Son of the Morning Read online

  She should have hurried through the shower. She knew she should, but she didn’t. She stood under the spray of water, feeling the grit wash off her skin, feeling her greasy hair soak up the moisture. She shampooed twice, and scrubbed herself until her skin was bright pink all over, and still she didn’t want to get out of the shower. She stood there even when the hot water began to go and the spray grew chilly. She didn’t turn off the water until it was so cold she’d begun shivering, and she did so then only because she’d been cold for three days and she was tired of it.

  It was such a relief to feel clean again that she almost wept. Almost, because somehow the tears wouldn’t quite come. Had she cried for Ford, for Bryant? She couldn’t remember. She had crystal-clear memories of a lot of things about that horrible night, but she couldn’t remember tears. Surely she had cried. But if she hadn’t… if she hadn’t cried for them, then she couldn’t cry for something as ultimately mundane as being clean. Crying for less would minimize them, and that she couldn’t bear.

  Roughly she rubbed the towel over her bare skin, then wrapped the damp fabric around her head. She didn’t want to abuse the owners’ unknowing hospitality any more than necessary, and using two towels instead of one was a definite luxury.

  Then, almost trembling with eagerness, she unzipped the duffel and took out her new clothes. The jeans and sweatshirt were very wrinkled, the denim jacket less so. Grace peeled the hard plastic bubble away from her kitchen knife and tested its sharpness by cutting the tags off her purchases. The knife easily sliced through the plastic loops and she thoughtfully regarded the shiny blade. Not bad.

  She tossed the garments into the clothes dryer to get out the wrinkles, and brushed her teeth while the dryer did its thing. She eyed her reflection in the mirror, a little puzzled. She looked different, somehow, and it wasn’t just the exhausted starkness of her expression. The pallor was expected, as were the circles under her eyes. No, it was something else, something elusive.

  Shrugging aside her puzzlement, she turned her attention to more practical matters. Her long hair took forever to dry on its own, so she used the blow dryer lying next to the sink.

  Her thick braid was too identifiable. She should cut her hair. She thought of looking for scissors, but the thought didn’t transfer itself into action. Ford had loved her long hair, he had played with it—

  The pain was like a mule kick in the chest, destroying her. She sagged against the wall, her teeth clenched against a keening wail as her body doubled over from the impact. Oh God oh God.

  She could feel herself shattering inside, the enormity of loss so overwhelming that surely she couldn’t keep living, surely her heart would simply stop beating from the stress. Except for the savage need for vengeance against Parrish, she had no reason to live. But her heart, that sturdy, oblivious muscle, didn’t feel her grief and continued without pause its preordained pumping mission.

  No. No. She couldn’t do this. Grieving was a luxury she couldn’t afford; she had known from the beginning it would tear her apart. She had to put it away until after she had taken care of Parrish, when she could approach Ford’s memory, and Bryant’s, and say, “I didn’t let him get away with it.”

  Drawing in deep, shuddering breaths, she straightened her aching body. The pain was real, so intense it actually permeated her muscles. With shaking hands she finished drying her hair, though she was at a loss what to do with the thick mass except rebraid it. For the time being she left it loose, hanging down her back, and retrieved her clothes from the dryer.

  The garments were hot, almost too hot, but she relished the heat. Quickly she pulled on clean panties and socks, then dressed before all the heat could dissipate. The sweatshirt felt like heaven; she sighed as the warmth enfolded her. Her bra was in the washer, but she didn’t really need one. She’d never been bosomy, and the sweatshirt was thick.

  The jeans were loose, almost too loose to stay up. She’d chosen her usual size, but perhaps the label was wrong. Frowning, she unzipped the fly to check the inside tag. Nope, the size was right. The cut must be unusually large, unless she’d somehow lost about ten pounds. Realization dawned. After four days without food, without much sleep, walking all night long, under constant stress, of course she had lost weight.

  Reminded of the need to eat, she got her loaf of bread, now sadly mashed, and the jar of peanut butter. After resetting the washer to put her filthy clothes through one more sudsing, she sat down at the battered kitchen table and smeared the peanut butter on one slice of bread. An entire sandwich would probably be wasteful, because her throat was closing up at the prospect of eating half of one.

  With the help of a glass of water, she doggedly began eating. Swallowing was an effort, and her stomach, accustomed to emptiness, lurched in sudden nausea. Grace sat very still and concentrated on not vomiting. She had to eat or she wouldn’t be able to function, period.

  After a minute or so she took a sip of water, and another small bite.

  By the time the washer had gone through its cycle again, she had managed to eat the half sandwich.

  She washed the glass and returned it to the cabinet, cleaned the table of any crumbs, washed her knife, and put the bread and peanut butter back into the duffel. The knife… she tried putting it in her belt loop, but the handle wasn’t big enough to prevent it from sliding through. She didn’t want to put a naked blade in her pocket, but neither did she want to wrap it up so securely that she’d have to waste precious time unwrapping it if she needed the knife in an emergency, such as fighting for her life.

  She needed one of those knife scabbards, the kind that slipped over a belt. Come to that, she needed a belt with or without a scabbard, because the jeans were seriously loose.

  What she really needed was a switchblade, so she wouldn’t have to worry about belts or scabbards.

  It struck her that she had come a long way in four days, and not just the distance between Minneapolis and Eau Claire. Four days ago she couldn’t even have thought of using a knife on anyone, even to defend herself. Today she wouldn’t hesitate.

  Going back into the kitchen, she unrolled a couple of paper towels and folded them twice before wrapping the bulk around the knife blade and sliding it into her front right pocket, leaving the handle sticking out and covered by the sweatshirt. If she needed the knife, it would slide right out. She’d have to be careful and not puncture herself before she could get something safer, but for now she felt better.

  That done, she put her clothes in the dryer along with the bath towel she had used, threw in a sheet of fabric softener, then returned to the bathroom to do something with her hair. As she passed the open duffel she automatically glanced at it to reassure herself of the computer’s safety, and the sight of the bulging bag stopped her cold. A hunger grew in her, a need that had nothing to do with food or warmth. It wasn’t physical at all, but it gnawed at her just the same. She wanted to work. She wanted to sit for hours poring over text, making notes, referring to her language programs, tapping in information. She wanted to find out what had happened to Niall of Scotland, all those centuries ago.

  The battery pack was weak, almost depleted. She could have been recharging it while she showered, but she’d let an hour go by. Still, she could set up the computer and work on the household current, just until her clothes were dry.

  She resisted the urge. She might have to leave in a hurry, and she didn’t want to make things more difficult by having her belongings scattered about. If she began working she might lose track of time, which had happened more than once, and she had things to do today. She had been traveling at night and hiding during the day, but that had to change. They were hunting her at night, they knew that was when she’d been moving, so she had to alter her habits as well as her appearance.

  Using some bobby pins she found in the bathroom, she twisted her hair up and pinned it on top of her head. Knowing from experience that the slippery strands would soon slide right out of the pins, she jammed the baseball cap on h