by Allison Pang
“No,” he admitted. “But don’t you see? If you weren’t a Dreamer, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. I would have given you to Maurice the moment I could have reasonably done so.” He went still and stared at me. “And I would have left you to rot inside that painting without another thought.”
I exhaled painfully, the truth of it all the worse for the gentleness in his voice. “But you didn’t.”
“No. But I tried. I didn’t know about the paintings or Moira or the rest of it. I just knew Maurice had my sister. And he had agreed to release her in return for you.” His gaze locked into mine, cold and black. “I knew about the other daemons. I knew they were going to try to take you. I knew.”
“But . . . you brought us the assassins’ marks. You fought for me and Melanie in the shed.”
He raised a clawed finger to my lips. “Yes. By the time I discovered Maurice’s duplicity, I knew I couldn’t go through with my side of the bargain. But it was too late.”
The minutes ticked by, my heart hovering on the edge of disappointment and acceptance. “All right,” I said finally. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“There is nothing. I cannot be what you want; I can only be what I am.” His ears twitched in the darkness. “And that, I fear, will not be enough.”
I withdrew a pace, letting his words roll over me, even as I decided to let him go. “The Heart is a fickle thing, Ion,” I murmured. Our eyes met, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. “You’ll always have a place in mine.”
He touched me then, one awkward stroke of his hand against my cheek, and for a brief moment I felt as though I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I stepped forward into his arms despite myself, feeling them part before me and then encircle my waist. “Show me, Ion,” I whispered. “Show me what you are.”
The leaves crunched beneath me, dry and harsh, but it didn’t matter. My clothes had disappeared into the twilight of the Dreaming, my back was pressed into the soft loam of the earth. The fragrance of the woods, thick with spruce and hemlock, honeysuckle and mint, cocooned around us; still, it was the heady flush of Brystion’s scent that captured me most. I was wrapped in it, embraced by the masculine pulse of his desire, tasting it as he savagely nipped at my mouth. It was dark and shadowed, like drinking midnight wine made of lust and moonbeams, salt and ashes. It prickled over my flesh with the delicate brutality of thorns, delicious and sinful and utterly him.
He hovered over me, his teeth grazing the pulse of my neck, fingers roaming over my thighs, my hips, my belly, hot and possessive. I quivered, moaning as his hand captured a breast and rolled the nipple taut until I cried out and writhed beneath him. His grip was like iron, pinching me to stillness; his other hand pressed between my thighs, knuckles parting them wide to find me slick and ready. He growled as he slipped a finger inside, stroking, teasing me until the blood was singing in my ears.
He bit my shoulder again, harder this time, and I felt the fine brush of his furred hindquarters sliding gently against my skin. “Goddess save me to think Maurice was right,” he muttered hoarsely, “but I do love you, Abby.”
I froze, the words ringing true in the depths of the Dreaming, filling me with a terrible clarity.
“Brystion . . .” I stumbled over his name, squirming at the feel of his shaft rubbing against me in earnest.
A heartbeat. Another. The moment drew out, long and quiet, and it felt as though the entire forest had stopped moving, watching us.
“Abby.” His breath was hot in my ear, his voice stricken as he waited for me to continue, waited for . . . what?
Permission? Rejection?
His grip relaxed ever so slightly, and I took his face in my hands to meet those aching, beautiful eyes, my heart breaking into a thousand pieces. “No . . . regrets.”
His ears twitched in the darkness and I heard the jangle of the bells hanging from the tips, the sound pulling me back to that first morning, echoed in the way the door chimes had rung out as he stepped across the threshold.
He uttered a low cry, and I knew I’d shattered the illusion. The truth melted away the dream like snow beneath the brilliance of the sun. I kissed him fiercely, our tongues and moans mingling with the frictionless slap of flesh meeting flesh. The leaves beneath me became rose petals, crushed blossoms of pink and red, swirling about us in a riot of color. And then we were falling, fading away into the shadows . . .
We rolled . . .
I was falling, snared in the web of dreams, twisting, turning, bound and slipping and then . . .
And then Brystion was there, tumbling into the warmth of my bed, his arms wrapped around my waist. His shape had changed, back to his mortal semblance, porcelain and familiar.
“So sorry,” he murmured, his lips brushing over my face. “I’m so very sorry, Abby.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to me,” I sighed, arching my back. His skin was hot, burning, as I slid against it. He was still inside me and I clamped down around him, the tremulous pulse of another wave of pleasure starting to crest. His hips jerked forward, a growl rumbling from his chest. I exhaled sharply, breath ragged in the stillness of the shadows, but I could hardly hear it from the blood pounding in my head. His fingers slid down past my ear and traced the line of my jaw, the tip of his thumb drifting over my lips as he turned my face to his.
Brystion’s eyes smoldered, alight with a dark desire that had nothing at all to do with being sorry.
“Yes,” he agreed, a flicker of impudent humor glimmering in the golden depths of his gaze, hued with an unfamiliar tenderness. One corner of his mouth kicked up into the beginning of a sad smile. “I’m sure I will.”
Morning was peeking from beyond the shadows of dawn when the barest whisper of breath against my ear pulled me from a haze of slumber. “You’re leaving,” I murmured with a strange certainty, rolling over to see Brystion perched on the edge of the bed staring at me.
“I wish you could see what I see when I look at you,” he said finally, neatly avoiding my statement. He snagged the afghan off the floor to wrap around his waist. I eyed it with a raise of my brow, not really remembering how it got there.
“And what’s that? Besides a grumpy ex-dancer with a penchant for bacon?” I propped myself up on my elbows, poking him with my big toe.
“Dreamer,” he snorted, giving me a rueful glance. “I have to go. The CrossRoads will close soon.”
“Keep the blanket,” I said dryly, pushing the bitter-sweetness of the moment away. That he had not chosen to renew our TouchStone bond hurt more than I thought it would. “That walk of shame is a bitch, isn’t it?”
His mouth twitched. “You have no idea.” His eyes alighted on my nightstand. “What is that?”
I frowned, following his gaze to the necklace, silver winking in the dawn. “Ah. It was my mother’s, I guess. I found it last night in the letter from her attorney.”
He strode over to take a closer look. “It would suit you, I think,” he said suddenly. “May I?”
I shrugged, nonplussed, as he brushed the hair from my shoulders and gently fastened it around my neck. “I wasn’t really planning on doing anything with it, honestly.” I pulled it away from my chest, its weight heavy in my hand. “Solid thing, isn’t it?”
“And a guaranteed ‘plus-four’ against incubus seduction, I’ll wager,” he said softly. The awkward pause lasted several minutes and then he shook his head. “I will have Sonja stop by later. I think she would be excellent at teaching you to control your nightmares.”
Somehow I thought she might not see it that way, but I wasn’t going to argue the point. I bit down on my tongue before I could embarrass myself by asking him to stay. He’d clearly made up his mind, and if it wasn’t quite what I’d hoped for, at least we were on the same footing. Who was I to deny him his own personal quest for . . . whatever he was looking for?
With a sigh, I slid off the bed and found my bathrobe. The least I could do was see him out. Bes
ides, I didn’t need Talivar going all WWE on the incubus in my living room.
“Let me go first,” I advised Brystion. “I’ve got a . . . a guest. Sort of a permanent bodyguard. Moira’s idea, you understand.”
He raised a brow but allowed me to push past him. The kitchen floor creaked as we crept through. Phineas was nowhere to be seen, though a slight snoring from beneath the tablecloth was more than enough to answer that particular question.
Talivar was waiting for us, of course. The elven prince sat in his usual place on the couch, bristling with a lethal sort of quiet. Of course, the effect was slightly lessened by the tousled fall of his hair and the bleary yawn that escaped him, but I decided not to point that out. Bedhead had no truck with elven princes, of that I was quite sure.
His polite cough still had me blushing, though that irritated me more than anything else. Shit if I was supposed to apologize for what I did in my own bedroom.
I gave the elf a sour look, frowning at the sudden gleam of amusement in his good eye. Behind me, Brystion grunted in that oddly possessive male way of greeting and I hurried us along before it could escalate into anything more.
The autumn chill drifted in and lingered at my ankles as I opened the door. I shivered. “Guess this is it,” I muttered, hugging my arms to my sides, debating the wisdom of saying anything about letting wild things go free. “Will I see you again?” The words fell from my lips before I could stop them.
“Only in your dreams,” he said slyly. And then he gently kissed my cheek and slipped down the steps and into the morning, his breath fogging in the air. A slurry of silver sparked up as he faded through the Door at the garden gate, and I sighed.
“Will this be a common occurrence?” Talivar asked. I closed the door behind me, strolling slowly back into the living room where he stretched gracefully. “Not that it’s any of my business, but I like to be aware of who’s a stranger and who’s a guest.”
I shook my head. “No. He won’t be coming back.”
The elf made a disbelieving sound but said nothing else, sagging back into the couch with another yawn. He seemed suddenly very out of place, wrapped in the archaic tunic and leather vest. I decided to take pity on him.
“Are you hungry?”
“Breakfast would not go amiss. I’m afraid I’ve not much to offer by way of cooking skills, though I can field dress a mean coney,” he added helpfully.
I chuckled despite myself, gesturing at him to follow me into the kitchen. “That’s all right. I’ve been told I make pretty lousy omelets—but my scrambled eggs are to die for.”
I paused outside the entrance to the Hallows, the heavy thrum of the music beating a sharp, muffled cadence through me. Unconsciously I let my hips sway to it, even as my fingers touched the silvered panel beneath the lock. “Meet me at the Crossroads,” I murmured, stepping back as the familiar glow brushed past me in a flutter of butterfly brilliance. It tickled past my skin, tingling over my face as I stepped inside.
Brandon and Katy had outdone themselves. Clearly the decorations they’d purchased from the Marketplace had gone to good use if the dancing stars and spiders on the ceiling were any indication. Up on the stage, Melanie was in usual form, belting out Rilo Kiley’s “Under the Blacklight” in her rich, throaty voice. A throng of masked dancers paid her court in a haze of graceful limbs and elegant movements.
I brushed the remainder of the silver sparkles away from my store-bought Pirate Wench costume (COMPLETE WITH GENUINE FAKE BOOTY!), my mouth curving into a smile as Talivar awkwardly took my elbow.
“Grrr. Argh,” I murmured at him, his one good eye rolling in a suffering sort of tolerance beneath his tricorne hat.
Much to his dismay I had let Sonja talk me into showing up after all, but for this one night the Hallows had a dress code. And not just any sort either. Glamours were strictly forbidden, leaving the OtherFolk to such mundane devices as Scotch tape and crepe paper.
Some of the results were rather unintentionally hilarious—elves dressed as accountants or pixies as IT consultants. The vampires in particular seemed to take great delight in strutting about with rubber stakes and mallets, pretending to be slayers. Brandon still sat behind the bar, decked out as a grandmother, of course. Katy wore a red cloak and big smile and not much else. Even Phin had gotten into the spirit of things, although I wasn’t entirely sure covering his body with bacon and calling himself a daemonic hors d’oeuvre really counted.
Talivar had taken my request without much more than a protesting grunt, but then, he already had an eye patch, so I figured a justacorp and hat wouldn’t be that much of an imposition. I caught the ghost of an occasional smile cracking that handsome veneer time and again, so I supposed he was loosening up at least a little bit.
A figure brushed by me, and I looked up to see the Gypsy stroll by, his arm linked gallantly through that of a pale woman. She was short and voluptuous, with fat black ringlets and ebony wings folded neatly against her back. Her laughing violet eyes glowed, and her generous mouth lifted in laughter. The sheer joy in his face reflected in hers as though she were the moon herself.
I felt a momentary twinge of envy. Brystion hadn’t come back, of course, though Sonja certainly had held up his end of the bargain well enough. Girlfriend was kicking my ass quite nicely as far as the Dreaming went. It was a bittersweet taming of my nightmares, but I can’t say I was completely unhappy with the arrangement. Trust and lust may rhyme perfectly well in the scheme of poetic definitions, but some days poetry just isn’t enough, and I’d had my fill of emotional wangst to last me for quite a while.
“Did you want to dance?” Talivar held his hand out with grave interest when Melanie started up a slightly maniacal rendition of Danse Macabre. I shrugged, surprised at the unexpected grace in his movements when he spun me out before leading me into a gentle waltz. Warrior-poet, indeed.
And if he caught the silhouette of a certain Captain Jack Sparrow prowling on the outermost edge of the crowd, he chose not to disclose it. My gaze met the other pirate’s, his eyes sparking gold for a moment and then he was gone, swallowed up in the haze and jumble of the other dancers.
A secret smile crept over my face as I watched the Gypsy lead his angel to the dance floor beside us. It seemed as though my friend had found what he was searching for, after all. And CrossRoads help me, one day so would I.
Run, Abby.”
Sonya’s warning slid around me with a wash of power. Startled, I shot up from where I huddled beneath a cluster of fallen logs, narrowly escaping a swipe of claws. I ducked, the sharpened talons slicing the air with a deadly whistle.
Grinding my teeth, I narrowed my eyes and concentrated, letting my own form shift. Small, furry, fast . . .
Hare.
The Dreaming rippled. I bounded away, sleek and long, haunches bunching and then springing forward, propelling me into the darkness. Sonja’s low growl of frustration echoed behind me. I didn’t know exactly what form she’d taken, but my rapidly twitching nose instantly recognized the acrid scent of something feline.
The urge to go to ground vibrated through my little body, but I pushed forward, leaves sliding beneath my paws. All around me were shadows, as my nails dug into the moist earth. The scenery blurred past in a haze of ragweed and pine trees, needles brushing my fur. I couldn’t hear Sonja anymore and I paused, my ears rotating to cup the darkness. The faintest breeze caught my attention, and I instinctively flattened against the grass as Sonja swooped past, this time in the form of a barred owl.
She wheeled, but I took off toward the tinkling stream nearby. Shedding the last vestige of the hare, I leapt towards the surface, my skin sluicing into scales as I slithered into the depths. My gills opened, sucking in the water, my pink salmon belly scraping the gravel.
“Good! Very good.” Sonja applauded from the banks. The succubus had shifted into her normal form, the blood-red feathers of her wings shining in the moonlight of the Dreaming. “You can come out now, Abby. I think that’s enough fo
r tonight.”
My tail flicked me through the current as I changed again, pulling together the part of what made me, me. Emerging from the water, I squeezed the drops from my hair and brushed it away from my face with my fingers. “I’m getting better.” I pulled the Dreaming around me until I was dressed in a pair of jeans and a shirt.
Sonja nodded cautiously. “You are, but you’re still barely tapping your potential.” She gestured around us with a hint of frustration. “These are your Dreams. You limit yourself to your own sense of physics. Becoming a rabbit was fine and you’ve certainly improved your shifting ability—but why not change the ground, or the trees? If you’re ever going to really, truly defeat your nightmares, you’re going to need more than just a few parlor tricks.”
“I don’t think that way. You know that. We’ve been through this how many times now?” I glanced down at my feet, watching the water flow over my toes before giving her a wan smile. “Have patience with me. I’m new to this.” One dark brow rose at me sourly, but she let the lie pass without comment. In truth it had been over six months . . . six very long months. She was frustrated, I was frustrated.
She sighed, looking at my woeful expression. “You’ll get there. You just need to concentrate.”
I waggled my nose. “Is that all there is to it, Endora?” My eyes narrowed as I stared at her, the power rushing through me, a thin rivulet of the Dreaming taking form in my mind.
Just a small change, perhaps.
The succubus glanced over her shoulder with a surprised laugh. Her scarlet wings now gleamed a brilliant purple. “Not bad,” she admitted, ruffling them with a shiver, a flush of crimson staining them back to their normal shade.
