“You were sleeping, Kennedy,” he says slowly. “I found you here. I don’t know what you were imagining, but it wasn’t real.”
I creep along the sofa and gauge the distance to the door.
“I’m not blocking you,” he says. “You can go anywhere you like. I made a mistake in my office. I’d never intentionally trap you.”
“Stay away from me,” I repeat.
He blinks, and something seems to dawn on him. “Was the nightmare about me?”
“Stay away.”
“I am, but I swear I just got here now. I heard you scream, and I ran in here, and you were on the sofa, asleep and thrashing about.”
He sounds like himself. That’s an odd thing to think, but I realize he hadn’t sounded like himself before. The voice, yes, but not the tone, not the word choices, not his way of speaking. Even the profanity wasn’t anything I’ve heard him use.
Connolly rubs his hands over his face. I see him more clearly then. Dressed in an old fraternity T-shirt and sweatpants. When he lifts his face from his hands, it’s clean, no blood oozing from his nose.
“Let me see your arms,” I say.
He looks down at them in confusion.
“Lift them,” I say. “Show me they aren’t scratched.”
He pushes the T-shirt sleeves to his shoulders and holds up his arms, rotating them so I can see they’re unmarked.
“Okay,” I say, nodding slowly as I realize he’s telling the truth, and that realization sharpens to embarrassment. “Sorry. It was a very vivid dream.”
“I could tell. Whatever you thought I did . . .” He looks at the sofa, and his fair skin pales, freckles popping.
“No,” I say quickly. “Nothing like that.”
My hand rises to my upper arm. Even awake, it feels tender.
“Kennedy . . .” Connolly says slowly. “Can you . . . step into the light please?”
I stand and move into the lamplight. He stares at me. Then he says, carefully, “May I come closer?”
I nod again, and he takes a step before stopping. He blinks. Then he moves back.
“I realize this won’t help my case at all, but I think you need to look in the mirror. I’ll stay out of your way.”
He sidesteps and waves to a mirror on the wall. I walk to it. The first thing I see is the chemise. I think that’s what he means—that I might want to throw something on. Then I step closer to the mirror and see dark marks on my upper arm.
They seem like shadows at first. When I lift my arm, though, I see the very distinct print of finger bruises and half moons where short nails dug in. I press one and wince.
“I did not do that,” Connolly says. “I was in my bed, Kennedy. I was sleeping, and I thought I heard a sound. I got up and checked my phone—maybe I can prove that, show when it unlocked. Then you screamed, and I came running. I swear I didn’t . . .” He swallows. “I didn’t do that.”
I stare at the bruises. Then I tilt my chin, looking for anything on my jaw. It seems fine . . . for now. “What did you see when you came into the room?”
“It was dark, so nothing at first. I could hear you, though. I ran to the sofa, where you were thrashing about.”
“And then?”
“I grabbed your shoulder and shook you. I think I said your name. Then I realized it could be a seizure, and maybe I shouldn’t shake you, but that’s when you jumped up.”
“That’s what I experienced,” I say. “Someone was gripping me by the wrist. Then you were shaking my shoulder. There wasn’t a time gap between the two.”
“I didn’t— I swear, Kennedy, I did not—”
“I know. But it looked like you. Sounded like you. It was supposed to be you. I clawed my attacker’s arm, though. I saw the gouges, the blood. I hit his nose, too, and made that bleed. You aren’t hurt; therefore it wasn’t you. I was dreaming.”
His brow furrows. “You didn’t give yourself those bruises.”
“No, I didn’t.” I walk to the doorway. “Tell me more about dream shaping.”
He stops. His eyes widen and then narrow, and the sudden fury in them makes me step back, but he’s already turning, laser-beaming that look down the hall.
“We need to leave,” he says. “Now.”
“You think Vanessa—?”
“There’s no one else here, and dream shaping is her power. I’d like to leave before she wakes.”
“You think she’s dangerous.”
“I didn’t think so, I don’t know. But I think it’s unwise for me to speak to her right now.”
When he turns toward me, I instinctively backpedal and bash into a low table. He starts to reach out to catch me, but I duck his grasp. He backs off, his hands raised, anger and anguish warring in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just . . .”
“Completely understandable.” He clips the words, his glare directed back down that hall. “No, I really don’t think I should speak to her right now. Let’s get our things.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I’d rather we didn’t split up,” Connolly says as we head down the hall. “I understand you won’t want to come in my room, but I’d like us to stay within sight. It’ll just take me a minute to get ready. I’m almost packed.”
I nod and wait outside his open door. As for him being “almost packed,” that’s an understatement. His overnight bag sits on a chair, but otherwise, the room is spotless. He still looks around. Then he strides to a shadowy corner and plucks his dress shirt from a chair.
“So that’s where it went,” I say, trying for a smile.
He frowns at me, and it’s clear he’s only half paying attention. I should just drop the weak attempt at humor there, but I want to smooth this over.
He understands why I’m still skittish, and I’m grateful for that. It’s yet another of those tiny things that say “this is a good man.” This is someone I want to know better.
Some guys would get frustrated and remind me that the dream attacker wasn’t really them. Connolly understands that what matters is the lingering fear, and he’s respectful of that. But my suspicion still stings. I want to make him smile. Let him know that the nightmare doesn’t taint the good part that came before it.
“From the dream,” I say. “Your shirt disappeared.”
He stiffens, and I realize he thinks I mean the nightmare.
“No, the one before that,” I say quickly. “The first dream. The one Vanessa sent us.”
I smile, but he isn’t looking at me. He just stands there, staring down at that discarded shirt and . . .
Oh, shit.
“That . . . wasn’t you, was it?” I say. “I mean, not actually you. Just a much nicer dream with you.”
I realize how that sounds, and my cheeks heat.
I hurry on. “Nicer compared to the other one. It wasn’t anything weird. Just you, uh . . .”
“Lost my shirt?”
My face scorches now, and I’m grateful for the dim lighting.
“Swimming,” I blurt. “I don’t even know if this place has a pool, but in my dream, we went swimming, and you misplaced your shirt and . . .” I clear my throat. “You have everything, so I should go get dressed.”
I retreat fast. He follows and waits in my doorway while I disappear into the bathroom to change.
I rip off the chemise and pitch it into the corner. Last night, I’d thought how flattering and sexy it was, and how it was a shame no one saw me in it. Then Connolly did, and he appreciated the view just as much as I dreamed he might. Except, apparently, that’s because I had dreamed it.
The way his gaze lingered on it. The way his fingers toyed with the hem, so irrationally sexy it still sends a shiver through me.
That hadn’t been Connolly. Hadn’t been a hint of what he might be like as a lover. It was entirely my fantasy version of what I’d want him to be like.
The worst is how damned sweet he’d been. Sweet and charming and chivalrous in the sexiest way, walking away with pal
pable regret. Our parting words, too, him thanking me for putting up with him, me thanking him for the same, a moment of precious understanding and acceptance.
Fake. All fake.
I’m yanking on my jeans when Connolly’s voice sounds from the hall. It’s quiet, his tone even, but there’s a note that raises my hackles like that almost inaudible growl before a dog lunges.
“No, Vanessa,” he says. “Stop right there. Please.”
“I heard—”
“Turn around and go back to your room.”
“Excuse me?” she says. “This is my house—”
“And we were your guests. We’re leaving, and I’m going to ask you to wait elsewhere while we do that.”
“Is Kennedy in—?”
A scuffle of feet, and then a shutting door, as if he’s blocked her. “No, Vanessa. Please. I don’t want to talk about this right now. Kennedy is upset—justifiably upset—and I want to get her out of here.”
I leave the bathroom as I straighten my shirt.
From the hall, Vanessa sighs. Just sighs, deeply. “She’s upset about the dream. All right. I admit I may have overstepped.”
I grab the bedroom doorknob, but before I can even open it, Connolly’s warning growl erupts into a snarl. “You may have overstepped? You terrified her.”
“Terrified?”
I open the door to see they’re halfway down the hall.
Vanessa spots me. “Kennedy. I’m sorry if the dream upset you. It was a test. I had to know if I could trust you.”
“You tested a guest in your home?” Connolly says. “If you didn’t trust her, you shouldn’t have invited us to stay. And as for testing her by . . . by that . . . I have no idea how you thought that accomplished anything except terrifying her and driving a wedge between us.”
“What? No. Well, yes, I suppose it could—” She waves her hands. “I think we’re all overreacting a little here.”
“Overreacting?” Connolly snarls the word. “You made Kennedy think I attacked her.”
“Attack? No, there’s some mistake—”
“Are you saying she’s lying?”
“No, I—”
“Do you see those bruises on her arm? Apparently, I made those. Some nightmare version of me attacked Kennedy in her sleep. It was clearly a dream—I was in my own room and found her being attacked by an invisible force. Yet it was a dream that left actual marks. Are you telling me a dream shaper can’t do that?”
“In a way, yes, but that isn’t the dream I sent. At all.”
“Is there another dream shaper hiding in your house? Someone who snuck past your security?”
“No, which means I need to figure out what happened here. Can we talk, please?”
“You are a dream shaper. Kennedy had a nightmare—a nightmare with real-life consequences—in your home, and you have admitted to sending her a nightmare to test her. Do I have all that right, Vanessa?”
“I didn’t send a nightmare. I sent a dream about . . .” Vanessa looks from Connolly to me. “I think Kennedy would prefer I spoke to her about this in private.”
“You are not speaking to her anywhere, private or not.”
I make a noise.
Connolly catches my expression. Then he says, “I would prefer she didn’t speak to you, but that’s obviously her choice. But I would ask that it not take place in private.”
Vanessa continues, “The dream I sent was one where she would . . . be in a situation in which she would feel at ease, her guard relaxed, and the . . . other person in that dream would begin a conversation that would allow me to determine how honest you were both being with your necklace story.”
“How honest we were both . . .” Connolly begins. “You’re saying I was the other person in the dream? You admit that you tricked her into thinking I was there—just like in her nightmare.”
“The dream shaping went wrong,” I say. “Aiden was supposed to talk to me and instead . . .”
I realize then why she’d wanted to speak about this in private. If that sexy dream had played out to the end, I would indeed have been relaxed, my guard lowered. She’d set up that fantasy dream to get to the pillow talk, where “fake Connolly” would initiate that conversation.
I swallow my embarrassment and say, “So Aiden was supposed to talk to me over . . . a moonlight swim or a glass of wine. A relaxed scenario. But the dream shaping went wrong. Things didn’t play out the way you planned them, and the dream took a dark turn, preying on my own anxieties. I turned it into something else.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Vanessa says. “Yes, I only plant suggestions. For it to turn from what I had planned into a nightmare of attack, though? That’s more than your fears reshaping my prompts. The fact it left physical marks also means the dream shaper used dark magic. I’m going to need to see what happened.”
“See it?”
“I have a scrying bowl that allows me to replay shaped dreams. That’s how I would have gotten the information. I would have fast-forwarded past any . . . unnecessary parts. I suggest you and I rewatch that together. Aiden? You may certainly stay nearby, but you don’t need to be privy to Kennedy’s nightmare.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but I cut in with, “I agree.” I meet his gaze. “Do you really want to watch yourself attacking me?”
He hesitates. His expression says no, but he doesn’t want to leave me alone with Vanessa, either.
“I’d rather you didn’t see it,” I say. “It’s bad enough remembering what happened. I don’t want to rewatch it with you right beside me.”
He nods slowly. “All right. I’ll wait outside the door.”
I’m not sure where Vanessa keeps her scrying bowl. We aren’t allowed in there. She says she’ll be back, disappears into the rear of the house and returns with a box, which she takes into the courtyard.
“You can fix yourself a coffee while you wait,” she tells Connolly. “I have quite a selection. Try a few and see what you like.”
She smiles as she says it, trying to ease the tension, but he meets her gaze with an impassive stare and only pulls a chair closer to the courtyard door.
“I’m going to need to close this,” she says. “For Kennedy’s privacy.”
Connolly cuts his gaze to me. I nod, and he says, “I’ll be right here, then.”
Vanessa shuts the door. Moonlight fills the courtyard, but she still lights the candles and lanterns we’d extinguished after dinner. Then she takes a bowl from the wooden box. It’s shaped like half of a clamshell. Or that’s what I think until I get close and see that it’s an actual half shell, just not the sort I’m used to seeing in New England. It’s over a foot in length, and teardrop shaped. The inside is polished mother-of-pearl.
From the box, Vanessa also takes a pitcher. It’s terra cotta and Greco-Roman, that classic black and clay coloring I’ve seen only in museums. There’s a scene looping around it, but I can’t make out more than figures. I think the pitcher must be empty from the way she carried it inside the box, but when she lifts it over the shell, water pours in until the shell is half-full. Then she waves her fingers above it and whispers a few words.
When she finishes, an image appears in the water. It’s Connolly rapping on my door—the version of him I remember from the dream, the good one, where he’s wearing his trousers and dress shirt, feet bare. Then I answer the door. There’s no sound, but I see my mouth moving.
“How would you have heard any conversation?” I say. “It’s like a silent film.”
She taps her temple. “Not to me.”
“This is normal for dream shapers? Being able to replay a shaped dream?”
She hesitates. “I wouldn’t say ‘normal.’ High-level dream shapers can enter the dream themselves as a bystander.” She wrinkles her nose. “That smacks of voyeurism. Yes, I know, you may feel this isn’t much different, but I wouldn’t have watched the whole thing. I’d have moved to the part I needed.”
“Can we do that, please?
There’s nothing happening here.”
She glances at the bowl and then flicks the water, and the figures move faster. “I see that,” she murmurs. “I set up a perfectly good sexy encounter, and what do you two do? Talk, talk, talk some more . . .”
“Yes, well, apparently, even my imagination can’t stretch far enough to picture him doing more.”
She glances over, brows rising. “Your imagination?”
I wave at the bowl. “I’m working with your prompts, right? You send a fantasy Aiden to my room, and I take it from there. He did and said whatever I wanted. Well, what I wanted and could reasonably imagine him doing.”
She stares at me. Then she laughs. “Oh no, it was actually Aiden. I see how that would be unclear, particularly given what happened later, but this part”—she waves at the bowl, where Connolly runs his fingers along the bottom of my chemise—“is all him.”
“This is Aiden?”
“Also dreaming. That was the setup. Consider my role that of the set designer with a bit of director thrown in. I laid out the scene, and then I put you both into it, hoping it would lead where it should, prodded by your magically shortening nightgown and his inexplicably lost shirt.”
She glares at the shell as Connolly heads back to his room. “Where it should lead—with normal hot-blooded young people—isn’t to talking. Nor to a sweet parting.” She flicks the water, and the image stills like a paused video.
“That’s him,” I say slowly. “The real Aiden. Dreaming the same dream.”
“Of course.”
“Lying bastard,” I say.
Her brows shoot up. “Did he claim he wasn’t there at all?”
“Yes,” I grumble. “I made some comment about his missing shirt, and he pretended to have no idea what I was talking about, which was insanely embarrassing. He lied.”
“He did.” She unpauses the replay with a tap of her finger. “I could say that, given what happened afterward, he may have thought it best to remove himself completely, and I’m sure that’s part of it but . . .”
I keep grumbling. There’s no real venom behind it, though. She’s right—given the fake-Connolly attack, he might not want to admit he’d been in my dreams at all.
Cursed Luck, Book 1 Page 17
