by Dianna Hardy
She nodded. She didn't much care if she never saw it again, but something told her that wouldn't be the case.
She cuddled up closer to him. “So … what d'you wanna do now?” she asked, coyly.
Amusement crossed his features. “Don't tell me you're ready to go again?”
“Of course I am.”
“Well, I'm spent.”
“Liar – you're glowing already.”
“Damn glow … hey, wanna see something cool?”
“Always.”
He rolled her on her back, and lay on top of her. “I learned how to do it today … Ready?”
She nodded.
Wings erupted from his back.
She squealed in delight! “Oh, my … they're beautiful!”
She meant it. They were enormous, the feathers mostly white, but they shimmered a light blue whenever the light caught them.
He stretched them full, and she gasped. They reached from one end of the living room to another.
There was a crash as he knocked something over.
“Oh,” he grimaced. “That better not have been the Byzantine vase.”
Elena was in awe, still staring.
“You like?”
“Oh yes.”
“I can't wait to learn how to fly – I can't wait to take you flying,” he smiled.
“In the meantime...” She shifted beneath him, rubbing her body against his.
He leaned down and kissed her, pulling his wings back in.
“No,” she whispered. “Leave them out … please.”
“Kinky.”
She laughed. “You've seen all of my demon – I want to see all of your angel.”
He rubbed her nose with his.
Her mind flashed back to Saturday night, when he'd done the same thing, both of them lying on the couch of their now ruined flat. Had that only been six days ago?
Guilt rode her once again, as she suddenly thought of that poor man who had lived in the basement flat. Another death she was responsible for … she'd only spoken to him a couple of times...
Then she found herself wrapped up in Karl's glow, it washing away any dark feeling harbouring within her.
“All of me belongs to you Elena – it always has.”
Her eyes welled up and he kissed her again.
Elena looked up at his wings, thought of that butterfly once more, and smiled.
~*~
She stood in the middle of the desert, shivering. It was so cold – she couldn't believe how cold it was, and she wondered why it was, because the sun was beating down on her. She should have been sweating and blistering, not trying to fight off hypothermia.
Instinctively, she looked for what she knew would keep her warm. Where was it? Where was it when she needed it? And then she caught sight of the huge, black cat, its coat wondrous, and glossy like silk; its eyes yellow and strong.
“Hey,” she called out, softly, extending her hand. If she could just touch it, if she could just hold it, she'd be warm, and she'd be safe … and she wouldn't be alone anymore.
“Here, kitty.”
The panther's tongue lolled out, as if it was pleased to see her, its amber eyes glinting in the sunlight.
It was so close now...
And then the snow leopard attacked. She screamed at the panther to get away, but she was too late, and the leopard landed on its back, claws and teeth ripping. Blood matted both their coats, and she sat frozen to the spot. She'd always be cold now – if the panther died, she'd always be cold.
The leopard turned towards her, leaving the panther writhing on the sand in pain. She wanted to reach it, hold it, but her shivering was uncontrollable and prevented any steady movement. The leopard stood over her now, emitting no warmth, and looking hungry.
Maybe it's going to eat me, she thought.
Instead it sniffed at her neck, rolled its tongue out and licked her face. She would have thought it was an act of care if she hadn't felt so cold; nevertheless, she was surprised. She reached out as slowly as she could. Maybe she could trust it … maybe—
It slashed her arm with its claw, and she screamed, staring in horror at the bleeding gash on her wrist.
Then the leopard jumped on her with its huge paws, pushing her backwards onto the sand. It towered over her, baring its teeth...
Oh, my God … it is going to eat me...
She awoke from the same nightmare for the third night in a row, her sheets damp and twisted around her waist, a scream lodged in her throat, tears matting her hair to her face.
She struggled for breath, taking a while to realise she wasn't stranded out in some desert, but here, in this room – this room she didn't know. She had no recollection of anything, no memory of who she was, what she did – she hadn't even remembered what she looked like until she'd seen herself in the mirror, for what may as well have been the first time, just three days ago. She winced slightly, as pain made itself known to her, and realised she was clutching at her wounded wrist. It had bled a little again, a bit of red seeping through the bandages. She had been told, she tried to commit suicide. She wished she could remember.
She scrambled off the bed and looked in the mirror again, hoping desperately to jog some kind of memory, anything familiar, anything at all...
There was nothing.
The odd thing was, in the dream, she always seemed to know who she was – she could never get at her name, but she knew who she was within herself. She had a life and a purpose, and she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it had to do with the black panther. Somehow, that cat existed in real life, and she had to find it.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” she croaked out.
A head of dark brown hair appeared between the door and frame.
“Are you all right? I heard movement.”
“Paul … I'm fine, thank you.”
He came in anyway … which irritated her a little.
“Are you sure? You're still healing...”
“It was just a bad dream.”
“The same one as before?”
She sighed, wishing she'd never told him about the nightmare the first time she'd had it. But he was all she knew now. Her first memory of this new life, which may as well be her first memory ever, was Paul. The man who had found her three days ago, and saved her from killing herself.
“I … I'm sorry, Paul, I just don't really want to talk about it.”
“Of course, Elizabeth, I understand.”
Elizabeth. Really?
The name sounded so foreign to her. He'd told her that was her name. Paul was, apparently, her husband. But the name sounded wrong, it felt wrong that she was married, and the ring weighing down her finger also felt wrong.
To Paul's credit, he'd given her her own room and left her to her own devices. Thank God. She wasn't ready to get personal with someone she couldn't remember.
“Thanks for checking, though,” she smiled.
He smiled back, hesitated, then leaned in and gave her a quick hug.
She didn't flinch, only because she'd practised how not to over the past few days. But every time he touched her, she felt a chill right through to her bone.
He left the room and shut the door behind him.
She made her way to the window, knowing she'd never be able to get back to sleep, and looked out over the scenery. She was greeted by snow-capped mountains, deep green valleys, and misty blue lakes. They spanned all around her. At any other time, or maybe in the lifetime that she couldn't remember, she would have found it all breathtakingly beautiful. Right now, she found it cold and lonely. It made her feel trapped. She longed for the sand and sun from her dreams … and the panther – she longed for him too.
Him?
Yes – it felt like a 'he'.
“Where are you?” she whispered out the window, wondering if some kind of magic could carry that whisper over the mountains to whatever lay beyond. Maybe he would hear her, if she believed hard enough...
&
nbsp; “Where are you?”
Book Two: The Sands Of Time
For my readers and fans.
Thanks for wanting to know
what happens next.
Prologue
She ran through the woods, her blonde hair billowing out behind her, her little bare feet naturally feeling their way through nature's soft carpet, as if she'd been brought up by the very creatures that lived upon it.
"Young lady, you get back here right now!"
Ooops – Mummy was angry with her. She didn't like it when she went running off. She tried to obey, she really did, but it was a pull, a tug within her heart that shouted at her to follow, more strongly than Mummy shouted at her to stop. Maybe if they didn't live so near to the woods…
"@#!!*#!" Mummy cried out her name, fury evident in her voice.
Confused, the girl suddenly stopped. With a frown she turned and watched her mummy catch up with her.
"@#!!*#! How dare you! You know you shouldn't go running off into the woods. This isn't safe countryside, these are ancient woods … @#!!*#!, are you listening to me?"
There – there it was again. The girl's lip trembled with a sudden fear that sprang up out of nowhere. "Mummy, what's my name?"
"Don't be so silly, you know what your name is, and don't even try to get out of your punishment."
Hot tears stung just behind her eyes. "Mummy, please say my name," she pleaded.
"Fine! @#!!*#! There you go, does that make you feel better?"
The tears began to fall. Something was very, very wrong.
"Mummy, what's my name?"
A smack landed on her bottom, followed by a firm grip on her arm, trailing her back towards the clearing she'd run from. "Now you're just being naughty. You're five years old, @#!!*#!, it's time to grow up a little – start behaving like a big girl."
Sobs erupted from her throat, but it had nothing to do with her mummy being angry with her. Every time Mummy said her name, something funny happened to her ears and she couldn't understand what she was saying. She looked up and tried to focus on her lips.
"Mummy…"
"Crying isn't going to do you any good, @#!!*#! You're old enough to know that it's dangerous to go running off."
The fear she felt now cascaded throughout her little body, causing her to tremble all over. Her legs seized up and she stumbled forwards and fell, crying out in pain as the hand on her arm gripped her tighter.
"Get up! @#!!*#!, get up this instant!"
But fear had her paralysed. Why was there something wrong with her ears? Why did her Mummy's mouth go blurry every time she said her name?
"@#!!*#! @#!!*#!, get up now!"
She tried to get her legs to work, but they were ignoring her – she couldn't move them for the trembling and she suddenly felt very cold.
A shadow crossed her face. She looked up expecting to see a cloud passing over the sun, but the sun was still shining as strongly as ever.
What's my name? screamed a voice in her head. What's my name?!
A low growl sounded out from somewhere to the left.
"@#!!*#! @#!!*#! Are you listening to me?"
No, she wasn't. The growl had her full attention. She turned to find the source of it and locked gaze with a huge, black cat. Strangely, a sense of peace overcame her, the trembling ceased and the shadow passed.
Instinctively knowing she could, she reached out to the cat with her thoughts. I don't know my name, she told it.
I know, it replied, its mind, joining with hers. But time is running out … you need to remember....
Elizabeth awoke with a start, a gasp leaving her lips, her heart thumping wildly in her ears.
Well, she thought, wryly, at least I'm not screaming myself awake this time.
Disgruntled, she sat up in bed, noting that it was barely six o'clock in the morning. This was starting to become a bad habit. Every night, dreams plagued her, terrifying her, yet making her feel more alive than she ever was when awake. Every morning she scrambled to put together pieces of her dreams before they disappeared.
With her good hand, she reached for the pen and notepad that she kept hidden under her bed, ignoring the weeping bandage around her left wrist, and focusing solely on the dream before it faded altogether. She remembered the cat. It – or 'he', as she'd already labelled it – had a starring role in every single one of her dreams. Not that that was helping her with regaining her memory.
Looking down at the pad, she surveyed the few words she'd written:
Mother was a bit harsh
I like the woods
I like nature?
Ancient woods are dangerous – why?
With a sigh of defeat, she realised that her mother's face – if it even was her mother – was already blurring in her mind. Flipping back a page, she looked at what she'd written the previous morning:
I like the desert
Or maybe I like sand (I wonder if I like the beach?)
Something makes me feel cold
The panther makes me feel warm
The panther is a friend
The snow leopard is bad
The snow leopard wants to kill the panther
The snow leopard wants to kill me (?)
With a shudder, she suddenly felt grateful that particular cat hadn't made a dream appearance last night.
Staring at the words that meant nothing to her, she felt her anger surge. "God, none of this is helping!" she cried out, throwing the pad on the floor. Then, with a small, strangled cry, she bent down and picked it up, smoothing out the pages. It may be gibberish, but it was all she had. She turned to the back page in an effort to make herself feel better…
Things that I do remember:
Swear words – all words, in fact; speaking, writing and reading
Telly
Cars
I like chocolate
I like coffee
I prefer wearing trousers to skirts
And that was pretty much all she could force out of her mind. With a frown, she thought about her wardrobe; supposedly this was her home, but all she seemed to own were dresses and skirts, ugly ones at that.
Why the hell do I own ugly clothes? Did I really used to like them?
Her frown deepened. She didn't even know if her wardrobe was fashionable, just that she didn't like it. How can I not remember fashion? I can't even remember current affairs. Prime Minister? No fucking idea. Last country we sent army troops into? Nope. Do we even still do that? Are we at war, or at peace?
So what did she know? Only what she had gleaned from Paul over the past week: they had moved from London to a little village some miles north of Falkirk in Scotland; her name was Elizabeth May, her husband was Paul. They had been married for five years – no children. He worked as an accountant from an office in Falkirk and also from home. She, herself, was a housewife, occasionally helping Paul with the paperwork – apparently she was okay with this, the whole set-up having been her idea. A week ago, Paul had found her with a slit wrist lying under the apple tree at the bottom of their garden. Why she had tried to commit suicide was anybody's guess, but she had been holding the kitchen carving knife in her right hand, and the blade had been covered in blood. That was what she'd been told, and she could remember none of it.
Studying her list, she found herself more than a little perturbed at the fact that everything she could remember didn't seem to exist in her immediate environment: this house had no telly, she hadn't seen a car the entire time she'd been here, chocolate was scarce, and the coffee … well, it didn't taste quite right. Damn it, she was sure she should be some kind of coffee-making expert, yet the past few days, all she'd ever managed to do was fumble around with various kitchen utensils when making any kind of food or beverage.
So, I know I love coffee, but I don't know how to make it … or anything else for that matter. For a brief second, she wondered if she was, in fact, some kind of spoilt, rich bitch who had grown up with a butler and a cook. She shook her head. I don't f
eel like a rich bitch.
With her annoyance only rising, she made a mental note to add 'impatient' to her list of things she knew about herself, before grabbing the bath towel and tiptoeing out of the bedroom, and into the bathroom next door.
As she watched the steam rise from the cascading water filling the tub, she was hit with the certainty that she preferred showers to baths – yes! She remembered showers. And there was no shower in sight. A sigh escaped her lips as she shook her head once more. Either her memory was worse than she knew, or she'd woken up, smack in the middle of someone else's life.
Chapter One
Pueblo ran his hands over his eyes for the hundredth time in an effort to keep them open. If he had been a full-bloodied demon, tiredness wouldn't be a problem. As it happened, he was only a half-Dessec demon, with the other half of him more human than he'd care to admit – actually, he didn't care to admit it at all and guarded that little secret very close to his chest. Not for the first time he found himself shouting expletives in his head to a father he never knew, yet hated all the same. He'd learnt the hard way, that 'human' didn't necessarily mean 'good' – and human didn't mean without any … abnormalities…
Since he first laid his eyes on Amy, however, ignoring that side of himself had proven more difficult than he could possibly have imagined. He'd intended to sit her down, talk to her about it, about whether she truly knew what she was, but the right time had never presented itself in the forty-eight hours they'd known each other… Then, one week ago, the old witch had whisked her off somewhere and the conversation had barely had time to form in his head, let alone take place.
Unbidden, his mind joined with the cat's own – the cat that lived inside him. God, he hated this union. How he felt when they 'became one' was everything he despised about himself. He'd grown up with it drummed into his head: shapeshifters are evil. His bastard of a human father was a shapeshifter; Pueblo was a shapeshifter. His tribe never let him forget it for a minute.
