"Nice place for it," she muttered irritably, then forced herself to pause and take a deep breath. She should have turned on the bedside lamp. But, then, she hadn't felt one, or even a bedside table. Of course, her arms had been extended and she'd probably missed it because of that. Every room had bedside tables, didn't they?
Rachel briefly considered returning the way she'd come, but it seemed an awfully long way back. In the end she decided to keep going and eased around the chair to continue forward. Her breath caught at the sudden feel of wood beneath her fingers. Then she found a doorknob and quickly turned it. She thrust the door open. Black yawned before her, more absolute than that of the room in which she stood. After a hesitation, Rachel felt along the wall until she found a switch. She flicked it on.
Light exploded from overhead, forcing her to close her eyes. When she could open them again, Rachel found herself standing in the doorway of a bathroom. A large sauna tub lay directly before her. There was also a toilet and a bidet. The owner of this establishment obviously had European taste, which proved more than anything that she was definitely not in a hospital. Unless it was a hospital in Europe.
Which was a possibility, Rachel supposed. She might be in a special clinic for coma patients. Although the bathroom was larger and more luxurious than the average hospital bathroom, and she didn't think that European clinics--even expensive European clinics--would waste this kind of space on a comatose patient. Besides, Rachel's health insurance wouldn't cover such expensive care, and her family was middle class, hardly able to pay for such extravagant accommodations.
More confused than before, Rachel started to turn away but paused as she glimpsed herself in the mirror. Caught, she eased closer until the vanity counter halted her progress.
She stood for several minutes, staring. She looked good. Darn good. Her hair was shiny and vital--a dark red with its natural wave and not the usual flyaway orange-red that needed a good oil treatment. She hadn't looked this good since she was a teenager. The fast-paced, stress-filled life of University, then the working world had not been kind. Her face was flushed and healthy now, however, hardly the complexion of someone recovering from a chest wound. Nor like the pale undead. A wry smile tugged at her lips. Vampires had no reflection. She was not a vampire.
Not that she had believed she was, Rachel assured herself. She grimaced then admitted, "Okay. For one minute I was afraid those dream memories of a silver-eyed man telling me I'd been 'turned' to save my life were true.
"Silly girl," she chided. But she also lifted her lips into a snarl so that her teeth showed. They were normal, and Rachel could have sobbed with relief. "Thank you, God," she breathed.
Sucking in a fortifying breath, she unwrapped the sheet she wore for the final test. She found her upper chest and the mounds of her br**sts smooth and unblemished. Shoot. Not that she wanted to be wounded, but it would have been better for disproving the validity of her dreams.
It was then that Rachel also realized the sheet she wore was the same pale blue as she'd dreamt. A moment of panic swamped her, but she forced herself to control it.
"Okay. Stay calm," she ordered. "There is a perfectly sensible, sane explanation for all this. You just have to find it."
Reassured a little by the sound of her own voice, Rachel turned away from her reflection. Peering back into the bedroom, she surveyed the furnishings now visible in the light. Her heart sank. It was indeed the room from her dream.
Her gaze went to the IV stand. The bag was mostly empty, but as before there was a drop or two of red liquid remaining. Blood.
"Oh, jeez." Rachel shifted from one foot to the other, then walked to the other door and out of the bedroom. She had to know what lay beyond. Surely not the hall from her dream?
"Damn," she breathed as the door opened onto just that--the long, empty hall she remembered so well. This was getting spooky. Taking a deep breath, she tried for rational thought. Okay, so the hallway and even the bedroom had been in her dream. That was simple enough to explain. Perhaps she hadn't been totally comatose when she'd been transferred here. Perhaps she'd been semiconscious, or feverish or something, and awake enough to see and remember the hall and the bedroom.
Ignoring any flaws in that reasoning, Rachel stepped out into the hall and walked to the landing. In what she had thought was a dream, the entry below had been dark and empty. It was still empty, but no longer dark. Light spilled out of one of the adjacent rooms, and she could hear the faint rumble of voices.
After a hesitation, Rachel moved down the stairs. She squeezed her toes into the hardwood with each step, an effort to prove to herself that this time she wasn't merely dreaming.
"You told her it was a dream?"
Rachel slowed as that question came clearly to her ears. A woman's strident voice continued, "Etienne! What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking that she needed to rest, and that this was the easiest way to calm her," a male voice answered in slightly defensive tones. "She was a bit freaked out, Mother."
"Understandably so," came another voice, similar to that of the dream man who had claimed to be her host, but deeper, more solemn somehow, despite its present amusement. "Especially since she caught you sleeping in that coffin of yours."
"Oh, Etienne!" the woman exclaimed. "Surely you don't still have that nasty old thing?"
"I don't normally sleep in it"--he was now definitely defensive--"but I've had some of my best ideas resting in that coffin, Mother. Besides, she was sleeping in my bed."
"Well, surely you have other beds here, son. You have finally gotten around to furnishing the spare rooms, haven't you?"
Etienne's answer wasn't really audible from where Rachel stood. Realizing she had stopped, she eased herself forward to stand outside the door. Then she hesitated, waiting until the woman spoke again before peeking around the door frame at the room's occupants.
"Well, you are going to have a lot of explaining to do when she comes in here, Etienne. And now that you've already lied to her, she may not trust anything you say." The woman sounded annoyed. She also looked perturbed, Rachel saw, as she gaped at the speaker. The woman was beautiful, incredibly beautiful, the kind of woman other women hated to be seen around. She was also the living image of the woman Rachel had seen on the monitor downstairs. Long wavy hair, large silver eyes, a pouty mouth.
Mother, the man named Etienne had called her? Rachel shook her head in denial. This woman looked to be in her late twenties. Thirty at the most. She was definitely not the blond man's mother. Mother had to be a nickname, perhaps chosen because she was a worrier and a fusser.
"I know."
Rachel glanced to the speaker, Etienne. The woman had addressed him as son. Impossible. Her gaze roamed over his perfect face and tawny hair. He was the man from her dreams--sexy, blond, and strong. If her dream had been reality, he had carried her up two flights of stairs as if she weighed nothing. Yes, he was definitely strong.
"And she has negative notions of what we are, of course," Etienne continued.