Winds of Nightsong. V. J. Banis

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      There was a heavy fog blowing in from the Bay, shrouding San Francisco in a gray, swirling blanket. Not far from the Nightsong mansion on Nob Hill, Lorna MacNair sat alone in the drawing room of her elegant new townhouse staring at the black-framed photograph of her dead husband. Over the past year she had not ventured out of the house, with the exception of her weekly trips to the cemetery. At fifty-five, she felt her life was over.

      If it hadn’t been for that detestable Lydia Nightsong, Peter would have been the ideal husband. No, that wasn’t true, Lorna told herself. Peter had never really loved her; he had loved only her money. But in the beginning he had found her a good outlet for his enormous sex drive. She thought of those early years when the children were born and how she’d clung to Peter’s magnificent body, clawing him, lustfully groaning like a common whore, begging him to never stop thrusting into her, degrading her, punishing her. She’d groveled at his feet and would have had him beat her senseless if that would have kept him from loving Lydia.

      At least Peter had given her something he’d never given Lydia. Their children were all married now, happy and content with families of their own. That was little comfort, though

      Lorna would have preferred the comfort of Peter instead. Her children kept their distance from her. Susan had married Sean Dillon, a rough Irishman from New York, and was living there with him, becoming equally rough. They seldom permitted Lorna to see her grandchildren. Lorrie was almost fifteen now, David eleven, and Peter nine. Lorna adored her granddaughter, Lorrie, because she was so much like herself, aloof and poised and headstrong. The two boys took after their father and would never amount to anything. She didn’t care much for the boys.

      Her own son David was dead. Just as well, Lorna thought, leaning her head against the high-backed chair. What kind of a life would that have been, married to Lydia’s awful Chinese daughter? And she hadn’t much cared for that boy Lydia claimed was David’s son. He was no more her grandson than Sherlock Holmes. She hadn’t liked his English accent, his typically British effeminate mannerisms. Grandson or no, she wanted nothing to do with him.

      And then there was Efrem, her youngest son. He’d married well enough. Ellen Stanton was a charming girl from a decent San Francisco family. She was a little mannish for Lorna’s taste, but she was making Efrem into the man he’d never been. And their young daughter, Judith, was a delightful little thing, already showing signs, at one year of age, of being a beauty like all the MacNairs. Efrem had always been Lorna’s favorite child but lately his visits, too, had dwindled. At least he had straightened himself out since marrying Ellen and settling down to raise a family. He no longer drank, and he was doing a very good job managing the business, even though—thanks to Peter’s foolish will—it was the Nightsongs and not his own family who had control of MacNair Products.

      But that wouldn’t be true for very long, Lorna vowed as she picked up the legal document resting beside Peter’s photograph. The Nightsongs had no claim to Peter’s company, and if it was the last thing she did in her life, Lorna would see Lydia Nightsong and the rest of her Chink brood out in the streets or back in that heathen land they came from.

      She’d handled her life with Peter very badly. When she’d first discovered that he was being indiscreet with Lydia Nightsong, Lorna thought to arouse his jealousy by committing some indiscretions of her own. She needed a man as much as Peter needed a woman. Why Peter had never been content in her arms she could not understand. What Peter had seen in Lydia, Lorna never knew. Lydia was beautiful, of course, but she did not have Lorna’s social graces, her aristocratic bearing, and certainly not her background.

      As Lorna looked at Peter’s picture, a sudden stirring began deep inside her. She wanted him so badly. She wanted him to take her in his arms, tear the clothes from her body, and ravage her. His lovemaking had thrilled her beyond imagination. She closed her eyes and drew an image of him at the back of her eyes. The sight of him with his long-legged stride and his splendid body, broad of shoulder and boyishly slim at the hips, stirred her. Despite everything, Peter had never failed to satisfy her sexual desires, desires she was often at pains to keep concealed. Too often, they had burned beyond control and she would hate herself afterward for having been weakened by the powerful thrusts of a man. She blushed to think how she’d writhed and clawed and cried aloud, like some animal enslaved by her own sexuality.

      Ramsey. The memory of him opened her eyes wide. Ramsey was the only other man who’d made her feel the way Peter had made her feel—lustful and wanton. He too was out of her life now, and in a way she was glad of that. But when she remembered the attentions Ramsey had lavished on her body, she wished with all her might that he would walk through the door and drag her up the stairs and into the bed that she and Peter had once occupied.

      Ramsey had been almost a carbon copy of herself, but of a lower class. He had helped her to connive and cheat and plot against Peter and Lydia Nightsong, but all to no avail. In the end, they had been found out and Ramsey was forced to leave San Francisco to avoid facing imprisonment for aiding and abetting in the kidnapping of April’s and David’s son—something she, Lorna, had paid him to do.

      She didn’t need Ramsey now; that is, she didn’t need his professional services as detective, spy, or conspirator. But there were reasons indeed that she wished Ramsey were here now. She touched the inside of her thigh as thoughts of his powerful naked body flooded her mind. She had used Ramsey when Peter refused to sleep with her. She wondered if she would ever use a man in that way again. And then, as she got up from her chair, turning away from Peter’s accusing eyes, she asked herself, Who would want an aging old woman like you? A tear trickled down her cheek.

      “Are you all right, Mother MacNair?” Ellen asked as she and Efrem walked into the room. Efrem was carrying their daughter, Judith, a tiny bundle of pink and cream.

      Lorna turned sharply and groped for the handkerchief in her sleeve. She touched the comers of her eyes. “I’m sorry, Ellen, dear,” she said as she presented a cheek to her daughter-in-law. “I was just feeling sorry for myself, I’m afraid.” She smiled at her son and offered him the other cheek. “Efrem, darling.”

      “Hello, Mother. We were just showing Michael the sights and thought we’d stop and pay our respects.”

      For the first time Lorna noticed the young man standing in the doorway. She looked at him, frowning, then picked up her steel-rimmed glasses and smiled, putting out her hand.

      “Welcome to my home.”

      “Mother, this is Michael Crane. He’s a cousin of Ellen’s, visiting from New York.”

      “How do you do, Mr. Crane. Please come in.”

      Crane shook her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. MacNair.”

      Something about the way the young man was looking at her made Lorna feel uncomfortable. She turned and took the child from Efrem’s arms. “Here, give me the little darling.” She began cooing to the baby. “Oh my, we’re getting so big and more beautiful every day.” She tickled the child’s chin. “And your mama and daddy have been very mean not bringing you to see your old grandmother more often.”

      “Stop with the ‘old grandmother’ bit, Mother,” Efrem said with a chuckle. “You are still one of the best-looking ladies in San Francisco.”

      “I’ll second that,” Michael Crane said boldly.

      “Yes, Mother MacNair,” Ellen said, “you really shouldn’t keep yourself cooped up in this house. You’re as bad as Lydia. The two of you have become hermits.”

      Lorna frowned. She let a weak smile creep across her mouth. СКАЧАТЬ