by Ann Gimpel
She undid the fastenings on her pants and let them slither down her hips. A small push and her black, thong panties followed. Colleen shook her hair behind her shoulders. “Tell me how to enter the dream world.”
“You’ve never been here?” She shook her head. “Open your mind to me and I will make a path. Once it forms, walk toward me. Do not stop until you feel my arms around you.”
She ached for him, wanted him, but entering the Dreamers’ Paths obviously employed magic she wasn’t familiar with, so she had to ask, “Will I be able to return?”
“Returning is never a problem.”
It was good enough for her. She pushed her magic outward, seeking him, and felt him latch onto her. A glowing thread began at her feet and extended into mist. It pulsed and broadened. Once it was wide enough to walk on, she started down it and was immediately swallowed by the mist.
Things bumped against her in that thick, nearly opaque vapor. Not demons, but fell things just the same. For one long, awful moment, she wondered if the dream sending had been an Irichna trick, designed to separate her from her changeling, Jenna, and Roz. She tried to ward herself, but couldn’t. All her magic was drawn into the shining path beneath her feet. Fear pounded through her, but she kept walking. If it had really been Duncan on the Dreamers’ Paths, he’d said not to stop until he held her in his arms.
Or until the Irichna rip me to shreds, she thought sourly, nerves jangling from tension.
Colleen lost all sense of time. The creatures in the mist became more aggressive; teeth nipped at her. Fire scored her back and she hastened her steps. She’d nearly decided to pull out all the stops, turn around, and make a dash back along the magical trail, when Duncan’s familiar scent filled her nostrils. Relief, so intense it made her knees weak, washed through her.
He pulled her to him. She hooked her arms around his shoulders and clung for dear life, heart pounding against her ribs. “Why didn’t you tell me how rough it would be?” she demanded, voice garbled because her mouth was pressed against his neck.
“I couldn’t. Like all magic, the Dreamers’ Paths hold their own secrets. I gave you what you needed to reach me safely, and you did.” He buried his mouth in her hair and kissed the top of her head.
“What were all those…things?”
He pushed slightly away and tipped her chin up so their eyes met. “The stuff of nightmares. They have to live somewhere.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “We don’t have much time. The Dreamers’ Paths don’t allow much, and I don’t want to waste what little we have talking. The journey here is different for each of us. Those spirits in the mist are your worst fears.”
He kept one arm protectively around her and led her a little way forward. The moonlit glade he’d mentioned came into view with a deep, still pool surrounded by inviting looking tussocks of grass. She didn’t see a moon in the sky, yet one was reflected in the water’s depths. At the pool’s far end, two nightingales perched atop a weeping willow. Duncan sent magic spiraling their way; the birds tipped their heads back and began a song so poignant and tinged with love that Colleen’s heart cracked open and spilled over.
He led her to a spot near the water’s edge where soft blankets were spread out, sat on them, and drew her onto his lap. He traced the lines of her face with tender fingers. She laced her fingers behind his neck and pulled him into a kiss.
She wanted to ask a million things, like had Titania blessed their mating, but she didn’t want to ruin the moments they had with words. He’d said there wasn’t much time. She wondered what happened when the Dreamers’ Paths decided to eject you and wished she’d paid more attention when some of the other witches had talked about it.
He trailed kisses down her neck, and positioned their bodies so she lay on her back on the sweet-smelling woolen blankets. Colleen arched her spine when he captured her nipple in his mouth and suckled it. He rolled the other nipple between knowing fingers and then switched sides.
She felt a climax spool deep in her belly and reached for his erect cock. She could come without much of anything else, but she wanted to feel him inside her. He was huge; it took both her hands to fully span his girth. Anticipating how he’d feel plumbing her depths, stretching her, sent shivers of delight through her body. The reality of his skin beneath her fingertips was even more sensuous than she’d expected. Simply touching him was enough to drive her mad, between his heady scent and the silky feel of him, velvet skin stretched taut over hard muscle.
He moaned and pressed himself into her hands. She moved her other hand to his hip and urged him between her legs. He knelt over her and took his cock in one hand, guiding it so his cockhead pressed against her entrance. She drew her legs up, placed a hand on each side of his hips, and tugged.
He pressed inside, but only a little, and moved himself in small circles. Her hips bucked in frustration. “Please.”
“Since you asked so nicely.” His voice was rough with passion, but he sank in a little farther.
Colleen hooked her legs around his waist and pulled. With an inchoate moan, he sank into her. She came when he hit bottom, nails digging into his back as spasms ripped through her. Colleen heard herself shrieking, her cries mingling with the nightingales’ courting song.
He drew back, ever so slowly, and sank into her again. “You are so beautiful,” she murmured, tracing a finger down his perfect chest and the planes of muscle cutting through his stomach.
“Not as beautiful as you, darling.” He flexed his cock inside her and she tightened around him.
Colleen blinked. Duncan’s body had developed a translucent quality, as if he were fading. “No.” She made a grab for his arms, but her fingers closed together as if his body wasn’t there.
“It’s all right. I’ll try to come for you tomorrow night. Soon after that, I’ll…” But he was gone, beyond her reach.
She wrapped a blanket around herself and sat on the banks of the pool, listening to the nightingales. Duncan’s scent lingered in the air. The feel of him was all over her body. She’d just begun wondering how the hell she’d find her way back without him, when the dream world shattered around her and she landed with a thud next to her couch in the Witches’ Northwest living room.
Dawn was breaking; the sky outside the living room’s leaded glass panes shone pearlescent gray with pale pink streaks. Bubba rolled off his chair and moved to her side. “I was wondering where you were. I just woke up and was getting ready to hunt for you.” He crinkled his nose. “I smell sex. Where’d you get that blanket?”
Colleen’s mouth twisted into half a smile when she realized the cushy ivory blanket was still wrapped around her.
Chapter Eight
Duncan shook his head in frustration as the familiar walls of his eighteenth century manor house bedchamber closed about him. His cock was so engorged, it ached. Of all the blasted times for the dream world to decide his time was up…
His hand strayed to his cock. He had to come or he wouldn’t be good for anything. Colleen’s scent embraced him, the musk of her arousal so intense, he could almost pretend she was still next to him.
Without even bothering to lie down, he gripped himself and stroked his throbbing shaft, imagining Colleen’s high, firm breasts with their strawberry nipples. He remembered the feel of them in his mouth, how they’d hardened as he’d sucked on them. And the sensation of her body closing around him, all fire and heat and wanting. He imagined sinking his length into her again and pumping hard.
His cock erupted, geysering semen into the air. He gasped and shoved himself into his hand over and over, until the last spasms died. Duncan sank to the carpeted floor, panting. He made a grab for a discarded shirt and made a token effort to mop up after himself. Sidhe homes, most of them anyway, were spelled to be self-cleaning. Sure enough, the damp spots on the thick, Aubusson carpet got smaller, and then disappeared entirely.
He pulled a pillow off a nearby chair, shoved it beneath his head, and waited for his heart rate to return to normal.
It had been a risk, luring Colleen onto the Dreamers’ Paths. He hadn’t realized how big a risk until she told him she’d never been there before. But he had to see her. Their separation cut into him.
Now that she knows the way—and to ignore the monsters—we can meet there every night.
At least until the Dream Guardian decides we need to declare our love before the real world too.
Duncan blew out a breath. The Dreamers’ Paths were a boon to magic wielders. They provided both an escape, and a way to focus and hone power, but the ancient spirit who controlled them wouldn’t tolerate his realm being used to deceive.
“Is that what I’m doing?” Duncan murmured. “Sidestepping my confrontation with Titania?”
He hadn’t been back for more than a few hours, and he’d spent the entire time sending the word out to convene their council. Duncan lurched to his feet, strode to a richly-carved armoire, and pulled out a pale green linen shirt, a pair of black trousers, and fresh underclothes. He layered a black jacket over everything, picked up and discarded several ties, and finally decided he didn’t need one. Most Sidhe from his era still dressed in ceremonial robes, at least at council meetings, but Duncan had gotten rid of all of his a hundred years ago because they’d seemed hopelessly archaic. He snapped a brush off the dresser, ran it through his hair, and formed several thick plaits close to his skull. He worked automatically, only realizing when he was nearly finished that he’d done his hair in an ancient Celtic warrior pattern.
Guess I’m expecting a confrontation. He caught a glimpse of himself, sporting a wry grin, in the huge mirror mounted on the wall opposite his bed and chuckled. Sidhe were a dried-up, humorless lot. He found himself hoping they’d show a bit of spirit today.
He glanced at a grandfather clock and hurried out the door, down two flights of stairs, and through the great room that took up most of the bottom floor of the manor. Usually, his collection of artwork, sculpture, books, scrolls, and highly polished oak furniture soothed him, but not today. He barely glanced at anything as he pushed the ten-foot-tall front door open and barked words to ward his home. From habit, he started for the carriage house he’d converted into a garage, but drew up short. He’d never be able to drive to this destination. It was either teleport, or don’t go at all.
Moments later, the marble and crystal of the Sidhe meeting hall formed around him. After the disaster of two world wars, his people had set up an alternative castle on a borderworld close to Earth, so they’d be safe from prying, mortal eyes in the event of an atomic catastrophe.
Duncan gazed about him and nodded. The lavishly furnished room, with its long table and comfortably padded chairs, comprised the top floor of a three-story structure. The bottom was sunk into bedrock, so only the upper two floors opened to the continuous light of this off-Earth location. Two suns, one bright, one dim, tag-teamed their way across the sky in perpetual motion. The lack of a true night was probably why this world remained deserted, along with a climate so arid that growing anything would have proven difficult without a huge assist from magic.
He was first to arrive, which was good. It would give him time to organize what he wanted to say. It had been at least ten years since one of them convened a council meeting. They only happened when something important needed discussion. Because the Sidhe lived forever, many of them expended vast amounts of energy pretending they were normal. Part of normal didn’t include being faced with other immortal beings, outside one’s immediate family. The Sidhe may not like one another very much, but their blood thickened if an outsider dared utter a withering comment.
He felt sad for his kind. Keeping demons at bay had been their last important task, and one which forced them to work together. Once they’d foisted that responsibility onto the witches—for a host of poorly-thought-out reasons—they’d lost even the small interconnections that bound them.
Duncan took a seat at the head of the long table. As an elder, he had a right to one of those six chairs. He steepled his fingers together, rested his chin on them, and considered how best to address his fellows. He was still thinking when they began to trickle in, generally alone, but occasional pairs and triads popped out of the ether. They bowed to one another, scrupulously polite, as always.
As he watched his people assemble, Duncan was awed by their beauty. Perfect faces. Perfect forms. They should have lived perfect lives, but something had gone awry somewhere along the way. Most were like him, clinging to an existence that had little meaning, though they’d go to great lengths to avoid admitting it.
“Thank you all for coming.” Duncan glanced from one Sidhe to another and received cool nods in return.
A man with dark hair, hanging loose to his shoulders, and shrewd blue eyes stood. “Things are bad in Manchester. That damned Irichna’s killed ten people. Of course the mortals think it’s a resurrection of Jack the Ripper, but we know better. Did you bring back one of those witches to help us?”
Duncan answered Ronin’s question with one of his own. “Did you know there are only three left?”
“No, but I scarcely see where that’s relevant. All we need is one.”
Duncan cleared his throat. “What happens when there aren’t any left?”
A woman, who took after Aphrodite, with lush, blonde hair, waved a dismissive hand. “We can simply make more of them.”
“If we wished to do that,” Ronin looked temporarily uncomfortable, “I suppose we should begin now while we have some living genetic material to work with.”
“Aye,” another Sidhe with a strong Irish lilt spoke up. “If we wait too long, ’tis cadavers we’ll have to deal with and I fear we may not meet with our previous success.”
Duncan hated to bring it up, but he’d always been curious. “I wasn’t involved originally, but did you leave any of us with demon stalking ability?”
Krystal, the Aphrodite lookalike, showed him a mouthful of teeth. “Why do you want to know?”
“It seems important,” he hedged.
“You never did acknowledge if you’d secured a witch for us,” Ronin pressed.
“They need our help.”
“We need theirs. Seems like a quid pro quo to me.” Krystal got to her feet and strode next to Duncan. He felt her net him with a truth spell. “What exactly happened when you went after the witches, and why did you draw us together?”
A hot rush of anger buffeted him. “How dare you?” He surged to his feet and balled his hands into fists. “What? You think I’d lie to you in our very council chambers?”
She shrugged. “Anything is possible. We share blood, yet none of us are close.”
If he backed down now, he was finished. Worse, every Sidhe in the room knew it. Duncan stuck his face inches from hers. “Sit down and take your spell with you.” He shifted his gaze to the hundred or so Sidhe ranged about the room. “If any here do not trust me, leave now.”
Grumbling, Krystal found her way back to her seat. No one else stirred. Duncan drew in a breath. There was still a huge divide to cross, but at least he hadn’t lost the first battle. “Hear me out. Wait until I’m done for discussion. Agreed?” After a long pause, heads bobbed and he began talking.
“…So after the witch and I returned from Hell, I teleported back here because I needed to talk with all of you.” Duncan drew himself up and infused compulsion into his words. “Demons were always our responsibility. Oberon and Titania tasked us with keeping all demons, but especially the Irichna, under control. Don’t answer me right now, but I want you to do some soul searching.
“Everyone needs a reason to exist. A lot of our reason evaporated once we scuttled out from under our responsibilities.”
Ronin opened his mouth, but Duncan held up a hand. “I’m nearly done. If we don’t recapture the gene sequence that allows us to escort demons into Hell, at the very least, we have to help the witches. They are nearly extinct. The demons are stronger than they used to be. I tell you, the one I faced was worse than my expectations by a factor of about te
n.
“The last thing I want to leave you with is this: it’s time to allow the changelings sovereignty again. We don’t need their magic. We never did. They could be staunch allies against the demons, and they never were much of a threat to us.”
Duncan sank into his seat. The ebb and flow of musical Sidhe voices eddied about him. He’d done his part. The group would come to a decision in their own time and their own way. There was nothing more for him to do or say. It was hard not to continue to argue for what he wanted, but he bit back further words.
Nothing to do now but wait.
He got to his feet and walked to a side table where someone had thoughtfully provided carafes of water and mead. He poured himself a cup of water and washed it down with spirits, thinking of Colleen, Jenna, and Roz. It pained him to admit it, but the three witches were braver and more resourceful than this roomful of Sidhe. They didn’t question their destiny. They simply stepped up to the plate and took care of business.
“Duncan!”
“What?” He turned and stared at his fellows, wondering who’d called him.
Krystal stepped away from the group. “We’ve been trying to get your attention for the last few minutes. We’ve come to a decision.”
He set down his cup, walked briskly back to his place at the head of the table, and waited. No matter what happened, he’d given it his best shot. If the Sidhe refused him, he’d already decided to return to Colleen’s side and help her, Jenna, and Roz.
“There is merit in your argument,” Ronin said. “We shall see about sharing responsibility for corralling the Irichna, at least until this current problem is over.”
“Yes, then we shall seek a more permanent solution,” Krystal added.
“We’ll be requirin’ blood from one of the witches.” The Sidhe with the Irish accent sat straighter in his chair.
