Dreamwalker (13 page)

He must have been staring for some time, since the expression on Rory’s face turned quizzical, her glossy, cherry red lips curving upward slightly in question.

“Just looking.”

Blushing furiously—and how the fuck did she pull that off if her fairness was due to makeup?—she gave him an indulgent smile, then a quick kiss. “Don’t worry about it.”

Not worry when he’d just discovered that the redness of her lips owed nothing to cosmetics? No way in hell. He hated mysteries, and all those pesky details promised to bug him at a time when he couldn’t afford distractions.

Damon was still puzzling over how Rory managed her disguise when boarding for first class and business class was announced. His target slid into the line, pulling a small, navy blue bag the Old Man would probably want to get his hands on for intelligence purposes.

That wasn’t his mission, but perhaps someone was waiting in Rome to scoop it up when they arrived. He put it out of his mind. Not his problem.

After helping Rory to her feet, Damon picked up his own hand carry and followed her to the short line, keeping al-Hazzezi in sight.

His target was making himself comfortable in first class when they passed through. A few other seats were taken, none of whose claimants looked like bodyguards. The situation was good but not ideal since the flight attendants in that section were more attentive to passengers’ needs. However, a staircase to the side suggested a sleeping deck; since al-Hazzezi liked his comfort, there was a chance he’d opt for privacy—and give Damon a better chance of success.

They had the business-class cabin mostly to themselves. Knowing he’d need privacy for the assassination, Damon took the seat by the window. An untimely awakening could spell failure for tonight’s hunt.

The flight took off without delay.

Beside him, Rory was mostly silent, strangely withdrawn. Did she suspect what he was about? Or was there something else that might complicate the mission?

Complex emotions simmered behind the fluffhead demeanor she currently presented to the world, held in check by remarkable control. Discomfort was the least of them and the most understandable; after all, she was a thief and he did work for the government, albeit with a clandestine agency. He wasn’t immune to the feeling himself.

But she radiated other, less definable emotions. Disturbing to one whose survival could depend on correct interpretation of such emissions.

Whatever it was would have to wait until after his hunt. He didn’t have the luxury of choosing a different time to take out al-Hazzezi; he had only that night.

Damon sat patiently through the usual flight-safety announcements and the dinner service, accustomed to the wait. Eventually his target would sleep and then he could strike.

Hours later, the lights were dimmed and curtains drawn for privacy between cabins. Beyond the divider, the spiky aura stirred, its cold focus dissipated by drowsiness.

The time was approaching.

Al-Hazzezi retreated up the stairs to the sleeping cabins reserved for first-class passengers. No one followed him up. Even better. Fewer chances of someone waking Damon’s target and saving him from a well-deserved death.

Mustering more patience, Damon scanned the cabin for danger and possible interruptions. The flight attendants had withdrawn, leaving passengers to sleep or otherwise entertain themselves. Rory had opted for the former, tilting her seat to nearly horizontal and spreading a blanket over her body.

He copied her, lying back and stretching his legs out for comfort. His target had yet to fall asleep, and even then, it would take about an hour for him to relax enough not to waken when Damon entered his dreams.

If he had his way, the Hashshash would never wake up.

The minutes ticked by, counting down the moments till death, spinning out into the small hours. The wait was an old acquaintance, made tolerable by the intended outcome. These days, he didn’t mind it too much.

Closing his eyes, Damon sent his consciousness spiraling down to that half-drowsing state he needed, then extended his mental fingers, seeking out al-Hazzezi’s dreams.

The familiar darkness resolved into a desert, one devoid of life. Searing heat and blowing sand that assaulted the lungs and scraped the skin dry under the rich blue sky.
His target was a powerful dreamer, to see color and experience such exquisite sensation—possibly a latent incubus. Dangerous prey. Still, he had to die.

Damon suggested the man’s final destination in Europe into his target’s sleeping mind.

A small suitcase appeared at the man’s side, one that matched the description of the nuke. Clearly, his target, too, was headed to Kosovo for the auction, and anticipating success. The nuke’s presencein the dream told Damon something of the importance al-Hazzeziattached to this mission
—
and decided Damon’s course. He sprang at his target, grabbing the bomb.

Freezing water engulfed them, driving a spike of fear into Damon’s heart.
The verisimilitude of the dream could kill him, not just his target. Dying here could mean death forever. The power of al-Hazzezi’s sleeping mind made the possibility more likely. Yet he had to accept it or his target would get away with only a nightmare that was soon forgotten.

Large rocks battered their bodies, then lost form.
His target had remembered this was a dream and was trying to shift the scene. Damon couldn’t allow that. He countered the move with a redirect to the river.

Damon snapped awake, the pounding of his heart like thunder in his ears. He gulped, sucking sweet, cold air into his lungs. He was alive! Relief swept through him at the realization. He stretched out his mental antennae and confirmed his assumption. Al-Hazzezi had put up a stronger fight than most, but Damon had succeeded in his mission and survived. He took another breath, savoring the recycled air of the shadowy cabin, relishing the very physical way it seared his starved lungs.

In his missions, there was always the possibility his target would turn the tables on him. He’d known that from the very start—back when another incubus had tried to assassinate his uncle Dion, and Damon had foiled the attempt and killed the assassin. He’d just turned thirteen at the time, but he’d had several missions since then.

The adrenaline flooding his veins slowly ebbed, leaving him shaky. This was the closest he’d come to dying. The knowledge sent a shudder through him. If al-Hazzezi had had any training to speak of, he might have turned the tables on Damon. The need to celebrate his survival transformed the fight-or-flight instinct into something equally basic—and just as urgent. Seeking release, he channeled it the only other way he knew.

Rory snapped her eyes open as arousal spiked, knowing who the man of her dreams was. Irritation mingled with desire. Though she’d played a similar game with him in real life, that was of no import. It was unacceptable for him to enter her dreams again merely to seduce her. She’d already accepted his commission, hadn’t she?

“D—Marco?” In the first stirrings of anger, she nearly forgot to use Damon’s alias.

A harsh gasp from beside her told Rory something was wrong. When she glanced over, the Fed was gulping for breath, as though in a race instead of merely sneaking into her sleeping mind. She touched the back of his hand; he was hot, even feverish, the taut tendons beneath her fingertips almost searing to the touch. “Are you okay?” She forgot her irritation in the face of his apparent distress.

Opening his eyes, he gave her a fierce grin, the gleam in them unmistakably carnal. “Never better.” He turned his hand over and captured hers, his heat sizzling up her arm.

Her pulse quickened in response to his overture, excitement thundering in her ears and drowning out her anger.
Here? Now?

Rory glanced around, ingrained wariness prompting her to check for danger. The seats across the aisle were empty, as were the next rows. There were two passengers up front, but they were apparently asleep, their screens and reading lights off. The only illumination came from the exit and no-smoking signs.

And not one flight attendant in sight.

The steady shrilling of the jet’s engines pervaded the darkness, weaving a wall of sound around them. A whistle of encouragement hinting at privacy.

But still . . .

“We’ll just have to be very quiet,” Damon murmured, his brown gaze dark and burning with sensual promise.

The implicit challenge decided her.

Rory leaned over and breathed into his ear, “I’m game if you are.” She took his lobe between her lips and sucked on it, playing the tip of her tongue over the tender flesh. It was one of the few parts of him that was soft, and the unique texture intrigued her, tempted her to nibble on it.