by Meg Allison
“I’ll find it,” he assured. She frowned again, and he suddenly wanted to laugh. “Good night, Samantha. Dream of me.”
She glanced down and he was almost sure she blushed at the comment. “Good night, Nathan.”
He watched from the shadows of the trees as she fit her key in the lock, went inside, and shut the door behind her. But he didn’t move until he heard the tell-tale click of tumblers as she put the deadbolt in place. There. She should be safe. Some part of him was determined to keep her that way, no matter what. She could well be in danger, despite the respectability of her profession. That fiery red hair was like a beacon to any loon who might pass by.
After all, he’d found her, hadn’t he?
* * ‡ * *
Samantha paced the living room after her shower. Water dripped from her hair and down her back, soaking her thin nightgown in spots. She registered the slight chill as the fabric clung to her skin, but it wasn’t bothersome enough to change.
It was late and she couldn’t seem to relax. Adam had wanted her to find out if Nathan was gifted or homicidal. She was sure it was the former, but she’d been wrong about people before. So very wrong.
The only way to find out the extent of his gift was to spend time with him. Not that she minded the idea…in fact, the thought of being near him made her body heat and her pulse race. He was beautiful. Exotic. The kind of man a woman might think about but never meet—the kind who normally didn’t give a girl like her the time of day.
Sure, she knew she was pretty, but in a rather ordinary, common way. Redheads with green eyes and freckles were a dime a dozen in Georgia. Nathan was extraordinary. He exuded a sexual energy that made her weak in the knees. He made her feel flustered and unsure. Made her think of satin sheets and long, sweaty nights. It was an uncomfortable sensation.
But was it because they had connected tonight or because of her dreams? She had accused him of wanting only because she’d told him of her sexy fantasies. Maybe it was the only reason she felt drawn to him, as well. She bit her lip. Were they ordinary dreams or something more? She knew the chosen sometimes experienced dreams on a different plane of existence—dreams that could be thought of as a reality of sorts. It was a place where their spirits roamed free. It was a place where they could live out fantasies or literally die trying.
Could her dreams of Nathan be real? Were they dream-walks? Was dream-walking his special talent as well as being clairvoyant? She had to find out somehow. There was one person who might be able to help. She picked up the phone and hit three on her speed-dial. Four rings later, a groggy female voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Cam?” Samantha glanced at the digital display on her alarm clock and grimaced. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how late it was. Did I wake you?”
“Um, no,” Camille said on a yawn. “We just got in bed.”
Heat flamed in Samantha’s cheeks. Leave it to her to call a somewhat newly married couple in the middle of the night. Of course, they were in bed.
“Crap, I am so sorry,” she said. “I’ll let you—”
“Sam?” She stopped rambling for a moment to listen. “It’s fine,” Camille continued, laughter in her voice. “You didn’t interrupt anything at all. Okay? Now why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
She swallowed. “I wanted to ask Ian something, if that’s okay.”
“Sure thing, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
She heard muffled whispers and some shuffling. “Hey, Sam, what’s up?”
“First of all, I am really sorry for calling so late. I lost track of time and didn’t think about—”
“Whoa. Calm down—no harm, no foul. Now tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Okay, it’s nothing really,” she sighed. “I met someone tonight. Someone I’ve been literally dreaming about for weeks.”
“A demon?” his voice switched from relaxed to alert and ready.
“No,” she assured quickly. Ian was one of the Sentinels’ best demon-slayers. If she gave him the slightest provocation, he’d likely be off the phone and running for the nearest airport. “He’s not demon, but he is chosen. From what I can tell so far, he seems to be a clairvoyant who focuses through automatic drawing. I’m not afraid of him, but after having these dreams for months and then I met him tonight. It’s unsettling.”
“Have you had any contact with him at all in the past? Seen his photograph somewhere?”
“No, I don’t think so. I received one query letter from him about a year ago, but I’ve never met him or seen his face. Somehow, he’s been starring in my dreams nightly since early summer.”
She heard Ian clear his throat. “When you say ‘starring’, in what capacity are we talking about?”
She twisted the cord around her fingers. “Nearly biblical.”
“Ah, yes. I take it you’re wondering if he’s a dream-walker?”
“I suppose, yes. I just can’t understand the similarities. How can I dream about someone I’ve never met? Someone who then shows up in my life? It seems like too huge a coincidence. It makes no sense.”
“Before I became a Sentinel, I would have agreed, but now I’m not so sure,” the smile in his voice was unmistakable. He had walked Camille’s nightmares and fought the demon there before they became lovers. Now they lived happily in the mountains of Pennsylvania as husband and wife.
If only every love story had such an ending.
“Has he been dreaming about you?” Ian asked.
“No, I’m sure he would have mentioned it otherwise.”
“Well, a dream-walk is normally a two-way street. When I was younger, before I understood my gift, I would dream-walk frequently without knowing it. But I always remembered the dreams. I know at least once, the other person remembered it, too. If your friend were a walker, he would have given himself away somehow.”
“So, you think it could just be a fluke?” she asked.
“No, I wouldn’t say that. I don’t believe in coincidence. But I also don’t believe he’s a dream-walker any more than you are. I’ve found that many of the chosen receive guidance in their dreams. It’s more common than you realize. During sleep, we’re the most receptive to things such as visions and revelations.
“Most often, a dream is simply a journey through our own subconscious thoughts, not an astral trip to another plane as is a dream-walk. However, we can still be guided in those dreams. To me, it sounds like you may have experienced a series of personal revelations. Your own subconscious may have added the more biblical details on its own.”
“An erotic dream as prophecy?”
He chuckled. “I don’t see why not. Maybe your spirit guide is trying to lead you to the man of your dreams, no pun intended.”
She groaned.
“Sorry, couldn’t resist.”
“The main problem with your logic is that I don’t have a spirit guide.”
“Nonsense,” he scolded. “According to my lovely wife, everyone has a spirit guide. A guardian angel, if you prefer. We just don’t normally hear or see them like she does.”
She raised a brow. That was news to her, but then she was always learning new things when it came to the spiritual in life.
“So, you’re saying he isn’t a dream-walker and I’m not crazy, but he could be my future?”
“Maybe, that’s up to the two of you.”
“Great, that’s the last thing I need.”
“Hey, come on, Sam,” Ian’s voice softened. “It’s been almost ten years since Johnny died. Don’t you think it’s time to move on and trust someone again?”
She swallowed. “I’m not sure I remember how.” She took a breath and forced a lightness into her voice that she didn’t feel. “Hey, thanks for the help.”
“Sorry I couldn’t do more.”
“No, really, I appreciate it. At least now I can rest assured that he’s not trying to manipulate me or anything. It’s been confusing and awkward.”
“I can imagine.”
“I will, and like I said, don’t worry about it.” A soft feminine voice said something in the background and Ian chuckled. “Now why don’t you try to get some rest? Camille says you need to be alert and ready for the fund-raiser. She doesn’t want to wind up dealing with the final arrangements all alone.”
“Tell her I’m on top of things,” Samantha replied with a smile. “The Halloween Masquerade should be a huge success. I have one more conference with the police commissioner’s representative and the caterer in the morning to iron out some details. Tell her I’ll call back sometime tomorrow afternoon once I’m through.”
“Sure thing, and now if you’ll excuse me, my wife needs some serious attention.”
Samantha laughed as heat filled her face. “You said I didn’t interrupt anything.”
“You didn’t,” Ian replied. “But now you’ve given me ideas. ’Night, Sam.”
“Goodnight.”
She hung up, her blood thrumming as a happy little feeling buoyed her spirit. If Camille and Ian could find happiness together, then maybe all those romances she represented weren’t full of crap, after all. They were both haunted by demons from the past and still managed to fall in love and stay that way for years.
Sadly, Samantha had long ago stopped believing in love at first sight. Hell, who was she kidding? She wasn’t sure she believed in love at all. Lust, brief infatuation, and mutual respect, but not long-term, forever-after love. No. It had to be a myth…an urban legend. Wishful thinking.
Then again, her parents were still together, if not always happy. No, not the best example of wedded bliss. Samantha sighed. It only enforced her thoughts that love was only temporary, even in the best of circumstance. Yet, she hoped Ian and Camille would prove her wrong. They both deserved it.
* * ‡ * *
Nathan lay on the bed in his boxers, thinking of her. His gaze lingered on the ceiling as he traced the beams that spanned his loft. Long, thin blades of the modern, brass ceiling fan turned in slow motion, sending small currents of air and dust swirling through the room.
As he stared at the beams, the lines began to flow across the space, joining with shadow and light until the image of her face appeared. Large green eyes lit up a complexion of ivory that was sprinkled with freckles. Long titian hair cascaded down her back and around her shoulders. It would be soft to the touch—like strands of spun silk.
How cliché could he possibly get? It would be softer than silk, more like angora. Cool to the touch, despite the look of fire about it.
She had dreamt of him. The notion made his blood heat. He couldn’t help it although it was a very teenage reaction. He was edging up to forty. He should be beyond such primal, gut reactions by now. His attractions should be more esoteric and not completely dictated by the color of a woman’s hair, the sparkle in her eyes or the curve of her figure. A deeper, more meaningful relationship is what he desired. Or so he thought, until today. One look at Samantha fired up every caveman instinct he thought long dead.
The phone rang and he jackknifed off the bed, grabbing the receiver before the second ring finished.
“Hello?” His heart hammered.
“Um, hi, Nathan?”
He frowned. He had hoped it would be Samantha, but it was a voice he didn’t immediately recognize. He knew hers would be echoing in his own dreams tonight.
“Yes, can I help you?” he asked.
“Hi, this is Katherine Rose,” When he was silent she hurried on. “From work? I’m the blonde at reception?”
A vague image of a petite, thin woman in flowered dresses floated about his mind’s eye. “Yes, of course, Kathy. Sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice for a minute. It’s been a long day and I’m not quite with it.”
“I just wanted to let you know that the proofs on the Dormont campaign came in after you left this afternoon. I left them on your desk, just like you asked.”
“Good, that’s great, thanks. I thought I’d get back after my meeting, but it didn’t work out that way.”
“Well, I knew you were worried about the proofs so I thought I’d just let you know while I was thinking of it.”
“Yes, I was concerned,” he lied. “Thanks, Kathy. I owe you one.”
“Oh,” she laughed. “There’s no need to keep score. You can just maybe do me a favor sometime.”
“Okay.” Silence stretched between them. “Well, I better go. I have an early morning. So, I’ll see you at work.”
“Sure, see you there.”
He hung up and stared at the phone for a long moment. Kathy was an odd woman, but nice. She often went out of her way to make things easier for him and others at work. Sometimes she did a little too much. He suspected she might have a small crush on him, but chose to ignore the signs and hoped it would go away. It wouldn’t be the first time that his so-called exotic looks had attracted unwanted attention. He doubted it would be the last.
He glanced at the clock and cursed. If he didn’t get some sleep the only thing that might vanish was his income. He hadn’t been operating at full-speed as it was after drawing those horrible death pictures. The images flashed through his mind in quick succession and he fell back against the pillows. No, he couldn’t think about them tonight. He really needed to get some rest.
His hand began to tingle. Shit.
He rolled to his side and flicked off the bedside lamp. Sleep. He needed sleep. Yet even as he focused on relaxing and clearing his mind, he felt his fingers begin to twitch.
No. Not tonight. Not after spending the evening with the most incredible woman he’d ever met. He would not give in to the feeling and the darkness.
But his hand seemed to have a mind of its own. It jerked, almost hitting him in the face. He shoved it beneath the pillow and laid his head down. For a moment, the weight seemed to control the tremors, then pain knifed through his wrist.
“Shit!” Nathan sat up, his breath fast and shallow as he cradled the twitching hand to his chest.
“Breathe in…slow exhale…breath in…slow exhale…” The words trailed through his mind over and over as he tried to gain control of the unrelenting tremors.
It was a battle of mind against body. Will against intense need. He had never been addicted to any foreign substance, but he knew the compulsion for alcohol or drugs would feel the same. There were so many times when he simply drew without conscious thought, only to discover some small doodle on a napkin or at the margin of a book. But the need…the raw, physical necessity of it lately weighed heavy on his mind.
By the time he finally gave up and stood, his entire body vibrated with the force of the spasms. He stumbled down the short hall to his studio and sat at the artist’s desk. Then he grabbed a pencil with his left hand and all but shoved it into his right. Paper stretched across the surface—white, unblemished, like a fall of new snow. He grimaced as he moved his quaking appendage to the middle of the page and then slowly, ever slowly gave away control. He hated the feeling. Hated the weakness it showed in his character. Hated that some other force besides his own thoughts could control even a small portion of his being.
Lines soon filled the center, radiating outward like a web. He watched for a moment, but soon closed his eyes. It was fear that kept them closed. Fear of what he might be drawing, of what he might see. He wanted no part in this macabre depiction of someone’s last moment. If he watched, he might try to fight it again--or worse for him, to change the outcome. The last time he tried that, he’d wound up with a headache that had left him writhing in bed for days. Miserable. Praying for only oblivion. It had felt like a death sentence.
So, he let his hand move. His breathing slowed as the scribbling increased. The scritch-scratch of the fine charcoal tip filled his ears. He smelled the paper and his own sweat. The thud of blood rushing through his veins, throbbing in time to each stroke of the pencil began to soften until finally he stopped fighting altogether. He let it happe
n. He let the drawing come to life.
Minutes or hours later, he realized the sensation had vanished. His arm and hand lay limp and lifeless across the slanted table. Weak. Numb.
Nathan took a slow, deep breath and lifted his shoulders. The muscles popped and pulled with stress. He grimaced. Then he opened his eyes and blinked down at the page before him. He rubbed his eyes with his left hand and looked again. A sliver of ice seemed to leech down his spine.
A young woman stared up from the page, her mouth agape in a silent scream, head twisted at an unnatural angle. He swallowed down the bile that edged up his throat. She lay on a street corner, her short, tight skirt rucked up around her hips. Her body was covered in litter and from a distance she might appear to be little more than a pile of trash left out for the garbage man.
Tears blurred his vision and he shoved back from the desk. When he stood, the floor seemed to rock beneath his feet. Someone was going to die. Soon. And he couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it.
* * ‡ * *
Samantha opened one eye and squinted at her bedside clock. Who on earth would call her at five in the morning? Ah, yes. She sighed. It had to be big brother Adam. He was the only one who would dare.
“Where the hell have you been?” Adam growled.
“Hello to you, too,” she said on a yawn. “To what do I owe the sleep deprivation?”
“I’m not joking, Sam,” Adam snapped. “Where did you go last night? I called five times and kept getting your voice mail. Liam had to talk me out of putting an APB out on you and Quinn.”
“I do hope you’re joking.” His silence spoke volumes. Samantha sighed. “God, you are amazing, you know that? I’m a grown woman and I’ve been living on my own for over ten years. I think I can handle getting home.”
“But you weren’t alone.”
“No, Nathan and I went out for a drink after you left the restaurant. Then he drove me home, end of story.”
“Are you out of your mind? You just met the man.”
“Um, yeah, and my cop brother introduced me, remember? You were the one who asked me to get under his skin—to find out if he’s hiding anything from you. How the hell do you think I’d do that? During the thirty-second lull in conversation over appetizers?”
