Questions hammered inside her head. Would she ever see Earth and Liza again? Had Flores tricked her somehow? Sandra’s fingers clenched the blanket until her palms ached. Could she simply be hallucinating?
It was so real. She simply didn’t have this kind of imagination. And both the pill she’d taken and the water had come from sealed bottles. But something had gone horribly wrong. Dr. Flores had claimed fear would return her to her body. Yet this one certainly wasn’t hers.
She needed to go home. But how? Could she leave this body? Astral project back to Earth without Flores’s machine?
Ignoring the fear that even if she managed to leave this body, she might not know the way home, Sandra shut her eyes and hung onto sanity with the hope that whatever force had sent her here might send her home—that she didn’t need Flores’s machine to astral project. He’d told her the key was relaxation.
Relax.
She could do this.
Relax.
Instead of obeying, every muscle tightened. After what had happened, relaxing was impossible. She sat up from the pillows abruptly. Her pulse raced. Her hands were icy. Except it wasn’t her hands that were cold, or her heart that raced, or her long hair that stuck to the back of her clammy neck.
Had she gone crazy? Was this a bad dream? A side effect of Dr. Flores’s machine? An accident? She recalled the force pulling her here and doubted it could have been coincidence. There were limits beyond which a rational person stopped believing in coincidence. She was supposed to believe she’d used Flores’s machine and then, by accident, a nameless force flung her across the galaxy and just happened to find her a suitable body? No way. No time, no how.
She didn’t understand what had happened or why. But her journey here was no coincidence—of that she was certain. She only had to stay calm, put the pieces together, and find a way home.
The woman who had slapped her frowned, and Sandra scooted back out of reach, in case she intended to hit her again. But all the woman did was set a glass with liquid on a table beside her. Then she shooed the others out the door of the oversized bedroom, decorated with rich draperies and carpets but no televisions, phones, or computers that Sandra could see. The building appeared modern though, and she thought perhaps the devices might simply have been hidden. The room was brightly lit through ceiling panels but she had no idea what powered them . . . or if she was free to leave or a prisoner.
The frowning woman spoke to one younger girl who’d tarried behind the others. This time, Sandra understood the word “go.” And the murmured reply, “Yes, Fexel.”
The lyrical speech of the people exiting the room shifted Sandra’s scrambled brains—as if a hundred rubber bands snapped inside her head. Slumping, she covered her eyes with her hands, and let the alien language inundate her.
She could discern the words! In addition to the gift of her body, the departing woman had given her knowledge of the language. Sandra merely had to look at an object to know its name, think a thought and the correct phrases popped into her mind—as if she’d been born to the alien tongue. Testing for limits to her ability, she searched for personal memories. Being orphaned at age five in a car accident that took both her parents but left her without a scratch. Graduating first in her journalism class. Her first page one story. But she found none that didn’t belong to her life on Earth.
Sandra sat on the bed and trembled from head to foot. She counted her long fingers and when she reached ten, counted her bare toes.
Noting the little differences of the other woman’s body that was now hers, Sandra took in her buffed white nails, her soft, uncalloused palms, her long hair that hung heavy over her shoulders and cascaded to her waist, and sought to steady her trembling. All the while she considered her situation, she told herself to assess and analyze. She didn’t have time to panic. Her life might depend on what she did next.
After a plane crash or a mudslide, a person’s very first decision often determined if they lived or died. Last year, she’d interviewed a woman who’d confronted a bear while camping. She could have held still or fled. Instead, she’d run straight at the bear, waving her hands and howling. The bear had run away—and she’d lived to tell Sandra her tale.
Come on, damn it. Think. Things could be worse. She could still be drifting in space. Lightning could have struck her. She could be dead.
Obviously, she’d landed on another world, but everyone here believed she was the same woman they’d always known. While asking a dozen questions appealed to Sandra, logic told her to wait, to listen, to try and figure out what was going on before she revealed her true self.
The sharp-eyed woman, Fexel, shut the door and dusted her hands. Obviously, she held some position of importance here and she seemed less concerned about the stormy weather than about what was happening inside. She could be the mother of the woman whose body Sandra now inhabited—or she could be her jailor. She could be a friend or an enemy, and until Sandra knew for certain, she would remain very, very careful.
But one thing she did know. Someone here had made the woman whose body she inhabited miserable enough to abandon her life and live as an astral spirit. And although the other woman had claimed she was never returning, perhaps she would—if Sandra could make her life better. She liked thinking she was here to do some good.
Fexel pulled a fragile chair over to the bed, and Sandra studied her. Her long grayish hair was tinged with blue, and Fexel had tied it at her nape in a severe knot, drawing the skin around her face taut. “You’re too old for hysterics, young lady.”
Sandra understood Fexel’s every word. But she remained silent, not yet willing to speak.
Fexel’s voice sharpened, more than necessary to be heard above the storm. “Haven’t I raised you better?”
Raised her? Was Fexel her mother, nursemaid, teacher? Her sharp words didn’t sound loving. Sandra guessed Fexel could be old enough to be a mother. Although tempted to explain she wasn’t the woman Fexel saw her to be, she thought she’d best be careful, or she could end up in this planet’s equivalent of a mental institution or worse. Until Sandra found a way to return to Earth, she’d ease slowly and carefully into this society.
Fexel arched her eyebrow and waited for her response.
“I’m sorry,” Sandra spoke, her tongue twisting around the alien words with ease.
“Sorry won’t stop the gossip. And when he hears about your antics, you may be sure he won’t be pleased.”
“He?” Was Fexel referring to her father? Her boss?
“Lira, you can’t go on pretending.”
“Pretending?” Sandra prodded for information and hoped Fexel didn’t notice she sounded like a parrot. At least she’d discovered her new name: Lira.
“Young lady, you cannot make believe your contract to him doesn’t exist.” Thunder rolled as if to punctuate her words.
“Why not?”
Fexel shook her finger in Sandra’s face, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You little fool. Have you truly lost your wits? You’ve been sobbing for days on end and now you claim to not even remember why?”
A sensation as ominous as the stormy skies outside prickled down her spine as Sandra recalled Lira’s last words, Lira’s preference to depart everything she’d known for the astral plane. Not only had Sandra made Fexel suspicious by not remembering whatever was so upsetting, Sandra still didn’t have a clue what was going on. But since more questions would alert Fexel to the fact that she was not Lira, she had to be patient.
And now, as if Sandra didn’t have enough to deal with by landing in a stranger’s body on the alien world, she would have to face Lira’s fate. Lira could be a virgin about to be sacrificed to their god, or a criminal facing the death sentence. Sandra could only hope she had more intelligence, more spunk than Lira. But she was a stranger here and Lira had resources she never would—knowledge, friends,
family. Whatever. Sandra had decided she was here to help Lira and she would do it before she went home.
Preferring to let Fexel be suspicious rather than risk the unknown, she tilted her chin and looked the other woman in the eye. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”
Chapter Three
“SIRE?” DINAR BOWED his head and waited.
Daveck paused in his sword practice and turned off the holosimulator. “Has word of the alliance been made known?”
“Yes. The daughter of Maglek has taken to her quarters in tears since the high priest announced the document signing.”
“Perhaps tears will make her more pliable.”
“In my experience, only a happy woman is amenable to her lord’s wishes.”
Daveck glared at Dinar. “I wouldn’t know.” His first marriage had been a disaster. No one dared speak of it. And in truth, Daveck knew little of women beyond his sisters, both intelligent, one a healer and the other an artist of renown, both so emotional that he had difficulty understanding their complexity. He much preferred the simple company of warriors. But with the new alliance with the East, he’d not only break his sacred vow to remain solitary, he’d have to make other sacrifices as well. He couldn’t waver. Just that morning, Ysandro, a fertile town to the south, had flooded with tidal flow from a hurricane. And if he didn’t soon recover the Zorash and restore the stolen artifact to its sacred place, more deaths would rest on his conscience.
SHOVING BACK HER chair, Fexel walked to the curved wall and opened a pocket door. She reached inside a closet filled with brightly colored clothing and withdrew a scarlet garment.
Drawing a deep breath, Sandra concentrated on one simple detail at a time as if it were the most important thing in her existence. In desperation, she locked her gaze onto the garment. Then she added details, slowly, so she wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the alien perceptions bombarding her frazzled senses.
From the waist up, the outfit reminded Sandra of a kimono. A hood hung from the back and in front the deep V-neck plunged to the navel, meeting a six-inch girdle that would cinch tight at the waist. The full-length skirt divided into two parts and gathered at the ankles.
Fexel laid out panties that tied with a cord at the waist. Apparently the women here didn’t wear the equivalent of a bra. Which could be a problem, especially since Lira’s breasts were much more voluptuous than Sandra’s own. Women would pay thousands of dollars for implants like these. Sandra used to fantasize about having large breasts and now that she had them, they felt cumbersome, but lovely. Oh, yeah. She could get used to these curves, no problem.
“Hurry,” Fexel ordered.
“What’s the rush?”
“Don’t sass me, young lady. The upcoming ceremony is important.”
While Sandra hastily dressed behind a screen, she examined her body with appreciation. She now possessed long legs, trim ankles, and dainty feet. Sandra had been careful not to let the sun burn her fair skin back in Florida, but now she couldn’t help but appreciate this body’s glamorous golden tan. Her wide hips and ample bustline filled out the garment to perfection, and she wished for a mirror to examine her face.
What kind of woman was Lira? It wouldn’t be easy keeping up the charade without someone realizing a new person had taken over Lira’s body. Sandra could ask only limited questions without arousing suspicion. But no way could she rein back her normal curiosity forever. Besides, somehow she must find out all she could about this place without revealing her true identity. For all she knew her very survival, not just finding a way back home, might depend upon her ability to adapt.
Compared with the clothing the others had worn, Lira’s was of higher quality, with detailing that revealed extra work and cost. Sandra guessed Lira had been the lady of the house and a woman of means. But was she kind? Intelligent? Personable? What would happen if Sandra couldn’t bluff her way through the upcoming ceremony without giving herself away?
Perhaps she could draw Fexel out with chitchat. “Is the ceremony really that important?”
Outside the rain turned to hail and tiny balls of ice battered the windows. Fexel paid no attention. “All lives on Farii hinge on it. He’s coming. Hurry.”
Sandra wanted to ask who was coming, but she remained silent, fairly certain she should already know the answer. Instead, she rushed to dress in the rest of the unfamiliar garb. Over the scarlet ensemble, she donned a gold, cropped vest which served to emphasize her cleavage. Sandra tugged the plummeting neckline closed, but when she removed her fingers, the material eased back, again showing off too much of Lira’s magnificent chest for Sandra’s sense of modesty. To avoid revealing even more, she would have to remember to stand very straight.
She slipped into a pair of sandals. Around her neck, Fexel placed an animal-shaped pendant with its tail wound about a spherical, celadon-green gemstone that was a tiny replica of Farii. Fexel handed her a matching ring, and Sandra slipped it onto her left hand.
Fexel frowned. “Do you mean to insult him?”
Why did the woman keep emphasizing him! Sandra longed to ask and clear up her confusion, but the scowl of irritation on Fexel’s face made her more cautious. “Huh?”
“Put the ring on your right hand, and no more of your antics.”
While Sandra switched the ring to her other hand, Fexel led her to a thin-legged chair. After she sat, Fexel twisted Sandra’s long hair into loops and braided tiny button ornaments into her tresses. Somehow she managed her coiffure while keeping an eye on the door.
Fexel scolded a woman as she entered the doorway. “Yala, it’s about time you got here.” Judging by Yala’s servile manner, she was an assistant. Head bowed, eyes downcast, Yala hurried into the room. After dipping her hands into the pocket of her plain brown frock, she removed a sprig of tiny lavender flowers.
She bowed deeper to Sandra, but spoke to Fexel in an anxious whisper. “He’s almost here!”
While the frightened servant spoke, Yala pressed the tips of her fingers together, then touched her fingers to forehead, lips, and breast in a movement that reminded Sandra of Christians crossing themselves. Fexel copied the ritual, and when Sandra didn’t follow suit, both women’s eyes widened and stared at her, which strung her nerves taut.
She hurriedly copied the movement but Fexel’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Keep your wits about you, girl. We all know you’ve been called to make a great sacrifice and you must appear courageous to uphold our honor. Do you understand?”
No. But she’d set herself a part to play. “Of course.”
The idea of making a sacrifice sent a chill down her spine. What must she face that had so upset Lira that she’d left this world for the astral plane? Fexel had said lives were at stake. Sandra could only hope they weren’t about to sacrifice Lira to their gods by slitting her throat. Yet she dared not ask for fear of arousing their suspicions.
Her ignorance of the customs on this world might get her killed. Sandra vowed to be more observant than usual. Even then it would be all too easy to fail. She had no idea of Lira’s preferences in food, friends, or what she did for a living. The task of impersonation seemed daunting, but what choice did she have? She wished she knew more about the ceremony in which she was to take part, wished she knew more about the mysterious him. Back on Earth Sandra’s social life might not be on par with other women her age, but she’d dabbled with men and wasn’t a sexual neophyte. She always got out of the relationship before a guy expected her to turn up on a regular basis. However, her experience covering politics, crime, and arson had allowed her to see men in their element, wielding power and authority as if they were born to rule. She could deal with that.
“She’s not herself today,” Fexel explained Sandra’s apparently odd behavior.
“In her place, I’d act the same. To have to face him. . . .” Yala paled and her forehead perspired. Again she
touched forehead, lips, and breast, giving the impression of warding off evil. This time Sandra and Fexel repeated the ritual almost at the same time.
“Go about your duties,” Fexel said. “I alone will make certain Lira looks beautiful.”
Sandra might not understand what the women discussed but she didn’t like their condescending attitudes or the way they chattered around her. “Please, stop talking about me as if I’m not here,” she snapped.
Fexel turned to stare, her jaw dropping open to reveal several missing teeth. Yala sucked in air, her cheeks pinched, her eyes dark with terror before she scurried out the door, her hand again touching forehead, lips, and breast. What had Sandra said to cause such reactions in the servant? Was Lira so meek she allowed others to treat her like a child?
Fexel recovered from her surprise without responding to Sandra’s request. She dusted off her hands and shook a finger at Sandra. “What you do or say will make no difference. Now let’s go.”
Sandra had never backed down from someone so arrogant and pompous and she never would. To make sure Fexel understood, she folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not going anywhere until you explain—”
Trumpets blared. A drum roll sounded. Cries from outside came to her clearly. Through the rose-tinted glass, she heard the townspeople and realized the hail had stopped, the thunderstorm had ended, or at least lightened so that she could no longer hear rain battering the building.
“It’s him.”
“Murderer.”
“Hush! He comes.”
The Shimmering Page 3
