I—?”
    She flapped him away with a wobbly smile, then spun and nearly sprinted back to Will, who was flipping shut his phone with a stunned expression. He grabbed her up again, pacing her off.
    “Who was that man with you?”
    “John.”
    “Your mate?”
    “Yes.”
    “But how—?” He broke off and looked over his shoulder. “Will he follow you?”
    “No. He met an old friend. What’s going on?” She plastered her hands to her face.
    He stopped before the ham art. His big, gentle hands covered hers. “I have no idea. I was about to ask you.” He removed her hands and gazed deeply into her. It made her skin crawl, a toxic itch. “Yes,” he said quietly at last. “It is there.”
    “What is there?”
    “His mark. Nathan’s mark is clearly on you—the beginnings of it. Do you know Nathan?”
    She began to deny it, to say she’d never set eyes on him, but that wasn’t exactly true. “I only know his name and his sculpture.”
    “Do you see him? Visions?”
    She nodded miserably.
    “And you can hear him?”
    Another nod. She didn’t understand why she felt compelled to confide this to a stranger, but somehow knew Will could help her understand. “You spoke with him,” she whispered.
    He grinned. “Yes. He’s elated. He’s coming.”
    “Here?” she burst.
    He nodded. “Coming for you.”
    The space became a great vacuum, sucking all breath from Lillian. Her lungs hardened and the fragile sacs deflated as a cancer of understanding grew in her breast. Her mind swam with images of Nathan at a ticket counter. Brief flash of wristwatch, leather, exchanged paper. His chest burned too, but with frustration.
    “Lillian?” Will’s voice reached her from a distance. “What about this man you’re with? What is he to you? Is he really your mate?”
    The scope of her vision clamped shut and blackness fell. Will Cochran’s arms caught her, and a great roar of rage sounded. It vibrated her organs.
    “Get your hands off my wife!”
    “Sorry, man, she’s just fainted,” Will said.
    John’s arms came around her, crushing her to his chest. He strode away with her, calling her name.
    By degrees the full sound returned to her ears. The autumn air was cool on her cheeks, entered her nostrils and parted lips. John held her too tightly.
    If I open my eyes, I’ll see Will Cochran and his damned cell phone, she thought.
    John spoke senseless words to her. “My love, you’re safe and I’m here and I’ll help you.”
    “What the hell do you want?” John snapped. Lillian opened her eyes to see his black expression.
    “To make sure everything is okay. She doesn’t need an ambulance?” Will asked, knowing damn well she didn’t. He was not letting her out of his sight.
    “We’re fine. She’s fine.”
    Lillian attempted to disentangle herself from John’s hold and he suddenly noticed she had roused. “Lillian, my God. What happened? Was it something you remembered from your