(Moon 2) - Edge of the Moon

by Rebecca York

  She looked at the wand she was having so much fun manipulating, and gave a short bark of a laugh. It was a hard plastic rod about twelve inches long, and it felt good in her hand. A penis substitute?

  Was that why she'd been playing with the thing so consistently since he'd been here?

  There was no one else around to see her blush, but that didn't stop her cheeks from growing warm. With a shake of her head, she put the thing down. But when she picked up her Koosh Ball, her former favorite toy, and started bouncing it in her hand, the tactile experience was much less satisfying.

  Before she could cancel the idea, she moved the ball to one end of the wand and added a similar sized rounded glass paperweight next to it.

  Giggling, she stared at her handiwork. A penis and testicles! It had been a long time since she'd indulged in anything so silly. She felt like a little kid drawing dirty pictures on the sidewalk with chalk.

  With kids, it was just a naughty impulse. On an adult level, she was able to think in more concrete terms. Like, the wand would make a pretty good dildo. With stimulating ridges spiraling up the side. Of course, it wasn't all that big in diameter. Probably Jack's penis was a lot thicker. At least she hoped it was a lot thicker.

  Because that would feel so good when it was inside her.

  She sucked in a sharp breath, then pressed her palms over her face. Good God, what was wrong with her?

  The direction of her thoughts was so out of character that she was almost unable to believe she was behaving this way.

  Since when was sex the only thing she could think about? Since she'd met Jack Thornton.

  She sat very still, lowering her hands to grip the arms of her chair, because the notion had leaped into her mind that reaching up and cupping her breasts would feel very good right now. Not just cupping them, playing with her nipples that had suddenly gotten hard. Her eyes drifted closed as she imagined Jack Thornton's hands on her. They were large hands, strong hands. But she decided they might be gentle when he caressed a woman. She let herself slip farther into the fantasy, one hand lifting to brush back and forth across a taut nipple.

  A small moan escaped her lips.

  With a grimace she snapped her eyes open, then pushed her chair away from the desk and stood up, knowing that it would be a very good idea to stop thinking about Detective Thornton touching her, making love to her.

  Trying to be as objective as possible, she examined that thought, too. It wasn't just sex she wanted. Not just temporary gratification—although sexual arousal had certainly been heating up her body since yesterday. She was also picturing herself waking up next to the man every morning. Sitting across the breakfast table. Stepping into the role of mother to his daughter.

  The fantasy had crept up on her when she'd looked at the ceramic animals. Now she was adding to it, and she knew the daydream was totally unrealistic. Not least because she was sure that she and Jack Thornton had rubbed each other the wrong way during their one meeting. He'd acted like she was a suspect, and that had made her feel defensive. Or was she reading more into the interview than she should?

  She gave a mental shrug. What she needed was something else to occupy her mind, now that she'd sorted through the storage closet. Like maybe going down to Heather's apartment and searching for clues.

  As soon as she thought about Heather, she felt guilty. She'd met Detective Thornton because she was worried about her friend. She was still worried. And she wasn't going to let her fantasies wipe out her sense of responsibility.

  Grabbing the key, she unlocked the door to the inside stairway, then walked rapidly down to Heather's apartment. Once inside, she stood in the dim light, seeing the place the way Jack had seen it. It was pretty messy, and she knew that had prejudiced him against Heather.

  She brought herself up short. She hadn't come here to reflect on how Heather's lifestyle struck Jack Thornton. She'd come here to try and find something that would help the police.

  Systematically, she began moving her hands through drawers, feeling clothing that had been thrown inside without being folded. Jack had found the porn magazines and the book in one of Heather's underwear drawers. Kathryn found something else stuffed in between a couple of tee shirts. Something that felt weird.

  Gingerly she drew out a plastic bag containing a rectangle of what looked like off-white construction paper. As she turned it in the light, she saw that one side was covered with a series of small yellow squares, each with a picture of a cartoon character in the middle. Each colored picture was about a quarter of an inch in diameter. There were thirty of them on the sheet. And places where she could see that several more had been torn off.

  She'd never seen anything like it before, and she didn't know what it was. But she was pretty sure it was something that Heather didn't want anyone to find.

  She sniffed at the stuff. It didn't have any odor. She used her fingernail to scratch at a picture, and some of the paper fibers came off. She thought about lifting her finger toward her mouth, then checked herself.

  No. Better not taste it. She slipped it back into the plastic bag.

  So was this something that she should report to Jack Thornton? Something that had to do with Heather's disappearance?

  Or was she looking for an excuse to hear the detective's voice?

  She didn't know the answer to that. But she did think she had an obligation to tell him what she'd found.

  Back in her apartment, she shoved the plastic bag into her middle desk drawer, retrieved the business card from yesterday, and dialed his number.

  "This is Jack Thornton," his deep voice began, and she felt her heart leap inside her chest.

  "I'm out of the office right now, but if you'll leave a message, I'll get right back to you. If you need immediate assistance, you can press one to have this call transferred."

  She hung up, reluctant to leave a message and wondering if his absence was a sign that she wasn't supposed to tell him about this stuff—whatever it was.

  A sign?

  It wasn't like her to look for signs and portents. But then, a lot of things she'd done recently weren't like her. Particularly spending a lot of time thinking about a man she barely knew and one she hadn't exactly met under friendly circumstances. And then looking for excuses to talk to him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  « ^ »

  THE DANGER GREW, like a large black hole opening wider and wider in the fabric of his universe. He could feel it with a sickening pull that brought primal fear bubbling within him. He had never endured this kind of assault. Never feared for his very existence. And he had miscalculated—expended too much of his energy on manipulating the physical world. Stopping time.

  The second instance had been justified. He had done it to save Jack Thornton from the dog's fangs. He needed Thornton. It was too late to find another man.

  But the first manifestation—when the man and woman had stood in the doorway facing each other—that had been a mere trick. A way of making a point. And now he regretted the effort it had taken.

  He was weakened. He needed to regenerate. But he felt wings of fear beating… beating…

  He must act—soon. And the woman was the key. She had always been the key.

  WITH a sense of momentous purpose, Simon stepped into the ceremonial chamber.

  The time was close, so close, and he was ready. He stood for a moment, enjoying the feeling of power surging within his body. Through the silk of his black pants, he slid his hand along the hard shaft of his penis, allowing the arousal to build as he gazed admiringly at the details of the chamber he had created. Simply coming here made him pulse with power, but there was more than mere pleasure involved. Much more.

  When he'd bought the house, the chamber had been an ordinary basement recreation room. Now it was completely transformed. From floor to ceiling, along the walls and over the small windows, hung yards of gathered fabric. It was black, as was the slate tile on the floor. The room was designed to insulate him from the world. Yet he could st
ill cast his own destructive power outward. And he would soon, very soon. After the sun had set.

  Deliberately he let his hand drop to his side, exercising the discipline that was such an important part of his demeanor. Without discipline he had nothing. Sexual satisfaction was a poor goal in itself. It must be nurtured, rationed, used to achieve his ultimate objective.

  He stood for a moment, moving his shoulders and arms, loosening the muscles; enjoying the feeling of strength that had already begun to build inside him.

  The universe was like a vast ocean. An ocean with great invisible tides. Most people were simply swept along helter-skelter by forces they could never hope to control. Forces they didn't even comprehend.

  But some were brave and clever enough to master the cold, black currents that rose from the depths of the universal ocean. He was such a man. A man who could make others bend to the strength of his will.

  He walked to the long wooden table, checking the leather ankle and wrist straps attached to the sides.

  Beside the long table was a smaller surface, bare except for a folded rectangle of purest white silk. With reverence he slipped his hand inside and gently removed a small dagger. It was very old and very rare, the handle beautifully worked with old Celtic signs. He had found it at an antique shop in Dublin, and from his research, he had known at once what it was—a ceremonial dagger from the time of the Golden Dawn.

  It was expensive. But he had gladly paid the price the dealer was asking.

  As he turned the weapon in his hand, he admired the balance, the workmanship, the long, tapered line of the blade. It was narrow and delicate, like a woman's finger turned to silver. He pressed his thumb against the point until it pierced the flesh, welcoming the sharp pain as a red drop welled up.

  Raising his finger to his mouth, he sucked the sweet, thick blood. His own essence. A small sacrifice.

  A prelude.

  KATHRYN stretched her arms above her head, then reached to massage the tension in the back of her neck. It was almost midnight, and she'd been at the computer most of today and yesterday, feeling like she was getting very little done. But as she brought up the text and graphics on the monitor, she conceded that the Sunrise Realty brochure had worked out better than she'd expected. She wasn't claiming that the design was her best work. But it was the best she was going to do in any kind of reasonable time frame. She'd already put in about five extra hours that she wasn't going to charge to Sunrise.

  Now she was exhausted. It wasn't simply a physical weariness. It was emotional as well.

  Three days had passed since she'd reported Heather as a missing person—and her friend hadn't shown up, hadn't called.

  With a sigh, she pushed back her chair and stood. But once she was on her feet, it was all she could do to drag herself down the hall to the bathroom, use the toilet, wash her hands and face, and brush her teeth.

  She left her jeans in a heap on the braided rug, then tottered across the floor and fell into bed.

  Sleep seemed to tug at her with an unnatural eagerness. It claimed her moments after her head hit the pillow.

  Her slumber was instantly deep. And only minutes passed before a dream sank its needle-sharp claws into her.

  She cried out in her sleep. One moment she was warm and safe in her bed. In the next, she was somewhere else entirely.

  Nowhere familiar. Not at all.

  Her eyes blinked open. She was in some strange land of swirling, gray mist that obscured her vision and made her feel like she was breathing in water when she tried to drag air into her lungs.

  It was cold in this place, cold as a cavern deep inside an iceberg. Perhaps that image came to her because she felt immense weight pressing against her, weight that made it impossible for her to stand erect.

  Terror gripped her by the throat, muffling the scream that rose within her soul.

  There was no color here. No sound. No solid ground below her feet or sky above her head. And she knew with a terrible jolt of insight that if she stayed here, she would lose her sense of self.

  Lord, she had to get away. Had to escape.

  Desperately, she forced herself to stumble forward with no idea where she was going. It was hard to walk, let alone run. Her bare feet sank into a thick, spongy surface that shifted dangerously each time she took a step. But fear kept her moving—not simply fear of the environment. Somewhere off to the side, she sensed a presence beside her, keeping pace with her, a presence so terrifying that it robbed her of what breath she had left.

  The thing had no body. No form. It was just a huge, indefinite bulk that might swallow her whole if she allowed it to catch her.

  She gasped, choked, turned her head away like a child afraid of monsters in the dark, trying to pretend that the thing in the mist was simply a construct of her imagination. But she knew she could never have conjured up the monster or this place on her own.

  Her eyes stung as though someone had thrown acid in her face. Squeezing her lids tightly shut, she staggered blindly forward, each labored breath more choking than the one before. Her lungs burned like fire. Her heart drummed in her chest. And the pulse pounding in her head was like the roar of giant waves crashing on a rocky shore.

  Confused, disoriented, she knew only one thing for sure. This land was not meant for human beings. It would kill her—soon. She understood that much as she doggedly put one foot in front of the other, sinking farther into the stuff below her feet with every step she took.

  Then her toe hit something hard, something that felt alien in this place of bog and mist.

  She yelped in pain and surprise—and also relief—as she staggered forward onto a blessedly fiat surface that held her weight.

  After the place of cold, swirling nothingness, the feel of solid ground and the warmth around her were gifts almost beyond bearing.

  Her eyes snapped open. Reaching out a shaky hand, she found and gripped a low, solid wall as she dragged in a breath of clear, pure air. Sunlight streamed around her with the clarity of a bright summer day.

  A deep sigh of relief flowed from her throat. Bending her head, she slid her fingers over the wall, caressing smooth marble, seeing the slight variation in the polished stone and the joints where the large blocks butted against each other.

  The stone was warm from the sun. Smiling, she raised her gaze, and saw the pink blossoms of an oleander bush several yards away. The lower half of the bush was partially hidden by the backrest of a wide, circular bench, at the top of a structure that looked rather like a small stadium. No, not a stadium—a lounge; she suddenly remembered the name.

  As she looked around at the silent scene, she thought vaguely that there should be two young women seated on the bench. One dark-haired and the other with red hair much like her own. But they were absent.

  Beyond the bench and the bush, she saw the sparkling blue of the sea and the lighter blue of the sky.

  This place was not in Rockville, Maryland. Not in the United States, she was pretty sure. And yet it was so achingly familiar that she wanted to weep with gladness.

  "Under the roof of blue Ionian weather," she murmured. As she mouthed the words, she suddenly realized where she had gazed on this scene before.

  The painting.

  It was as if she had stepped into the picture that she and Detective Thornton had looked at together.

  The sun was hot, and she ran her hand along her arm. It was bare, and she looked down to see she was wearing a sheer, sleeveless gown that cupped her breasts and draped gracefully around her legs.

  Part of her knew that she was dreaming. Yet no dream had ever seemed this real, this vivid.

  Because her fair skin had always burned easily, she stepped into a shaded marble walkway leading to a part of the lounge that was hidden from the viewer of the painting. Moving forward, she peeked around the corner and saw another long marble walkway. Every few feet, slender columns were topped with vertical wooden pieces covered with gracefully trailing vines.

  A flash of moveme
nt caught her eye. Far down the outdoor corridor she saw a man striding toward her. He was dressed like a Roman general, in a short, belted tunic and leather sandals. His hair was dark; his bare legs, muscular. His face was in shadow, but she didn't need to see his features to know it was Jack Thornton.

  She hadn't seen him since he'd come to her house to ask about Heather. Yet he'd invaded her thoughts so often that it felt like almost no time had passed since she'd been with him.

  "Kathryn!" he shouted, breaking into a run, then stopping abruptly in front of her, his breath coming hard and fast.

  From running? Or from the same reaction she was feeling?

  She sighed his name, and it was the most natural thing in the world for her to open her arms to him. He reached for her at the same time, gathered her in; and she felt as if she'd finally come home to her long-lost lover, after wandering for centuries in the wilderness.

  She was swamped by a raft of sensations. The feel of his hard muscles. The subtle scent of his body. And then his mouth came down on hers, the contact with his lips exquisite and erotic. Waves of heat seemed to come off of him, heat that made her own temperature rise in response.

  In that moment, she knew that she was his, now and until the moon and stars dropped from the skies and the seas boiled away.

  He was good at kissing. She found that out at once. He nibbled at her mouth, gauging her response before increasing the pressure, taking her lower lip between his teeth, then easing up so that she made a small sound of protest, begging for more.

  He drew back, his eyes meeting hers, silently asking how much she wanted.

  "All of you," she breathed, knowing it was the truth.

  He held her gaze for a long, charged moment, then dipped his head again, his arms tightening around her as he took the level from erotic to mind-blowing in the space of heartbeats. He tangled his ringers in her hair, angling her mouth, making demands that she was happy to grant, swirling his tongue over the sensitive inner tissue of her lips, then probing more deeply, claiming possession as though she were an ancient princess captured by his Roman legions—and his for the taking.