Fantasy

by Christine Feehan

  “Here.” He took her hand, slipping it under his upper robe. “Keep your palm pressed lightly above my heart.”

  Her pupils dilated at the contact and the softest of flushes stained her cheeks. She licked her lips. The tip of her tongue was small and sharp. In spite of his resolve, he was not prepared for the strength of his reaction. His penis jerked upward, just once but hard, as if her tongue had wet its tip. Without warning, he became aware of the steady throb of an artery in his neck.

  Her fingernails pricked his skin like a kitten’s claws.

  “Your chest is very hard,” she said huskily, then shook her head with impatience.

  The gesture reminded him she was hungry; that to her a man was more than a partner for her bed. What would it be like, he wondered, to gratify all those needs at once?

  “Focus on your hand,” he instructed, striving to keep both their attention where it belonged. “You must concentrate on the energy swirling above my skin. It will feel like the currents of a lake in which you are submersed while very still, or perhaps like a sort of tingle. I am going to meditate, to draw on the life force of the earth. You should feel the flow change. If you are able, I want you to follow the current down.”

  He closed his eyes and began to breathe, to slow his heart and calm the heated rushing of his blood. The touch of her hand was oddly pleasant, light now and quiet, with none of the twitches untrained people tended to betray. Without being told, she matched her breathing to his own. In and hold. Out and rest. He slipped quickly into the state he sought, enjoying for a moment the familiar sensation of weightless peace. He was more than Martin now, and less. He was, at least in part, the simple spirit Martin hid.

  Before his sense of self could dissolve completely, he drew up a skein of force, slowly, letting Luisa see how it was done, letting her feel the gradual brightening of the spinning tsakhor above his heart.

  There, he said, sensing he did not need to speak aloud, now I shall send the energy through the channels of my subtle body.

  She shivered as he began. “Oh,” she whispered, “I feel it.”

  She stepped instinctively closer, her thighs and belly brushing the woven folds of his robe. It seemed natural to wrap her lightly in his arms, to slide his hand into the small of her silk-draped back. Her temple nestled easily beside his jaw. Though he had witnessed the act of love, he had never held a woman. She was soft, a yielding pleasure to the touch. His arousal returned as calmly as a dream. The energy he had drawn from the earth fed its intensity, though its progress seemed honey slow. Hungry for more, he nuzzled her shell-like ear.

  “Follow,” he murmured, “follow where I go.”

  Her body pressed his, her free hand raking languorously up his skull. Sparks seemed to rustle through the shortness of his hair. She had been cool but now she warmed, reminding him this was no ordinary woman. No doubt her flesh followed strange rules of its own. When she rose onto her toes, the tips of her breasts matched his. The change in position made a place for his erection between her thighs. His skin tightened, his organ struggling against its own pounding weight. He longed to press her more closely, longed to slip his ache inside her hidden warmth. Even through their clothes he could feel her softness.

  But this was not where his mind was supposed to go. He forced it back to the demonstration. “Do you see?” he said. “Do you feel the current flow?”

  She shuddered as if she, too, had to pull herself from the brink.

  “I see,” she said, “but I don’t see how.”

  He tried to explain, in word and deed, but could not make her comprehend. Control she had in overflowing measure. She could regulate her breathing and her pulse as well as the most masterful yogin. What she could not do was change her state of mind. Nor could he feed energy into her himself. When he tried, it flowed around her aura like a stream of water around an egg. She seemed, as far as he could tell, utterly impermeable.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I simply do not understand.”

  He drew breath to try again, then let his hold fall away. Luisa stepped back as he did. They stared at each other. At once, he missed her body’s warmth. As if she felt the same, she hugged her upper arms. Her breasts swelled into the neckline of her shift, beautiful in a different way now that his trance had begun to fade. His too-worldly organ pounded in complaint.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “Perhaps my concentration was not complete.”

  Her laugh was low and sweet. “If your concentration had been complete, I would have been insulted.”

  He could not resist smiling back, at least for a moment. “I will consult my guide. He may have another idea.”

  “We could try this again.”

  Her eyes sparkled with teasing like a glacier in the sun. He knew better than to meet their temptation long. Touching her, and having her touch him—for however laudable a purpose—had strengthened her carnal tug. He knew how it felt to hold her, and he wanted that feeling again.

  “I should escort you to your room,” he said. “Dawn is near. I know you will want to sleep.”

  “Yes.” Her gaze dropped to the floor.

  “Is something wrong?”

  She looked up, her smile wry but gentle. “No. I was debating whether to invite you to join me. I have heard that some of your monks…” Her voice trailed off at the stiffening of his shoulders. “But not you, I take it. Please forgive me for being forward.”

  “It is nothing,” he said, wanting to sound casual but knowing he did not. “The vow I wish to take would preclude me from experiencing sexual pleasures.”

  “And in return you would gain what?” Her gaze was curious. His fell to the carmine fullness of her mouth, then slid away.

  “A deeper spirituality. A chance to reach nirvana.” He caught the question in her eyes. “Nirvana means enlightenment, a knowledge of oneness with the universe, a freedom from the cycle of rebirth.”

  “Like our concept of heaven?”

  “Something like,” he said, though from what he knew of Christianity the differences were great. No harps played in a Buddhist’s heaven. No one lazed about or sang in heavenly choirs. And no sinner went to hell. Hell was here. Hell was earth. If one learned one’s lessons well, one could advance to a higher plane and continue one’s progress there.

  To his surprise, a very human grin flashed across her face. “You don’t want to tell me what you are thinking,” she said. “You’re afraid you will offend me.” With a spontaneity that made his throat tighten, she squeezed his upper arm. “You must not worry. I may not be pious but my faith is firm. A matter of faith, I suppose you’d say, since—despite some people’s claim that I am a creature of the devil—I have never met him, no more than I’ve met God. My beliefs require no proof, nor do I fear to hear others speak of theirs, even at the risk they will change my mind.”

  Martin blinked at her. His teacher would have approved of her attitude. “In that case, I shall tell you what you wish.”

  “Good,” she said, and strode jauntily toward her folded clothes.

  Watching her bottom jiggle was a pleasure he could not bring himself to forgo.

  Martin and his guide stood shoulder to shoulder on the lamasery roof, gazing out toward the soft green haze of the nearest valley. Soon spring would bring herds of gowa to graze on the growing grass; herds of pilgrims, too, though not so many as trekked to the holier shrine at Kangrinpoche. He found himself glad they were not here yet. They would have been a distraction from Luisa.

  She interests me, he thought, facing the truth as he had been trained. She pulls not just at my body but at my mind.

  What would it be like to see history unfold in a single incarnation? To love the material world so deeply one never wished to leave? Martin shook his head. Luisa claimed faith in a higher power, but she did not experience its reality even as much as the youngest chela. She could not touch the truth behind the illusion. All things were one and yet Luisa seemed alone: separate from both her God and her fellow beings. She sh
ould have been miserable. He could not understand why she was not.

  No doubt he would have pondered the matter longer if his teacher had not spoken.

  “Do you remember,” he said, “when your family first came to Shisharovar?”

  “I shall never forget it. I ran straight up the stairs and tried to kick two monks out of ‘my’ room.”

  The abbot’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You were quite adamant for an eight-year-old.”

  “But it was all so clear to me. This was where I belonged.”

  “Yes,” said his guide, “it must have seemed so. I admit, I felt the tug of it myself: to keep my old friend by my side. It is comforting to find again what you have lost, almost as comforting as finding what you have forgotten you ever had.”

  Martin wondered what the abbot was getting at, but his placid profile gave no clue. He felt his forehead pleat together. “I know sixteen years was a long time to stay away, but I could not have remained here then, not when it meant abandoning my mother. My father leaving before my birth was bad enough. I could not betray her, too.”

  The abbot patted his rumpled sleeve. “I did not mean to imply your choice was wrong. You had a lifetime in this monastery, more than one. To mindlessly repeat what one has done before can hardly be considered progress.”

  “But I belong here now,” Martin said. To his dismay, his voice made the words a question.

  The abbot smiled. “I do not doubt we are all where we’re meant to be. Speaking of which”—his teacher shot him a sidelong glance—“what do you think of your new student?”

  Martin’s hands were clasped on the stony ledge. He stared at them, amazed they did not bear the silky imprint of her curves. “I regret I could not help her.”

  “We have only begun. No one could expect the first attempt to succeed. And I am certain you did your best.”

  Had he, Martin wondered, or had he allowed the clamoring of his body to drown out a better, quieter guidance? “I am not certain—” he began.

  The abbot broke in. “She is settled in her room?”

  “Yes,” he said, though he was perturbed by the interruption. “I brought her blankets as the sun was rising. When she took them, she stumbled and nearly fell. I think she is weaker than she is used to. I sat with her for a while, to ensure she was well, but I do not think she knew I was there. She slept strangely, like a fakir on a bed of nails. Her body was stiff and cold to touch. I did not see her breathe more than twice in a quarter hour.”

  He did not add that her appearance had unsettled him, more statue than corpse but disturbing all the same. For a moment, he had feared she died in truth. But then her chest had risen with a shallow inhalation. The relief he’d felt had not been logical, no more than his gentle stroking of her hair. That contact could have comforted only him.

  “She seemed…vulnerable,” he said, the confession as troubling as the memory.

  “Indeed,” mused his guide, “if one wished to destroy such creatures, clearly their rest would be the time to try.”

  “Sir!” Martin was shocked beyond holding his tongue. Among Buddhists, the taking of life, any life, was a powerful prohibition.

  His teacher raised his brows. “I am not proposing we murder our guest, only that we prepare for any eventuality.”

  His tone was eminently reasonable. Martin schooled his pulse to a steadier rate. “Forgive me. I know you will do everything possible to prevent such a necessity from arising.”

  He did not understand the small, satisfied smile with which the abbot turned back to the view. He seemed almost smug as he spoke again. “I have thought of something else,” he said, “a meditation that might bring down her walls. We can drug some wine to induce the proper mental state. It will be dangerous, of course. Inexperienced as she is, she might get lost in the visions the herbs produce.”

  “Most likely she will get lost,” Martin said, aghast. “Even trained monks sometimes mistake a vision for reality. Such a thing could break her mind!”

  “Not if she has a guide.”

  Martin caught his breath. He sensed his teacher was not proposing to fill that role himself. “No,” he said, before he could think better of it. “Rinpoche, please do not ask that of me. That kind of journey is too intimate. I would—She is already—”

  The abbot cocked his head at him. “I know your response to her is strong, perhaps as strong as your first response to Shisharovar?”

  “My reaction to her has nothing in common with that. Nothing! I have no memories of her. None!”

  “One does not need a memory for there to be a karmic link. Dread can be as much a sign of connection as love. In any case, I know you have not forgotten the importance of facing fears.”

  Martin’s head could scarcely hang any lower. “No, rinpoche.”

  “Good. Because I am asking you to help our guest face hers. Fear is invariably the barrier to achievement. Once she overcomes it, I suspect we will progress.”

  Martin had no doubt of that, but to what they would progress he dared not imagine.

  4

  Despite the abbot’s sponsorship, Luisa’s presence unsettled the other inhabitants of the lamasery. Because of this, her tiny, isolated cell was transformed into a chamber for meditation. She was given a robe to wear, a simple wrap of woven cloth. Pots of incense were carried in and a thangka, or banner of painted silk, was hung across one wall. The image was grim to say the least: a fire-enshrouded demon with a necklace of severed heads.

  “That is Hayagriva,” Martin said, “the deity of awakened energy. Those figures he is trampling represent the concepts of self and personality, both illusions of the earthly world. Illusion, of course, is the source of all human suffering.”

  Luisa hummed in response and tried to blank her face. When Martin explained the purpose of this exercise, she had acknowledged the importance of facing one’s deepest fears. She could not, however, imagine wanting to lose one’s sense of self. She had spent her human life as little more than a beast of burden: unseen and unheard, almost too beaten down to think. Even after she was changed, her master had to bully her into learning. You need a strong mind, he’d said, to face the dangers of the world. You, my little peasant, will bow to no one else’s child.

  However dubious that claim, she relished being someone now, someone who could read and reflect and affect not just her own future but that of others. If her identity was an illusion, she was not sure she wished to know.

  Behind her, Martin chuckled. “I’m sorry,” he said when she turned around. “If you could see your expression…The self we seek to lose is only the self that is not true. Yes, we believe all beings are part of a greater whole, but within each is an essence that is unique.”

  Luisa suspected their concept of uniqueness differed. Rather than debate him, she walked her fingertips up his arm. “You know,” she said silkily, “you have a beautiful smile. You would cut quite a swath if I brought you back with me to Florence.”

  Martin’s eyes widened. Clearly his experience with flirtation was very small. She looked forward to seeing him blush, but a quiet dignity fell over his face instead. He bowed from the waist. “I thank you for your words,” he said. “I am sure you meant to honor me.”

  To her amazement, heat prickled over her cheeks. His politeness shamed her. They both knew her intent had been not to honor but to tease.

  “I do honor you,” she said, meaning it sincerely. “I have to remind myself how earnest you are, and that there is no show in you. You are different from other churchmen I have known.”

  “As you are different from other Europeans I have known—and not just because of what you are.” His smile returned, bringing a gleam of admiration to his eyes. The admiration seemed for her both as a person and a woman.

  Uncomfortable with the pleasure this inspired, she turned her eyes to the wine into which he was mixing herbs. The cup that held the brew was skillfully worked silver studded with turquoise and coral stones. The merchant in her wondered i
f the monks had similar creations she might buy. But better, mayhap, not to ask about that now.

  “I am not certain this will work,” she warned. “Upyr tend to resist the effect of drugs.”

  “These are not ordinary drugs. My teacher prepared these herbs himself.”

  Well, she thought, her humor recovering: if his teacher had prepared them, naturally they would not fail!

  With a little bow, he handed her the cup and watched her drink it down. The taste was peculiar, heavy, with an oily bitterness overlaid. Whatever Geshe Rinpoche had concocted, it was strong. Still, she felt nothing as Martin led her to the cushion-bed and helped her to lie down.

  “You should relax,” he said, lowering himself to the floor beside her. She turned her head to watch his descent, awed again by his grace. His legs seemed to fold naturally beneath him and his spine bore a straightness an emperor would envy. His face was unearthly in its calm. That one so young should have such self-possession, she could only marvel.

  He touched her cheek with the back of one curled finger. “It may be a while before the medicine takes effect. Why don’t you breathe with me, as you did before?”

  As she took his advice, a hush settled around her, and a dangerously seductive comfort. In they drew the incense-laden air; out they blew the breath of life. To soothe her, Martin trailed the tips of three fingers along the naked inside of her arm. She doubted he would have done this if he’d known the pleasure upyr took in touch—and no touch more than that of humans. Her kind loved the stroke of mortal hands almost as much as loving it made them wary. To crave a thing was to give it power. But perhaps God meant the need to humble them. Perhaps she was foolish to try to pull her own fate free.

  Just as she might have been foolish to trust these lamas and their herbs.

  “I’m afraid I do not feel anything,” she confessed, “apart from apprehension. I wish you would talk to me while we wait.”