Keepers of Eternity

  Echoes of Angels

  Book 1--Keepers of Eternity series

  by

  Caitlyn McKenna

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ECHOES OF ANGELS

  Book 1--Keepers of Eternity series

  Copyright ã 2002 Caitlyn McKenna

  ISBN: 1-894869-41-9

  Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Zumaya Publications, 2002

  Look for us online at: www.zumayapublications.com

  Resistance nipping at her heels, she crossed to the small dresser. She dropped to her knees and slid open the last drawer. The scraping of the faux wood on metal rollers magnified itself in the silence. She lifted out the stack of magazines she'd collected. From a casual point of view, they were useful for little except for peering into the glamorous world of celebrities. Star, National Enquirer, Cosmo, Vanity Fair, Vogue--all the major rag sheets that counted were in her compilation.

  Julienne's hands shook as she studied the covers of each. Here was her life, spread out on the glossy pages of fantasy, back when she was sufficiently hollow-cheeked and starving to get regular work on such high fashion assignments. The camera worshiped her angular body. Her good looks became something extra spectacular when interpreted by the flash of a bulb and the silver nitrate in film. But those days were no more than a memory. She felt her gut spasm around the sparse breakfast of wheat toast and tea she'd earlier consumed. Bile rose, burning the back of her throat. She tasted rancid acid. Blood boiled in her veins, giving her pale skin a scarlet hue.

  ESTRANGED HUSBAND SLASHES MODEL'S FACE!

  HUBBY ATTACKS SUPERMODEL IN MIAMI NIGHTCLUB!

  Dedication:

  This book is dedicated to the following people:

  Tina Haveman and Diana Kemp-Jones for believing in and letting me follow the dream of putting this story down on paper.

  To Buddy Garrett, who spent many tireless hours editing, going over and above the call of duty. He was an invaluable help, a stern taskmaster and a damn good friend.

  To Jeff Mullen, who opened my eyes with his valuable insight and precise comments.

  To the Comfort Inn that lets me sit in the lobby writing all night.

  To my co-workers: Danyell, Sal, Lydia, Shauna and Tom, who listen patiently to my tales.

  To Liz Burton, who smoothed text and made me look like a far better writer than I really am. And to Tina, again, who spent countless hours going over the book with me, above and beyond the call of duty for a publisher.

  Prologue

  Ireland--766 AD

  The woman was small, slight, and very young. Sighing in exhaustion, she settled onto her side, pillowing her head on her arm. Her long black hair hung in limp shreds around her pale, drawn face.

  An intense fire crackled in the stone hearth, its earthy scent mingling with the pungent odors of sweat and blood. Haunting shadows leapt along the walls, mimicking her painfully slow movements. Outside, the thunder rolled, echoing the cries she'd made earlier, uttered like an evil omen, as luminous fingers of lightning viciously scratched at the skies.

  She shivered, snuggling deeper under the animal pelts covering her. Her body ached; her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot from lack of rest. Drawing her knees up to her chest to preserve her body's heat, she ran her hand over her stomach, over the flat plane where a mountainous belly once ruled. A frail smile crossed her delicate features. Her labor had been long and difficult, lasting through nearly two nights. She needed sleep, but sleep would have to wait.

  She wanted to think of her babies. Her heart swelled with pride and love, a secret rush of pleasure coursing through her. She had done as she must--she'd hidden herself from those who would destroy her kind and given birth to two healthy offspring. Both babies slept peacefully beside her, well swaddled, suckled by the milk in her ample breasts, their small bodies perfect in every detail.

  Two babies. A boy and a girl. One blond, one dark; ivory-skinned, like her.

  Twins.

  She frowned. A dreamvision granted to her by the Goddess Cerredwen had foretold she would give birth to a leader who would carry her legacy, bringing peace to her race and the three worlds.

  The prophecy had not foretold she would have two babies. Worried, she began to pray:

  Great Mother, guardian of your children,

  I beg your wisdom.

  Inspire my dreams;

  Bring me knowledge,

  Give me the key--

  which child to choose…

  Chapter One

  New Canaan, Connecticut--1989 AD

  Head tilted back, Julienne Hunter stood quietly at the window, staring into the misty gray clouds blanketing the skies. A steady rain fell, tapping lightly on the pane. Standing near enough that her breath fogged the glass, she reached up and wiped away the condensation with her palm. She let her hand rest on the frigid surface. She did not move, even to blink. Her skin, so warm only minutes ago, grew chilled. A shiver coursed up her spine, causing goose bumps. She let her arm fall to her side. Her hand balled into a tight fist, the only visible sign of her inner angst.

  Lowering her eyes back to earth level, Julienne could see people outside rushing to escape the damp. Their feet splashed through the puddles on the sidewalks as they hurried along, some with umbrellas, most without. No one had anticipated a storm on this mild September day, one that said the Indian summer was attempting to keep its hold on the season just a while longer. The clouds had rolled in during mid-morning, catching people unaware. Invisible fingers of the northern zephyr gently stirred the muggy air around them, ushering forth in its wake a fresh, crisp scent. The storm was a cleansing--a baptism--for a trammeled earth and its careworn inhabitants.

  She moved her gaze past the sidewalks, farther out onto the acres of beautifully manicured lawns soaking up the wetness. The grass was still green, reluctant to give in to the end of the cycle that would have it wither away to a drab brown. Stately old oak trees, their leaves growing dusky with shades of the coming fall, lined the northern perimeter of the grounds, perfectly in sync with the manicured hedges acting as a fence in lieu of manmade materials. Beyond the hedges lay the rest of the world, going about its business without her.

  It's peaceful here, she decided, but it's time to go.

  The thought caused her vision to grow misty. There was no reason to cry. Today was supposed to be a happy one, part of the new beginning she'd been promising herself. Nevertheless, she could not squelch melancholy feelings hovering at the edges of her heightened emotions. Though she was outwardly calm, her nerves were on edge. The slightest incident, such as today's unexpected rain, was guaranteed to send her spiraling into the depths of the depression she had not been able to shake for months.

  What a day to start my life over, she mused. It's appropriate, though, as dark outside as I feel inside my own soul.

  She let down the curtain she'd been holding aside. As she stepped back, the material slid through her fingers with a whisper. The feel of the cloth against the tips of her fingers caused the fine hairs on the back of her neck to rise. She was so acutely aware of her surroundings that every physical sensation was magnified a thousand times past normal levels. Some days, and today was one, it felt as if she did not belong in her own skin. In the silence of the room, even the sou
nd of her breathing seemed too loud.

  Parting her lips so she could take in air through her mouth, she tried to minimize the needs of her body, slowing the rise and fall of her chest to a minimal rhythm. Only the beating of her heart disturbed the deathlike silence she was desperate to attain within. She pressed the palms of her hands together, assuming the attitude of serene prayer. She lowered her eyelids, blanketing her green orbs in soothing darkness. She could feel the pulsing of blood through her veins just beneath the surface of her skin. Though her body was still, her mind was racing.

  Surely, other people must be more comfortable in the lives they're born to. They have to be, or else no one could bear to live.

  Overwhelming sadness washed over her like the consuming waves of an angry ocean. A moan escaped her lips, but it sounded like a scream to her sensitive ears. Perhaps she was screaming. Screaming, and no one heard. Or cared. Oftentimes, it felt as if she did not belong in this world, living among the people called the human race. Through her twenty-four years of life, she'd always felt different from them, isolated and alone, even in the largest of crowds.

  I've never been what others are. I've never been like…them.

  Julienne dug herself deeper into the mental refuge she'd created inside her mind. Her therapist had warned her to be aware that intense depression could follow cocaine withdrawal.

  Withdrawal. The dictionary defined it as the discontinuation of the use of an addictive substance. A second definition said it also was the physiological and mental readjustment that accompanies such discontinuation. Simply defined, it was the process of denial.

  Withdrawal also meant rules. Rules meant structure. Structure meant recovery. Recovery meant continuation. Not an easy battle, for surviving hadn't ended the conflict over her weakened spirit. It would take time to regain a healthy balance in her life. Trod on once too often, the white demon had reared its ugly head to extract its pound of flesh, corrupting her health with its wicked knavery. Six months ago, she'd come close to dying of acute respiratory failure from an overdose, and police had found a gram of cocaine in her purse after her arrival at the emergency room. The seizure had induced ventricular fibrillation--chaotic heart rhythms. She'd suffered heart damage, and another seizure could come at any time. A severe episode could kill her.

  Through four months, she'd had to follow a course someone else decided for her. Without the pressure of choice, she'd attempted to rebuild her psyche, wean herself from old self-destructive habits and replace them with self-preserving ones. Old habits died hard. Addictions even harder. Her life had not been pleasant or easy since entering rehab, and though she hadn't wanted to go on living, she'd been forced by society's interventionists to continue.

  Julienne reluctantly opened her eyes, leaving the soothing blank void she'd created in her mind. It wasn't wise to retreat so deeply into her psyche. She sometimes feared she would dig herself down so far she would be unable to return.

  I close my eyes and the world falls away. I don't want to come back to it, but I must. I must.

  To bring her focus back to the needs of the coming hours, she began smoothing away the wrinkles she'd caused in the curtain. There, that was better. She wanted everything to be faultless today. Not a thing should be out of place.

  Not even my own mind.

  She turned anxiously to survey her room. Bed, bureau, desk, a small dorm fridge, and a table with two chairs were arranged to give the room a spaciousness it did not really possess. Textured walls, painted eggshell white, were complimented by inexpensive Ansel Adams reproductions. A low pile carpet of a color that could only be described as "baby shit brown," covered the floors. Though clean, the carpet was dotted with cigarette burns. Throw rugs covered thin spots in high-traffic areas. Nothing was amiss except the ashtray full of cigarette butts on the table.

  Every item present was serviceable, well used by occupants who'd lived there before her. The room, with its adjoining bathroom, might have been one of hundreds in any moderately priced hotel except that its single window was barred and screened, allowing no covert exits. Far from being part of a hotel, the room was part of a hospital. Goldridge Center, to be exact, in New Canaan, Connecticut. Once admitted through its doors, a person could not get out without a physician's release. Not a hospital housing the average addict on the street, it cost twelve hundred dollars a day to reside in the facility. Goldridge catered exclusively to the celebrity set. Other residents fighting similar compulsions with their personal addictions were rich, famous and notorious. Her own stay was going to end up costing over one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.

  Julienne's eyes flitted over the two suitcases she'd neatly packed this morning. Along with her purse and cosmetics case, everything was ready to go. She gave a brief glance to the digital clock on the bedside table. Ten-twenty a.m. Forty minutes until her attorney, Daniel DiMarco, arrived. At eleven, he was to pick her up and take her home. From today forward she was going to have to decide how her life would progress. The uncertainty had placed a heavy weight on her shoulders. Could she go back out into the world and stay clean, or would she again be drawn toward suicidal temptations of the flesh?

  I can do this, she decided, shaking off the negative thought. I'm ready.

  Or…was she?

  There were still some things she had not packed.

  Look at them. You know you have to.

  Resistance nipping at her heels, she crossed to the small dresser. She dropped to her knees and slid open the last drawer. The scraping of the faux wood on metal rollers was magnified in the silence. She lifted out the stack of magazines and tabloids she'd collected. From a casual point of view, they were useful for little except peering into the glamorous world of celebrities. Star, National Enquirer, Cosmo, Vanity Fair, Vogue. All the major rag sheets that counted were in her compilation.

  Julienne's hands shook as she studied the covers of each. Here was her life, spread out on the glossy pages of fantasy, back when she was sufficiently hollow-cheeked and starving to get regular work on such high fashion assignments. The camera worshipped her angular body. Her good looks became something extra-spectacular when interpreted by the flash of a bulb and the silver nitrate in film.

  But those days were no more than a memory. She felt her gut spasm around the sparse breakfast of wheat toast and tea she'd earlier consumed. Bile rose, burning the back of her throat. She tasted rancid acid. Blood boiled in her veins, giving her pale skin a scarlet hue.

  ESTRANGED HUSBAND SLASHES MODEL'S FACE!

  HUBBY ATTACKS SUPERMODEL IN MIAMI NIGHTCLUB!

  Oh, God, why had she wanted to look at these things? She closed her eyes. Her pulse was racing with the anxiety of the night that had changed her life forever. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. Though the disjointed memories were blurred, she would never forget the searing pain of the razor. When she'd separated from James, she didn't think he would follow through with his threats to get even with her.

  The articles printed on the glossy pages detailed the attack. On May eleventh, James Hunter had accosted her outside a popular Miami hot spot, viciously exacting a desperate revenge two days after she'd demanded a divorce. Wielding a box cutter, he'd carved deep gashes into her face before horrified onlookers could stop him.

  Unbidden, James' image reared up in her mind. He'd been everything she thought she'd wanted in a lover. Good-looking. Puppy‑brown eyes under a mop of blond hair that perfectly complemented his tanned, buff physique. He had never failed to catch a woman's eye. He considered the world his personal playground and was good at conning women into paying his bills. Polo in England. Bullfighting in Spain. Gambling until dawn in Monaco's casinos. There was nothing he did not pursue. The fact that he never had his own money didn't seem to hamper him. He was a professional houseguest and made quite a good living escorting rich, single women.

  Looking back, she knew now that it was a damned union from the beginning. James had introduced her to cocaine in the Singapore nightclub the night the
y first met. She had experimented to please him, believing it impossible to get hooked if she used it sparingly. James swore by the stuff, claiming it built up stamina and controlled weight. It was true. Cocaine, like caffeine, did, indeed, heighten her senses and, more importantly, reduced her appetite. She could work all day, dance all night, and still catch a flight to Paris the next morning to prance the catwalks like a prize thoroughbred. As she worked, James Hunter would hustle the next score to sate the need for the drug both were hooked on. It was truly a marriage made in junkie hell.

  Didn't I give that bastard enough? she thought bitterly. I supported him for years. It was my money, my celebrity that allowed us to live in style. We drove expensive cars, had the house in Beverly Hills, the condo in New York…I couldn't take his abuse anymore. I just wanted out.

  Panic renewed its attack, aiming barbed arrows at the center of her insecurities. She'd believed she was prepared to accept what James Hunter had done, ruining both their lives in one impulsive moment of revenge. She was mistaken. She was far from ready. She swallowed hard, attempting to banish the fear. Fear was for the weak. Fear would make her too afraid to go on with her life. Fear would destroy her, and shred her like a small animal under the claws of a larger, hungrier beast.

  I can't keep hiding, looking away and pretending it didn't happen.

  Leaving the magazines scattered on the floor, she stood up to face the mirror hanging over the bureau. She leveled an unflinching gaze at the image within its depth. Her head tilted slightly as she studied her reflection. She didn't want to look at herself more than she had to, but some inner compulsion drove her to stare down the reflection the glass presented.