Dreams’ Dark Kiss (4 page)

“Lots of banes on the move, big man. Just wanted to make sure you two were getting along…okay.”

Keoni looked from his friend to her and back. “You wanted to see what she looks like.”

Jay shrugged and walked over to stand beside him. They both looked down at Ciaran. A bit intimidating but she had to admit hugely titillating. “Thanks for holding her in the dreamscape long enough for me to get the chance,” Jay said.

Keoni’s eyes widened. He shook his head
no
as subtly as he could but Ciaran had already caught on to his reaction. Not that it mattered. Jay hadn’t seen Keoni’s signal and continued. “It can’t be easy keeping her here. She’s crazy powerful for a newbie and from what I saw catches on quick,” he said, finishing up a more effective damning of Keoni than Keoni would have likely accomplished on his own.

Ire churned just below the surface of Ciaran’s skin. These men and their need for control—it was too much.

“You’re the reason I can’t wake up. What else have you done?” she asked with deceptive calm. Vexed beyond reason or reasonable explanation, Ciaran aimed a kick at Keoni’s shin. She woke up mid-swing and missed.

The Man and the Beast, each, hated lovers and dreamers with vehemence. Lovers were fickle, and dreamers teased; both were cruel, both were edible and devouring them made more sense than not. The Beast ran its tongue over multiple rows of razor teeth, and the Man licked his lips.

The Man and the Beast were both rapacious. Though they hungered for very different pursuits. Neither sought flesh. Or they both did.
Keeping these things straight was getting more and more difficult
…but they didn’t eat flesh. No. They merely required it. Yes. The Man and the Beast were certain of this. They were not anima— Well, perhaps they were, but purely in the figurative sense. What they made of the flesh they acquired was…well, beastly. So the term
animal
suited them. They liked it that way. Or they despised it. The Man scratched the Beast behind the ears and ran the opposite hand through his hair.
Keeping these things straight was getting more and more confusing
.

The pair descended the stairs. The Man ran his hand over the banister, laying claim to every inch of wood along the slide down. All hail the conquering lairds of the lair.

He stopped to straighten a photo in the gallery of family portraits and candid snapshots decorating the stairwell wall. A whim struck, and he kissed the glass with a loud
mwah
. Aww, who didn’t love a nuclear family? No reason not to kiss them all. And he did. He had a certain flair for the dramatic and gave the photos all the frenzied adoration of a tween snuggling a rock star’s sweat towel. A progressively louder series of smacks resounded through the home as he poured on the melodrama.

In one picture the family plummeted past the camera on a roller coaster. The matriarch wrapped herself around the daughter as if to say “save me!” All four screamed their laughter. The Man kissed this image two times, jumped up and down and clapped his hands in glee. The Beast rose on its hind legs and spun round twice. Yippee. The good times were over. This family had gone
boom!
Bye-bye. The pair cackled. Boom. Nuclear. They cracked themselves up.

The coup had been an intimate affair, the players limited to the Waking World members of the horde led by the family matriarch. Yay for surprises. With Mommy at the helm, Sonny Boy, Baby Girl and Dear Ole Dad surrendered like the punk bitches they were and the home became a spoil of war, passing into the Man and the Beast’s possession.

Yum.
Possession.
The word tasted of power and force. The Beast rolled a long pink tongue over its sallow maw, savoring the last remnants of the heady flavor.

Sonny Boy, Baby Girl and Dear Ole Dad had stopped whimpering. Sad enough the screaming had ceased an hour before, but the Man and the Beast had particularly enjoyed the whimpering and had begun to descend the stairs in hopes of aiding in an encore.

Aid.
Now that word tasted foul.

Foul as the Somnians who lived to come to the rescue and, on top of that, counted as lovers and dreamers—the perfect nemeses for both the Man, whose lip curled, and the Beast, who snarled. The bastards would come soon. The pair sneered in unison. They couldn’t help it. Dream guardians took the joy out of murder and mayhem. Prudes, the lot of them. At any rate, the guild would’ve sensed the family in peril by now. Help was on the way. The Man hid an expression of gleeful anticipation behind an upraised hand, and the Beast snickered. Dream guardian rats to the trap. Easy.

Too easy to trick foolish lovers like the Somnian who stank of fish guts and arrogance. The Beast especially wanted to kill him. The musky scent of its bloodlust spiked the air. The Man liked that aloha bastard even less—the Hawaiian who had dared to kiss her. The Delectable.

A red-cloaked figure stepped forward to greet them at the foot of the stairs. The hood obscuring her face shifted forward with her curt nod, a confirmation she had already broken all but her daughter as the Man and the Beast had asked. They wanted to watch her dismantle the mind of the little girl and were glad Mommy would allow them the thrill. The bitch worked efficiently.

Who knew such ruthlessness had been hidden beneath the veneer of domesticity all those years. Certainly not Dear Ole Dad, who lay strewn half on, half off the living-room couch. His transition had already begun. If werewolves existed, they’d likely resemble Dear Ole Dad at midturn, pale fur sprouting and a maw reshaping the jawline.

Reaching inside the hood, the Man stroked Mommy’s cheek to communicate his pleasure in the job she’d done. Light caught her eyes, and he paused. If he and the Beast didn’t rule here, they might have been afraid. The change intensified her blue eyes and rimmed them in vibrant red, the same shade of crimson as her cloak. Most of the horde bore unnaturally blue eyes, but the addition of the red was…unsettling. He and the Beast liked that. Plus, the matriarch was ruthless.

The Man wound a lock of her now slate blue hair around his thumb and forefinger. Lovely. They would’ve enjoyed taking turns mounting Mommy if their desires warranted. But they did not. They longed for the Delectable.

The pair’s minds returned to the tiny psychopomp woman—his clanswoman and flame to both his and the Beast’s desire. Sweet Delectable. The Man moaned at the image, and the Beast panted. The Delectable, the little bird and sweet precious, belonged to them alone. The Beast wagged its tail, and the Man rubbed the flat of his palm over the tightening in his groin.

Neither the Man nor the Beast could remember when they’d first scented the Delectable. They did not like the foulness of memory clogging their minds in the now. Memory was pain and the Man and the Beast preferred to cause harm, never to relive their own.

Whenever she had appeared on their radar, it must have happened after they’d become a team. No. Her existence had come to the Man only in the Beast’s memories, the remembrances of when it had stalked the plains of the dreamscape. Yes. The Beast’s recollections did not burn the way the Man’s did and having recognized the Delectable as clan—possessing the same accursed affliction as the Man—required the Beast’s rather talented snout to sniff out. Further, the Beast had made the connection between the Man’s scent and that of the woman they would both come to desire. Yes. The Beast must have found her in the Dreaming when she had been merely a psychopomp and the Man and the Beast were still courting one another, still locked in the getting-to-know-you stages of their partnership.

The Man considered himself, the Beast and the Delectable to be a fortunate culmination of events. When the Man had awoken to the power his cooperation with the Beast brought, and had shared the entirety of Beast’s knowledge, he’d accepted what singular entities they were. The understanding of the Delectable’s similarity to the Man and her value to their cause spoke to their subconscious selves from within memory. Perhaps the past was not so terrible. The Man and the Beast decided not to test their new theory. Pain seethed at the edge of their awareness and they would not have it spoiling their plans. No. Not plans. Party. Yes.

How much more would they enjoy murder and mayhem when the Delectable was theirs? Only today, they had gotten a vicarious taste of her. One of their minions had come close to claiming their prize. The Man and the Beast had controlled the underling, known what it knew, orchestrated its movements and hungers. They’d held her beneath them while she’d scrambled and prayed. The pleasure of the memory took the Man, and his hand continued to move unconsciously. The Beast crept closer to his side. Had they known the Delectable was a neophyte Somnian, they would have wooed her differently and wouldn’t have trusted merely directing their minion to isolate her in the Wastelands where, as a dream guardian, she could call on the rat-bastard Hawaiian for help and he would hear her.

Eh, the Man and the Beast knew they were being dishonest. The Beast hacked—the idea of deceit a figurative hairball in its throat. The Man coughed at the back of his hand in a delicately foppish manner.

Had their Delectable not begun the transition into a Somnian they’d never have had access to her in the dreamscape, free of the protections inherent to psychopomps. And,
sweet bonus
, there would be more and better chances to have her now her unique power signal—part soul conductor, part dream guardian and part kin—glowed beacon-bright in the Waking World. The Man and the Beast could track their nemeses, the Somnians, anywhere in the two worlds, and as a clanswoman the Delectable had a discernable flavor, different from other dream guardians. They knew they should be grateful to the Somnians for this. The Man decided to thank them with death. The Beast agreed. It was only fair.

Anticipation turned the flow of their thoughts. The small pack the Beast had ruled in the dreamscape had grown continuously and they’d begun to build a Waking World horde as complement. The next time they caught the Delectable alone, they hoped she would run or cry in terror. They hoped she would run and cry. Such emotions would salt the feast of her body and make it ever so much more delicious.

The Man moaned and gazed down at his hand. His thumb stroked the tip of his penis, his fist pumping in quick, sharp pulls. Soooo good. So helpless. The Beast humped his leg in a jerky rhythm matched to the pace of his hand. He kicked it away with a bark of laughter. The Beast cackled but turned its ministrations to the floor.

The family matriarch reached for his hardened phallus with one hand and bent to see to the Beast with the other. The Beast dodged, and the Man knocked her hand away. She whimpered beneath the red cloak, but even her distress failed to excite the pair. Inclining her head, she looked askance. It reminded the Man of a dog, and he petted the top of her head as he strode past her on his way to the kitchen. The Beast quit humping the carpet and followed. They both sighed. Too bad Mommy couldn’t slake their desires. Neither he nor the Beast knew why, but they only “got it up” for the Delectable. The Beast nipped at the Man. Correction: They could always get it up but they desired only the Delectable. They’d need to find her again soon. Their minions would sniff her out in the Dreaming, if she returned there, and the Man and the Beast would follow her trail in the Waking World. Yes. There would be other, more delicious opportunities. The Beast snickered, and the Man did the same.

The kick Ciaran aimed at Keoni’s shin flipped the duvet off the bed instead. Searing pain composed of images shot through her mind: a pair of shadows in the shapes of a man and a monster, a red-cloaked abomination called “Mommy” and a mushroom cloud devouring souls, not bodies.

The imagery ached and burned as if etching its likeness onto her brain cells. She drew her legs up to her chin and buried her face between her knees. As abruptly as it started, the pain stopped. Ciaran’s gaze darted left, then right. She didn’t want to move in case the pain returned. It didn’t. She sat up, crossed herself and gave thanks for her return to the Waking World. It was over, she assured herself, hoping she hadn’t fallen back on delusions.

Morning sun drenched the southern-facing bedroom. She squinted to take in her surroundings.

Where…?

She’d escaped to Atlanta. Right.

Her current digs were aptly titled the Diamond Suite, the entire space decorated in varying textures of creamy white—faux fur, stone, raw silk—with touches of khaki to keep it interesting. Not a choice she would have made, but as a very grateful guest, she couldn’t argue with the pure decadence of the room. Not when it could hold her entire flat twice over and, if sold on eBay, the custom-molded clear acrylic bed would pay her mortgage for half a year at least. She’d looked it up.

Ciaran in Wonderland,
she mused, throwing her legs over the side of the bed and stretching the kinks of the night away. Cool air reacted with the sheen of moisture on her skin. She shivered, pulled the spread up off the floor and wrapped it back around her.

The psychopomp journey of the night before reasserted itself in a shock of images, bright and slashing. Events shouldn’t have gone down the way they had. The Otherside was always ominous. It was the land of pure spirit. The jump-off point to death. But last night she had crossed over into something else entirely. She suspected—though she couldn’t explain why—if the beast had succeeded in mating with her, the result would have been…a very real pregnancy!

Ciaran jerked the back of a hand over her mouth to keep from retching. Rushing to the bathroom, she leaned over the sink and rested her forehead against the mirror. After several minutes, the nausea subsided.

The Otherside had never posed a threat to her as a psychopomp. She conducted souls to the great beyond, escorting them through one Last Hurrah along the way. That was the job. What happened last night occupied unknown territory. What if it happened again? For the foreseeable future she’d be knocking back Red Bull cocktails to induce insomnia. Until she figured out a way to protect herself, sleep was off the menu.

Feeling better, she lifted her head and winced. Nice.

Whatever happened to reciprocity?
She had been willing to give her ex-boyfriend, Raphael, her everything. All the love and care she’d been saving for the One. In return, he had given her his fists.

Her fingers explored the bruised area around her left eye without pressing too hard against the broken blood vessel streaking the white. Her tongue touched the cut through her swollen lip. In concert, the injuries formed a beacon; clear reminders love didn’t live there anymore.

Tsking, Ciaran turned on the faucet and got out her toothbrush.

When her family had learned what Raphael had done, some had wanted to dispose of him. As in Authorities Found Bits and Pieces of a Man in the Thames Today. The others wanted him in jail. Caribbean Brits were fiercely protective of family.

Both options scared her. Raphael had grown up with a criminal element—to say it nicely. She worried he or his friends would retaliate. After all, the bastard knew where her mum lived. So instead of seeking justice, vigilante or otherwise, Ciaran assuaged her family with assurances she’d given as good as she’d gotten. And she had. Raphael had beaten her as though she were a man, so she’d fought back like one.

Bashed him in the balls, too.

Ciaran flashed herself a self-satisfied look in the mirror. She hoped she’d done permanent damage. Served him right if he shot blanks from now on.

She placed one hand on her hip and pumped the other fist punk-rock-style—just another badass chick protecting the world from demon spawn.
Yeah, right.

Finished cleaning her teeth, she followed with a quick swig of mouthwash, took out her anti-acne cleanser—no need to be spotty and scared—and gently lathered her face.

Delusions of grandeur aside, maybe not notifying the police had been a mistake. In every mirror, the shadow of the girl she’d once been confronted her. She’d lost her imagined demon-slayer edge, and only faint memories remained. Raphael played the role of supervillain, an incubus draining away her power, and she didn’t know if she’d ever get it back.
Bastard.

Ciaran turned and stormed back into the bedroom, snatching up the book she was reading,
Om, Words of Power
, and her robe as she headed toward the stairs. Once she’d wrapped the fluffy fabric around her she tucked the book beneath an arm. Such an interesting read—the idea sound had the ability to create or destroy, just as music recalled memories and affected mood.

Ciaran believed it. She’d seen the power of sound firsthand with Raphael. In the early stages of their relationship, she’d averted his nasty moods by singing certain songs to him, a feat even her cooking hadn’t accomplished, and if the compliments her family and friends consistently offered were true, her meals were amazing. But her voice seemed near supernatural in its power of suggestion.

It went both ways, though. Her acerbic wit easily lacerated friends and foes as often as her voice healed them. She couldn’t help it. Biting retorts were second nature. She’d never been one to back down…not…before…never before.

Ciaran faltered at the top of the stairs. Woozy, she reached for the railing to keep from tumbling down. Maybe what happened with Raphael was her fault. Her smart mouth had pushed him too far. As suddenly as the possibility entered her mind, her mood took another violent shift. Damn Raphael for the doubt. The physical pain meant nothing next to what he’d stolen. Her self-esteem lay cut in shreds, uncertainty dogged her every move and tears fell at the tiniest provocation.

She screamed, dashed offending tears from her eyes and stomped down the stairs.

The anger was the worst part. The shame and embarrassment of being labeled one of those women produced a bomb in the pit of her stomach so volatile, anything could set her off. Ciaran recognized the problem but couldn’t stop. She hated being angry, which pissed her off even more.

Her bare feet touched down in the soaring foyer. Ignoring the cold marble floors, she marched to the front door and whipped it open with a bang.

Georgia sunshine and the immaculate lawns of the gated community greeted her. The acidic edge of her anger melted away. Who knew people lived this way? Each house—yeah, right, more accurately
palace
—sold for millions and was worth every quid.

Right about now she needed the safety of barriers in her life. Secretly, she’d have exchanged her soul for the peace those tall iron gates provided. Not to mention the security of the guards at each entrance.

Thank goodness her favorite frequent guest to the hotel she managed had offered the property as a favor. Otherwise the sanctuary of the Buckhead estate would be a daydream. She sighed. She certainly would have fallen apart in the most spectacular of ways if her client hadn’t carried such great affection for her and her hotel’s five-star service. She needed this place. Needed it desperately.

Ciaran walked down to the gate at the bottom of the driveway, where the morning paper awaited her. Yet another of the hotel-style amenities accompanying her stay, each morning she found the paper neatly tucked into the two-sided mailbox built into one of the brick columns on either side of the stone drive.

An opalescent Aston Martin DBS partially blocked the driveway on the opposite side of the gate. She mentally added the rare, luxury vehicle to her all-time wish list. Behind the wheel of a car like that she could work off some serious frustration.

As she neared the mailbox, the refrain of a familiar song surrounded her. A ballad whose title and lyrics she couldn’t quite recall. Where was it coming from? Perhaps the DBS’s driver was playing it…and…she wished…they’d turn the dreadful thing off. Something in the melody pulled at her heart as though in sympathy for a friend.

A shiver lifted goose bumps along her arms and neck. The melody set her teeth on edge and left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. Its notes didn’t carry the joy of love at all but instead had her bristling to shield her mind from its promise of sinister intent.
Curiouser and curiouser.

Ciaran grabbed the newspaper and started toward the house. The presence of a spirit—cold and sharp—more oppressive than the ache in the song, turned her back. The Aston Martin’s owner got out for a look around, and the familiar melody escaped the open door to hit Ciaran full blast. Although the song filled her with unease, it was easier to ignore now she’d seen him.

He was tall, even taller than Keoni. Of course, everyone appeared tall when compared to her whopping five feet three inches. But if Keoni stood six-three, this guy had to be six-eight or six-nine. His colorless skin placed him in albino territory, and his complementary-hued hair, barely golden enough to earn the label platinum blond, flowed well past his shoulders. Ciaran took in the ivory turtleneck matched to an immaculately tailored gray wool overcoat, and shuddered again.
Brrrrrr.
His bearing was regal, chilling—one of an ice king.

He must have sensed her presence as well, because he turned his cool blue stare on her.
Cool
was too mild a term.
Frosty
fit better. Then he sneered. And it was beastly, full of things long dead, and his eyes reflected the same. She’d chosen the perfect nickname. Ice King.

Oh lovely.
Ciaran simply wasn’t in the mood for any serial-killer shenanigans. If this guy moved into the neighborhood and went on a rampage, she’d cut him up in pieces too little for a CSI investigation, before burying him in the back garden… Well, she would if she could find her old confidence again. She blew out a harsh breath in frustration. Men were seriously beginning to get on her nerves.

The Ice King quirked a brow at her, then scanned the area a moment more before getting back into the car. As he drove off, Ciaran pulled the collar of the robe up to her chin and wrapped her arms around herself for warmth.

“Whatever he’s looking for, I hope he finds it in the Bermuda Triangle and gets lost,” she mumbled, heading back inside.

She closed the door and shivered. This time she felt the cold marble the moment her feet touched the floor. Glancing to the side of the entryway, she spotted the woven silk runner she had kicked into a pile the night before. The thing was pretty but, without traction underneath, often sent her sailing across the room and nearly through a wall. Which was how it had ended up crumpled and out of the way. Still, it kept her toes from freezing.

Of course, there were other reasons for the chill seeping into her bones. After locking eyes with the Ice King, she imagined a volcanic eruption would feel as frosty as a London winter. Ciaran tucked the newspaper beneath her arm and bent to make quick work of setting the sunset-hued runner back in proper order. She needed a hot shower, fast.

Climbing the stairs, she shook out the newspaper for a look. Wallace Flint’s death had made the front page.
…passed away quietly in his sleep at his Texas home.
Ciaran smiled. Quietly? Not likely. He’d gone out with a bang, sailing through the air in the little red convertible of his dreams.
Huzzah!

She took a moment to savor the memory of the TV star’s elation. No matter how scary things got, she knew she would eventually find her way back to psychopomp duty. Her day job was great but not nearly as fulfilling. Plus, what she did for the dead balanced out the danger. She just didn’t want to get dry humped by nightmare hyenas in the bargain. She’d have to find a way to deal with the creature if she ever came across it again.

The robe dropped to the bedroom floor in a heap of aqua fleece. Ciaran giggled at the little pastel lamb it made. Inside the bathroom, she turned on all three shower jets, filling the room with a rainforest mist. A sprinkle of mango oil topped off the effect. Showers were best when the whole bathroom steamed up with the fragrance of the Caribbean.

On a sidelong glance at the mirror, Raphael’s face rippled into view, his self-satisfied leer reflected in her bruises. Ciaran ignored the specter of boyfriend past and worked her curly black hair into a French braid. When she glanced back, Raphael’s face became Keoni’s. She sucked her teeth and shooed him away. “Where were you when I needed you, Mister Dream Man? Nowhere in the real world, only in my dreams.”

Ciaran almost had her white baby tee over her head when she heard wails. She yanked the shirt back into place and listened. Her ears twitched, the sound so distant, it might not have been real. But there it was again. Somewhere in the Dreaming, a little boy screamed. Not good. The same mocking cackle she’d heard during the night rang on the heels of his cries. Bad. Real bad.

The how and why she could suddenly hear events in the Dreaming while still awake were forgotten in Ciaran’s frantic haste to get to the boy.

She would have to go to sleep.

Not likely with her heart ready to rattle out of her chest. Regardless, she’d have to try.

Closing her eyes, she blocked out the hiss of the shower and recalled the way power buzzed through her on those nights she phased into psychopomp dreaming. The serenity of those moments provided guidance as she forced her heart rate to slow and entered a state close to meditation.

Someone needs me, someone needs me, someone needs me
, echoed in her mind. The transition began, but it was different this time. She didn’t fall asleep to slip quietly into the Dreaming. Instead she forcefully projected herself outward. The sensation rocked her as nothing she’d ever experienced—the pins and needles of a sleeping limb turned internal. Everything she was hurled through a kaleidoscope tunnel. Not consciousness alone or a spirit animal, but an imprint of her soul. Great God! She wasn’t dreaming this time around. She’d completely left her body while still awake.