by Allison Pang
We stopped in front of a house. Or rather, we stopped in front of a large Victorian guarded by a massive iron gate.
I stared at the porch, my hands lightly gripping the bars, my mind struggling to reconcile its familiarity, with its chipped yellow paint and battered edges, its swinging chair, the broken light fixture twinkling in welcome.
I jumped when Brystion materialized beside me. “Do you have to keep doing that? You know, that whole creature of the night thing?”
He shrugged, inclining his head toward the house. “Old memories?”
“Yes.” I tapped my fingers on the gate again, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It’s the house I grew up in. What is this place?” I looked around, but there was only my house sitting there in the darkness, surrounded by an open patch of yard and then clusters of thick trees that stretched out farther than I could measure. It smelled like pine and old cedar and the faintest whiff of my grandmother’s roses.
“The Dreaming, of course.” He arched a brow at me, amused. “Where else would we be?” There was something amorphous about him now, as though he merely took a human shape for my benefit.
“I don’t know. I just thought it would be different—clouds or mist or something.” His mouth twitched, and I flushed. “Well, how the hell should I know? It’s not like I’ve ever been here.”
“Actually, you have. Every mortal comes here when they sleep—they just don’t remember it. It’s subconscious. This”—he gestured toward the house—“is the Heart of your Dreaming. A home base of sorts.”
I nodded slowly, peering out into the darkness hovering beyond a little rocky path that twisted down a sloping hill. “And the rest of it?”
“That’s up to you. These are your dreams, after all. They are what you make of them.”
I shivered when the tang of the sea hit my nose, and I gestured at the path. “The nightmares are that way.” Somehow I knew it to be true; if I were to follow it, I’d come to a rocky cliff, golden dunes, and a swirling sea of darkness. And the sharks.
I tugged on the chain around the gate after deciding I didn’t really want to pursue that particular line of thought. “Why is this locked?”
“Seems you don’t trust me enough to let me in.” He frowned, as though he were admitting something he’d rather not. “Your subconscious is wiser than you know.”
“Like vampires and thresholds, I guess. Convenient.” My eyes narrowed, watching him. Maybe a little too convenient. “And yet, you were able to pop into my dreams last night pretty easily.” And fill them with a scene even the cheesiest romance novels would have been ashamed of.
“You weren’t actually in your Heart then.” His head tilted toward the rocky path. “You were headed that way. Fair game, as far as Dreameaters go,” he added dryly.
My skin shivered at the thought. Had I been aware of him? “How is coming here going to help me with my nightmares? Assuming I actually make it inside at some point.”
The incubus sighed. “I can teach you how to come here when you sleep, so that your dreaming will be clear. It won’t solve the issue of what is causing your nightmares, but you will have a safe place to retreat.”
I shifted uneasily. It sounded good, but the idea of giving a daemon free rein in my mental wonderland caused an uneasy roil in my gut. Yet, what choice did I really have? I’d given him my word.
An uncomfortable silence ticked by as I stared back at the house, wondering just what he wasn’t telling me. My gaze flicked back toward him. “‘Safe’ is a relative term.”
“Ah, well, you’re in my domain now, Abby.” The incubus leaned up against the railing, something in his mien suddenly smug. “That means I have the control here.”
I arched a brow at him. “Even in my Heart?”
His lips drifted into a gentle smile. “That is up to you, I suppose. I know what I would prefer.”
“I’ll bet you do,” I muttered. “We’re going to have to work on that shyness problem of yours, incubus. I’m getting tired of hanging out with such a wallflower.”
“Indeed.” He leered. “Want to help me out with that?”
I shoved him lightly. “Not tonight. I should probably get back. After all, we’ve got a succubus to rescue, don’t we?”
The amusement drained from his face and for a moment I was sorry I’d killed the vibe. On the other hand, business was business. He’d come through enough for me to see what he was offering. The chance to offset my nightmares was a heady offer by itself. Sex, or the promise thereof, wasn’t going to be part of the equation. At all.
“We should probably head back to the art gallery in the morning. Maybe I can convince Topher to give us a little more info on Sonja’s whereabouts. I’m sure once he understands the situation, he’ll be more forthcoming,” I suggested.
“Maybe,” Brystion said flatly.
“You never know.” I shrugged. “I can meet you when it opens, if you want. Technically, I’m supposed to open the Pit tomorrow, but somehow I’m thinking this is a bit more important. Speaking of which.” I tugged on his shirt to get his attention. “How do I get back? And will I come here every time I fall asleep?”
“Time passes differently here, sometimes. As to whether you come back here . . .” He watched me for a long moment.
I started to fidget and clamped down harder around the bars. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said finally. “The Heart of your Dreaming is part of you, so you have nothing to fear from it, but if you should find yourself back at the CrossRoads, call for me.” Gold flecked the outer edges of his eyes, and his voice became husky. “I will find you, always.”
I shivered beneath that dark gaze. “That’s the sort of promise you can only make to a TouchStone.”
“Yes.”
I blinked. A TouchStone?
His fingers traced my shoulder, trailing up my neck to my lips, cutting off anything else I might have said. “Wake up,” he whispered.
I sat up with a jerk, startling the unicorn from where he’d curled up against my side. “Crap!”
Nothing but silence met my shout. Well, actually the unicorn made a little meh sound at me and rolled over, but that didn’t count.
I flopped onto my back with a whoosh, arms curling back beneath my head. Not a bloody chance in hell of falling back asleep. The first rosy rays of dawn were already creeping underneath the blinds. Besides, if I fell back asleep, would I end up there? With him? And would that be such a bad thing?
Damn it all.
Assuming I believed the incubus, I’d somehow become his TouchStone. Then it hit me. Yesterday morning in the Pit, that little mind-roll with the . . . well, the naked stuff. Or at least the vision, the snapping sound. It was the only possible explanation.
My own stupid luck. And my own stupid fault for not having realized it earlier. But then, it wasn’t like that’d ever happened before.
I eyed the unicorn wryly. Okay, well, it would seem I’d done it twice—by touch. Not Contract. That wasn’t normal, was it? I’d certainly never heard Melanie talk about it before. Or anyone else, for that matter. And, of course, the only other option was currently sprawled behind my knees and snoring like a chain saw. Not like he was going to sit up and converse over a pot of English Breakfast.
On the other hand, hadn’t I suggested a possible TouchStone Contract between me and the incubus? So why the fuss now that it had already happened?
Because he’s holding the cards, my inner voice piped up. It was a fair cop, but that didn’t mean I had to like it. At least with a Contract I knew what to expect. This was like free-falling without a parachute.
I wondered how long it would be before Robert figured it out—if he hadn’t already. I had a sinking feeling the angel knew more than he’d let on. As far as I was concerned, both men lost points for that one. How hard would it have been to explain what was going on?
How hard would it have been to ask? my internal voice prodded snidely.
“I’m an idiot,” I told the uni
corn. He cracked an eye at me and snorted. “Well, you don’t have to agree with me.” He turned away with a self-aggrandizing sigh and I shook my head. “No help at all.”
I slid out of bed and headed to the bathroom. First thing I wanted was a hot shower, and then maybe something to eat. After that . . . well, I supposed I’d just have to see.
The sunlight gleamed on the burnished copper sign of the Portsmyth Waterfront Fine Arts Gallery as I waited outside on the steps. The brine of the bay rolled over the cobblestone streets in a thick fog that spoke of potential rain later. My sandaled heel tapped fast on the polished marble. “Stop that,” I muttered to it, willing it to still. A subdued breakfast hadn’t done anything to calm my nerves and I still wasn’t sure what I was going to say.
The lack of a formal Contract left the door open to a whole series of unknowns. For some reason the one with the unicorn hadn’t bothered me nearly as much. But then again, all he did was eat and laze about. The incubus, on the other hand . . .
Even if I asked him, how could I trust his word? Brystion had obviously known for at least a day or so—and he’d waited until I was asleep to tell me.
“Not good,” I sighed, sipping the last bit of my Dark Cherry Mocha. Thank the gods for Starbucks, anyway.
“What’s not good?” Brystion perched beside me like the shadow of a crow, his movements quiet.
“Your hair,” I muttered, concentrating on the steaming cup.
He let out a bemused snort. “And here I thought you liked dark and mysterious.”
“Says you.”
“Dreams don’t lie, Abby.”
“Yeah? Well, apparently you do.” I gulped down the last of the coffee in two quick swigs. “And it sucks.”
“You never asked,” he said defensively. “And you were rather instrumental in the act. For all I know, you orchestrated it.”
“Back to this, I see. One moment you’re accusing me of having a brick for a brain and the next you assume I somehow made myself your TouchStone through a mistaken brush of your hand?” My empty cup spun between my fingers as I debated the wisdom of chucking it at him. “And for what? Certainly not the pleasure of your company.”
He exhaled softly, leaning back to rest on his elbows so that he was draped over the steps. “I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s a start, anyway. See, here’s the thing. I get that you all need to have your secrets . . .” I flicked the cup at him, unsurprised when he batted it away with a careless hand. “But I’m not sure how you think keeping me in the dark about something as important as this is going to help anyone.” He glanced over at me, and I stared back, refusing to look away.
“It’s a defense mechanism,” he finally murmured, tracing a circle on his knee. “In truth, the concept makes me a trifle uneasy, though I suspect you’ve gotten the worst side of that particular bargain.”
“Yeah. You might say that.” I hesitated. “And . . . um . . . since we’re both airing out the dirty laundry, there’s another problem.”
“Do tell,” he drawled, resignation flicking across his face.
I sucked in a ragged breath. “The truth of the matter is that Moira is missing too. So if this doesn’t work, I’m not sure how much help I’m going to be.”
“I know.”
I blinked. “You know?”
He turned sideways, stretching out so that his feet crossed at the ankles with the length of his calf pressed against my knee. “From the moment we touched in the bookstore.”
“Touched, eh? I thought you said that was just a side effect.”
He shrugged. “Moira has shields around you. I was poking them with the metaphysical equivalent of a big stick. If she had been anywhere within ‘hearing’ distance, she would have squashed me like a bug.” His mouth twisted wryly as he rested his head on his arms. “Which means she either doesn’t know or doesn’t care. Or is in a position where she can’t act.”
“Did you know that it would happen like that?”
He slumped. “No. I knew you’d bonded to me the moment we touched in the store the other day, but I didn’t know how to deal with it. I’ve been waiting for the hammer to drop for days now. How long has Moira been gone?”
“Four months,” I said softly, wincing beneath his stare, waiting for the outburst of anger that never came.
“I wondered.” He hesitated and then slowly sat up. “I don’t think Robert knows about us—the TouchStone thing.”
“Then what was that freakout at the Hallows all about last night? Somehow I doubt it was to protect my maidenly honor.”
“Not yours,” he agreed. “Moira’s. In case you hadn’t noticed, I was a tad . . . forward. It probably looked pretty bad to have the Protectorate’s TouchStone seduced in front of everyone like that.”
“I’d hardly count a few moments of dancing as seduction.”
“Clearly I didn’t do it long enough,” he murmured, his gaze slowly raking over my body as he pulled me to my feet. He gestured toward the glass doors of the gallery. “Shall we?”
“Just one question.” I headed up the last of the steps with a yawn, ignoring the prickle of heat taking root in my belly.
“All right.”
“If you masturbate, would that make you an incubator?” I eyed him sideways, struggling not to laugh at his nonplussed expression or the sharp bark of mock outrage that followed.
His mouth curved suddenly, his eyes growing golden and lazy. “Guess you’ll just have to find out.”
Only a few other patrons circled the gallery that morning. No champagne or chocolate strawberries—just us and the paintings. I skirted past two heavyset men carefully taking a covered painting through the main foyer. I turned and slid against the wall. Several other canvases were wrapped in sheets, leaning against the kiosk haphazardly. Clearly we were arriving during a change of display, although I’d always been under the impression that sort of thing was done after hours.
Brystion stood behind me, his presence raw and heated. It felt sexual, protective, almost suffocating in its power.
“Christ, dude. Turn it down already,” I muttered to him. “Or just piss on me and mark your territory and get it over with.”
“I have a tendency to get carried away,” he said sheepishly. Instantly I felt the hunger withdraw and I sighed. I could breathe again.
“So I’ve noticed.” I waved him off before he could say anything else and headed toward the wing with the TouchStone paintings. The succubus portrait had curtains drawn before it, but the others remained lit. “Hmm . . .” I frowned, pulling up the edge of the cloth.
“Excuse me! Excuse me, please. You need to step away from the painting.”
“Whoa.” I dropped the curtain, stepping back as the small, stout woman from the other night elbowed her way past. She still looked like an eggplant in her dark purple suit and sensible shoes. “I’m sorry.” I put on my best ignorant tourist face. “I just wanted to see the picture. It was on view the other night.”
“Yes, well, it’s been sold and the buyer no longer wants it on display,” she sniffed. “Now please, you’re going to need to leave.”
“I don’t think so,” Brystion said quietly, his gaze flicking down to her name tag. “We need to see that painting.”
“I’m going to call security if the two of you don’t get out here,” she warned, her face puffing up.
Brystion’s lips pursed, his voice suddenly husky. “Come on,” he murmured, “what’s the harm in letting me take a look? Surely you trust me, right?” He stepped toward her, and although I couldn’t see his face, I sure as hell could see hers. She paled beneath the onslaught of that commanding seduction, her expression suddenly going slack.
“What are you doing?” I hissed, but he slid away from me, bearing down on the woman in a nimbus of sexual energy.
“Michelle,” he crooned, and I shivered at the raw lust that rippled from him.
“Yes,” she whispered. Her breathing became rapid, and her glasses slid haphazardly
off the bridge of her nose as she tipped her face up to him. She was a good few inches taller than me but still shorter than him. He reached out to stroke the side of her face, his fingers lingering in her mousy brown hair.
Jealousy flared through me like a burning brand, followed by a slick chaser of anger. If he knew of my reaction he gave no sign.
“Shhhhh,” he breathed, his lips hovering mere inches from hers. I bit down hard on my cheek, the copper-edged blood filling my mouth. “Can I look at the picture, Michelle?”
“Ah, of course,” she sighed, her eyes never leaving his face. “Anything you want, Mister . . . Mister?”
“Ion.” He smiled at her. “You may call me Ion, if you wish.”
“Ion,” she chirped happily, tugging at the rope pull that controlled the curtain. “It really is a most wonderful painting, Mr. Ion. The details are exquisite, and oh, those feathers! Why, they look like you could just reach out and blow them away.”
“Son of a bitch.” I heard a soft gasp and turned swiftly. The eggplant was gaping like a fish, blinking as though she’d been doused with a bucket of cold water. The crackling heat of a moment before was gone, shut off like a faucet. Icy fingers gripped my gut as I approached the painting.
“Brystion?” I extended my hand to his shoulder. He trembled beneath my touch, his eyes cold and flat and empty. I swallowed hard, heard it echoed in the soft exhalation of the woman beside me.
“Look,” he said tightly, his voice cracking with anger. “Look at that and tell me that bullshit artist doesn’t have something to do with Sonja’s disappearance.”
Puzzled, I glanced up. “What the hell?” The girl in the painting was the same as before—proud and naked—but damn if those eyes didn’t have some dark shadows under them this time. The wings were still there—extended and bloodred—but now there was something clustered on the bed beside her. I peered at it, my eyes adjusting to what was surely an improbability. Feathers. A scattering of feathers rested on the white coverlet. “Those weren’t there before, were they?”
