Guardians of the Portals (15 page)

“How do you do. I’m Caitlin.” She shook his hand once, then backed away and walked toward the pool of water.

“Trey.”

Caitlin stopped but did not turn around.

“My name. It’s Trey.”

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T
he water swirled in tepid wavelets, the surface refracting the mirrored faces of the surrounding cliffs. Caitlin waded over the stony bottom, but backed up quickly as her toes encountered a squishy surface, not mud but something else. She gulped back her surprise, unwilling to draw the man’s attention. With a furtive glance over her shoulder, she saw him tending to the animals, his back to her. It seemed odd, this nakedness, as if she were some freak in a sideshow, on display for all and sundry to comment and leer and disparage. She felt along her ribs, too prominent, even for her slim frame.

She warily tried once more to advance into the murky water. The wind—a light wisp of a breeze—stirred the turgid surface so that light disappeared, absorbed into some inner depths. It had an unnatural look to it, much like the rest of the planet, or so she called it. The idea of an alternate dimension, existing alongside her own, independent of, yet linked to her world was too difficult to get her head around. She’d been left to her own imagination to deal with the strangeness. Her only consolation was that the stranger, Trey, seemed capable, assured. Even though he clearly knew little about the particulars of this world, indeed traversed it as blind as she, he still wore an air of competence, the mark of the seasoned traveler.

She thought it odd that this object of her desire, this single focus for pain and fear and self-loathing, would still be a stranger after so many weeks and so much intimacy. Yes, intimate it had been, intensely so. She’d only lately, since his injury, realized a relaxation of his hold on her. While she couldn’t comprehend the reasons, she did know that he’d changed and that it had been a conscious decision on his part, not a matter of weakness or familiarity or boredom. They’d moved beyond the bizarre flirting, the push and pull of partners who recognized the music but not the steps, out of sequence and out of rhythm.

Caitlin splashed warm water along her arms, cleansing weeks of sandy grit from her sore skin. She maneuvered into deeper waters, not liking that she couldn’t see the bottom and vaguely fearful that some voracious monster lay hidden in the murky depths. Allowing her toes to explore the squishy bits required concentration, so she did not hear or sense when he came up behind her, so close she could no longer bend over without touching him.

Trey murmured in her ear, a familiar act, always leading to a complaint, a prelude to pain. She missed the words at first, confused at the tone and gentleness. She tried to move away but he grasped her shoulders with a feather touch, his long fingers stroking her collarbone with exquisite grace.

She stuttered, “I-I’m sorry.” The words spilled out unbidden, nothing more than habit. Act contrite and pray he would accept her meagre apology and lessen the pain in deference to her acquiescence.

“It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.” But he grasped her shoulders tighter, his fingers digging into her parched skin. Abruptly he released her but did not back away. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her waist and cradled her as he buried his face in her neck. He moaned, “Oh gods, what have I done?”

Caitlin whispered, “It’s all right. It will be...”

Her gut clenched at the tight hold, but not in fear, and she could not fathom what had changed. The stranger—her captor, her torturer—moaned his anguish and regret, his emotions so long bottled up they released in a waterfall of passion, stinging cool against her overheated flesh. She longed for the hate, for its simplicity and bright edges. Her body, her mind, had no strength left for this wash of need and desire, though she’d longed for it, praying and beseeching and bargaining with unknown, unknowable deities.

The stranger, the man—Trey—at last, a name. Did that make him real—more real than ‘Aiden’—and her befuddled fantasy world? Which was the more genuine, more authentic? With his arms about her, encasing her with hope, she wasn’t sure she wanted an answer to that or any other questions. His hard body pressed against her back, a cocoon of strength. She trembled at the tell-tale bulge against her butt as he slowly rotated his hips, whispering sweet trills of pleasure. If only it could be enough, in a land where time had no meaning and they drifted, linked, no longer alone.

“Caitlin, Caitlin, Caitlin,” Trey crooned as he explored her thin frame. He seemed intent on mapping her body, his fingers searching like a man rendered blind, seeking images, aching for clarity, and for truth. Inexplicably he pleaded, “Don’t leave me, please don’t.”

She whispered, “I won’t,” and meant it. When he pulled away, the heat of the day gripped her like a blowtorch. She couldn’t explain the sensation of a cool breeze when he’d wrapped her tenderly in his arms. She’d thought of passion as heat, a burning, shooting wash of flame, not this sweet chill that caressed every nerve ending. She wanted to turn around and face her enemy but feared what she’d find. An illusion. A dream, another mindless fantasy wreaking havoc on her soul. She could not bear it if he were goading, baiting her again, as he had so often in the past. The dance, it hurt, yet she floated through the sequence, content with the cadence, bending her mind to his will.

“Let me bathe you...” he paused and said quietly, “...please.”

Caitlin nodded her head and allowed him to take her hand and lead her into deeper water. The reeds or grasses, whatever the plant life that had her in such a tizzy earlier, now cushioned her feet. They waded through the gelatinous liquid, stirring up mud and debris, until he stopped and motioned her to wait. He strode further out, cautiously feeling with a foot.

“There’s a ledge here. Don’t go any further.” Trey backed away, guiding Caitlin to safer footing. “Bend over. Let me wash your hair.”

She complied, rejoicing in the feel of his strong hands unknotting and combing through her tangled locks. Her hair had grown abnormally fast and hung mid-back, though the dreadlocks had made it seem shorter. She tried not to think about what the muddy water would do to her tresses. He lifted her head, then tilted her chin and smiled, his normally stern features melting into almost a boyish quality. His teeth seemed abnormally white against chapped sore lips. Neither of them would pass for cover models any time soon. She stared into startling sable brown eyes, lit with an inner fire, gold-flecked. He’d left his glasses on shore.

Inanely she asked, “Can you see?”

He laughed and leaned in, squinting. “No. Not much anyway, but I can’t risk losing them in here. We’d be in hell of a fix then.”

“Like we aren’t already?”

A mask fell over his face and he let his hands fall to his side. “I guess I have some explaining to do.”

Caitlin longed for his touch, its absence sent waves of ... something cascading through her. She had no words for the emptiness, the profound sense of loss.

“Do you feel that?” she asked in a strangled voice.

“Yes.”

“What is it? What’s happening to me?”

“To us, Caitlin. To both of us.”

“Why? I don’t understand.”

“Because you are mine.” Trey spoke with sadness and regret. “I’ve brought this on you, on us. And there’s no going back.”

Caitlin mulled his words. He’d said it before and she still did not comprehend the significance or why he seemed filled with remorse, as if he grieved about something over which he had no control. The man stood before her, his head bowed in silent supplication. His sandy brown hair hung long and stringy over his rough features.

She stroked his cheek with a palm and said, “My turn. I want to wash your hair.” He raised his head with such a look of hope and despair it nearly broke her heart. He nodded and bent down, burying his head in the water and gripping her hips to steady himself as she stroked and pulled the knots apart. It was an oddly satisfying act, not so much intimate as soothing. She revelled in the pressure of fingertips against his scalp, the texture of his hair, the long stroke across her palms as she drew lengths of strands up and back. His hair was almost as long as hers and she imagined how it might feel when dry, brushing against her lips as he explored her neck with his mouth and tongue.

“Turn around.” Caitlin gently guided the man until he stood with his back to her. She pulled at his hair, then divided it into three bunches and plaited it into a thick weave, tying it off with several strands of hair.

Trey reached back, curious at what she had done, stroking the length carefully so as not to dislodge her work. He murmured, “Better,” then stepped back, his leg giving way as he plunged off the shelf. Arms flailing, he landed with a splash and disappeared from view. Caitlin gasped and reached toward where he’d gone down, but before she had time to panic, he surfaced with a laugh.

“Come on in, woman. The water’s fine.” He swam off using powerful strokes that carried him almost to the far shore. He yelled back, “Still deep on this side. You’re standing on something over there. Let me look.”

Before Caitlin could object, he disappeared below the surface.

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E
irik paced irritably along the empty corridor. As usual, his brother was late. They’d agreed to meet in the Egyptian rooms at the Metropolitan Museum. Though a wildly popular exhibit, the holdings were so vast, with so many nooks and alcoves, that visitors seldom crossed paths with others, and this late in the day most had gone on to other interests.

Eirik felt his age profoundly. The eldest of his kind, he’d guided the clans through millennia in this dimension. Of late he’d spent protracted periods in the city, far from his beloved mountainside and the chill winds that whipped the snows into fanciful curtains of lacy ice, a fairy tale kingdom of impossible vistas and improbable beings. He sorely missed the bards and poets who held sacred their history and beliefs. The discovery of the Portals and his peoples’ flight from incessant wars and discrimination, from the shouts of hate and spite, and the slow evolution toward what he believed was enlightenment would make a splendid story, perhaps even an exhibit in these halls of history. If only it could be so. But the schism had destroyed any chance at reconciliation with this world so they lived outside this time and space, meddling and scheming and plotting. They’d convinced themselves that they’d evolved for a higher purpose—at least he had. Lately he’d sensed questions, some lingering doubts.

“Eirik.”

“Gunnarr.”

“It’s been a while, Brother. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Eirik expected the usual sneer and look of disdain, but this day his younger sibling seemed different. He had aged, his hair now streaked with grey and his bearing less military, almost soft in its outlines. Eirik wondered if he looked as old and used up—both of them spent, no longer relevant to the times.

“It’s Trey.”

Gunnarr clenched his fists but a flicker of sadness and hope flitted across his scarred features. “What about my boy?”

Eirik tilted his head, curious that he would refer to Trey as his ‘boy’, something he’d never called him even as a child. He’d been the one failure in Gunnarr’s long line of successful breedings to produce a warrior clan of loyal followers, whose trust and unquestioning obedience would be guaranteed. It was all they had to safeguard their genetic anomalies. Eirik understood, and had even indulged in the wanton ruttings, spreading his seed far and wide in the human population in hopes of maintaining their bloodlines.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Gunnarr managed to look surprised. “What do you mean? Don’t tell me he’s gone missing. How is that possible? I told you to keep him on a tight leash.”

“Yes, well, maybe if you hadn’t beat the shit out of him at every opportunity, he might be more willing to play the obedient little lackey you trained him to be.”

“You have no right,” Gunnarr sputtered.

“I have every right. You cut him loose, forced him to choose. Why do you resent that he left you? What else did you expect him to do? I was there to pick up the pieces, Brother.” Eirik sat heavily on a stone sarcophagus and glared at his sibling. “Why did you do that to him?”

“Because I love him, you old fool. I know him better than you think. What I did, well ... I did it for him. He hated the battles, the blood and the stain on his soul. It slowly ate at him, destroying him in front of my eyes. And...”

“And what?”

Gunnarr fidgeted and thrust his hands in the pockets of his jeans, unwilling to meet his brother’s eyes.

“Gunnarr?”

“He would never have survived Bryn.”

“Bryn? What about him? I don’t...” Eirik’s voice trailed off and he stared hard at Gunnarr. “You don’t mean... Oh shit, no. He didn’t.”

Gunnarr growled, “No, thank the gods. I kept them apart as best I could, but I could see where it was going. It was a matter of time.”

“Sweet Freyja. Was Trey aware of Bryn’s perversion?”

“I don’t think so, but I’ll never be sure. We have a small problem now.”

Eirik barked a laugh. “I thought that was my line.”

“This isn’t funny, Eirik. Bryn’s gone. When he realized it was Trey at that cock up at headquarters, he took off and we haven’t seen him since.”

“Shit, shit, shit. Do you want me to get my people on it? I don’t have any way to track him but we’ll do...” Eirik paused as Gunnarr handed him a small device. “What’s this?”

“This is how you track him, Brother, but do it discreetly. We must not let our people know that we work together on this matter. It might lead to complications.”

“Understood.” Eirik accepted the tracking module, fingering it idly as he considered his next words. “You know my people will dissect this thing.”

“Of course, but it makes little difference. I want my sons returned, Eirik, both of them. In one piece if at all possible.”

“Agreed. Then there is another matter.”

“Hmm, I wondered when you would get to that.” Gunnarr, moved toward his brother and muttered, “Move over. I need to sit. I’m not as young as I used to be.”