Never Again (12 page)
He’d done enough damage.
Her eyes fluttered open and zeroed in on him. “Why does it smell like feet and bologna in here?”
Then she passed out.
Gray couldn’t stop the laugh. He sat on the edge of the bed and curled his hand into the black sheets so he wouldn’t stroke away the damp strands of hair clinging to her face.
Feet and bologna.
He took a sniff, and grimaced. It definitely smelled guylike, and not in a sexy kind of way. Hell, he’d paint the room pink and light vanilla candles if she wanted. But for now, he had to dust off his dreamwalking skills. He didn’t know how long she’d be out, and he wanted to do something that actually helped her.
Feet and bologna.
He took a sniff, and grimaced. It definitely smelled guylike, and not in a sexy kind of way. Hell, he’d paint the room pink and light vanilla candles if she wanted. But for now, he had to dust off his dreamwalking skills. He didn’t know how long she’d be out, and he wanted to do something that actually helped her.
Gray crawled onto the bed, very careful not to touch Lucy. He lay on his side less than six inches from her soaked, ravaged body, and stared at her. Even though she still twitched and shuddered, she had, just as Ember predicted, fallen into unconsciousness. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, and he was halfway to appreciating the loveliness of the sight before he caught himself. She had a damned fine rack—and he was a jerk for noticing.
You’re going to burn in hell, Gray. Worse than before.
He moved his gaze to her face, thinking about those sad green eyes, that stubborn tilt to her chin, the pride that somehow still clung to even her most desperately uttered words. Slowly, his breathing deepened, and he murmured a prayer to his Dragon ancestors, asking for protection as he ventured into the world of dreams.
Within moments, he was asleep.
The sky was pearlescent pink, like the underside of a seashell. Lucinda couldn’t see a sun, or any source of light. Huh. Maybe the pink was the light.
She was lying on the softest material she’d ever felt. Something silky covered her body, but she didn’t want to move her head, not even the couple of inches to look down.
The pain was gone.
She focused on the endless seashell sky. After a while, she realized she was floating along on some kind of current. She feared if she moved at all, or even breathed too deeply, Bernard’s curse would strike her, turning her blood to fire and her bones to acid. The gentle motion of the water lulled her. She felt safe in this odd place.
I’m dreaming.
Oh. That made sense. Slowly, she rolled to her right and looked out over a purple sea. Her “boat” was a rectangle of thick moss. The silk was a blanket designed more to soothe than to warm. When she slid it off and looked down at herself, she chuckled. She was wearing a silver bikini.
Her moss raft moved toward the bay of an island with an endless white beach. Yards beyond was the lush greenery of a jungle, its perimeter dotted by palm trees. Then she saw a man standing at the edge of the water, a hand shading his face as he watched her float closer and closer to the inlet.
“Swim,” he called out. “The water’s great.”
Gray? Startled that he was in her dreams, waiting for her, she hesitated. Why would she dream about him?
Deciding it didn’t matter who shared the beach with her, she slid into the warm, lapping water and started swimming.
Oh, the purple sea felt glorious around her, a thousand massaging fingers guiding her toward the shore, toward the man who waited there.
In no time at all, her feet touched sand and she walked out of the water to join Gray. He had no scar or tattoos. He almost looked like the man he’d once been, and she had a flutter of regret for all that happened. To him. To her.
She studied him. He was fit and healthy, ropes of sinewy muscle displayed, and she had the strangest urge to run her hand down his washboard abs, tickle the line of dark hair darting into his black swim trunks.
She stopped less than a foot away, unable to pull her gaze away from his gorgeous body.
He could be mine. Right now.
She was unnerved by the erotic nature of her own thoughts . . . and excited, too. She twisted her hands, biting on her lower lip, unable to give voice to her turmoil.
He could be mine. Right now.
She was unnerved by the erotic nature of her own thoughts . . . and excited, too. She twisted her hands, biting on her lower lip, unable to give voice to her turmoil.
“You asked me to marry you,” he said, as if she’d spoken. “Did you think you would escape my bed?”
“You said no.”
“To marriage,” he said. “But not to sex.”
“I didn’t offer sex.”
He grinned, and the wicked smile sparked a fire in his changeable blue eyes. She felt something give way in the pit of her stomach—a tingling warmth that stole down to the apex of her thighs. If her suit bottom weren’t already wet from her swim, it would be now in response to her own lust.
For Gray Calhoun.
It was a shocking, titillating idea.
Gray crossed the distance between them and took her hands into his.
“Where are we?” she asked. Something felt weird about this place—and she realized that it wasn’t her own creation. She was visiting someone else’s mental landscape.
Gray’s?
“Yeah. It’s mine.” He looked around, a small smile of satisfaction flirting with his lips. “It’s peaceful. It requires nothing from me.” His gaze returned to hers. “I’m glad you accepted my invitation to join me.”
Invitation? She frowned, but he shook his head, as if trying to ward off her concerns.
“Don’t worry so much, all right?”
His large warm hands cupped hers and he pulled her closer. Her heart skipped a beat. He smelled like the sea, and mingling with the sharp salty tang was a musky, masculine scent. The pit in her stomach widened and dipped and twisted, and she felt as though she’d gotten onto a roller coaster. But she liked the sensations.
“How do you feel?” he asked. His voice was tender, and so unlike him, she shifted uncomfortably.
She shrugged. “Okay, I guess. What happened to—”
“Shush.” Gray released one of her hands so he could put a finger to her lips. “We’ll talk about everything later, I promise. I want you to relax. Are you hungry?”
Oh, yes. She was hungry, but not for food. Her gaze flicked to his, and she saw the desire glimmering in his eyes. He wanted her, and she could let him take her. Right here on the white sandy beach with the purple ocean lapping at their legs.
She couldn’t stop the image from forming. Gray’s mouth on her breasts, his big, tanned hand slipping between her thighs, stealing underneath the triangle of fabric . . .
Before she could wipe it out of her mind, Gray pulled her into his embrace and held her close. Being in his arms felt foreign, but she melted against him anyway. It had been too long since she felt the touch of another, too long since someone had cared about her. Even if it wasn’t real, she wanted it.
Gray’s lips caressed the shell of her ear. “Is that what will make you feel better? You want me to give you pleasure, baby?”
Dark thrills shot through her.
This is Gray,
she thought wildly.
He would never want me. Nobody wants me.
she thought wildly.
He would never want me. Nobody wants me.
“Stop,” he murmured. “This place is different. There is no hiding. No secrets. No lies. We don’t have to protect our hearts here. Please, Lucy. Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”
Somehow, he was reading her thoughts. Maybe being in his dream had given him access to every part of her. She felt too vulnerable. She didn’t want a pity fuck, but even that would be better than his unbearable kindness. Tears seeped out of her eyes. She felt pathetic for wanting something simple, and that she had to ask Gray of all people to do it. She couldn’t stop the words, though. She had no pride left.
“Hold me, Gray.”
He sat down on the beach and pulled her down with him. Then he scooped her into his arms and settled her onto his lap. She curled up like a purring kitten, pressing the side of her face against his chest and listening to the rhythmic pounding of his heart.
“Lucy,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her temple. “Sweet Lucy.”
“If you call me Juicy Lucy,” she muttered darkly, “I will punch you.”
He laughed, and the rumble of sound in his chest sounded like happy thunder. “I won’t call you Juicy Lucy today.” He tightened his arms around her. “But tomorrow I might just risk it.”
“It’s your funeral,” she said, hiding her smile.
For the first time in a very, very long while, she felt safe.
Then lightning zigzagged out of the pretty pink sky, and shattered her into a thousand, molten pieces.
She heard Gray’s anguished shout, but she was already floating free of his grip. He tried to keep her with him—she could feel the strength of his will as well as the strength of his arms. But she was a ghost now, drifting upward, every inch of her on fire, burning, burning like retribution.
Gray jolted awake, and sat up, turning toward the writhing form of Lucy beside him. Her eyes were open, but glazed over, and he knew she couldn’t see him. But she was seeing something. Visions? Did the curse include screwing with her mind, too? Her lips trembled, tears streaming like tiny rivers, as she whispered, “No. No, don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything. Please.”
“Gods-be-damned!” He scrambled toward her, wanting so badly to take away her pain he couldn’t breathe. “Lucy.”
She stiffened, and then her body arched and started to undulate. The seizure was so violent that he had to pin her shoulders down to keep her from flopping onto the floor. The moment she stopped, he let go and backed off. Her throat worked as if her screams were trapped there.
He had never seen anyone suffer like this before. Not even he had endured this kind of agony when Kerren had plunged her dagger into his heart and offered his soul to her demon lover. He’d known nine minutes of unbelievable torment as he fought for his life.
Nine minutes.
And Lucy had hours, days ahead.
Nine minutes.
And Lucy had hours, days ahead.
No.
He hated to leave her, but he had to talk to Grit. The old man was wily as hell, and if anyone knew how to circumvent this curse, he would. “I’ll be right back, baby.”
He hated to leave her, but he had to talk to Grit. The old man was wily as hell, and if anyone knew how to circumvent this curse, he would. “I’ll be right back, baby.”
She didn’t respond, but he hadn’t really expected her to.
Grit and Dutch were in the kitchen right where he’d left them, but he cut off their complaining, and hurriedly explained what had unfolded over the last few hours, including all the details he had about Franco’s curse.
“Cain’t undo demon magic, son,” said Grit. “It’s like Ember said—she’ll have to do the suffering.”
“Shouldn’t have turned her away, your royal doucheness,” said Dutch. “Bet you’re sorry now.”
“Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut you.” Gray glowered at the surfer’s blue cover. Neither of the books actually had eyes, but they could still see. He didn’t need to be reminded that he’d been a dumb ass. True, he might’ve spared Lucy the decision to enact the curse if she’d been tucked safely inside his house. But Marcy would still be dead. All he could do now was try to help Lucy, damn it.
“The dream walking worked?” asked Grit.
“Yeah. Except she can’t sleep for long. No doubt Franco made it part of the curse—keeping her awake to suffer.”
“All we got to do, then, is put her in a deeper sleep.” Grit sounded thoughtful. “Magic one-oh-one, boy. Every spell has limits, and so do curses. Cain’t account for every little thing when you’re creating spells, right? Yep. Gotta be a place Lucy can go in her subconscious that the curse cain’t reach.”
Hope surged through Gray. Franco’s curse was heinous, but it couldn’t self-correct. No spell could. All spells had parameters, and no magic could do more than directed. Magic was alive, but it wasn’t intelligent. It didn’t have morals or ethics. It relied on its master to tell it what to do, how to behave.
“I prefer Sugandi root,” Grit was muttering, “but we don’t got any. Shoot. Have to make do with Holy Basil.”
Obeying his grandfather’s instructions, Gray took precious time to create incense from Holy Basil and a few other ingredients. He added the spellwork Grit insisted on, too, which took even more time. Every so often, he heard Lucy scream, and his heart would skip a beat.
Finally, it was done.
“Burn it as close as you can to her so she’s breathing it in,” said Grit. “And you gotta do the dream walking with her. Otherwise, she might not come out of it. This is comatose stuff, boy. Don’t forget you’re dreaming, neither! You and that girl could be trapped in your own minds if you stop payin’ attention.” His grandfather’s worry was evident in his sharply delivered words.
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