Terran Realm Vol 1-6

by Dee, Bonnie

  Now if only he could buffer his imagination.

  * * * *

  “Mrs. Doherty, I’m so happy to see you! So much happened in Ireland.”

  The serene older woman, used to Brigid’s enthusiasm, smiled and accepted her tight embrace and laughed as Brigid plunked her trim rear onto the cushioned sofa, held out a bright green box with gold lettering and a gold ribbon and snatched up a freshly baked cinnamon bun all in one smooth movement.

  With the bun halfway to her mouth, Brigid stopped. “Oh, Lord, I’m not sure I can tell you—”

  “That you know you’re a Terran and finally came into your Element?” She chuckled. “Anthony and I were betting you were a Water Keeper. Were we right?”

  Brigid gaped at the matter-of-fact announcement. “You know about Terrans?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Doherty said, and untied the gift box. She opened the lid and withdrew a Belleek china teapot, two cups and saucers, a sugar and a creamer. “Oh, it’s lovely! And so delicate.” Taking great care, she placed them back in the box before speaking again, giving Brigid a chance to come to grips with her own startling announcement.

  Patting Brigid’s knee, she continued. “I’ve known about Terrans all my life. Anthony and I are both Terrans. Anthony’s a Protector and an Earth Keeper. He’s also Gabe’s cousin. I’m an Earth Keeper too. Why do you think we grow the best tomatoes in town?”

  Her features sobered. “There were so many times I wanted to tell you who you were, child, but all any of us knew was that you were a Terran and destined for great things.” Her eyes softened. “And alone. So alone. As loving as Gabe was and is, he was a bachelor when you became his ward and you needed a female influence, if not a Terran one. Anthony and I were thrilled to help watch over you.” Dimples appeared in her cheeks. “I was ready to beat Gabe over the head if he hadn’t finally realized you were in love with him. And now that you know we’re related, why don’t you call Anthony and me by our first names? After all, we’re family.”

  Brigid reached over and hugged her. “I should be mad as hell that you never told me anything, but I do understand—Martha.”

  Martha wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Marty. Now, don’t tell me everything that happened in Ireland right this minute, but do tell me if we guessed correctly about your Element. And tell us more about the Irish hunk.” A twinkle appeared in her eyes. “Donovan sent us pictures.”

  Brigid laughed. “Well, you’re half right. I am a Water Keeper, but I’m also a Fire Keeper.”

  “Two Elements! We would never have imagined Fire. And the Irishman? Donovan told us he’d be staying with us for awhile.”

  “His name is Ethan Clark. He’s an archeologist and he also just learned that he’s a Terran.” Brigid took a deep breath. “He’s a Singer and Air Keeper.”

  Marty gaped. “Do you know what he can do? Does he know what he can do?”

  “Gabe said he’s one of the most powerful Singers he’s ever met. He saved our lives in Ireland.” Her voice trembled. “Ethan and I knew each other. We’d met a very long time ago.”

  Marty’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly do you mean, child?”

  “I … it isn’t easy to talk about now. I promise I’ll tell you soon. Okay?”

  “As long as I know he hasn’t hurt you … in any way.”

  Brigid shook her head vehemently. “Never. He’d never hurt me.” She glanced away and murmured so softly Marty thought she’d misheard her. “But I think I hurt him.” Brigid’s shoulders drooped, a sigh wrung from her, and her eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to her. “Speaking of Irish hunks, Doherty’s an Irish name. Doesn’t that make Tony an Irish Terran?”

  “Not quite. Tony’s only Terran on his mother’s side. It’s actually quite romantic. She’s Gabe’s aunt. Back during World War I, she eloped with Tony’s dad. They were killed a few years after the war and Tony was raised by Gabe’s family. We’ll always be grateful to Gabe’s family. They took him in when no one wanted to acknowledge him. It was only after it appeared that Tony had inherited his mother’s Protector and Earth Keeper abilities that the rest of the family came round.”

  “Now, time for a good hot shower and then I’ll send up some sandwiches for you and Gabe and Ethan. Or do you want to eat in the kitchen?”

  Brigid lifted her eyes and a smile crossed her face. “In the kitchen, please. Just leave ‘em in the fridge. I’ll take care of setting up the rest. We’ll see you in the morning around nine … in the kitchen. I’ll introduce you to Ethan. And give my love to Anthony? Tell him you almost won the bet, after all, I’m not only a Water Keeper!”

  * * * *

  “Did you and Mrs. Doherty have a good visit?”

  Brigid watched as Gabe slipped off his loafers and placed the shoe forms in them neatly. He methodically clipped his socks together and tossed them down the laundry chute. Next she knew, he’d take his change out of his pockets and place the coins in the small, square-shaped Waterford crystal box on top of the dresser.

  Brigid counted to ten before she answered him.

  “I had a great visit with Cousin Marty.”

  Gabe winced at her sharp tone. “You know.”

  “Seems everyone knew but me!”

  Gabe grabbed Brigid’s arms and swung her around to face him. She tried pulling away, but he held her firmly in place, exerting a little of his Protector strength.

  “Be reasonable, darling. First off, your family’s journal clearly stated not to tell you. Besides, you were only twelve years old. You’d just lost your last family member. How could we throw this at you then? And later… Brigid, a lot has been going on in the world that the Terrans are trying to rectify.” Gabe dropped her arms and ran his hands through his hair. “I wanted to keep you safe.” He took a deep breath. “Even if I could have told you, I wouldn’t have. Damn it, Bridge, when you were a child it was my duty to protect you. By the time you were seventeen…” He turned and walked to the window, crossed his arms and stared out at the terraced garden.

  Moving quietly, Brigid stood behind him, leaning her body against his back. Her arms circled his waist and she whispered in his ear. “By seventeen I knew what I wanted too, but you insisted I date. Do you know the only reason I had sex the first time with someone else was so that you wouldn’t have to worry about hurting me?” Her arms tightened as she pressed her breasts against him. “Whenever you brought home another woman I wondered if she was the one you’d marry.” Her hands drifted to his fly and she ran her fingers up and down his zipper, fondling him.

  His breath hissed. He uncrossed his arms and his hands joined hers, encouraging him to press harder. He rocked against her, feeling her heartbeat speed up. Her nipples prodded him through his soft T-shirt and her breath heated his skin. Her quiet chuckle vibrated through him. “I always wondered why you sounded so old-fashioned sometimes when you interrogated the boys who took me out. Now I know.” Brigid pressed her lips against his shoulder and kissed him. “You were an even more ancient fuddy-duddy than I realized.”

  He laughed and lifted her hands from their arousing actions. “Fuddy-duddy? Me? Careful, you sound like you’re over a hundred instead of only twenty-seven.” He drew her into his arms and held her tightly, his confined erection pressing against her. He gripped her firm ass and fondled her. “Damn, I want to make love to you so fucking much…”

  Brigid brought his face lower to hers, clasping his jaw in her hands. “I just want to fuck you. Ring Ethan’s room. Tell him we’ll see him tomorrow and to buzz Mrs. Doherty to send him something to eat if he’s hungry.” Her hands dropped and she pulled down his zipper, dipping her fingers inside to caress his naked flesh. “The only thing I’m hungry for is you.”

  Gabe grabbed her wrist, his eyes locked with hers, and slowly pulled her hand away. He moved to the phone by the bed and rang Ethan’s extension. Brigid knelt behind him, kissing his neck and shoulders, her hands loosely clasped around his waist.

  “Ethan. Listen, Brigid is a bit … (a
hh) … tired. We’re going to call it a night. If you’re hungry, give Mrs. Gardener a buzz she’ll … (stop) … fix something for you. We’ll see you in the morn—(yesss)—ing. Nigh—”

  *

  Ethan stared at the phone he gripped in one hand, the shoe he was ready to slip on dangling from his other hand. Carefully, he placed the phone back in its receiver and just as carefully hurled his shoe across the room through the open bedroom door and straight to the door of the gym where it struck with a satisfying thud.

  He ground his teeth and cursed luridly and fluidly in several languages.

  Just as he feared, tonight was going to be the first in a long line of hard nights.

  * * * *

  Boynton, New York

  Arven Lowery, a financier recently doing business as Lord Nolen, who once ages ago was known as the druid, Nimhnach, gazed at the printouts in front of him on the desk. He had spent the better part of his second day in America going through his choices for his housekeeper and personal assistant.

  He picked up the glossy photo of Lorraine Foley. Foley had been his first choice for the housekeeping position for several reasons. He smiled reminiscently while he thought of the first reason and his cock hardened as he brought up the video once more of her sadomasochistic encounter at a private sex club.

  Nolen unzipped his pants, plucked his fine linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and spread it on his lap, anticipating the video’s sought after effect.

  He fisted his penis as he viewed the woman being fucked, whipped and beaten all with her full consent. His hand moved in rhythm with her partner’s cock sliding in and out of her ass first, and then her mouth until she had her fill and climaxed. The female nipped the man’s cock as the limp piece of flesh slipped from her lips.

  And calmly, swiftly and smoothly she castrated him, sliced his body and bathed in his blood.

  As the latest victim’s blood washed over her, Nolen’s sperm gushed over his hands and onto the handkerchief. He gathered up the corners and tossed the soiled material into the trash receptacle by his desk. Taking a foil-wrapped moistened paper towel from the center drawer, he ripped the package open, wiped off his hands, gently cleansed his cock and straightened his clothing.

  Tomorrow Ms. Foley would be driven up to his estate under the pretext of an interview for the position as food critic for a new magazine. Instead he would make her an offer that, in the words of one of his favorite movies, she couldn’t refuse.

  He set her folder aside and gazed at an email memo from the snitch he had in his Canadian venture. He reread its contents, admiring the man’s ingenuity. To be accurate, he couldn’t call James Macalister a “snitch”—perhaps an enterprising young man would be more accurate. When Nolen’s former manager had been killed during an attempted rape of his maid, Macalister had acted swiftly to take care of things. He’d taken advantage of the situation to bring himself to Nolen’s attention. He had covered up the crime scene, kept tabs on the murderer and taken over his boss’s vacant position with flair.

  Regrettably, young James had a few secrets of his own.

  The vibrant picture he held in his hand was a copy of one taken for a Canadian business magazine’s issue of Canada’s most eligible bachelors. Along with the photo was a brief bio.

  Twenty-nine years old, single, no family, Macalister had worked his way through McGill University to get his MBA. Hobbies were skiing, jazz—he played piano—and tennis. He was a Gemini. And a closet homosexual.

  He had no idea why Macalister had decided to keep his sexual orientation hidden. Not that that mattered to Nolen. His lovers over the course of centuries had been both male and female, although he knew that acceptance was as yet not given in all quarters. Still, Toronto was one of the most liberal cities in Canada. Nolen shrugged. Macalister’s decision had made him vulnerable and that was all that mattered to him.

  He took a closer look at Macalister’s picture. A soft, mobile mouth and firm chin, curly dark brown hair and dark eyes. A strong nose and haughty air, he looked more Italian than Scots, but who knew his origins?

  What Nolen did know was enough dirt to send him to prison for life.

  James also had blood on his hands.

  Not everyone at the import/export business that was a cover for Nolen’s money laundering was pleased with James’ new position. One of those skipped over had discovered James prowling at Toronto’s gay bars and had taken photos of him picking up and then having sex with a man barely eighteen years old in a back alley behind the club. Nolen fanned his copies of the original pictures on the desk’s polished wood surface, admiring James’ technique. Each shot showed him taking more and more of his pick-up’s cock into his mouth. The ecstasy on their faces was almost enough to send Nolen reaching for his penis again.

  James’ reaction was quite different when presented with the photographs. At a meeting late at night in the company’s multi-story car park, James and his blackmailer had fought over them. An accidental stumble had sent the other man over the side as James watched in horror. Still, he managed to gather both his wits and the damaging pictures scattered on the oil-stained garage floor and cover his tracks.

  Too bad he couldn’t cover the artfully concealed security video cameras that routed directly to a man paid an exorbitant amount of money to do nothing but observe the tapes and alert Nolen should anything interesting appear.

  When Nolen viewed James’ tape he knew he had hit the jackpot. Soon, all things being equal, he’d collect his winnings.

  * * * *

  Greenwich Village, New York City

  Aviva Shiron strummed her guitar and closed her eyes, letting the tender melody pour into her spirit. It soothed her restlessness and longing to return to Israel but didn’t totally eradicate it. Nothing really could.

  Aviva hadn’t been back to stay for many years and her trips were always short and circumspect. It had become too upsetting to use her Singer abilities to enable her to avoid awkward questions from former non-Terran friends who might wonder why the young woman they knew over forty-two years ago never seemed to grow older. You could claim plastic surgery for just so long.

  Her fingers stilled and she put the guitar back into its case and clicked the locks shut.

  She rose, pressing her thumbs to the small of her back, bending back and loosening the tightness. With a small grimace of pain, she stretched her arms over her head and brought them down, shaking the tenseness out of her wrists. Her rings caught on her curly hair as she ran her fingers through the thick strands and winced.

  It was late and she knew she should go to bed but she was too excited. Even playing the guitar, something which usually calmed her, hadn’t had a lasting effect on her tonight.

  Taking a deep breath, she slowly let it out and went through the same relaxation techniques she used with her clients. Concentrating on evening out her breathing, she cleared her mind and focused on her inner melody.

  She swayed back and forth, her arms limp and boneless at her side, a method she’d learned from her mother before her death.

  Aviva went still, her focus broken. Memories broke through even though she tried to tamp them down. Her parents had been killed in the October War in nineteen seventy-three. That was when she packed up her guitar and left Israel. Her mother should not have died. She was a Spirit Keeper, sweet and giving. Her father, well, as a Protector the family had reconciled themselves to the prospect that he might die in conflict, but not her mother.

  Her loss had almost destroyed her. If it hadn’t been for her music, she was sure she wouldn’t have survived. Now, she devoted all her energy to using her Singer gifts to heal the psychic wounds of Terrans and non-Terrans alike.

  Tomorrow she would meet Ethan Clark, an Irish Terran and, according to Donovan Callahan, one of the most powerful Singers he had come across. Clark was staying with Brigid and Gabe Kawsantower at their brownstone uptown. Though she had only met Gabe a few times, she was aware of his reputation as a lawyer for KOTE. Donovan had s
ent her an encrypted picture of Clark along with information about his Singer talents. He was good-looking, with a firm mouth and clear eyes. Determination radiated from him, as befitted a man whose given name in Hebrew meant strength.

  Aviva was looking forward to hearing him play the Irish harp, an instrument with which she was not too familiar. Once she’d read of his abilities she was anxious to start a new study. What she planned was to record the melodies he’d composed and see how effective they were if they were performed via other means. If they still had a positive effect without a Singer’s participation, she could increase the range and number of recipients who could benefit from a Singer’s abilities. Thus far, her talents only worked in private, one-on-one therapy sessions.

  It frustrated the hell out of her.

  Entering her bedroom, she turned on the light, determined to get some sleep. One at a time, she slid the rings from her fingers, placing them in the ancient clay bowl her father had given her for her twelfth birthday. He had unearthed it in the hills of Galilee back in nineteen eighteen. It was one of the few things she’d taken with her when she’d moved to New York.

  She shed her clothes, tossing them into a woven basket that served as her hamper, and walked into her tiny bathroom. All the renovations were hers alone. The steam shower lined with shimmering Roman Glass tiles and multiple showerheads was one of her little indulgences. When she shut the iridescent glass door, she felt as though she were underwater. For someone desert born, it was sheer heaven.

  She directed the heads so that they missed her hair, not wanting the bother of drying her thick curls. The suds flowed sinuously down between her thighs as she lathered her body and rinsed before turning the water off. Grabbing a towel, she wrapped it around herself sarong-style. After she smoothed scented oil on her arms and legs, she hung the towel on the hook behind the door, walking out of the bathroom naked.

  Slipping beneath the silky covers, she smothered a yawn. Khatkool, her little furry companion, emerged meowing from under the bed and curled at her feet and she drowsily smiled at him. Khat bared his teeth in what passed for a feline smile as she nudged his head with her toes, receiving a deep-throated purr as thanks.