The Dream Crafter (2 page)

The man watched her antics with a low hum of amusement running through him, a half-smile appearing here and there as she did silly things, not caring what this man’s opinion was, but not caring because she was sure he was enjoying himself as well. After several minutes of silence, of watching, he said, “I’ve never been to a beach before.”

“You’re
kidding
.” No, she hadn’t been back for a long time, but to never have been to a beach?

Amana turned her face back to him after that statement, and his smile was a gentle mocking of the shock written on her face, of the too-wide eyes she couldn’t force back to normal size. “I had a unique childhood.”

“And adulthood?”

“Still unique.” The words and voice were still light, still teasing, but the undertone of warning carried through. The message was clear. Even in a dream, he would speak no more about himself.

She heeded it, only saying, “I’m glad your first time is with me, then.” Then inspiration struck, and she knelt down in front of him, balancing on the balls of her feet so her knees wouldn’t hit the sand.

“Umm…”

The flabbergasted look was adorable, not that she would ever speak that word to him. This time, she didn’t bother to cover either her smile or her laugh. “Get your mind out of the gutter. If this is your first beach trip, I insist you feel the sand between your toes.”

“I admit to preferring the gutter.” Still, he lifted his leg and let her pull off his boot, on his face the look of resigned patience she saw on men shopping trips with their women.

Amana made quick work of the boot, and his now-bare foot revealed more tattoos, the same thick black lines that draped his arms covering the top of his foot before circling his ankle and, from the little bit of lower leg revealed beneath his pants, looked to go up the back of his leg. Not that she let the tattoos or the rather nice looking feet derail her, and finished with both shoes in short time. “Now, isn’t that better?”

He flexed his toes into the sand, an unexpected happiness on his face, similar to a child’s first taste of chocolate. “This isn’t bad.”

“Quite gracious of you to admit,” she said, twining her fingers with his and pulling him along until they were close enough the tide rolled over their feet. He jumped, enjoyment evidenced by the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth as he sank his toes into the wet, squishy ground.

Watching the sun streaking over his face and the long lines of exposed ink, a curious and unexpected floatiness rushed through her body. She hadn’t felt anything like this since she was on the cusp of puberty, when her body began telling her she liked boys while her brain had no clue what was happening. It was innocent, and sweet, this sensation sinking through her, all for a man she didn’t know except to know he kept secrets. Yet there it was, sweeping the ocean breeze through musty corners of her mind and bringing in all that was clean and tangy and full of life.

His gaze returned to her from overlooking the ocean, and the smile faded from his mouth, though not from around his eyes. With tentative grace, he reached out to stroke her face, his thumb brushing from cheekbone to temple, to push a strand of hair behind her ear, the touch conveying shocking intimacy even though he kept it respectful, light, not moving anywhere she would complain about.

“Such beautiful skin,” he said in a voice so low it was almost drowned out by the waves, but the breath that carried the words covered her and drove his admiration deep.

“I like your hair.”

The smile returned to his lips. “Thank you. I do it myself.”

“Maybe next time I can help?” If only there could be a next time. In this way, in this one way, the dreams always failed her, because no matter what she wished, the next time never happened.

“Yes.” His head lowered, a controlled descent during which his gaze darted from her mouth to her eyes and back again, the crease between his brows suggesting he was asking a question of himself. “Please do.”

Amana woke up, the lightness in her chest disappearing as her eyes met the bare white walls of the room.

‡

M
erc opened his
eyes, flat on his back, the cracked, spotted ceiling ready to rain down plaster above him, sounds of cars zooming past on the outside roads filtering in through the thin walls.

He was in the dingy hotel room he took for a few hours rest before moving on. Not a beach, sandy and warm with a beautiful woman on his arm, the salt taste still on his tongue.

He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, wanting to grind the dream into his brain before he lost it. It had been so
real
, but no, nothing magic had been going on. His ink was quiet, undisturbed. The black lines were stark on his tan skin with no changes in color or shape, and no prickling sensations around them to alert him to any undesired persons after him. No dream walkers. No wizards or mages.

Only a beautiful woman and only the nicest hours he had experienced in a very long time, and both were no more.

The tightness in his chest was from sleeping on a shitty bed that hit every muscle wrong. If any other reason caused it, it would make him a damned stupid fool.

Merc sat up, the sheet falling from his chest to pool in his lap. He stretched his arms up high, the muscles giving a sleepy burn at the movement, but before he could work out all the kinks the phone rang, the number unlisted. Not a surprise – most of his phone calls were from unlisted numbers. “Yeah?”

“Still safe?”

Merc’s fingers tightened with the instinctive desire to throttle the owner of the smug voice. Hadrien was courting death, and if he kept stepping out of line, Merc was going to deliver. “I told you not to contact me unless necessary.”

“Me knowing my property is safe is very necessary.” The singsong, childish cast of Hadrien’s words had Merc gritting his teeth. “And of course, I care about your welfare as well.”

The tattoos pulsed beneath his skin, the black lines covering his arms and back reacting to the anger rising from Merc’s gut, crashing through his body, demanding release, movement, destruction. “Hadrien, I will get the Spellbook back to you, but there is no magic in place to protect you after that moment. I suggest you don’t fuck with me in the meantime.”

A pause, and then the singsong was gone, and only curt words designed to cover a tremor of fear came through the speaker. “I’ll call the day before delivery to give you the final time and location.” The call disconnected, and Merc was left with the thwarted desire to deal pain and no one to release it on.

He threw the phone to the end of the bed and ran his hands through his hair. Stupidest fucking decision he ever made in his life, to take this job. He should’ve known better. Did know better. Did it anyway.

Didn’t matter now. He was stuck with it. He turned to the side table, and there the Spellbook lay, so innocent looking, leather-bound and richly elegant. In its original form it was a collection of scrolls sealed together, but magic shaped it to a more appropriate casing for this realm.

In his hands the leather was warm, the texture pure luxury. Under his fingertips it seemed to respond to him. Pulses of magic swirled, provoking images of homecoming, of contentment. Was that him, or was it the spellbook?

Merc pulled away, setting the Spellbook down and ignoring the twinge the separation provoked. Time to get dressed and move again, with images of a woman with beautiful black hair and almond-colored eyes in the back of his mind.

‡

I
t wasn’t the
endless blue of the ocean in front of her, and no sign of the beautiful man with the intriguing tattoos, tattoos she more than once wanted to explore with her hands. Hands, and maybe beyond that.

As usual, Amana went from sleep to total wakefulness. Since going back to sleep wasn’t an option, she pushed herself onto her knees, bringing her arms up to stretch her back. A yoga session would be nice, but there was too much to get ready before tonight’s meeting. She had packing to do. Her gut was telling her that a moment’s notice was coming up, and she needed to be ready.

A hot shower, kettle on the stove, and even as she finished her breakfast and packed her purse, her thoughts refused to turn away from the man in the dream.

It had been a long time since she had dream walked without meaning to, so long it seemed like total control was finally hers. Last night’s meeting with the man destroyed that hope.

Though he was worth the semi-depressing reality her magic was still something of a wildcard. The power that hummed beneath his skin marked her fingers, and that warm leather and musk scent that even the salty ocean air couldn’t erase lingered when she breathed deep.

She was a teenager again, obsessing over a man she shared a long walk and a couple dozen sentences with. No, worse. As a teenager she’d had more sense. Well, that, and a little brother who towered over most adults and would beat up any guy who made her cry, which meant most guys made the wise choice to avoid her, leaving her with few opportunities to moon over beautiful men with tattoos.

And since when was she into tattoos anyway? In her experience tattoos meant trouble. And dear gods, that man exuded trouble. It wasn’t even a question in his case.

Total teenager moment. Maybe her magic was making up for her lack of usual teenage craziness by tossing an inappropriate guy in her path.

An alarm sounded, and she looked to the clock on the wall. Time to put the man to the side and meet up with the next job.

‡

T
he howl pierced
through the moderate noise of the bar, and in time with everyone else, Amana looked up from her drink to see the reflected gleam of yellow eyes before the five men bent their heads and laughed.

Yellow eyes were predominant in a few of the wild races and the howl didn’t narrow it down that much, but before the question could do much more than shape itself in her mind, a feminine voice sounded from up and to her left. “Werewolves. Their furry butts are going to be kicked out if they don’t shape up.”

The woman had a heavy mass of barely restrained black curls and hazel-green eyes that were bright against the caramel tone of her skin, but it was the cunning in them rather than the beautiful color that had Amana holding her breath for a split second before self-preservation kicked in enough to erect her normal façade of pleasant neutrality. The woman continued. “You are Amana, yes? I’m Inara. Please, let me show you to your future employers.”

Inara turned from the bar and started toward the four stairs that led to the raised seating area, situated away from the billiards and darts, this area instead meant for more intimate drinking and conversing. At the farthermost table, the one with the most space surrounding it and allowing the most privacy, were seated two women. As if Amana activated an invisible tripwire, the moment she was in sight the two women looked up and straight at her.

The first woman was an explosion of powder blue, from the spikes of her semi-mohawked hair to the vest and tight jeans she wore on a body that could almost pass for a prepubescent boy’s due to both the short height and lack of curves. Blue lips and blue eyeshadow were heavy on a face that reflected the same mixed heritage as her own, Japanese with some European nationality.