Dream Under the Hill (Oberon Book 8)

by P. G. Forte

  Which made some sense, when she thought about it. True love and lasting relationships were in very short supply on either branch of her family tree. Her parents’ marriage was one of the few that had survived for any length of time, they must have had some kind of help. But, on the other hand, maybe not. They’d both died so young, who knew what might have happened if they’d lived?

  She looked at the fan again, and shook her head. Pheasant. I should have known. It didn’t even matter that Liam didn’t consciously understand Pheasant’s connection with sexuality, the fact that the feathers caught his eye was proof enough of what was on his mind. She’d been looking for a sign, for some sort of signal that she was on the right track, that a sexual relationship was something they both wanted. As far as she could tell, it looked like she’d found one.

  Not this one, Chen.

  Once again, her brother’s warning whispered in her head, but Chenoa refused to listen. What did Chay think he knew about relationships, anyway? Look at the mess he was making of his own life! How much did either of them know, for that matter? But that was beside the point. Her mind was made up and, right or wrong, Chay would just have to live with her decision. It wasn’t really any of his business, anyway.

  She turned back to the table, to the bowl she was using as a smudge pot. She passed the fan through the billowing smoke, four times in each direction, took a moment to wave the curling plumes over her head and arms and down her chest, and visualize herself surrounded by it, then she carried the bowl and the fan over to where Liam sat.

  “Stand up,” she instructed him softly, “and hold your arms out to the sides.”

  Liam opened his eyes. He gazed at her warily, but he did as she asked.

  As he came to his feet, Chenoa drew in a quick, startled breath. She hadn’t realized how close she’d been standing to his chair. No wonder he’s looking at me so strangely, she thought, resisting the impulse to back up a step, even though she was close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to scent him. Awareness tightened her nipples. She clutched the smudge bowl to her chest as smoke swirled up from it to fill the narrow space between them. Briefly, she closed her eyes in a vain attempt to center herself.

  “Okay,” she said as she opened them again. She looked up at him. A long way up. She had to lift the bowl almost to chin level and go up on her toes in order to fan the smoke over his head. He gazed down at her curiously, his eyes lingering on her lips for a moment, and then drifting lower.

  “There’s no need to hold your breath,” she told him, when she realized that’s what he was doing. “Just breathe normally. This smoke is very cleansing, especially on a spiritual level. It’s not gonna hurt you.”

  “Maybe,” Liam replied, not quite objecting, but not sounding convinced, either. “But, that’s a lot of smoke you’ve got going there, and it’s pretty strong.”

  “Well, they say the smell of burning sage makes evil spirits sick,” she said as she brushed around his neck and shoulders. “So I guess it has to be somewhat pungent, in order to do that. But, the scent of sweetgrass is supposed to be pleasing to Spirit.”

  “And the lavender?”

  Chenoa shrugged. “Oh, that’s just to calm you down. You looked like you could use it.”

  Liam nodded. “Good call.”

  “Maybe.” Truth was, she’d gotten into the habit of neutralizing his sexual energy whenever he came to see her. He generally seemed in need of cooling down in that department. But, tonight, it might have been a mistake. If she was really going to give in – to his desires, as well as her own – how cool and calm did she want him?

  She fanned smoked down one arm, and then the other as she thought about that, barely touching his skin, concentrating her efforts on the space that surrounded him; alternating long, slow strokes with quicker, lighter, more playful ones. It’s kind of like foreplay, she thought, and then felt herself blush. She had no business thinking of such things right now. “I’m just taking the knots out of your aura,” she told him, when she felt his eyes on her face.

  “Knots. Riiight.” He sounded amused. His voice was a low rumble – very sexy. She took another deep breath and blew it out slowly, hoping he couldn’t see how much he was affecting her. He’d come to her for help of a spiritual nature, and that’s exactly what she intended to give him. At least to start with. Her tradition taught that there was nothing wrong with sex, but there was a proper time and place for everything. It would be disrespectful to Spirit if she were to start mixing sex games with any kind of ceremony, even a simple smudge.

  “You can put your arms down now,” she said as, reaching up again, she laid the feathers against the crown of his head. She closed her eyes, cleared her mind, and murmured a prayer that his crown chakra might be open to receive light, love, wisdom and healing from his higher self. Then she moved quickly down the other chakras, offering the same prayer as she touched the feathers to his brow, his throat, the center of his chest, his solar plexus. She rested them lightly against his abdomen, even more lightly against his groin, and tried hard to ignore the electricity that raced up her arm from the contact.

  Try as she might, she just couldn’t keep her thoughts on a purely spiritual plane tonight. She couldn’t help but imagine how he would look standing naked before her. Couldn’t help but imagine how those feathers might feel if she were brushing them over his bare skin, or if he were brushing them over hers.

  Was it the chemistry between them that was bringing such thoughts to mind, she wondered, or was she picking up on something her own parents had done? Maybe it had been a mistake to use this fan tonight. But, after all, it was what he’d asked for.

  “Almost done with this side,” she whispered as she laid the feathers against his throat once more, and then brushed quickly down the front of his body, kneeling to reach his lower legs, and his feet. She could feel his gaze on her, fiery hot, even before she raised her face to meet his eyes. She wasn’t really surprised that he would be aroused by the sight of her kneeling in front of him, with her face just inches away from his fly. What she hadn’t anticipated, however, was how turned on she was by it, herself.

  Chenoa made quick work of the second half of the smudge, brushing rapidly down Liam’s back, his buttocks, his legs; tapping lightly, first on one calf then the other, requesting he lift them so that she could fan the smoke over the soles of his feet.

  “Okay, you can sit down again,” she sighed at last. She was pretty sure she heard Liam sigh, as well, as she crossed the room to put the bowl and the fan on the table.

  Returning to stand behind him, she tried again to clear her mind. She opened her palm chakras, put her hands on his shoulders and once again closed her eyes as she attempted to read into his body.

  Liam’s second chakra was lit up as usual. In the past, she’d visualized this chakra as a large orange flower, and imagined it closing its petals. But, tonight she had other plans for dealing with the imbalance, so she left it alone.

  His third chakra was over-active, as well. Again, not a surprise. The seat of the emotions, and our connection with the outside world, the solar plexus was a problem area for many empaths. Chenoa visualized a belt of golden light surrounding Liam’s waist, acting as a barrier to filter out some of the unwanted emotions that constantly bombarded him.

  There was a blockage in Liam’s fourth chakra, and that did surprise her. As she beamed love and light toward the center of his chest she wondered at the cause of his heartache, and what she might do to ease his pain.

  “Take your shirt off,” she ordered after considering the options. She gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze before heading for the hutch where she kept most of the herbs she used for healing.

  “Do what?” Liam asked, sounding scandalized.

  Chenoa turned her head. She couldn’t help but smile at his alarmed expression. “You’re holding a lot of tension in your neck and shoulders tonight. I figured you could do with a neck rub.”

  He studied her doubtfully.
“That’s not the only thing I could use,” he muttered beneath his breath.

  No, it’s not, is it? Chenoa turned quickly back toward the hutch, so that he wouldn’t see her grin. She was sure there were other parts of his body he’d like her to rub even more. But that would have to wait. In fact, it was too distracting to even think about right now. She did her best to put it out of her mind while she searched through the bottles and jars lined up on the hutch’s shelves, finally finding what she was looking for. Essence of rose, geranium and hawthorn in a base of sweet almond oil which she’d purchased at last year’s Bealtaine festival, although not with this particular application in mind. True, the oil was made specifically for dealing with fourth chakra issues, she just hadn’t planned on using it to seduce anyone.

  But a seduction was obviously what it was going to have to be, she decided when she turned back around. “Liam? Your shirt?”

  He was still dressed, still staring at her uncertainly. “Chenoa... I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

  She returned his stare for a moment, gauging her response, and then nodded thoughtfully. “Well, okay, if you really feel you’ve gotten everything you came here for tonight, then maybe you’re right.”

  Liam’s jaw clenched. For just an instant, he resembled a wild mustang who’d found himself unexpectedly corralled. His nostrils flared, his eyes flashed, and Chenoa willed herself to remain calm.

  Still, excitement raced along her nerves and a faint smile touched her lips. “Well?” she asked, softening her voice to gentle the challenge. “Have you?”

  With an all but imperceptible shake of his head, Liam dropped his gaze from her face. “No.” His voice was muffled by his shirt as he pulled it over his head. “I guess not.”

  “That’s better.” Chenoa smiled at him approvingly. Her earlier assessment had been correct, he was in really good shape. His chest was well muscled, with a small tattoo situated just above his heart, a light dusting of hair on his taut pecs and another, narrow line running down from his navel to disappear into his jeans. Nice. She uncapped the bottle as she moved to once more stand behind him, poured a little oil into her palm, and then rubbed her hands together to warm them. “Now, just relax.”

  But, relaxing did not seem to be any part of Liam’s plans. He sat tense and still. Wary. Uncomfortable. His muscles quivered as she smoothed the warm, fragrant oil across his shoulders and up and down his neck. A very high strung mustang, Chenoa thought admiring the way the oil highlighted the cuts and curves and made his skin glisten, and, oh, look, he’s already been branded. She had to fight back a giggle as she reached over his shoulder to finger the tattoo on his chest. It was an odd, runic character, one she didn’t recognize, but which did, in fact, resemble a brand. She couldn’t believe how cliched her thoughts were becoming tonight. Next thing I know, I’ll be thinking about riding him, too.

  She bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud, but still her hands were shaking as she went to work kneading the tension from his neck, and she was very glad she was standing behind him, where he couldn’t read the heat and embarrassment that flared in her face.

  She spent several minutes stroking and soothing, then the sweet, musky scent of the oil reached her nose and she forgot about everything else as she found herself transported to another time...

  To a place where sunlight, dancing on the water of a broad, rock lined river, dazzled her eyes. Her head reeled. Lifting her gaze further, she saw a grassy meadow set in a deep canyon of red sandstone. A small stand of cottonwood trees grew at the base of the high cliffs, yellow leaves fluttering in a breeze she could almost feel. A lone hawk wheeled in lazy circles in the perfect blue sky, high above her head.

  Suddenly, the ground beneath her feet seemed to tremble, and a herd of wild ponies appeared around a bend in the canyon. Too startled to move, she stood rooted in place as the herd splashed through the water, hooves striking against the rocks, manes and tails streaming out behind them as they headed straight toward her. Her eyes widened, her heart raced, she forgot how to breathe...

  A muffled groan and the thump of something hard and heavy landing against her chest brought her back to the present in a hurry. She glanced downward, blinking away the last stray wisps of the vision, and then smiled at the sight of Liam’s head, cushioned between her breasts. It appeared he had finally followed her directive to relax.

  She watched in amusement as he stiffened again, his awareness mirroring her own. “Sorry,” he murmured as he started to pull away.

  “Relax.” She pulled him back against her and then leaned forward, stroking her hands over his shoulders and down his chest. With her hands cupping his heart chakra she could feel the energy that flowed freely within it now. Ah, yes. Mission accomplished. Time to play...

  * * *

  Liam’s heart jumped and began to pound as Chenoa leaned even closer and whispered in his ear, “What is it you’re sorry about?”

  He blew out a deep, shaky breath. “I didn’t mean– This wasn’t–” He broke off and sighed again. “This really isn’t what I was thinking when I came here tonight.”

  She straightened up then. Pulling away from him so suddenly that, for an instant he thought he’d misread what was happening between them; that he’d startled or offended her. Crap. He opened his mouth, ready to apologize once again, when she slid around in front of him, lacing her hands behind his neck as she straddled his lap. She smiled at him mockingly. “It’s not?”

  Liam’s breathing stalled. His hands closed automatically on her hips and he stared at her in surprise. The blush on her cheeks had warmed her bronze skin to copper. Her dark eyes blazed with heat and there was no mistaking the husky timbre in her voice.

  Still, he shook his head, confused by the unexpected turn of events, by six months of fantasy come suddenly to life, by the invitation in her eyes and the warm weight of her body in his arms. He was tempted to crush her against him, to taste her lips, to beg her to take those magic hands of hers and... crap. She can’t be serious. She has to be teasing. He forced himself to breathe. “You know, if this is some kind of joke, it’s not very funny.”

  Chenoa’s eyes widened. Her fingers tightened on his neck. She cocked her head to the side and stared at him. She looked almost hurt. “No. It wouldn’t be funny. So, why would I do that?”

  “Good question,” he muttered, ashamed of his suspicions. She’d been nothing but helpful, and he was acting like a prick.

  He pulled her closer. She wriggled suggestively against him and smiled. “So, I guess I wouldn’t, then. Would I?”

  “No,” he sighed as he bent his head to her mouth. “You wouldn’t.” Only someone heartless and cold would do something so cruel; would feed into his longing for her, would tease him and tantalize him until he was ready to explode and then snatch it all away again. Only someone like... Cara.

  With his mouth only inches from Chenoa’s lips, Liam paused. Hurt and anger tightened his chest ‘til he wanted to scream in agony. His breathing was harsh and ragged, he could feel his arms trembling.

  Chenoa pulled back enough to that he could see her face. She frowned at him, obviously puzzled. “Liam? Is something wrong?”

  A host of emotions warred inside him. Lust. Anger. Pain. Betrayal. Desire. Conscience. Need.

  In the end, lust won out. “No,” he muttered angrily, as he pulled her back to him and covered her mouth with his own, determined to shut out every other thought. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  They who sit at the gate gossip about me;

  and the drunkards make me the butt of their songs.

  But I pray to You, O Lord;

  For the time of Your favor, O God,

  in Your great kindness answer me.

  Communion Prayer

  For the Tuesday in Holy Week

  “He’s not waking up.” Scout’s voice sounded soft and hopeless and very tired, barely audible above the steady pulsing of the various monitors to which Nick was a
ttached. “What’s wrong with him, Marsha? Why is this happening? Am I being punished for something? Is he?”

  “No,” Marsha whispered, just as softly; as though they were both too afraid to speak their fears aloud. “No, of course not. Stop thinking like that.” It had been almost two days. Two days with no improvement. “You have to stay positive. You have to believe.”

  Scout shook her head. “I don’t know if I can. The doctors all say there’s been no change, but they’re wrong. That’s just his body they’re talking about. But his soul, his spirit – it’s going away. I can feel it. It’s getting more and more faint. And, with every hour, it fades a little more. I’m gonna lose him, aren’t I?”

  “I don’t know, Scout.” Marsha replied helplessly. “I- I hope not.” She didn’t ask how Scout knew that Nick’s spirit was leaving. She didn’t need to.

  She glanced again at the figure on the bed. Nick lay unmoving, looking very much the same as he had since he’d been admitted. Like he was asleep. Like he was dreaming. Like he could wake up at any moment.

  But if Scout said her husband’s soul was slipping away, then Marsha believed her. Once, she’d been able to sense such things, too. “Perhaps it’s time to try something,” she suggested hesitantly.

  Scout’s eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

  “A soul retrieval? Or just a trance. Nothing too tricky, just something like we did for Celeste.”

  “Celeste died,” Scout said.

  Marsha nodded. “I know.” The reminder was unnecessary. She had still not recovered from the pain and the shock of losing one of her closest friends, and perhaps she never would. Perhaps she’d never lose the irrational feeling of guilt she harbored, either. Celeste’s death had been inevitable. But still Marsha felt tortured by self doubt and self recrimination over her inability to save her friend. She had tormented herself with the stupid idea that, if she’d only tried harder, maybe things would be different.