Free Trefoil by Em Petrova

driver’s door. The metal crumpled beneath the hammer of his fist. As the first hit resounded through his body, he lost control. He smashed his fists into the truck again and again, the blows ringing in his ears as he pitted the metal, wishing it was John LeClair’s fucking face.
    He imagined the bloodied destruction he could inflict on that face, but also he imagined shoving Lillian away and forever denying this connection she had wrought.
    “Dammit, Lillian,” he screamed and then crashed into the ruined truck and moved it around the corner of the Quik-Mart. He cut the engine beside the dumpsters and stared at the sea of asphalt separating him from Lillian. He was seething, certain this was how murders were committed. They were committed by psychopath immortals who believed the mate they were bound to was inside a hotel room, binding herself to another immortal man.
    Nathan shut his eyes to the slide show that threatened to start again. No more. Not tonight or ever. And with that—that denial of her—he broke. A hot sob rushed up his throat and he collapsed against the steering wheel, choking and gasping.
    For many long and bleak hours he remained hunched over the steering wheel, battling the need for Lillian and his anger with her. When the first kiss of dawn touched his face, he knew without looking at the hotel that Lillian and John LeClair were gone.
    He drew the cell phone from his coat pocket where it nestled against the mahogany hair he had removed from the café chair. He punched the number and said Dante’s name after the first ring. It wasn’t Dante, but Maria, his mate.
    Her accented voice was not softened after centuries in America, but still held the notes of a long-dead language harking back to her Mayan heritage. “Dante’s gone out for the day.”
    Nathan checked his watch and realized they were hours ahead of him on the east coast. He swore.
    “You can talk to me, Nate,” she said in the gentle way that enabled him to picture her sweet face. “Dante told me about your immortal mate.”
    Nathan crumpled once more, and a long moment passed before he could speak. “I think she’s imprinted with the man she’s traveling with, John LeClair.” The name was a burning ember on his tongue and he spat it out.
    “Why do you believe this?”
    “I saw them. In my mind,” he burst.
    “Nathan. If you were able to see this, then you are still with her. She can’t bind herself to another immortal. When you find her at last, she will be yours.”
    “How can you be sure?”
    “There’s no way to stop The Calling. She cannot undo it. She cannot choose John LeClair.”
    “How can I stand by, knowing she’s—she’s—sleeping with him? Giving her body to him.”
    “Have you Called to her, Nate?” Maria asked.
    He was puffing like a train and had to calm himself before replying. “Called to her?”
    “Called her name? You know her name, don’t you?”
    “It’s Lillian.”
    “Talk to her from your soul, but speak her name. She’ll hear you.”
    After a long silence, he said, “Maria. Thank you so much. I can never repay you for talking me down from this terrible ledge I’m on.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing back a fresh round of tears. They were not tears of rage, but a mixture of relief and gratitude for Maria’s friendship, and an unutterable tenderness at the thought of speaking to Lillian’s soul.
    He slumped over the steering wheel, this time steeling himself for round two of this battle—or three. Who knew how many more he was in for? One thing was certain, though. The rental truck had lost the fight.

    * * * * *

    Nathan continued to drive down the coast in Lillian’s wake. His thoughts repeatedly returned to Maria’s advice to Call to her and use her name. He had used her name before—thought it and yelled it and even added blasphemies to it. Spoken from his soul? No, spoken in anger and frustration.
    Use her name. Use her name. If he spoke her name, he could