When Lightning Strikes

They laughed again; the high, cackling sound exploded in the darkness, gaining strength until the air vibrated with it.

Tears stung her eyes, burned deeply, and slid down the sides of her face. Sobbing, she flailed to be free.

"Alaina."

The voice echoed in the dark horror around her, roused her. The sound of it was a lifeline. She bolted upright and reached out, her fingers and hands searching blindly for something solid.

"Lainie, wake up."

I'm dreaming. The words rushed through her like a balm, soothing her instantly. She blinked, still tasting the acrid taste of terror on her tongue.

The nightmare receded slowly, as it always did, moved back into the distance of memory. It was one she hadn't had in years, but she should have expected it tonight. After what she dreamed had happened with the

no

men at the hideout . .. She shivered. Of course, the old nightmare would come back.

Thank God, it was all over now.

She sniffled and reached blindly toward her bedside table for a Kleenex.

"Are you all right?"

The voice hit her like a slap. She stiffened, tried to see through the impenetrable darkness, searching for the Day-Glo stars on her ceiling. "No way," she muttered. "No goddamn way."

"No way what?"

Lainie felt as if she were doing a freefall. Any moment the earth would rush up and smack her in the face. She knew what she had to ask, the name she had to utter, but at the thought of it, her stomach tightened. "Killian?"

The bed squeaked. A match flared in the darkness, then moved as if by magic into a smoky lantern. Light blossomed in the glass globe and radiated outward, illuminating the man sprawled in the bed beside her. He was sitting up, his massive chest wreathed in shadow. A gray blanket hugged low on his hips, just below a red cotton drawstring waistband. Thick coils of black hair formed a vee of darkness against the copper smoothness of his skin.

She buried her face in her cold hands. "Oh, my God. Oh, my God ..."

"Alaina, what is it?"

She lifted her heavy head and looked at him. He sat there, half-naked, looking so goddamn normal that she wanted to cry.

"How can you still be here?" She meant to scream the question at him, but the words came out softly, mangled and somehow broken. For the first time in years, she felt utterly defeated.

III

"I live here."

"It's real," she said softly, feeling the hot moisture of tears. "This is all real. You're real."

"You really thought it was a dream?"

She laughed. It was a sharp-edged sound, steeped in bitterness. "I didn't think it could be anything else."

"Are you crazy?"

Hysterical laughter welled up in her, squeezed her chest, and exploded in a high-pitched cackle. She threw her head back, giving vent to the laughter until, suddenly, she was crying. The salty taste of the tears burrowed into her mouth, flooded her tongue. As quickly as it came, the hysteria vanished, leaving in its place a yawning sense of despair. She hung her head, stared through her tears at the hands clasped in her lap. "Am I crazy?" she said.

The moment she whispered the words, she wished she hadn't. They called forth a battalion of dark memories, moments in her life when she had been crazy, days and nights she'd spent huddled in a cold room with metal bars on the windows, telling strangers the story of her life. She shook her head, trying to banish the images, to quell the rising tide of nausea that wrenched her insides. "Yeah, I've always been crazy. But this ..." She looked up at him suddenly, and in the shadowy darkness of the cabin, their eyes met. She looked at him, knowing her gaze revealed her pain and confusion, and unable to hide it. Later, she knew, she would feel a drenching regret for having looked at him so openly, for having set her vulnerability on the blanket between them, but now ... now she had no choice. She needed him to believe her, to believe in her. She needed someone to tell her this wasn't happening.

"This is ... different," she whispered brokenly. "I'm not this crazy."

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