(Moon 2) - Edge of the Moon

by Rebecca York

  He was the conqueror. But he was no enemy.

  They were two halves of one whole, each incomplete without the other. Anchoring her hands over his shoulders, she pressed her body against his to keep from swaying on her feet. She felt as if she had been caught unawares in a strong wind whipping off the ocean, so that staying upright depended on clinging to him. He seemed to have the same problem, because he braced his legs, leaning back against the marble wall. The effect equalized their heights as he slid his hands down her body and brought her aching center against the hard shaft of his erection.

  The contact felt exquisite, right.

  She had always been a sedate lover—afraid to reveal too much of herself. Now she slid her hips against him, reveling in the wonderful sensations the friction generated. But it wasn't enough. She needed more, needed to feel his hands on her.

  His thoughts seemed to follow hers, because he moved her upper body back a few inches, then gently cupped his big hand around one breast the way she'd imagined as she sat at her desk, wanting him.

  The scene in her office seemed like a dream now, and this was her new reality.

  "Oh!" Through the sheer fabric of her gown, the warmth and pressure of his hand felt wonderful. And when he found the tight bud of her nipple and began to play with it, she felt an arrow of pleasure shoot downward through her body, piercing her center.

  He slipped the narrow shoulders of her gown onto her upper arms, lowering the bodice. Pushing the fabric out of the way, he pressed his face against her breasts, turning his head first one way and then the other before finding one distended nipple with his tongue and then his mouth.

  She cried out, cupping her hands around his head, holding him to her, swaying slightly on her feet, pressing her sex against his erection.

  Nothing in her life had ever felt so good, yet she needed more. She needed him inside her, needed that with a desperation that took her breath away. And she could tell from his harsh breathing that his passion matched hers.

  A wayward thought skittered through her mind. What was he wearing under that Roman soldier's tunic? Was it like a Scottish kilt? If she pulled the fabric out of the way, would she find him bare, find his hot, distended penis?

  She was naked under her own gown. All she had to do was pull it up and out of the way. Then he could lift her, fit her body to his.

  SIMON stepped into the ceremonial chamber. His eyes skimmed over the woman, still dressed in her demure white gown, lying on the long wooden table. Earlier, he had brought her here from the cell next door. She was fixed to the table by leather straps that pulled her hands above her head and secured her feet.

  She was also drugged—sleeping. In this important ceremony, her terror would only be an interference. It might break his concentration, and concentration was essential for success tonight.

  The room had the feel of a sheltered, secret cave. Around the perimeter, set on pedestals, were seven candelabras. Each had seven arms holding seven slender, scented tapers. Walking to the closest one, he murmured an incantation as he touched a glowing light to each of the seven tapers before proceeding to the next pedestal.

  When all the candles were lit, he crossed to the serving table and discarded his only garment, his black silk pants, hanging them neatly on a bar at the end of the table.

  Then, picking up a crystal pitcher, he raised it high and poured the water into a silver bowl, listening intently to the gurgle of the liquid, like a mountain brook flowing over smooth, moonlit stones.

  Cleaning his body was a simple ritual, but nonetheless important for his success. Everything must be done in order; everything must be done correctly.

  First he wet his hands and wrists. Next he poured the water up his arms, across the network of scars on his smooth white chest, and onto the taut column of his neck. Then he splashed water downward, feeling his excitement grow as the cool water dripped onto his penis.

  He was aroused, primed for action, excitement pulsing through his veins.

  When he had dried himself with a towel, he picked up the white stick of chalk and stooped. With swift, sure strokes, he drew the magic circle on the slate floor, enclosing himself, keeping him safe from harm.

  His eyes smoky now, he stood for several heartbeats, filling his lungs with deep drafts of the thick perfume from the candles while he stroked his penis, building his power, enjoying the mixture of arousal and anticipation.

  The room blurred, and his head jerked up sharply. For just a moment, he felt the touch of another presence.

  Impossible. Not within the protective circle. Yet his eyes searched the shadows beyond the glow of the candles. For one terrifying moment, he sensed an entity crouching in the corner, a mass of darkness darker than the floor and curtains.

  It was the demon. Waiting for him to make some mistake.

  But there would be no mistake tonight. He was in control—of himself, of the ceremony. And the demon couldn't really be here. Not yet. Could he?

  Carefully he checked the circle. It was intact. Then, ruthlessly, he shut out everything besides the steps he must take to establish his domination over the demon.

  First he crossed to the serving table, unfolded the silk cloth, and pulled out the silver knife. Then he walked to the long table. Delicately he inserted the tip of the knife into the white fabric of the dress, cutting a line down the middle of the bodice. With the flat side of the blade, he moved the fabric apart, exposing the woman's creamy, breasts.

  Nice breasts, he thought, enjoying the view, pretending for a moment that it was Kathryn Reynolds stretched out on the table.

  It would have been nice to have her here. But he didn't need it to be her. Any man or woman would do. His victims were not for his physical enjoyment. They were only an instrument to complete the ceremony.

  Taking a step back, he began to chant the words he had memorized. The words that would bind the demon to his will at the climax of the ceremony.

  His voice was loud and precise. He spoke the first part of the ceremony in Greek, in accordance with ancient ritual, then switched to English.

  I have captured your name.

  Ayindral.

  I will capture your essence.

  I will capture your power.

  Ayindral.

  I call you to my will.

  Ayindral.

  Ayindral.

  I command you to obey.

  One hand stroked his throbbing erection as it stood out like a staff from his body; the other hand raised the silver knife.

  Once more he stepped to the table. One hand still pleasured himself, the other raised the knife for the killing stroke—aiming for the heart of his sacrificial victim.

  But as he brought the knife down, an unexpected image flashed into his head. An image that was none of his doing.

  It was a man and a woman standing at the edge of a small marble amphitheater. From their dress and the setting, it looked like a scene that could only have taken place hundreds of years ago.

  Yet there was an immediacy to the tableau that riveted him. He focused on the woman's red hair.

  Patience. Patience all grown up and with her lover.

  He couldn't see her features clearly. The man's head was in the way. But he saw the passionate kiss. Saw hands stroking. Heard moans of pleasure as they aroused each other to a fever pitch.

  He strove to dislodge the vagrant scene from his mind. It had nothing to do with him. No place in this room. No place in the ceremony.

  Yet the vision compelled him, broke his concentration. And he knew the demon had thrust it into his mind. The words of the chant faltered, even as he realized that it was too late to fight off his own orgasm. He tried desperately to pull himself back from the brink, but the inevitable happened.

  Sexual climax overtook him, made his body jerk with the familiar ecstasy of release, yet he knew at the moment when his hot seed spurted onto the table and onto the white dress that he had failed.

  The knife had missed its mark, missed the woman's he
art. But she was wounded. And his only alternative was to finish her off.

  A howl of rage rose in his throat, reverberating off the curtained walls of the ceremonial chamber.

  He had been so sure of victory. But in that terrible moment, he knew to the depths of his soul that the demon had outsmarted him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  « ^ »

  JACK FELT KATHRYN sliding her hand up his inner thigh. One minute he was waiting with quivering anticipation for her fingers to clasp his aching cock. In the next, he was clamping his hand on top of hers, stopping her upward progress. "Don't."

  Her eyes blinked open. The pupils were dark and dilated, the effect sexy and arousing.

  But he could see confusion warring with sensuality—mirroring the emotions that clashed within himself.

  He shook his head, striving to clear the sexual fog from his brain. "Something. Something's happening," he managed, speaking between panting breaths.

  His gaze focused on her breasts. They were beautiful, the coral-colored nipples tight, the skin flushed. It took all his self-control to gently pull the bodice of her dress back into place.

  She didn't move as he took a step to the side, pressing his shoulders against the smooth marble behind him, staring at her across three feet of charged space.

  "Jack?" she whispered again. "What was that? What just happened?"

  "I don't know! Didn't you feel something? A vibration? A change in the air?" When he said it aloud, it sounded insubstantial.

  He saw her swallow. "Yes."

  With part of his mind, he ached to close the space between himself and the beautiful woman staring at him with large, worried eyes, pull her back into his arms, and finish what they'd started. But he thought that if he did what he wanted, he would be falling into a trap.

  Set by whom? Kathryn? Or some outside force that had been poking its busy fingers into his life for the past few days?

  Frustration made him run a shaky hand through his hair.

  Her face seemed to echo his own uncertainty.

  "This is a dream," she said in a halting voice looking from him to their surroundings and back again. "We can do anything we want. Things we both want. Can't we?"

  He blinked, reached down to press his palm against the marble, warmed by the sun but cooling now. It felt so real, so solid. More detailed and real than any dream he could remember in his life.

  Then he looked down at the costume he was wearing. It was like something out of a Roman epic. Kathryn, too, was dressed like she'd recently come from central casting.

  "Why are we dressed like this? Why are we in this place?" he pressed.

  Slowly she shook her head. Her voice grew stronger as she asked, "Do you know where we are?"

  "No."

  "Come here." She beckoned, and he followed. He would have followed her anywhere.

  She led him around the corner, into a small marble amphitheater. It looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't figure out the context. Behind the last rounded wall he saw a bush with feathery leaves and pink flowers. Beyond that was a jewel-blue sea sparkling in the sunshine.

  "California?" he asked uncertainly, trying to put the scene into some familiar context.

  She laughed. "I don't think so. Remember the Alma-Tadema painting you admired at my house?"

  He did remember, and suddenly realization dawned. "We're in the painting!"

  "Yes."

  "Both of us," he said.

  "So whose dream is this?"

  "Mine," she said. "I'm thinking and feeling this."

  "So am I. And I'm thinking this is edging into The Twilight Zone. Do you remember going to bed—falling asleep?"

  "Yes."

  He watched her carefully, feeling his chest tighten. This was a dream, yet they shared the reality. And he realized that there was one big advantage in this fantasy world. He could ask questions that wouldn't pass his lips in Montgomery County, Maryland. "Are you a witch?" he blurted. "Did you draw me here with some kind of magic spell?"

  She gave a small laugh. "I told you, I'm a graphic artist and a publicist."

  "You could still be a witch."

  "What, exactly, do you mean by that? Do you think I use that little magic wand to work spells?"

  "Do you?" he pressed.

  "Of course not."

  "Do you have special powers? Can you do things that other people can't? Manipulate the physical world?"

  She tipped her head to one side, looking like she was giving his question careful consideration. "I don't think so. I never have. At least as far as I know."

  "Should I believe you?" He was desperate to get at the truth.

  She had taken her lower lip between her teeth, then eased up the pressure. "Why shouldn't you?"

  "Because"—he gestured toward his tunic—"despite this outlandish getup, I'm a red-blooded American cop. Early twenty-first century. And I don't have any other way to explain what's happening to me."

  "To us!"

  He tried to read her tense features. Her eyes told him she was telling the truth. If he could believe his own observations. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe he was too off-balance.

  He dragged in a breath, let it out slowly. "I'm sorry. I'm a little tense here."

  "Make that two of us."

  The broken sound of her voice and the pain in her eyes tore at him. His own anxiety was making him push her—press her for answers she didn't have.

  He reached for her then, folding her into his arms, wanting to hold on to her even as he restrained the impulse to take up where they'd left off.

  She moved her head against his shoulder. "Okay—if you want honesty, when I saw you here, all I could think of was making love with you. The way I've been thinking about it since I first laid eyes on you. Then you stopped us, and my mind kicked back into gear. Now I'm scared."

  "Me, too," he heard himself admitting. So much for his solid macho image.

  "What's happening to us? And what do we do about it?"

  "I don't know," he answered. Then an idea struck him. He set her a little away from himself, then took the top of his left hand between the thumb and finger of the right hand. When he squeezed, it hurt.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Seeing if I can feel pain."

  "Didn't you feel pleasure? When we were kissing and touching?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then why not pain?"

  He shrugged, already thinking about another experiment. Jack Thornton, boy scientist! "If one of us gets hurt here, will the injury exist in the real world?"

  She gave a little shudder. "What a thought."

  He surveyed the scene, looking around for something to use. When he peered over the wall, he saw several sharp stones lying on the dark soil. There was about a yard of ground between the wall and the edge of the cliff. He vaulted over, staying away from the edge.

  Kathryn was leaning over the wall, her eyes large with alarm. "Be careful."

  "I am." Stooping, he picked up one of the stones and pressed it against the outside of his arm three inches below the elbow.

  "Don't!"

  Ignoring her, he made a small scratch. "Let's see if I have it when I wake up."

  "How could you?"

  "Why not? Everything else here is—different from a normal dream." He squeezed the rock in his hand, feeling the solid mass and the sharp edges. He tossed it into the air, watched it plummet downward, then disappear into the water far below. Straining his ears, he thought he heard the small splash.

  As he turned back to the marble lounge, he found Kathryn's eyes fixed on him. He looked from her to the top of the wall. The ground was lower on this side, and he decided he couldn't make it over gracefully. So he walked around the end and stepped back into the marble structure.

  Kathryn swept her skirt under her and arranged herself gracefully on the curved bench, looking at him with a challenge in her eyes. "Now what?" she asked.

  He sat down on the hard surface and leaned back, careful to keep several feet of
space between them. He'd been out of his mind with lust for her a few minutes ago. Now he thought he had some objectivity back.

  "Now we exchange some information," he said, hoping his voice conveyed that they were back to business.

  "Like what?"

  "Like you tell me something I don't know about you. And I tell you something about me. And tomorrow, we see if we were both really here."

  She lifted her head and looked at him. "So—are you divorced?"

  His chest tightened. "My wife was killed in an automobile accident."

  Her face registered surprise and compassion. "I'm so sorry."

  "I'm coping. It's been almost three years."

  "You said you have a daughter."

  "Lily. And a son, Craig. Lily is seven and Craig is nine."

  "Yesterday you only mentioned your daughter. That must be tough, taking care of two children."

  "I have a housekeeper. She's a godsend."

  She studied his face. "You look… upset. Did something bad happen?"

  "Lily went missing yesterday afternoon."

  "Oh! Is she all right?"

  "It was only for an hour. I found her."

  "I'm glad."

  He nodded, remembering his panic, suddenly wondering what it would have been like if Kathryn had been by his side, sharing the worry. He could have leaned on her strength, because if there was anything he sensed about her, it was strength.

  He caught himself up short. He'd just met this woman. He didn't know if she was involved in the disappearance of her tenant. He certainly couldn't trust her. Not on any level.

  Especially since the two of them were sitting here in this fantasy setting, having a conversation that would go over just fine during social hour in a mental institution.

  Hi. I'm Jack. I think I'm a Roman general. And you? Are you a vestal virgin? Or something else?

  "You've got a strange expression on your face," she commented.