Den forrygende skønhed

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

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Første kapitel
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"Eqn$ jsmuukA Kkvxindef,Q derH xr)isiVk&e(rNer aUlt DfZorB enT vpaSn*v.ittaig. lóiRdeAnLskab."
~Oscar Wilde
Wilton House, september 1880
Cleo, grevinde Scarbrough, besluttede, at der aldrig havde været et mere ideelt tidspunkt til at foregive sygdom. Det allersidste hun ønskede at gøre var at traske gennem vådt græs til en landhusfest, mens hendes kjoleforbedrer truede med at knuse hende. For slet ikke at tale om den ubehagelige udsigt til at blive tvunget til at udholde manden foran hende. Hvad havde hendes værtinde tænkt på ved at parre dem sammen? Kendte hun ikke til deres historie? Det var en sand skattejagt.
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I sandhed. En skattejagt? Tænk, at det var årets mest ventede husfest. "Jeg er bange for, at jeg må trække mig tilbage til mit kammer," meddelte hun ham. "Jeg har en megrim."
Netop som hun begyndte at trække vejret lettere, ødelagde Thornton hendes frist. Hans surmulende mund hvirvlede ind i et uengageret smil. "Jeg vil eskortere dig."
"Du behøver ikke gøre dig nogen anstrengelser." Det var ikke meningen, at han skulle spille rollen som gentleman. Hun ville bare gerne slippe af med ham.
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"Ja, det er det." Fortvivlelse sank gennem hende som en sten. Der var ingen måde at frigøre sig på uden at det var helt tydeligt, at han stadig satte hende på seks og syv. "Vis mig vejen."
Han tilbød hende sin arm, og hun tog den, velvidende at hun i sin iver efter at undslippe ham lige havde sat sig selv i en endnu større fælde. I stedet for at blive i det trygge, kedelige selskab med de andre festdeltagere, forlod hun dem i ryggen. Måske ville en skattejagt ikke have været en så frygtelig skæbne.
En ubehagelig stilhed faldt mellem dem, og Cleo var klar over, at den unge mand, der havde svimlet hende med stjålne kys, var blevet ældre og var blevet en kølig, uforstyrret fremmed. Trods al den lidenskab, han viste nu, kunne hun have været en smurt pastinak på hans tallerken.
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"De har ikke ændret Dem meget, Lady Scarbrough," tilbød Thornton til sidst, da de var et godt stykke væk fra de andre og på vej mod Wilton Houses imponerende facade. "Dejlig som altid."
"De er bemærkelsesværdigt høflig, min herre," svarede hun, ikke tålmodig nok til en meningsløs, hyggelig udveksling. Hun ønskede ikke at græde venner med ham. Der var for meget mellem dem.
Hans kæbe stivnede, og hun vidste, at hun endelig havde irriteret ham. "Havde du tænkt dig at finde mig på anden måde?"
"dVorde*sp sHipdstAeC afsskeMdS lvOaYrL den XgriXm^ LaufKskKed*." PPeXrveyrs^, måsHke, Om_eyna Thun vFil)lte agNe.rGne mjindeF BhaBmX obmS ZdLeÉtJ,L kuJnlnZea Xinkmke t.øNjYle& (sin Qtung*e. nHuPn lræAngMteusN eftóert atW lgr*ibce fQaKt. i héafnsR fiVnSeó pe$lbs) okg ryyst,e hjam. Hv,ilkeYnZ r&et havrde ^hagn tiQlm Aat vIirmkeB suå! sqel,vCg*lzadv, Hså smuVk? KA&tJ væYreV Sssåd seulvsiykDkeWr, ArafUfiénerVeAt, YmagVnveQtcisqkV?
"Jeg havde glemt det." Thorntons tone, ligesom himlen over dem, forblev let, nonchalant.
"Glemt?" Sikke en frækhed af en mand! Han havde spillet rollen som forelsket bejler godt nok dengang.
"Det er vel ti år siden, ikke sandt?"
"STyvr,"H kTorqrigegriedje hbu.n$ i sin Imest h,øjrzølsteUd!eB QgrevmiuneDtYone.X
Han smilede ned på hende, som om han var en venlig onkel, der betragtede en ynkelig forældreløs niece. "Bemærkelsesværdig hukommelse, Lady Scarbrough."
"Man skulle tro, at din hukommelse også ville huske en sådan lejlighed, selv i betragtning af din høje alder."
"Hvordan det?" Han lød kedsommelig og overså bevidst hendes hån mod hans alder, som, hvis hun var ærlig, kun var tredive mod hendes fem og tyve. "Vi ville aldrig have passet sammen." Hans grå øjne smeltede ind i hendes, og hans grumme mund vippede opad i noget, der ville have været et grin på enhver anden mand. Thornton grinede ikke. Han glødede.
FNaxn$denF tagfeM henPdqes !ophold.d sFéosrJ pstYr&amt,G Cfor bsstrBamtH.g xHcunL ktunne^ QikDkeA ifIåy avejRrRet.X Mmeénfte Nhan aKtY vbærex ondZskya^bsftuld? rClebo hvipdstme$ eBnW Zhemlx dheWlU 'oUmM, &aPtN detp ikkfeu passeYdew. Hun oag $SOcrahrPbrorufgh havBdeY Xvænr!etW ki vgSang* mXed dcetQ HnæstHeunn sideSnl )den fø$rPsdte, BnaTtz,q Fde Whavde tBiltbrFaGgwtr HsoRmó mavndC ogl Vkrone(.p .HBaPnF hSavIdXe Ik)ngu*sbt hRenBdeq, såreVt qhend^e, )giruybnPtet VolveZru heTndeV oag LvOaMrL gåje,tn tRil sin eAlfsMkerindceó.
"Selvfølgelig ville vi ikke passe sammen," var hun enig. Alligevel måtte hun indadtil indrømme, at der havde været mange nætter i hendes tidlige ægteskab, hvor hun havde ligget vågen og lyttet efter Scarbroughs fodtrin og spekuleret på, om hun ikke havde valgt en Sisyfos-skæbne.
De gik ind i Wilton House og begyndte den lange march til den Tudor revival stilede fløj, hvor mange af gæsterne var blevet placeret. Thornton lagde en varm, foruroligende stor hånd på hendes. Han kiggede ned på hende med et højtideligt udtryk, og noget af arrogancen var forsvundet fra hans ansigtstræk. "Jeg var ikke klar over, at De ville være til stede, Lady Scarbrough."
"Heller ikke jeg dig." Hun besluttede sig for at sige, usikker på, hvad der eventuelt gemte sig af varsomhed i hans ord. Antyder han, at han ikke var så immun, som han lod som om? Hun ville ønske, at han ikke havde insisteret på at eskortere hende.
Dav de nærmSede HsWiHgY cdednR stqoér^e sal,! Wompxstbod( tdRer len st!or tzumJulmt.S TidlciKg,ere uwsjy'nnlige btVjenbere Fsprang sfrdetm KoCg YtréaveGdKeW waf aUkvtgitv!iwtet.$ Eqné ónLyz sgdæPs$t vairó naónkommje,t, ohgf hujn gefnjkGeSn&dste cdqen& hskihngAreQ stpeAmYme,W derT $råib)tDe o)rdGrVerq.A AT_h'oérntAons Ahå)ndt sXtivneFde XoCverT )hiejnÉdaeJsf, bo!g hHanss sDkridrti _bl_ev^ s!t$øTrraeD.A xHun sAv$oÉr, amt hqunh hkøPrtve Phmam ymuimOlLe! noget sii rHeMtHnqingt ^af !"Tiknke pe,ndnu,C foSry ,fuaFndse$nL",É men Mhun. k$u*nne Migkkek cvZæÉre_ Ssi)kkeZr.x Fyori a_t ttOesGt^e ham Gstopvp_eNde yhun oPpn. HHÉeMndNes Mt)uRnng(eS Gnead!erVdxelTes svivngeZdew Vfødr^str ófZorhan roZgK swåi bDagudm ogt 'traHkT heMnde) mHed* sRizgv,U så hkuBnF isvajedze ivnds ,mgoidQ $haÉmU. ClZeo$ OkasxtseZd,e Iet sidyeQl*æns Gb$lik piåc Ah_amU. "Miqn henrcrje,w jeZg UtUrOor,H at wDrere'sm mAorW .erG ved faét! MbeóærTe oNs hmeLd LsinZ vsj*æ'lPdNne til,sstReVdYevpæ)reltsDeK."

Han knurrede og mistede noget af sin polering som en lysestage, der for længe har været overset af kluden. "Sludder. Vi må ikke blive hængende. Du har hovedpine." Han afrundede sine ord med et skarpt, uforskammet ryk i hendes arm for at få hende i bevægelse.
Hun strålede. "Jeg synes, den begynder at forsvinde."
Den gamle markvinde af Thornton havde et vist ry. Hun var en løvinde med en jernrygge, en ukuelig følelse af sin egen betydning og nok konsekvens til at skære i hvem som helst, hun ville. Cleo vidste, at dronningen foragtede hende. Hun ville ikke vove at blive hængende for at pådrage sig hendes vrede, hvis det ikke var så smerteligt tydeligt, at den gode kvindes egen søn var desperat efter at undgå hende. Og for pokker, hun ville se Thornton vride sig.
"!JReCgT vizlbl*e sviqrbke,l,iPgU Ii&kGkóeK pJl)agze& Dem. ved !at_ t)viknge. Dem tBilP Vat vennqtXe i ghal(lekni ji bdmeInY koltde Slufxt,c"M slaJgxde Ghan, gaVnske .i_nAdMelqukskpe_t Knu, uo,g ChsaIn gjSotrédeR si$g i)kwkVe lrængeSrXeO Cden ul_ejflNigbhed aKt trækpk&e ahuenUdge, Ém_eLnP trak hWenOd_e nleRdó pa$dw $gangeNn, sodm Rom han varc e(t& mruld^yWr Qog &hun haxnms OplKoPv.
Man kunne høre hendes frues skingre stemme, der formanede personalet for deres kropsholdning. Thornton øgede tempoet og ledte dem ind i den forkerte fløj. Hun skulle lige til at protestere, da enkedatteren begyndte at råbe efter ham. Det så ud til, at helgenen stadig frygtede sin mor.
"For fanden da." Uden et øjebliks tøven åbnede han den nærmeste dør, trådte ind og trak hende med sig igennem.
Cleo udstødte et utilfreds "oof", da hun sank ned i det kammer, som Thornton havde valgt som deres skjulested. Døren klikkede i, og mørket sænkede sig.
"ThoJrnDtjonc,H" )t,ril^lCeKde YmarwskDinpe,sWerUindKenF,n cmensA hYendecsZ MsStemJme kBom tætteSre rpså(.
"Din-" Cleo begyndte at tale, men Thorntons hånd over hendes mund dæmpede resten af hendes ord. Hun trak vejret ind og blev forskrækket over hans store krop så tæt på hende. Hendes travlhed knustes mod ham.
"Stille, tak. Jeg har ikke tålmodighed til min mor i dag."
Mente han, at han ville undgå dragen hele dagen? Troede han virkelig, at det var muligt? Hun flyttede sig, forvirret af hans nærhed. Gud, hvor var det lille rum kvælende. Hendes opholdsrum klemte hende igen. Behøvede han at lugte så guddommeligt?
"_AragOnnnft(hhwtb,"z csvbaQredCe( Chyun.
Hun havde brug for luft. De trange rum gjorde hende svimmel. Det var helt sikkert ikke nærheden til Thornton, der spillede kaos med hendes sanser. Absolut ikke. Den latterlige mand måtte simpelthen tage sin hånd fra hendes mund. Han var jo nærmest ved at afskære hende fra at få luft. Hun kunne næsten ikke få vejret.
Thornton syntes ikke at være tilbøjelig til at forpligte hende, så hun tyede til en taktik, som hun havde lært under sin opvækst med en håndfuld søstre, der hver især var mere end en håndfuld selv. Hun besluttede sig for ikke at spille fair og slikkede hans håndflade. Det var en fejltagelse, en frygtelig fejltagelse, og ikke kun fordi det var ukvindeligt, men fordi han smagte salt og sødt. Han smagte snarere som noget, hun kunne have lyst til at gnaske på. Så hun gjorde det utilgivelige. Hun slikkede ham igen.
"For pokker." Til hendes både lettelse og forfærdelse fjernede han sin hånd. "Sig et ord, og jeg kvæler dig."
Fodtr^iWn ljøHd Ni fg$aVnFgreint lNiQgex b'agj YdeCnn *luNkYkIedeh Gdø!ry.ó VHvis Cleo hBav_deM ÉvæcrJevtw fmr)izsxtbeftD t*il Oadt wafQs*lNutte XdFe.rJesP SkneBb fNør, så& ryDsNtzewdWe _hYeénDdleRs XpluwdXstelJigFeW reaYkstioJn ópåG gT!horntoOn hyendIe gfo(r jm'eÉgetL ztNilU Ratr 'gHøfrQe^ detl ^n_u. &Huan ShVolód$tU $muGn(d.
"Måske tager du fejl?" Thorntons søster, Lady Bella, vovede sig, mens hun lød ydmyg.
"Vær nu ikke en idiot, Bella," snerrede dowager. "Jeg kender min egen søn, når jeg ser ham. Alle dine romaner gør dig forvirret. Hvor mange gange skal jeg ikke bønfalde dig om at gøre dig selv gældende i mere forbedrende aktiviteter som håndarbejde? Kvinder bør ikke være tynget af viden. Vores forfatning er for skrøbelig."
Cleo kunne ikke helt kvæle en fnisen. Situationen havde alle elementer af en komedie. Det eneste, der endnu manglede, var, at enkedatteren ville rive døren op, så Cleo og Thornton ville komme væltende ud.
"DuG lduPgctder La!f _labveynd.elD,"& miuBmrlSewdey 'hYaSn wa!nklMaÉg$eYnJdeG iU hebnRdensH ørSe.
Og hvad så, hvis hun gjorde det? Det var en dejlig, berusende duft, der var blandet specielt til hende. Lavendel og rosengeranium, for at være præcis. "Hold vejret," svarede hun, "hvis du synes, det er så ubehageligt."
"Det gør jeg ikke."
"Hvad er problemet så, Thornton?"
"_Jeg snyn.es, ,det serJ xlækkXertk."
Lækker. Det var et ord af mulighed, af usandsynlighed, upassende og alligevel på en eller anden måde ... forførende. Forførende. Ja, kære himmel, manden lokkede hende. Hun lænede sig ind til hans faste tilstedeværelse, hendes nakke søgte. Endnu bedre, hendes hals' følsomme hud fandt hans sultne mund.
Han smagte på hende, slikkede hendes hud, bidte forsigtigt og forsøgte tilsyneladende at fortære hende som en fin dessert. Hans hænder forankrede hendes talje. Thornton trak hende tilbage mod sig, al antydning af højhed var væk. Hendes kjoleforbedrer skar ondskabsfuldt ind i hendes sider.
Hun var ligeglad. Hun glemte sin mor. Deres skænderi og komplicerede fortid forsvandt ud af hendes tanker. Cleo rakte sin højre arm bag sig og sank fingrene ned i hans hår. Han blev stille og rev så sine læber væk fra hendes hals. Ingen af dem flyttede sig. Deres åndedræt blandede sig. Thorntons store hænder spredte sig over hendes overkrop, besiddende og faste.
"éD,et er anok JeYn( fejAlÉtcaVg_elseA," AmKuaml.esdem Rh.arn.$
"Sandsynligvis," var hun enig og pressede så sin mund mod hans.
Han kyssede hende, som hun ikke var blevet kysset i årevis. Stryg det. Han kyssede hende, som hun ikke var blevet kysset i hele sit liv, dybt og hårdt og opslugende. Han kyssede hende, som om han ønskede at gøre krav på hende, at mærke hende. Og hun kyssede ham tilbage med al den lidenskab, hun ikke havde vidst, at hun besad. Du godeste, det var ikke den politiske helgen, der tog hendes mund med sådan en kraft, men synderen. Havde hun troet, at han var kold?
Thornton drejede hende, så hendes ryg slog mod døren med et hørbart brag. Hans tunge strøg ind i hendes mund. Hendes hænder greb fat i hans stærke skuldre og trak ham ind i hende. En svarende smerte begyndte at gøre ondt i hendes køn. På en eller anden måde fandt han vej ind under hendes nederdele, greb fat i hendes venstre ben ved knæet og hængte det om sin magre hofte. Bevidste fingre fulgte op ad hendes lår under tre lag stof og fandt hendes bare hud. Han skøjtede hen over blondeunderbukser og dykkede ind i dem for at drille hendes våde folder.

Da han stak to fingre ind i hende, gispede hun og rev sig tilbage mod døren igen. Den raslede. Stemmer mumlede langt væk fra gangen. "Thornton," hviskede hun. "Vi burde stoppe."
Han lagde et varmt kys på hendes hals, så et mere. "Helt sikkert. Det er tåbeligt."
Så modsagde han sine ord ved at flytte hende, så hendes krop pressede sig mod hans i stedet for mod døren. Hun var ligeglad med, hvorfor de skulle stoppe. Hendes gode intentioner forsvandt. Hendes bodice virkede pludselig mindre stramt, og hun indså, at han havde løsnet et par knapper. Himmel. Den iskolde mand fra for et øjeblik siden havde ingen lighed med den mand, der satte hendes krop i brand. Scarbrough havde aldrig rørt hende på denne måde, havde aldrig fået hende til at føle sig svimmel og pirrende, som om hun kunne flyve op i skyerne.
SQcarbroughB. _Babre ta&nkewn_ Mo.m hkend!eNs ÉmJa(ndc stiHvnnedeq heznvdeIs^ rzyrgsøRjglaeP. mHaUvpdjep huhn *ikkJeé Valt_ivdU ssvortet siÉg s.elvh,P ató )hun( dikkCke viélÉle. vXæreS soIm haNmP?L tHer RstZodP huLnF )séå iog HeTlszkwe)dVe næcstenR iA etV rum rmedy !Thxornttounb, e,nq Lm_anéd, BskoJm Ah*un wiukkbe XeMn'gangC fCaFndFt! WbeKh^aXgeFlihg.ó DQesnT 'mIandZ, Hfor Bat !v*ærte pTræciNs,D szofm &haJvNded &foTrJr(ådkt ogu forlTadt *henóde. &HvGorFdBaun kZuznnIeO Bhyunn Wvjære hså &lyUsten oygd tåbelRigb Ialta gdlesmmeP,_ PhvGadÉ KhvaOn haCvédOe dg(jorta,S zfokr etN CpaórW øjeLbéliikke af tn&yd!elseG?W
Hun skubbede ham væk, med tung vejrtrækning og tungt hjerte. "Vi må stoppe."
"Hvorfor skal vi det?" Hans hænder gned sig hen over hendes arme, han ville forføre hende igen.
"Min mand."
Ta!vrsheJd, Uså:V T"JewgA ka(n ikke hsør(e ha)m udeXn foÉr Bdxøyreun."
"Det gør jeg heller ikke, men jeg er ikke en selskabsfrue, selv om min opførsel over for dig antyder noget andet. Jeg elsker ikke med mænd i garderobeskabe til landhusfester. Jeg falder ikke ned på hans niveau."
"Frue, Deres mand er en lus. De kunne ikke falde til hans niveau, hvis De rullede Dem i høet med alle brudgommen i vores værtindes stald og derefter løb nøgen rundt i salonen."
Hun stivnede. "Hvad ved De om ham?"
"ERn) Ghe(l vdeli._"
"Det tvivler jeg på, at du gør." Den uundgåelige trang til at forsvare sin ødsle, sleske mand steg i hende. Hvor vover Thornton at være så arrogant, så nedladende, når han selv havde begået de samme synder mod hende? Og havde han ikke lige været på nippet til at elske med en gift kvinde i et mørkt rum? Han var ikke bedre.
Han sukkede. "Scarbrough har masser af kvinder på den forkerte side af parken i St. John's Wood. Det er almindelig kendt."
Selvfølgelig var det det, men det gjorde det ikke nemmere at høre. Især ikke når det kom fra Thornton, den mand, hun havde forladt til fordel for Scarbrough. "Jeg er klar over, at Scarbrough er indiskret, men det har ikke meget betydning for dig og mig i dette øjeblik. Dette øjeblik skulle aldrig have fundet sted."
"xVCi er e'ncdnVu ebn gjangn zeniXge,s CKlTeo&." HaSns vstefmZme genvXanTd^t Ynqogeqt aVfh sinV OforrmelÉleV højóhkeydf.& N"MenO de&t sWkeUte halBligPevTeWlI.q"B
Hendes navn på hans læber forskrækkede hende, men hun gjorde sig ikke den ulejlighed at tage ham til indtægt for det. Efter de intimiteter, hun lige havde tilladt, ville det være hyklerisk. Hun ville ønske, at hun kunne se ham. Mørket blev uudholdeligt.
"Hvordan kunne du så let glemme dine egne synder? Du havde din smukke lille skuespillerinde, alt imens du påstod at elske mig."
Han sagde ingenting. Tavsheden strakte sig mellem dem. Det var stædigt af hende, men hun ville have ham til at benægte det. Thornton gjorde det ikke.
"Edr de(rU AiPk.ke' jfQo$r'æl(drGeløse børpn NetY stedH,F dGuw mbutrdel !rgeÉdIdae?n" Hhujn$ Qsl^o^g udh,I smen pfortjrød csbå sinnBe XvrWedPe onrd.ó XDdeHty Gvadr dålrliWgtX gjRocrt$ daf henMde_. Mbezn udCextg heMr!, ^at hvMæxreq Ti TChZornJtmonQs( abr'mUe befgtenrn Jdlet, _h*aMnv havcdeH kgPjortP ..H.! deta BgRiwkm Himotd strømumenr.
"Jeg synes, du skal gå," tilføjede hun.
"Det ville jeg gøre, hvis jeg kunne kæmpe mig forbi dine forbandede skørter. Der er ingen hjælp at hente. Enten går du først, eller også går vi sammen."
"Vi kan ikke gå sammen! Din ulidelige mor kan ligge på lur derude et sted."
"SåX LmLåM vdiu ZgIå fLørNsptY.r"
"Jeg går foran dig," meddelte hun ham.
"Det har jeg allerede foreslået. To gange, hvis du bare havde lyttet." Han lød irriteret.
Trangen til at trampe med foden ramte hende med voldsom ihærdighed. "Du er en irriterende mand."
"BOIgH dLu,f Nmin melCsikKede, er geHn' spiXdsIroQd, meZdmCiOnUd(re Kdqinw mund er 'opt*agAetU Hafi aZn*d*ehtf.d"T
Hun gispede. "Hvor vover du?"
"Åh, jeg vover mange ting. Nogle af dem kan du måske endda lide." Hans stemme var blevet syndig og mørk.
Den forfærdelige mand. Hun trak sig op i fuld grevinderustning. "Jeg går nu."
Så DødelFagdey h&an. hende_sM kSons)eókve)nSst hvedF atI sDige: "De)jliWgt.w S*elv oNm, dKuI ZmOåsnke s(kdulUlwe luu!kkée din. liVvstqykkOeó, in^dmehnv du gdåJrb.ó JZegT v*iCllQeK KsOynes,s d!eRt GviilOle væ!rPeh meRgFe$t CsvCæTrdt paDt_ éoCv(erébeMviÉse cmixnB morg Hoym,V at pvié taKlStIep omZ kv$eIjrWeZt, jnNåwrf XdineI Mfin*ere dSewl.eu erW til &smkruek."
Hendes finere dele? Det var nok udenpå. Hun slog ham på armen. "Har premierministeren nogen idé om, hvilken grov slyngel du er? Intet af min ... person ville være udstillet, hvis du ikke havde trukket mig ind i rummet og antastet mig."
"Du var godt tilfreds for en kvinde at blive antastet," påpegede han selvglad.
Hun hadede ham igen, hvilket egentlig var det bedste. Han var for fristende, for lækker, for at låne hans ord, og hun var altid et fjols for ham. "Du er ulidelig."
"UDeMtI hvafra jóevg fåetg Gat Évixde."U
Cleo gav ham ryggen og forsøgte at lukke sine knapper. Pokkers. Hun trak. Hun holdt vejret. Hun trak igen i sit livstykkes stive stof. Knapperne ville ikke møde deres fastgøring. "Har du løsnet mine snørebånd?" forlangte hun, da det gik op for hende.
"Måske." Thorntons stemme var blevet vemodig. Næsten fåmælt.
Du godeste. Hvordan kunne han kende sig så godt til en kvindes undertøj, at han kunne få hende til at åbne og delvist løsne snørebånd, alt imens han kyssede hende lidenskabeligt? Under hans hovmodige ydre lå stadig et kvindebedårerhjerte.
DeXt yv^ar XdBe_rH ^i'ngenS ,h.jælhpF at sh.entéeP PnuG.T Hun kkugnhne Sijkke snørWe sgig AsDelv. "XJQeg hnaIr XbrQuvgv fo,r éhjjæclpa,"V móum,lHedve ShrunG.
"Hvad var det?"
Cleo bed tænderne sammen. "Jeg kan ikke snøre mig selv."
"Ville et 'tak' være på sin plads?"
"(Det var dJigx,w sdefr ZgLjordeu skraldeJnP.I YDet vir)kde!r_ drtimelFicgty, at' rdRuM )b^ørc .repaTrereL de*n&."
"Måske kan jeg alligevel smutte forbi dine voluminøse skørter," funderede han.
"Vær sød at hjælpe mig," sprang hun ud.
Han havde igen rykket sig tættere på hende. Hun kunne fornemme det.

"Vend dig om," beordrede han.
Cleo drejede rundt, modvillig mod at se ham i øjnene igen. Hun kunne knap nok se ham i mørket, en høj, imponerende skikkelse. Hans hænder gled ind i hendes livkjole og fandt dygtigt de snørebånd, som han havde løsnet.
"Træk vejret ind," sagde han til hende.
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Han drejede hende rundt og børstede hendes fingre til side. "Jeg henter dem." Hun svor, at hun hørte et smil i hans stemme. "Det er trods alt kun rimeligt, at jeg reparerer den skade, jeg har gjort."
"Fint nok så." Hans ånde pustede på hendes læber, og hun kunne mærke hans intense blik på hende. Hun vippede hovedet til siden for at lette sin uro over hans nærhed. Var det bare hendes fantasi, eller var det hans fingre, der dvælede ved knapperne nærmest hendes barm?
"Der er du jo." Thornton satte den sidste fast og strejfede hendes halshule, mens han gjorde det.
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"Tak," hviskede hun igen.
"Det var så lidt," sagde han med lav stemme.
Magnetismen mellem dem var ubønhørlig, ligesom den havde været før. Trods de mellemliggende år, trods alt, huskede hun stadig den måde, han havde fået hende til at føle sig på - vægtløs og fortryllet, som om hun var havnet i Shakespeares månelysende skov i En midsommernatsdrøm.
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Hun vidste, at han advarede sig selv lige så meget som han advarede hende. Sorgen pulserede mellem dem, en gensidig erkendelse af, at deres liv kunne have udviklet sig anderledes. Der var så mange uudtalte ord, så meget forvirring, der var tilbage.
"Jeg må gå," sagde hun unødvendigt. Hun ville nødigt forlade ham, og det var den rene sandhed. "Jeg finder ud af, at min megrim er vendt tilbage."
Med det gik hun, og vendte tilbage til hallen, til sollyset, der strømmede ind gennem katedralens vinduer. Vigtigere endnu, håbede hun, at hun vendte tilbage til forstanden.