He comes to abruptly. There's something different, he can sense it. He tries to concentrate on each sense individually, examining them one by one.
Smell. That's it. It's perfume. The sharp musk of Calvin Klein's Obsession is suddenly overwhelming and he's beleaguered by the memory of a woman with scornful golden eyes. The eyes of a predator.
"Open your eyes." It is a command, but his body will not obey. "I *said*," he feels fingers in his hair and his head is yanked violently back, "open your *eyes*."
He prises his eyelids apart with only his force of will and he sees *her*. Marlena, but not Marlena. She looks? she looks like Marlena, but everything about her is different, from her voice to the way she is dressed. And the look in her eyes is like nothing he has ever seen.
And then there's the perfume. Marlena doesn't wear that perfume. But it's so familiar....
"That's better," she smiles nastily, interrupting his tattered train of thought. "Sorry it took me so long to get back to you?" Her golden hair swings away as she leans her head on one side. "Oh actually, on second thoughts, no I'm not."
"What??" he can hardly force the word out between his parched lips.
"What's going on?" She releases his head and it rolls to one side as she stands and crosses her arms, the leather of her coat creaking as she does so. He looks a total mess and she reaches for the bottle of water she brought with her. "I thought you might appreciate a history lesson, *Roman*."
In a variety of exquisite torture, Grace unscrews the cap of the bottle and takes a mouthful. A drop of water dribbles from the corner of her lips to her chin and with a giggle, she wipes it away.
"*Doc*?" The name tears from a raw throat but his pain increases tenfold as Grace's hand whips across his face.
"*No*," she answers coldly. "That's where our lesson starts. I am *not* Salem's 'beloved' Doc, and *you*, you pathetic excuse for a human being, you are *not* Roman Brady.
A groan is all that comes from the man in front of Grace.
"No, you see I *used* to be Marlena. Before. But not any more." She sneers, her disgust with Marlena evident in the acerbic edge to her voice. "Marlena is gone. And she's *never* coming back."
He opens his eyes but he can't see her. It is a moment before he senses her behind him. When she moves back into his peripheral vision, he realizes that she's circling him like he's some kind of quarry. "The difference is that you were *never* Roman Brady." She crouches in front of him, catching his eyes with her own demanding gaze. "I think it's about time you remembered the truth, don't you?"
"Am... Roman," he croaks harshly, defying this insane version of Marlena to prove otherwise.
"No, no, *NO." She shakes her head, her tone deceptively even. "That's *not* the answer I was looking for." He doesn't even see her fist as she draws it back, but he is left gagging as she buries it in his midriff and he doubles over as his vision goes black for a moment.
"No," Grace stands, an odd smile on her face as she places the bottle of water on the table, directly in his line of vision. "You are *not* Roman Brady. I'm not entirely sure why you would want to be," she pauses, watching him retch. "Of course if I'm totally honest, Roman Brady would look quite appealing beside your pitiful ass."
"Doc?" he wheezes, forcing himself to look up at her. "*Please*-" The words are snatched from him as a violent backhand from Grace leaves him with a bloody lip. "I *told* you," she mutters darkly, "I am *not* Marlena."
She grasps his chin between brutally firm fingers. "Don't tell me you don't remember. Don't tell me those memories aren't locked up somewhere in that wretched head of yours."
He opens his mouth to speak, but there is nothing he can find to say to her. "Oh come on," her voice is smooth now as she releases him from her grip, her fingers silky against his cheek. "Why don't you close your eyes and let me paint a picture for you?" She smiles, but there is only hatred suffusing her eyes.
"It's warm and the ocean is that beautiful summer blue that you can only find in the Caribbean." She sighs softly at the thought of the island she had come to call home. She misses it. There are a lot of places that she misses. Salem is not likely to be one of them once she is gone.
"Are we ringing any bells yet?" There is no answer and she lifts her eyebrows. "Well, how about this? You and I are on the terrace. Stefano is busy on the other side of the island. You hand me a martini and you take the opportunity to brush your hand across mine." Her voice is strong, and a tiny tremor in her hand is the only indication of the disgust and rage Grace feels at the memory.
"That's not enough for you though, is it?"? she asks, her voice hardening. "You want more. The poor, fragile amnesiac makes easy pickings for the likes of you, doesn't she?"
Her words trigger another flash of memory and he shakes his head, some responsiveness finally coming to the slack muscles. He can't do this, these visions, they can't be memories. They *can't*...
He can see it, just as she's describing it, the scent of frangipani in the trees, the sun, glistening on the rolling waves... She can see her start as he touches her, feel the softness of her lips against his. And then the outrage burning in her hazel eyes as she pushes him away.
From there, the images begin to flood his consciousness, images that tell him he is very, unequivocally, *not* Roman Brady, for Roman Brady would *never* do this....
It's so real he can't escape it... the tearing sound of the sundress she's wearing, the cries of pain and terror, the revulsion in her eyes as she looks at him. And he remembers the desire... the need to take her, to assert his superiority over the beautiful intelligent blonde that seems to be dominating the compound...
Opening his eyes, he looks directly at her, astonishment registering on his battered face. And a single word slides from his lips.
"Grace?"
"That's right." She's pleased as she pushes against him and stands upright. "See, I knew if you were to put your mind to it you could remember."
"Why?" he groans, the pain reasserting itself over the truth of what this revelation means.
"Well," she cocks her head on one side. "It *is* the truth."
"But why *this*?" His head is beginning to pound again, a mixture of his abuse at Grace's hands and his increasing dehydration.
"Because," she smiles but there is ice at the core of the gesture. "Stefano has decided that you are now, I think the words were," she crosses her arms again, "extraneous to his requirements here in Salem." She sees the understanding register in Lamont's eyes and she moves slowly around him. When she is behind him, she leans over his shoulder until he is enveloped in her scent. "So he's given you to *me*. A sort of a 'welcome home present', if you like."
There is no mistaking the threat that imbues her softly spoken words and Lamont feels fear mushrooming in his gut. It as though the one memory that she triggered has been enough to break down the walls that held his memory locked away and now the entire gamut of his experiences and emotions have been restored to him. He knows who he is and he knows what she wants.
"Grace," his voice is raspy and pleading and the terror sticks in his throat, threatening to choke him. "Please.... I'm sorry. I was stupid. I didn't know...."
"*Shut up*." She grabs a handful of his hair and yanks back his head. "I don't want to hear your pitiful apologies. *You* started this Lamont, you'd better be prepared to finish it." She laughs then, short and hard, the unpleasant sound lingering in the stifling air of the warehouse. "Not that you have much choice."
She releases his head and he feels a tugging at his wrists. It is a moment before he realizes that she is untying him. He groans in agony as she releases his arms and the muscles scream in protest as they are forced to work again. She unties his ankles and then shoves him forward so that he topples off the chair and falls to his knees. He hears the crash of the chair behind him and Grace's leather-booted foot nudges him.
"Stand up," she commands. Every muscle in his body protests as he moves to do her bidding. If he's going to find a chance to get out of the warehouse alive, he's going to have to play along with her until he finds his chance. Or creates it. Still, there might be a way to get her to lower her guard a little....
He makes it up partway and then appears to lose what strength he has garnered as he collapses back onto the damp concrete. Grace sneers as she aims a kick at his shin. "I *said* stand up, you miserable sack of shit."
"I can't," he moans.
"Don't give me that bullshit!" She kicks him again and he cries out in pain as her foot connects with what feels like a kidney. "Get up. *Now*."
Lamont grunts as he gathers his strength and edges towards the table. Grace watches him, bereft of any kind of pity for the man as he uses the table to pull himself into an upright position.
He looks at her then, his hatred for her overcoming his pain and fatigue. She's always thought herself so much better than him, always taunted and derided him, flaunting what he could not have just out of his reach. And now she is back, thinking she can treat him like a piece of shit and he will crumble at her feet.
Well, she can think again. She's been Marlena Evans for the past nine years. Her reflexes have dulled with time and she's not as strong or as fast as she would like to think. She might be skilled, but he's bigger than her. If only he can catch her off-guard.
"That's it." She raises one dark eyebrow as he makes a swift grab for the water on the table. He keeps his eyes on her as he sucks desperately at the open neck of the bottle before letting the dregs splash over his face. "Make sure you enjoy it won't you," she says pointedly. "Since it will be your last."
"You think a lot of yourself, don't you Grace?" He wipes away the vestiges of the water and faces her. "Think you're some kind of invincible."
"I think I'm good enough at what I do," Grace answers lazily, refusing to be riled by his insults. "You're here, aren't you?"
"You smug *bitch*." The derision in his expression soon degenerates into a leer. "Joke is on you Gracie. Marlena might be gone, but I had her, over and *over* when you were her. I made you scream louder than you ever screamed with *any* man." His grin is lewd. "Baby, you were *begging* for me to fuck you."
Grace says nothing for a long moment. There is not a crack in her composure as she faces him, but beneath the façade of serenity, her skin is crawling and her stomach churning at the images his words suggest.
"You are a *pig*," she spits, and then she stops, reining in her anger. "No, you're lower than a pig. You don't even deserve to die like an animal."
"Well, let's see you do your best Gracie." He actually laughs and Grace surmises that the combination of the water and the verbal jousting has gone some way to reviving him.
She's not far wrong and he lunges for her almost immediately. She's ready for him however, and she sidesteps him with ease. Lamont has always been strong, but he's a very predictable fighter. It seems that has not changed.
He whirls around into a fighting stance and Grace grins. This is going to be fun. She sheds her long leather coat, throwing it to one side before she pushes up the sleeves of her black sweater.
"I was beginning to wonder if you were going to make this interesting for me," she taunts him without compunction as she ties her hair back tightly.
"Fuck you Grace," he rushes at her but she spins away, landing a vicious kick in his stomach. He doubles over and she laughs.
"No Lamont, not in this lifetime."