The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [162]
“You were going fishing.” It wasn’t a question.
His eyes narrowed and he tipped his head to one side as he gave her a slow nod. “Oliver wouldn’t talk to me. He hates me.”
“He adores you.”
“He only talked to you, and they wouldn’t let me be with them. They shut me out.”
“It isn’t your time,” she said, repeating it from her dream.
He pressed his lips together, looked away, and returned quickly to her eyes. “We had the same dream.”
“Weird, huh?” In truth, she was getting accustomed to weird.
“Very.”
“Does this mean we’re both possessed, or is it still just me?”
“I don’t know.” He reached out and touched her from elbows to hands, holding tight, making certain she was real, sure she was there. He wore flip-flops and flannel sleep pants—he hadn’t bothered with a jacket against the chilly mountain night—yet his palms were fire hot against her skin. “All I know is you were there and then you were gone and all I could see were the cliffs and . . . I knew. God forgive me, I wanted to follow you over. Go with you. I tried. I fought. They just stood there smiling down at me. I couldn’t make it . . . you know, go. Move.”
“You couldn’t make the dream change, couldn’t control it.”
“Yes. I woke up in a cold sweat and, well, here I am. I just needed to make sure you’re okay.”
She let her smile reflect her well-being—waited for his to do the same, weak and tentative as it was. “Do you still think the dreams mean something? What do you think they were trying to tell you?”
“That I don’t want to live without you.”
She cradled his face with her hands; he reclamped his around her wrists, unwilling to break his connection to her. They stared at each other, making wordless declarations and promises with their eyes, seeing truth in the soul of the other. Their eyes closed slowly as she bent to press her lips to his forehead. She kissed each cheek and pressed them in gently with her thumbs. The temptation his lips presented was sore and raw, but it suddenly felt too imperative to be out from under Oliver’s influence before they went any further.
His eyes opened, dreamy, awash with passion and desire. Studying her expression, it was his lopsided smile that gave away his understanding and reluctant agreement. With a light touch, he pulled her hands from his face and held them in front of him. “Okay. So what else could the dream mean?”
“Beats me.”
He was thoughtful for a moment. Reluctantly, he released her right hand when she moved to sit beside him on the bed. “Why isn’t it my time, Ivy? Why won’t Oliver talk to me, too?”
“Why won’t he just tell me what he wants you to know? Why is he making it so complicated?”
“I don’t know. All I do know . . . well, what I believe is that this happens more often than most people think. Being haunted, being possessed. Not always by demons or evil spirits and not always in this exact same way, but in similar enough ways to make it a real possibility.
“In the Bible, for instance, Jesus healed lots of demonpossessed people . . . Once He even sent a herd of demons from two men into two thousand pigs, they say. But over and over you read of people coming under the influence of the Holy Spirit, too. And they always make that sound like a good thing. For centuries Indian shamans and priests have been mediators between their people and the spirit world. Even in Islam they have angels and jinns.
“Oliver told me that for years after Mom died he’d feel her—touching his hair as he drifted off to sleep. Or sometimes, when he was looking for some way to get back at Dad for something, he’d feel her disapproval or disappointment and back off. He said he knew how weird it sounded but when he was younger, right after she died, when he cried, he could smell her perfume and feel her arms come around him and hold him. He said eventually she just went away, like everyone else, and he stopped caring—about anything.”
He sighed. “I’ve had time to think about that, though,