Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictitious, and
any similarity to a real person, living or dead is entirely coincidental
and unintended by the author. "The Pretender" is a protected trademark
and I'm just borrowing them. So, please don't sue.
Storm Clouds
by imagine
The door slammed behind her, and, absently, she pressed at the wound in her shoulder. Though she hadn't expected it to, the pain didn't fade. As she slowly crossed the room, trying desperately to keep the blood from flowing any more freely, she discarded the heavy cloak and closed her eyes.
His image came to her immediately and, with it, the familiar ache that went hand in hand with any thoughts of her son. The longer she kept him in her mind, the more she was reminded that he was searching for her and the more suffering her psyche endured, but she refused to release him. Within seconds, the emotional and physical pain had merged into one so debilitating that Margaret collapsed to her knees in a cry of agony and tightened her hold on herself.
It had been months since she'd seen him, and, though she'd welcomed the brief sight, guilt had twisted inside of her a little more each day. She had put her son in danger just by being in the same town, and the fact he had been unaware of her presence was of no relevance. If -- when -- the Centre found out they had been in the same place, at the same time, it would seem as if she had joined forces with her son and that he knew more than he did.
She began to tremble, thinking about what they might do if they thought he knew the truth. On the floor of the motel room, shivering from both fear and cold, she rocked slowly, instinctively trying to calm herself and ignoring the tears that streamed down her face. She squeezed her eyes tighter, hoping to keep him sheltered and cradled in her mind a little longer; but, slowly his image faded and, as it did, her sobs softened to gasps and then to pleas of forgiveness.
"Protect him until I can," she whispered to the empty room, "Please, protect them all."
Her hand slid from the shoulder wound and she stared at it through teary eyes. Light traces of blood, smeared across the joints of her fingers, reminded her of the days events and suddenly her guilt began to transform into something that had been much more paralyzing in the past. Refusing to succumb to the depression that always lingered in the shadows of her mind, Margaret pushed herself to her feet and retreated into the small, attached bathroom. There were things she needed to do, things that had to be done if she had any hope of ever being able to see her family safe again.
The face that stared back, in the dim light, was pale and distorted with lines of worry and fear. Though they still glistened with tears, her eyes were cloudy and darkened by the circles under them; yet, they held her attention longer than they had during previous inspections. Her memory still held snapshots taken when Jarod was young, family photos that were her only proof that they had all once been happy, and she was sure the face in the mirror not among them. The reflection in the mirror was not hers, she decided.
Dropping her gaze, she shuddered slightly and forced her thoughts from useless introspection and self-pity to the sounds of the storm outside. As she listened to the wind howling and the ice covered branches banging against the walls and windowpane, she carefully tended the injured arm and then warmed herself under the steady stream of a hot shower. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a thick, cotton robe, the storm had peaked and the rain was mixed with hail and snow.
With her long hair draped over her shoulder, she used a thin, motel towel to massage the last of the shower from the strands as she crossed the room. Stopping beside the window, she stared over the ocean, toward the island, and took a deep breath. She'd done what she set out to do, and, if all worked as she had planned; the Centre would soon destroy itself.
The image of Catherine's daughter flashed in front of her as a lightening bolt streaked across the dark sky and Margaret turned her head. The younger woman's presence on the island had been unexpected; but the fact that she was there meant the Centre was searching for the scrolls, and, that was what she wanted. Though the plan had been for Raines, Catherine's husband, or someone from the Triumvirate to discover the ancient writings, she had to believe that all that really mattered was that someone find them. It didn't matter who it was.
Moving from the window, she picked up the cloak that had been discarded in front of the door. The garment was heavy from rain and snow, but, as she reached into the inside pockets, Margaret found that the lining had been well designed. The items inside were dry as bone.
After arranging the cloak across the heat register, she spread her treasure on the bed and stared at them. Still encased in leather, the parchments appeared to be undamaged however, their condition wouldn't be known, for sure, unless they were unrolled and reviewed. Something she had no intention of doing. It was bad enough she had stolen them, she would not risk bringing more evil upon her family or herself by reading them. It was important that she not deviate from the plan she and Catherine had perfected.
It had taken decades to compile the necessary materials and training, while continuing her search for the originals; but the forgery was finally complete. She and Catherine Parker had manufactured a future for their children that might not have ever existed otherwise. In doing so, she had taken an important step to freeing her family from the Centre's machinations, knowing Catherine approved. She should be relieved; yet, Margaret could not shake the feeling that she had failed.
Miss Parker's face flashed before her again, and, for a second time, Margaret turned away. Keeping her head lowered, she folded her arms across her chest and began pacing the small room. If the Triumvirate were to discover the forgery, Catherine's daughter would be the one to feel their wrath. They would believe Miss Parker was following in her mother's footsteps; they would believe Miss Parker had betrayed them.
Catherine had told Margaret repeatedly that her daughter and Jarod looked after each other; they were friends. She'd insisted that the two held a bond that would not be broken, and, it was that idea of Miss Parker that Margaret wanted to hold on to; however, the image slipped easily. From interviews with those her son had helped, she knew the woman was now his huntress.
Without her mother's influence, it seemed Miss Parker had become as callous and as angry as Catherine's husband, where Jarod was concerned. If that was the case, and she truly viewed him as a possession of the Centre, then, Margaret told herself, Miss Parker was not deserving of any help. The problem was that the ghosts of past conversations lingered in Margaret's mind, and she wanted to believe Miss Parker was still the little girl her mother had believed her to be.
The idea that she may have endangered the child of the woman who had died trying to save hers was more than Margaret could bear.
She had no idea how long she paced the floor, trying to resolve the battle raging inside her; but, when Margaret finally looked toward the window again the weather was no longer violent. As she approached, for a closer look of the ocean, a dark helicopter rose from the island. Another thought stabbed the heart of her mind and she grabbed the thick drapes for support.
Miss Parker was Jarod's huntress. If she was on the island, then Jarod may have been there, too.
"No," she gasped; pressing her palms against the window as the aircraft disappeared over the horizon, "No."
Storm Clouds
by imagine
The door slammed behind her, and, absently, she pressed at the wound in her shoulder. Though she hadn't expected it to, the pain didn't fade. As she slowly crossed the room, trying desperately to keep the blood from flowing any more freely, she discarded the heavy cloak and closed her eyes.
His image came to her immediately and, with it, the familiar ache that went hand in hand with any thoughts of her son. The longer she kept him in her mind, the more she was reminded that he was searching for her and the more suffering her psyche endured, but she refused to release him. Within seconds, the emotional and physical pain had merged into one so debilitating that Margaret collapsed to her knees in a cry of agony and tightened her hold on herself.
It had been months since she'd seen him, and, though she'd welcomed the brief sight, guilt had twisted inside of her a little more each day. She had put her son in danger just by being in the same town, and the fact he had been unaware of her presence was of no relevance. If -- when -- the Centre found out they had been in the same place, at the same time, it would seem as if she had joined forces with her son and that he knew more than he did.
She began to tremble, thinking about what they might do if they thought he knew the truth. On the floor of the motel room, shivering from both fear and cold, she rocked slowly, instinctively trying to calm herself and ignoring the tears that streamed down her face. She squeezed her eyes tighter, hoping to keep him sheltered and cradled in her mind a little longer; but, slowly his image faded and, as it did, her sobs softened to gasps and then to pleas of forgiveness.
"Protect him until I can," she whispered to the empty room, "Please, protect them all."
Her hand slid from the shoulder wound and she stared at it through teary eyes. Light traces of blood, smeared across the joints of her fingers, reminded her of the days events and suddenly her guilt began to transform into something that had been much more paralyzing in the past. Refusing to succumb to the depression that always lingered in the shadows of her mind, Margaret pushed herself to her feet and retreated into the small, attached bathroom. There were things she needed to do, things that had to be done if she had any hope of ever being able to see her family safe again.
The face that stared back, in the dim light, was pale and distorted with lines of worry and fear. Though they still glistened with tears, her eyes were cloudy and darkened by the circles under them; yet, they held her attention longer than they had during previous inspections. Her memory still held snapshots taken when Jarod was young, family photos that were her only proof that they had all once been happy, and she was sure the face in the mirror not among them. The reflection in the mirror was not hers, she decided.
Dropping her gaze, she shuddered slightly and forced her thoughts from useless introspection and self-pity to the sounds of the storm outside. As she listened to the wind howling and the ice covered branches banging against the walls and windowpane, she carefully tended the injured arm and then warmed herself under the steady stream of a hot shower. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a thick, cotton robe, the storm had peaked and the rain was mixed with hail and snow.
With her long hair draped over her shoulder, she used a thin, motel towel to massage the last of the shower from the strands as she crossed the room. Stopping beside the window, she stared over the ocean, toward the island, and took a deep breath. She'd done what she set out to do, and, if all worked as she had planned; the Centre would soon destroy itself.
The image of Catherine's daughter flashed in front of her as a lightening bolt streaked across the dark sky and Margaret turned her head. The younger woman's presence on the island had been unexpected; but the fact that she was there meant the Centre was searching for the scrolls, and, that was what she wanted. Though the plan had been for Raines, Catherine's husband, or someone from the Triumvirate to discover the ancient writings, she had to believe that all that really mattered was that someone find them. It didn't matter who it was.
Moving from the window, she picked up the cloak that had been discarded in front of the door. The garment was heavy from rain and snow, but, as she reached into the inside pockets, Margaret found that the lining had been well designed. The items inside were dry as bone.
After arranging the cloak across the heat register, she spread her treasure on the bed and stared at them. Still encased in leather, the parchments appeared to be undamaged however, their condition wouldn't be known, for sure, unless they were unrolled and reviewed. Something she had no intention of doing. It was bad enough she had stolen them, she would not risk bringing more evil upon her family or herself by reading them. It was important that she not deviate from the plan she and Catherine had perfected.
It had taken decades to compile the necessary materials and training, while continuing her search for the originals; but the forgery was finally complete. She and Catherine Parker had manufactured a future for their children that might not have ever existed otherwise. In doing so, she had taken an important step to freeing her family from the Centre's machinations, knowing Catherine approved. She should be relieved; yet, Margaret could not shake the feeling that she had failed.
Miss Parker's face flashed before her again, and, for a second time, Margaret turned away. Keeping her head lowered, she folded her arms across her chest and began pacing the small room. If the Triumvirate were to discover the forgery, Catherine's daughter would be the one to feel their wrath. They would believe Miss Parker was following in her mother's footsteps; they would believe Miss Parker had betrayed them.
Catherine had told Margaret repeatedly that her daughter and Jarod looked after each other; they were friends. She'd insisted that the two held a bond that would not be broken, and, it was that idea of Miss Parker that Margaret wanted to hold on to; however, the image slipped easily. From interviews with those her son had helped, she knew the woman was now his huntress.
Without her mother's influence, it seemed Miss Parker had become as callous and as angry as Catherine's husband, where Jarod was concerned. If that was the case, and she truly viewed him as a possession of the Centre, then, Margaret told herself, Miss Parker was not deserving of any help. The problem was that the ghosts of past conversations lingered in Margaret's mind, and she wanted to believe Miss Parker was still the little girl her mother had believed her to be.
The idea that she may have endangered the child of the woman who had died trying to save hers was more than Margaret could bear.
She had no idea how long she paced the floor, trying to resolve the battle raging inside her; but, when Margaret finally looked toward the window again the weather was no longer violent. As she approached, for a closer look of the ocean, a dark helicopter rose from the island. Another thought stabbed the heart of her mind and she grabbed the thick drapes for support.
Miss Parker was Jarod's huntress. If she was on the island, then Jarod may have been there, too.
"No," she gasped; pressing her palms against the window as the aircraft disappeared over the horizon, "No."