Still Not Dead Enough , Book 2 of The Dead Among Us

by Doty, J. L.

  Paul turned, headed for the door, heard Suzanna crying out behind him. “Paul, wait. No. Let me explain.”

  ~~~

  Paul had a window in his small room that looked out over the fantastic Faerie countryside. He stood at it, staring out it but seeing nothing, tears running down his cheeks.

  Sometimes that dream ended with Suzanna begging for forgiveness. Sometimes she scorned him, told him he was a rotten lover, that he should be glad she chose to take another lover to satisfy her physical needs instead of leaving him. So far he’d experienced it a dozen different ways, with a dozen different men as her lover, and a dozen different endings to each one, none the same. And the most difficult part of it all was that the dreams didn’t have a dreamlike quality, were instead vivid and real and painful. And while intellectually he knew they were just dreams, illusions cooked up by Simuth, each time he awoke his sense of betrayal was new and raw.

  “Young Mage.”

  Paul recognized Anogh’s voice, turned to face him. If there wasn’t that mage blocking his power he’d summon all he could, go for Anogh’s throat and damn the consequences. But without his power he couldn’t even touch the bastard. “What do you want?”

  “I thought I’d come see how you’re doing.”

  “How do you think I’m doing?” Paul demanded angrily as he turned away from Anogh, turned back to the window.

  Anogh crossed the room, stopped close behind him and spoke softly, “I think Simuth must use three strong mages to dampen your power and control you, and seven to maintain this circle. I think Ag expected you to be broken by now, is frustrated you’re not, is growing increasingly unhappy with Simuth. I think Simuth is growing desperate. And I think you may be strong enough to withstand the fool.”

  “What do you care?”

  “I care a great deal, mortal. You just don’t understand how and why. Remember this, if Simuth stumbles, you can walk the halls of Sidhe all the way back to the Mortal Plane.”

  It took a moment for Anogh’s words to sink in, and when they did Paul turned to confront him. But there was no one there. Paul stood alone in the room, wondering if it had been just another illusion, all part of the game they played on the landscape of his mind.

  ~~~

  Ag demanded angrily, “When will it be done?”

  “Any day now,” Simuth answered, on his knees before Ag’s throne and trembling visibly. Clearly Ag’s patience had reached its limits.

  Ag stared at him for a long moment, and when he spoke his words were soft, sibilant, almost like the hiss of a snake. “Any day now, my dear Simuth. You’ve said that for several days now. And the Old Wizard is using the time to muster his support.”

  The temperature in the room dropped suddenly and frost formed in Anogh’s hair. Ag stood, took each step down the dais slowly, one at a time, stopped at the bottom next to the kneeling Simuth. He leaned down and put his lips close to Simuth’s ear, and while he spoke in a faint whisper, all there heard his words clearly. “If he is not broken and bound soon, then I will have to release him, and the woman. Do you understand what such a failure will mean for you?”

  Simuth’s trembling increased. He whispered. “I do, Your Majesty.”

  Ag smiled. “Then see to it that it is finished tonight.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Tonight. It will be so.”

  Chapter 25: A Choice of Desires

  Paul walked Katherine up the steps at the front of her house. They’d had a wonderful evening: dinner, then an opening at an art studio run by a friend of Katherine’s. At the art studio they’d laughed quietly at the art; they both agreed it was atrocious crap.

  Their relationship had turned a little serious, though no sex yet, just a few kisses at odd little moments here and there. Nice kisses!

  At the top of the steps she turned and faced him, leaned into him, let him wrap his arms around her. “You seem a little preoccupied tonight,” she said, an odd look passing over her face.

  He shrugged. “Had a bad dream last night. Really strange, some parts bad, some parts good. You were in it, and your father. I was a wizard, of all things, and you were a witch, and we were involved with fairies and leprechauns and demons and all sorts of weird stuff. Can’t tell you how glad I was to wake up this morning and find out it was just a nightmare.”

  She gave him a little evil grin. “Well one part of it was real. Trust me, Paul, I can be a real witch, when the mood strikes me.”

  He laughed. “I don’t doubt that.”

  She pulled out of his arms. “Come on in, have a cup of coffee. It’s been too nice of an evening to end it now.” She turned to the door, dug her keys out of her purse and opened it. He followed her into her living room, through the living room and into the kitchen where she threw her purse on the counter, then turned and faced him squarely. She looked into his eyes; he kissed her, and she responded warmly, her body tight against his. He could tell she was as reluctant as him to end the kiss.

  Her house was a lot nicer than his dump. He helped her out of her coat. She wore slacks that emphasized her long legs and nice butt, a pale, blue blouse with a ruffled collar, open at the neck and cut just a bit low, exposing a hint of some sort of red lacy thing. She caught him checking out her ass as she stepped out of the coat, grinned impishly. “Here,” she said, took the coat from him and hung it in a closet near the front door.

  She took his hand, led him into the living room, laughing and commenting about the ridiculous art they’d seen earlier. In the living room she stopped, turned and pulled him against her. They kissed again, their tongues dancing back and forth. When the kiss ended, he couldn’t think of anything better to say than, “I like my coffee black.”

  She didn’t pull out of his arms to go make the coffee, looked into his eyes and said, “I think the coffee can wait a bit.”

  They kissed again, and he became conscious of her body molded tightly against his, her breasts pressing against his chest, but he wasn’t sure how far she wanted to go. When they came up for air she had a twinkle in her eye as she hesitantly said, “I’m having trouble developing any interest whatsoever in coffee.”

  A wave of intense, passionate desire washed through him as he stumbled over the words, “Ya. To hell with . . . the coffee.”

  As they kissed again, she pressed herself against him. He pressed back and kissed her on the neck, and she let out a low pleasurable growl.

  At that point they both lost control, idiotically tried to maintain the kiss and as much body contact as possible while struggling toward her bedroom and attempting to pull Paul’s jacket and tie off at the same time. She stumbled backwards and he stumbled with her, ended up pressing her against the wall, his arms tangled behind him in his coat. He kissed her on the throat trying to fumble with his jacket, kissed the swell of her breasts exposed just above the red, lacy thing.

  She pushed him away. He stumbled backward thinking he’d gone too far, but when the back of his legs hit the edge of her bed, he fell back onto it, his hands still pinned behind his back in the tangle of his coat, the bulge in his pants embarrassingly obvious. She made a point of looking at it, grinned evilly, laid down on top of him with his hands still tangled behind him.

  “I’ve got you trapped right where I want you,” she said, then she kissed him on the chin, ran her lips lightly down the side of his neck, leaned back for a moment, pulled off his tie and tossed it aside, then planted several kisses on his chest. He’d never felt such intense desire, and sensed that they both felt the same desperate need for each other. Their kisses grew more heated, and he finally got his hands free, cupped one of her breasts, pinched the nipple lightly through her blouse. She groaned with pleasure, whispered, “It’s almost unnatural the way I want you at this moment.”

  Their kissing grew desperate, frantic. He tried to unbutton her blouse, accidentally tore the red lacy thing, exposed her breasts and began kissing them, bit one ever so gently. She groaned, cried out, kissed him on the ear, bit him on his neck. “I can’t . .
.” she said breathlessly. “I’ve never . . . felt such . . . overwhelming need. God I need you.”

  She tore at his belt, got his pants open, put her hand inside them and stroked him desperately. It drove him insane, and he bit her breast almost viciously, tasted a trickle of blood, was amazed he would do such a thing, because he just wasn’t like that, not rough and harsh and cruel. But she groaned with pleasure at the bite, and that wasn’t like her either. Then he got his hand in her pants, caressed her between her legs, and her cry of pleasure was almost a full-throated scream. “There’s something wrong here,” she cried, “but I don’t care. I don’t care.”

  They pulled desperately at each other’s pants, both stupidly trying to undress the other one-handed, refusing to remove the other hand from the pleasure they so urgently needed. She arched her back growled like an animal as waves of pleasure washed through her. “There’s something wrong here,” she screamed, thrusting her hips against his. He’d gotten her pants open, but only that, didn’t recall tearing them badly in the process. His were open, and like hers still up around his waist. For an instant they abandoned the desperate struggle to undress, pressed frantically against each other, his shorts and her bikinis and their half-open pants the only things that separated them. “I know it,” she screamed, “I know it, I know it. It’s a glamour, a beguilement.”

  Then she completely lost control, rolled them both over so he was on top of her, ground against him, her bikinis and his shorts still in the way. And while he had no less control, there was a piece of him that heard her. As they continued their mad, frantic struggles, she tearing at his pants, he tugging at hers, that piece of him that she’d awakened to the absurdity of their struggles managed to pull power, to feed it into his personal wards. Their passion had them both desperately trapped, unable to control anything they did, but the walls of Katherine’s bedroom shimmered and wavered as if they were just barriers of smoke slowly dissipating on a gentle breeze.

  They rolled over again and now she was on top. He bit at her breasts, licked them, and a piece of him realized they were writhing on the floor in the middle of a large banquet hall, the main entertainment for the Unseelie Court’s dining pleasure, trapped in a magic circle of protection powered by Sidhe mages, performing for the entertainment of all, especially Simuth, who grinned at him knowingly and nodded.

  “Spell,” she said breathlessly as they writhed together on the floor. “Amplify . . . our own . . . desires . . . thousand fold.”

  Paul tried to draw power. Understanding was one thing, resisting another. As she tugged at his pants all he could do was fumble clumsily at her hands, delaying the inevitable spectacle. His own power only fed the spell more, and he realized he couldn’t fight it, that there must be several Sidhe mages feeding their power into it, fighting against him. If he couldn’t fight it, he and Katherine would tear their clothes apart and screw their brains out on the floor of the banquet hall, an ugly pornographic show for the Unseelie Court.

  Simuth was truly enjoying himself, fondling the breasts of the woman lying beside him, both of them enjoying the floor show. Their eyes met, and in Simuth’s Paul saw victory, contempt, cruelty. He focused his thoughts on Suzanna and Cloe, realizing now there was no way he could fight such a powerful spell-crafting. But if he couldn’t fight it, could he turn it against them? If it amplified his desires a thousand fold, then need it only amplify his desire for Katherine? Looking into Simuth’s cold, cruel, triumphant eyes, perhaps it would amplify other desires. Yes, he desired Katherine. She was beautiful and intelligent and sexy, and a little bit vulnerable. But he had many desires, like his desire for vengeance on the man who’d murdered his wife and child, his desire for Simuth’s death, his desire to break the circle, his desire for revenge on the entire Unseelie Court. Desire that, he thought. Focus on that desire, he told himself, and only that desire, and let them amplify that.

  It was so incredibly difficult to put Katherine aside, especially with her writhing in his arms, a willing partner. But she wasn’t willing, for they were both just victims of Simuth’s rape. And with that thought, no other desire existed for him but his wish for revenge. He focused on that, focused on the power the Sidhe mages fed into the spell, and he gave them that desire to amplify. His own passion waned, and he saw his new desire grow into an ugly, angry cloud of hatred. He drew even more power, drew it without regard to McGowan’s warnings, without regard for himself, and fed it into the Sidhe spell.

  A deafening explosion rocked the hall, and the mad, uncontrollable desire they both felt disappeared. He lay there for a moment on top of her, savoring the freedom of the now broken spell, stunned by the explosion and bleeding from several cuts, some rather serious.

  He pulled himself off her and she curled up into a fetal ball, trying to cover herself with her torn clothing. She too bled from cuts and scrapes and bites. He wanted to help Katherine, to console her, to help them both pretend they’d never gone through what had just happened. But he had to act now, while he had an advantage, if he had an advantage. He struggled to his feet, she clutching at her torn clothing, he clutching at his. “I’m sorry,” he said, turned and staggered toward Simuth.

  The explosion had blown outward from the circle and had stunned everyone, left a few unconscious. Paul half crawled, half walked toward Simuth, who was slowly climbing to his feet. But just as Paul reached him he stood upright, turned, faced Paul, laughed insanely and growled, “Fool mortal. You think you can best me in combat?” He backhanded Paul.

  Paul hit the floor hard skidding on his back, had no idea how far he’d been thrown by the blow, lay there with his head spinning, little motes of unconsciousness sparkling in front of his eyes, hoping his jaw wasn’t broken. Simuth marched across the room, picked Paul up by the front of his shirt and threw him like a broken toy doll. Paul slammed into a wall, crumpled to the floor. His left shoulder sent fiery waves of agony through him, and he was certain he had several cracked ribs. He tried to struggle to his feet but his right knee gave out in a lance of agony. The banquet was in chaos, but Simuth stood over Paul and announced to them all as if he was the ringleader of a circus, “My guests, ladies and gentlemen. It’s time to end this foolish game.”

  Paul’s head spun sickeningly, and he was too stunned to do anything but watch the Sidhe kill him.

  “You pathetic animal,” Simuth said, but as he bent to reach for Paul, Katherine, screaming maniacally, hit him like a linebacker. They tumbled past Paul in a tangle of arms and legs.

  Paul scrambled to his feet, kept most of his weight on his left leg, staggered toward them like a drunkard. Katherine groaned and rolled over, but Simuth recovered immediately, stood, looked down at her and kicked her in the ribs. As he drew his foot back to kick her again Paul charged, but with lances of pain spearing through his knee it was an ineffectual charge. Simuth heard him, turned and slapped him to the floor. He turned back to Katherine, kicked her one last time, turned back to Paul and reached down, grabbed him by the throat with one hand and lifted him to his feet, lifted him off his feet, held him dangling in front of him like a small child, choking and gasping for air. “It’s time to end this, mortal.”

  Hefting Paul by the throat with one hand, his feet dangling a few inches off the floor, Simuth used his other hand to pull his shiny, silver rapier. He drew the rapier back, preparing for a long sweeping stroke. He clearly intended to hit Paul in mid-torso, and from what he’d heard of the power of a Sidhe silver rapier, in Faerie it would cut him in two, easily severing his body. Simuth didn’t want him to have a quick or easy death.

  Paul had no defenses left. Here in Faerie Simuth was just too powerful. But Anogh’s words echoed in his mind, . . . walk the halls of Sidhe all the way back to the Mortal Plane.

  Paul didn’t know if he could do it, had no confidence in his ability and no trust for Anogh’s words. But he had nothing to lose, so just as Simuth started the stroke that would cut him in two, he lifted one hand, placed it on the hand Simuth had wrapped ab
out his throat, thought carefully of that spiral shift in reality between their two worlds, pictured his own small living room and mentally stepped into it.

  ~~~

  Katherine rolled over, was certain Simuth had broken a couple of ribs. She rolled over just in time to see him swing his blade, knew there was no hope for Paul. And none for her either. And then Simuth and Paul disappeared, just blinked out of existence.

  The explosion had filled the hall with chaos, wounded Sidhe slowly staggering to their feet and taking stock of the situation. Katherine somehow managed to get to her feet, though she wasn’t sure she could remain standing for long, especially holding the weight of the heavy long-sword.

  Sword!

  She looked at her hands, both curled about the sheathed blade, its long hilt protruding from one end.

  ~~~

  Paul was getting better at it because they were only about five feet off the floor when they materialized, but horizontal, with Paul on top of Simuth. They hit the floor with a heavy thud; Paul’s weight slammed into Simuth, reminding him painfully of his cracked ribs, but giving Simuth an even better lesson in the physics of gravity. And while Paul had been prepared for the transition, it caught Simuth completely off guard. He groaned and gasped for breath as Paul rolled off him.

  Nursing broken ribs Paul scrambled to his feet and staggered toward the kitchen, limping painfully on his damaged knee. Behind him he heard Simuth struggling to his feet. Paul had two thoughts in mind: they were no longer in Faerie so Simuth was no longer all-powerful, and cold iron. He needed cold iron.

  He made it to the kitchen barely an instant ahead of Simuth, knew he didn’t have time to go for the drawer with the knives, spotted a dirty cast-iron skillet in the sink, grabbed it and turned to face the Sidhe. Simuth looked at the skillet in Paul’s hand and laughed, then swung his rapier.

  An iron skillet against a three-foot rapier, ordinarily there would have been no chance. But Paul remembered, and Simuth forgot, that his rapier was pure silver, harder than the hardest steel in Faerie, but soft and compliant in the Mortal Plane.