The Dream Crafter (23 page)

“If there is chaos, there is no doubt Fallon has been involved somewhere along the way.” The now smiling blue eyes said that she knew all too well what Fallon had been up to, but it wouldn’t change what was coming. “We must collect the Spellbook before anyone else gets involved. Others are being sent to do this. You, your instruction is to retrieve the book if the opportunity presents itself.” The way the woman spoke had the tinge of all-knowing.

Well, Nemesis never assumed her talks with Merc weren’t going to be found out by someone somehow. At least they weren’t going to make her use herself as bait for a trap. This was pretty mild overall, and maybe this was where the Seven Houses irritation with the Guild forcing them into this situation was showing itself.

It seemed Fallon wasn’t going to get exactly what she had been playing for.

Nemesis nodded, and the screens blinked out of existence with nothing else said.

‡

“I
’m out. The
Seven Houses are now keeping an eye on things, which means I’m no longer a neutral party at play.”

“And hello to you too.” Merc said into the phone, his head hitting the back of his chair and biting back a sigh, far past reacting to bad news by now. Instead of worry or rage, resigned acceptance met Nemesis’s words. “How have you been doing?”

“I’m sorry to hand you this. Wish I could’ve worked it somehow different. At least they’re not sending me after you direct.”

In the phrasing of the words, Merc heard what wasn’t explicitly stated.
They’re sending someone after you.
Nemesis would never betray the Houses, but she worked around where she could. “I still owe you.”

“You bet your sweet ass you do. Here is the last bit of news I can share – found it before the bosses told me to pull back, so I consider it fair game. Your Nakoa? Only one I found is a berserker held on The Hill for a murder he committed almost ten years ago, when he was eleven. It was a wizard who specialized in dream walking, and he tore the guy apart. There were bits of him all over the room. According to the file, the kid never said a word from when they found him through the trial, and none of the magic users could get inside his head.”

Berserker. Another rarity, though not in the same league as a dream crafter. From what he remembered from his studies, they were naturally immune to all sorts of magic. Between that and their strength few monsters could match, the ones that existed were always under watch.

“How long is he supposed to be there?” A berserker committing a murder before he was even a teenager? Of course they wouldn’t release him, but Merc needed the confirmation.

“He’ll be there for life. They’ll never let him free.”

And now all the pieces fell into place. If this was Amana’s Nakoa, no wonder she was frantic. “Thanks for everything.”

“Hope I see you after all this is over.” With that, Nemesis hung up.

Merc pushed up and out of the seat, moving muscles and letting the blood flow through his body. Amana loved her little brother. It shone through with every word she said and every look on her face as she spoke of him. But while everything he knew of Amana screamed that she would never sacrifice someone she loved, he couldn’t believe she’d set a murderer free, not even her brother. No, she would never stop loving him, Merc didn’t doubt that. In the same way, he couldn’t believe that she would allow a murdering berserker out amongst people again.

A wizard who specialized in dream walking.
That was too much coincidence. Had the wizard somehow discovered Amana was a crafter? Threatened to expose her or harm her? Had the boy’s berserker nature come to the fore to protect his sister?

It had to be something along those lines. It would explain why Amana was desperate to save her brother. If she believed all this happened because of her, she’d never allow him to shoulder the punishment alone.

And it was punishment. Berserkers would rather be dead than be in a cage. Honestly, he was kind of shocked the boy was still alive and hadn’t committed suicide by now, either by his own hand or forcing the guards to take care of him.

Probably what kept Nakoa going was the same thing that kept Amana going – needing to protect and care for their sibling however they could. Just as Amana was tearing herself apart to get Nakoa free, Nakoa would know if he died, it would destroy Amana.

Now he understood how Amana had been swept up in the Guild’s offer. Nothing short of the Guild would be able to free a berserker on The Hill.

The Hill…
fuck
. Only the worst of the worst. Only the ones who needed every type of oversight, both might and magical. How in the four hells was he getting Nakoa free from there?

Biting back that sigh again, Merc headed up the stairs, to where Amana was sleeping.

‡

“D
on’t think I
can’t see you’re awake.”

“Insomnia.” Amana hid the tremor in her voice over what kept her awake. Her double was always on the edge of her conscious now, a malevolent figure she couldn’t escape, staring through death blue eyes and waiting for the first misstep to strike.

Merc paused, but climbed in the bed beside her. Amana’s surprise didn’t stop her from curling up next to him, letting his strong arms envelop her.

This was safety and family and warmth, and Amana edged in closer, tracing the tattoos of his arms with her fingers. “How does your magic work?” she asked.

“Answer for an answer,” he responded, his voice quiet and husky. There was nothing sexual in his voice, but it held a frightening intimacy within, and Amana hungered for and feared what taking what was being offered would mean.

She could walk away.

She could stay here, cocooned in his arms, stroking him and letting him hold her, and he would not go away. He would allow himself to be used for comfort and comfort only.

Or she could walk forward, into shared secrets and intertwined lives.

The choice was hers.

“An answer for an answer.” How her voice came out, promising such dangerous things as hope and faith and
trust
. Merc shifted above her, but she buried her face into his neck, refusing to look at him, to look at this fragile bridge that existed between them.

“Each line represents a power. It was layered into me a line stroke at a time as Shisen taught me how to master each.”

She didn’t want to think how many lines even one of the tribal sweeps contained, and his body was covered. “Did it hurt?”

“Every line.” His voice was even, betraying nothing, and she imagined the shaking of his body as he held himself as still as a small boy could, the curt voice of Shisen as he held himself above his pupil, demanding the boy push through any pain as he worked on the next lesson, the next movement.

Her fingers curled over the lines on his arm, unable to stop stroking them.

He pulled her closer, bringing his nose into her hair and burying it there.

They stayed like that several moments until he pulled back, and now she looked up into honey eyes, which were warm and wet and so tender her heart ached.

He stroked her cheek, pushed the hair back from where it fell in her eyes. She was reminded a little bit of the blanket forts she and Nakoa had made when they were younger, the safe haven of the two of them so close together.

The warmth was there, but this was nowhere near as innocent. Instead every nerve ending stood on edge, was piling up.

She swallowed. “What answer do you want?”

But he shook his head. “No. I’m not going to be the mercenary with you. What you give me, I want it given freely. I want us to be free together.”

And her heart burst inside her chest, a bird flying under the sun in full freedom, with only light and warmth under its wings.

Here, now, him, this was what she wanted, what she always desired, freedom and safety and respect, all wrapped up in a gorgeous package.

She brought her lips to his, caressing him. “Roll onto your stomach.”

He did as she said, placing his hands under his head, and all that skin was now hers for the stroking. With light strokes she began to rub her hands up and down the black lines, learning the texture difference between the different parts.

She leaned down and, with the tip of her tongue, began tracing the outline, moving line by line as he must have been inked in those long ago days.

He rumbled under her, his body undulating with her slow movements above him, muffled groans meeting her actions.

Another stroke of her tongue over the black, another shudder of the body underneath her, and she worked her way down until she was at the waistband of his underwear, the tight white boxer-briefs covering the one area she’d been thinking on since she discovered just how much of his body was covered by tattoos, and the one area she was dying to know if it was marked as well.

With a kiss to the base of his spine, she grabbed the underwear and began to drag it down, Merc lifting his hips so there would be no impediment to her removing them. Unwilling to wait any longer, with a quick movement she pulled it all the way down, not looking up until they were off his legs and flung across the room.

Like his back, his butt was covered with a large swath of black, lines breaking off and radiating outward to curve over his hipbones. Her mouth watered with visions of what awaited her in front, but now she wanted to enjoy what was before her.

Her head lowered to cover every millimeter of black with her tongue, with kisses and caresses and liquid lines drawn on his skin, leaving him a moaning mess under her. She nibbled on the firm flesh, sinking her teeth into firm muscle hard enough to make him gasp, the scent of the sheen of sweat covering his skin mixing with the musk of him and making him a feast for all her senses.

She kept moving downward, leaving that amazing butt for the moment to continue to planes and vistas equally as appetizing, the lines of his thighs and calves, making sure they were as covered as the top half had been, all hers for the asking.

And now, after he had been covered, after she had marked everything, she said, “Turn over.”

His breathing was ragged, harsh in the otherwise quiet, but he did as she said without question, and she was confronted with his eyes shut tight, with his chest heaving in large breaths, and with his cock proud and straight, the tip glistening as she took him all in.

Amana had planned to tease him, had planned to cover every inch of his tattoos as she had his back before she took his cock in hand, but now faced with it, it brought a deep want, the tips of the tattoos leading her eyes to it, prompting her to take what she wanted.

And she did want it. Wanted him, for what felt like eternity. Now, finally able to take him, she was unable to resist.

There was no finesse, no tease. There was only pure want, and in a long motion, unhurried but not teasing, she brought her mouth over him and swallowed him down.

He yelped but held himself still, the little shivers suggesting how much he wanted to thrust up into her mouth.

He was on the shorter side but the perfect size to fit down her throat, and thick enough to stuff her full.

Her tongue worked on the vein that ran underneath, warm and inviting in her mouth.

His hand was in her hair, petting her, sometimes flexing and grabbing like he needed something to hold onto, but he never directed her, never forced her into something.

“Gonna come, gonna come, gonna come.” His neck was arched, the words forced from his throat, and she redoubled her efforts, wanting to taste him, wanting to bring him into her in every way.

The warm salty liquid hit the back of her throat and she swallowed and kept swallowing, bringing it all in, listening to the groans and deep sighs above her, feeling his hand gentle as she twirled her tongue around the head, taking the last few drops and causing a keening cry.

Every muscle in his body relaxed as she let him go, climbing on top of him and putting her head underneath his chin, resting her ear on his chest to hear the heart beat beneath her.

His hand found her hair and he started petting, the movements jerky enough to suggest he was still coming down from the high. “That was…yeah.”