Celestial Seductions: The Complete Series: An MM Gay Paranormal Mpreg Romance Collection

by Odin Nightshade

  What did it all mean?

  His companion sighed, and Bryan felt the vision shift and sway. His companion, moaning and holding his head, had clearly hurt himself sending it.

  “You...wanted me to see something?” Bryan asked. The man nodded, looking drained.

  “Thank you.” Bryan said, feeling bad. Whatever the message was, he had not really understood it. And his companion had wanted to say it intensely; had damaged himself in the doing of it.

  “Not at all.” he smiled.

  Bryan looked into his eyes again, and felt himself falling deep into their impossible violet mists.

  They kissed.

  When he awoke, alone in his bed again, Bryan felt no less confused, but at the same time he felt elated. At peace. Wonderful. What did it all mean?

  He lay back and sighed. He felt so amazing. Nothing about this felt like a dream. It felt real. He was fast convincing himself that it was. That somehow his spirit—or whatever people called the conscious part of the mind that transcended sleep, and life, for all he knew—was somewhere else, with this man, even if his body was in the bed at home, as if asleep.

  Or maybe he really was somewhere else? The whole of him? The satisfying ache made him think it must be real. He must be experiencing these nocturnal encounters.

  “Would that work?” He asked himself aloud. How could he know? He was an accountant, and his adopted family had been Christians to the tax-collectors, but in reality seemed indifferent to any spirituality at all. The little Bryan knew of things beyond the mortal he had learned in Sunday School between the ages of six and eight.

  “Someone must know.” Bryan resolved. Maybe Ilene. She was a serene, slightly retro lady who worked along the corridor. She wore a headband and long skirts and was apparently a Buddhist, or a Transcendental something. Bryan did not remember. She always seemed friendly, in a far-off kind of way.

  Bryan resolved to talk to her the next day.

  9

  “Hello?”

  Bryan walked over cautiously to the table in the cafe. He was not sure if the woman seated there had heard him, and he did not want to disturb.

  “Hello.” Wide, catlike eyes a dark navy blue and slightly unfocused, looked up at Bryan. The woman, Ilene, noticed who it was, and smiled. “Hi, Bryan. Sit down.” She moved a spare, long hand in an elegant gesture and Bryan sat in the indicated place.

  “Well.” Ilene smiled. “Tea?” She paused. “It's nice to meet you after so many years.”

  “Thanks.” Bryan smiled. “It is nice.”

  Ilene was in charge of the records of all the companies they worked for. She had been at the firm for longer than most of them, although Bryan thought she was not old, early forties, in fact. She looked ageless, with pale skin pulled over a tight, elegant face. Her hair was tied in an elaborate design, bound back with a soft fabric wound about her head. She looked timelessly elegant, as if she had walked out of a painting by the European Expressionists during the thirties.

  “Could we have another chai here?” She asked a young girl who walked past, wearing black with an apron over the top.

  “Yes, Mrs. Waterford.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bryan leaned back. He had never been in a place like this before. It was modern and stylish, but had a distinctly esoteric feel. The tea, when it arrived, was rich with spices and pale with milk and smelled strong and musty and different. He drank it and sighed, pleased.

  “You like it?” Ilene was smiling, genuinely pleased.

  “Yes.” he nodded.

  “I'm so glad.”

  They sat in silence for a while, drinking their tea. Ilene half-closed her eyes, seeming transported by the tea and scent and silence. Bryan admired the sense of tranquil ease she projected even late on a workday mid-week.

  They were quiet, and then Ilene asked, “You wanted to ask me something...?” She made it a question, her eyes half-closed.

  “Yes.” Bryan looked down. He felt awkward. “I mean...I've been...experiencing strange stuff just lately.”

  “Seeing things? Feelings?” Ilene was interested at once. Bryan was strangely relieved. At least she didn't seem to think he was crazy, after all that. “What kind of stuff?”

  “Seeing things, I guess.” He swallowed. The tea seared down his throat, scalding him and giving him courage. “Like, dreaming things.”

  “Dreams?” Ilene smiled. “You've had visions in these dreams?”

  “I don't know.” Bryan confessed. “Perhaps. These dreams, they...well...” He looked down, a furious blush rising in his cheeks.

  “Sex dreams?” Ilene offered, smiling.

  He nodded, swallowing. He was immeasurably-relieved not to say it.

  “Well.” Ilene smiled. “That could mean a lot of things.”

  “It could?” He was surprised.

  “Yes.” She was looking up at the ceiling, her long neck craned as she looked into the bare roof-beams, as if for inspiration.

  “What?”

  “Well,” She looked at him. “They could just be Freudian. Some sexual stuff that you want to do, but don't want to let yourself do.” She shrugged a narrow shoulder, dismissing the idea of sexual suppression as a silly one. “Also,” she continued, “it could mean that you want to be more creative. Maybe make art, or something.” She smiled. “Or,” and her eyes sparkled as she said it, “there is a third possibility.”

  “What is it?” Bryan leaned forward as she lowered her gaze and her voice.

  “The third possibility is that there is someone with whom you have a deep connection, and part of your consciousness is really there, coupling with that person.” She smiled. “Cosmic lovemaking.” She smiled blissfully, proud of herself.

  “That could happen?”

  “I think so.” She shrugged. “I mean, I don't know much about it, but it makes sense to me. I mean, who knows what makes us conscious, anyway? Who really knows?” She shrugged her slim shoulder again, and smiled.

  “That's true.” As he said it, Bryan realized he knew it was true. Who did really know what made one conscious? There was so much a mind could do that was not able to be explained by basic electronics—nerves, and electrical impulses and chemicals didn't seem enough to him, and never had.

  “Well.” Ilene stretched, looking at her watch. “I should go.” She smiled. “Ashtanga yoga class in half an hour.”

  Bryan smiled “I mustn't hold you up.” He nodded.

  “Thanks.” Ilene grinned. “And if you have these dreams, or if you're worried, call.” She touched his hand, reassuringly. “Between you, me and my meditation teacher, we can work it out. It sounds fascinating.” she smiled.

  “Thanks.” Bryan grinned, feeling pleased.

  “No worries.” Ilene was already packing things from her handbag, asking for the bill.

  “If anything happens, I'll call you.” He smiled, as she stood to leave.

  “I should think so.” Ilene smiled, dazzlingly, over her shoulder. “See you.”

  “See you.”

  After she had left, Bryan finished his tea, head reeling. He walked out of the scented, warm cafe and into the late evening air, breath heavy but feeling lighter than he had in a while. She didn't think he was mad, she understood what he said, and she even thought there might be a way it was real. That made him feel a little better. If nothing else, someone else agreed with him, and that, he smiled, getting into his car, was a wonderful feeling indeed. For the first time in more than a month, he finally felt at peace.

  10

  The day at work passed uneventfully, and Bryan surprised himself by staying longer than usual. When he looked down at his watch, he noticed it was long past eight o' clock. He smiled. That was the longest he had stayed all week. He had achieved a lot, and felt pleased.

  He walked downstairs, singing to himself under his breath. When he reached the door, he looked out. Then he remembered that his car was in the garage for repairs.

  “Never mind.” He could take the bus, aft
er all. It was how he had arrived earlier that day.

  He walked over to the gate, and down the street, shivering in the late seasonal cold weather. He found the queue waiting for the bus. A series of people, mostly dressed for work, looked about as tired and drained as he felt.

  The bus arrived, and he got on. He sat down, and then noticed that one of those who had alighted with him was a woman, lately pregnant.

  “Please.” He smiled at her, gesturing to his seat. He stood.

  “Thank you; truly.” She sank into it, smiling.

  He smiled back. He watched her a moment as she leaned back, closing her eyes a moment, hand on her head as if she felt an ache there. Her other hand held her belly.

  He felt quite sympathetic. He smiled to himself at the thought. If nothing else, at least this gave him some sympathy for pregnant women. He was pleased at that—at least it was good for something!

  He reached home and made it inside just before it rained.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, already feeling ravenous even as he added the last touches to supper, he thought of it again.

  As he finished his meal, he thought over the last few days, trying to put all the information together. As he thought through it, he ticked it off on his fingers.

  “Blanking out, open window: stress.” Jeff had agreed with him about that, and, since it hadn't happened again, he thought it must be from overwork.

  “Dreams, feelings...maybe they are some weird reality-thing? Ilene thought so.” He resolved to read up more about lucid dreams.

  “Weight gain...stress.” That made sense.

  “Nausea, cravings, headache, faintness...” His thoughts trailed away. He suddenly had a memory of the woman on the bus, whose seat he had vacated. She looked as nauseated as he felt. And dizzy, with a headache, too. He chuckled, thinking at how like a pregnant woman he must be feeling at that moment: headache and nausea and intensely hungry, all at once.

  He stopped.

  The image he had been sent by the dream-person suddenly came back to him, in all its clarity. The coupling, and then the image of him, with a thickened waist, and then the sense of pain and achievement and release.

  “No.”

  He jumped up from the table, pacing. He did not even know he did it. All he could think of was the images flooding through his mind, and the way that they suddenly made a strange and amazing kind of sense.

  “I'm pregnant.”

  The words sounded absurd spilling from his open mouth. But it explained everything: the ache and dizziness, hunger, sickness, expanding waistline, the weight gain. Everything.

  “I'm insane.”

  He said it without bias. He must be. He couldn't possibly be pregnant. He had dreamed the coupling. He hadn't actually done it. And even had he done so, he knew enough biology to know that it wasn't possible. Men didn't fall pregnant. He knew that.

  But it made a crazy sense. He laughed.

  “That is insane.”

  It really was. There must be some other explanation. He couldn't possibly believe that something so ludicrous was true.

  But the man from my vision told me so telepathically.

  That sounded even more absurd. “Come on, you.” He told himself, harshly. He went to the drawer and found the salt, finished his supper in silence.

  “You need sleep.” He told himself. He did. The only explanation was too much stress at work. Everything was too much for him. He was definitely going mad. What was he doing? What was he thinking? He needed to do something about this fast, before it overwhelmed him completely and ruined his life irretrievably.

  He decided he would make some changes to his life tomorrow. He had to. For his health. And it needed to be something drastic. He couldn't deal with this on his own anymore. How did he even know he could trust himself? He needed to be serious about this—it was clearly progressing faster than he could imagine.

  And where could this end? He did not even know. Would he go completely mad? He needed to stop this, now. Before it was too late.

  He showered, dried off carefully and washed his hair.

  He got into bed, setting his alarm. He fell asleep. That night was a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The next day, Bryan dressed carefully. He looked at himself in the mirror, and was not displeased with his reflection. The tweed jacket brought out the gold in his eyes, and the overall ruggedness matched the bluntness of his features. He looked a little haggard, the worry clear in his eyes, but otherwise he felt he made a very good impression. He wanted to, as he had decided it was time to see the boss.

  Bryan stood in the corridor outside the boss's office, breathing in the scents of old leather and new paint and the dust and loam that seemed to hang perpetually in the air ever since the building had been renovated.

  “Bryan Jenkins?”

  “Yes.” Bryan swallowed dryly. He did not understand why he was nervous— he was a clear favorite in the office—but he always did feel like this.

  He took a deep breath, stepped into the boss' office and sat down.

  “Bryan. Hi.” Reese Clarke smiled at him. He had a nice face; pointy features and a frazzled expression not withstanding; and kind eyes with deep wrinkles around them. He could have been anywhere from thirty-five to forty-five; no one actually knew.

  “Hello.” Bryan smiled, then looked down.

  “You wanted to see me?” Mr. Clarke prompted.

  “Yes.” Bryan cleared his throat. When he looked up, the weeks of worry were clear in the pale gold of his eyes. “I have a...delicate matter to discuss.”

  “Sure, Bryan.” His boss smiled, showing a crooked eye-tooth.

  “I...it's my health.” Bryan looked at his lap. He felt wretchedly awkward.

  “I heard you were worried.” His boss nodded. “Jeffrey Rice mentioned it.” he explained. Bryan felt relieved.

  “Yes.” Bryan moved his feet awkwardly. “It's...I think I need time away. I’m having a bit of a tough time coping with the pressure...” He stopped. He didn't really want to have to explain. The dreams were...well...private. And too close to his heart to want anyone prying in them, he realized, suddenly.

  “Bryan, it's okay.” His boss smiled. “You're our best accountant. I understand if you've been overdoing it. You haven't had leave in...what...three years?” he looked astonished himself.

  Bryan nodded. “Probably.” He never took leave.

  “Well, you know,” his boss continued. “We have been looking for a temp anyway, to help with the extra inflow of work. We could get you a replacement for a few days. That would train him, and give you some leave. Much needed leave.” He nodded.

  Bryan swallowed. He felt relieved. “Thank you.” He managed. It was perfect.

  “Not at all.” Mr. Clarke was strangely gentle. Bryan thanked him again, sincerely, and left, feeling lightheaded and strangely unburdened.

  Bryan left after lunch, and went home. He felt much better now that he was taking charge of this problem. He could beat it, he was sure. He just needed a day of rest.

  “So.” After returning home, Bryan stood in the empty space of his living room in the cloud-lit afternoon, and breathed out. He felt wonderful. He could believe that the weird stuff would finally sort itself out. He would overcome.

  Deep inside, in a small corner of his mind, Bryan felt strangely sorry that the dreams would probably stop, too—he had become attached to the blue man of his nights, and would miss him.

  “You're silly, Bryan.” He reprimanded himself. It was an easy reprimand —he had been doing it most of his life. He sighed. He had his time off, the dreams would stop, and he could gain his life back again.

  Bryan spent most of that day setting his house in order— doing cleaning, fixing the sink that had begun to develop a drip, ironing suits and making dinner.

  After a healthy supper of salmon salad and a few wholegrain crackers, Bryan sat down with some tea to watch the news. It was so good to have some time off.

  As he sat down, a strange heavi
ness asserted itself. Bryan shook himself. He felt sedated.

  The news seemed very much as usual—reports from the Middle East, something about shares that made his ears prick up before he reminded himself he was taking time away from any sort of work, and some local item about the opening of a new high school. Bryan felt himself starting to doze, and was barely aware of the last item, again something local, as he fell asleep; something about bright lights having been seen in the sky over the town just recently.

  “Probably helicopters looking for someone.” He said to himself, just as he felt himself getting drowsy again. He shook his head. Perhaps he just needed some sleep. He decided it would do no harm, and let himself drift away.

  As he felt his head drooping to his chest, he heard a soft whirring noise.

  Mr. Halloran really should get a silencer. He though to himself. The old Corsa his neighbor insisted on driving was really too old.

  As he fell asleep, Bryan noticed the noise had changed. It wasn't the same coughing, spluttering insistence he heard when the old man left or returned, but a definite whirring, the sort of noise a regular combustion engine could not possibly be capable of making.

  He felt the sleepiness getting heavier, more dizzying, more blanking. His mind whirled and his eyes closed, and he felt himself slowly losing consciousness. He closed his eyes and his head drooped forward, rendering him completely and helplessly unconscious.

  Light.

  Bryan stirred. It was light. Before anything else, he noticed it. Bright, blinding white light, searing through his eyelids.

  And it was warm. Soothingly, deliciously warm. Bryan stirred. He felt like he was covered by something.

  He rolled over. He was in bed. He opened his eyes.

  White.

  The glare was blinding at first, and then his eyes narrowed, adjusting to it.

  He was in the room of his dreams, he knew it at once. The white light, the bed, the empty space around him. It was exactly as he remembered it. He blinked and felt the bed beneath him. It felt different.