Dark Peril (6 page)

She could never quite decide on the color of his eyes. She loved making them intensely blue, but then at times they would be like the green of the emerald. She was always fascinated by her dream lover’s eyes. Never the same, always unpredictable, they mirrored the mystery of the man. He had a poet’s soul. He was very gentle, his voice mesmerizing, melodic and quite beautiful. He often sang her to sleep when pain clouded her mind and she lay alone in the dark with her heart pounding and the taste of fear in her mouth.

She dared not dream of him when she was in human form, or around anyone else. He was hers alone, and she needed to protect him, so she only allowed him to invade her dreams when she was in the shape of a jaguar. Deep inside the animal’s body, she couldn’t murmur aloud where another might hear of him. He was her secret weakness—or strength—however she was in the mood to view her dream life.

She made certain he had all the attributes of a noble man, someone like her stepfather, who took on a wife and child and loved them with everything in him. She’d never been treated differently by him, not even when his sons were born. He’d loved her and treated her like a princess, even spoiled her. She’d loved him so much, and if she ever had a man of her own, which she knew was impossible, he would have to have that generous, loyal, giving spirit.

Some small part of her smiled. She’d given those attributes to her dream man. And she needed him now, when the past was too close and everything had gone so wrong. When she’d failed and a woman had died.

I need you. Come to me tonight. I’m so tired. I couldn’t save the woman before they got to her and she killed herself, threw herself into the river. I tracked them for four weeks and fought to get her back, but I was too late. Sometimes it feels like I’m always too late.

She visualized him, building him inch by inch in her mind. The strong thighs, narrow waist and burning eyes, very green tonight. Lately, when she’d called him to her, he bore new scars, a strange thing in a dream where she was the conjurer and yet she couldn’t remember attributing new scars to him. A few burn marks on the left side of his face and neck, spreading down his shoulder, worsening along his arm. Maybe, because she’d sustained wounds, her dream lover did as well.

She chose a limestone cave deep beneath the ground to meet him—a safe place where the jaguar-men wouldn’t be able to find them even if they were searching. She pulled the cozy cavern, a place she often chose in which to recuperate, from her memory, and added a warm fire and a few soft chairs. In her dream, she could afford to be feminine, although she wasn’t beautiful like Juliette or Jasmine; her body bore too many scars and she’d long ago forgotten how to smile—unless she was with him. Even though she wanted to see herself as beautiful in her dream world, it was impossible. She couldn’t imagine smooth, flawless skin or a willowy body.

The nice part about her dream man was he didn’t mind that she wasn’t perfect or not feminine enough. He didn’t mind that she sometimes wept, or showed to him what she couldn’t show to the rest of the world. And he would never betray her, never disappoint her; she could whisper her deepest fears and worst secrets and he would still accept her. He knew things about her no one else did.

She pictured the cavern, the Mayan artwork decorating the walls, stories of lives long gone, a world in the distant past where the moon and stars were close and jaguars walked the night upright—men to respect and revere, not shun and despise. A much happier time. She couldn’t imagine herself in a dress, a soft feminine outfit like Juliette often wore, but she made certain she appeared as nice as she could. Her favorite top, soft and clingy, which sometimes made her feel a bit of a fool. She never wore it in public, not even around her cousins, but when she wanted to feel feminine and maybe a little pretty, she put it on—just for a moment.

Of course she wore jeans, never a full skirt, because he’d see the scars up and down her legs. She knew he wouldn’t care, but she wanted to appear her best for him. She’d considered trying earrings, and once, MaryAnn, a woman she knew and admired, had painted her nails, which for some strange reason made her feel more feminine, yet she was too embarrassed to try to conjure that detail up in her dreams as well.

She sat by the fire, barefoot, looking as nice as she could, her heart pounding, waiting for him. It was silly really, that she had so much invested in a man who wasn’t real, but she had no one else. She ran a hand through her thick mane of hair. It was more the color of the dark rosettes in the jaguar’s fur than the golden tawny color of her pelt. Almost a sable, it was nearly unmanageable the way it grew.

There wasn’t much time left. It was impossible to keep fighting and not end up dead. A few more inches and her latest wound would have killed her. And life in the jaguar camp was far worse than dying. If they succeeded in their attempts to capture her—and they knew her now and were actively seeking her—she would find a way to take her own life.

Do not say that. Do not even think it. I would come to you. Sustain you. And I would find a way to free you.

The jaguar closed her eyes tighter, as if that could keep him with her. She saw him coming toward her, emerging out of the shadows thrown by the edges of the fire. She loved the way he moved, that sure confidence, those long strides. He was always like that, so confident in himself that he never raised his voice or appeared to be upset, even when he was reprimanding her for cowardice.

Not cowardice,
he objected, flowing across the room with his usual grace until he loomed in front of her, towering over her, making her feel small and feminine instead of an Amazon woman. She wasn’t tall by any means; she was compact, certainly not fashionably slender. It was a strange thing to have such complete and utter confidence in herself as a warrior, and yet none at all as a woman.

You are tired,
csitri
, that is all. Come lie down in my arms and let me hold you while you rest. But first, I must see to your injury.

He had often called her
csitri
, his tongue caressing the word. She had no idea what it meant, but that single word made a swarm of butterflies take flight in her stomach. She stared up at him, afraid to move or blink, terrified he would disappear, that her perfect dream would shatter. She didn’t want him to see her injury. In her dream she wasn’t supposed to have an injury. She’d always been able to control her dream, but lately, reality had crept in a little too much.

He gripped her chin in his hand and turned her face toward the light of the flickering fire, a small frown settling over his rugged features.
Your face is bruised
.

Those bruises shouldn’t have been there. What was wrong that she couldn’t keep her wounds out of her dreams anymore? Was she that tired? Reading her thoughts, as he always did, her warrior swept her hair from her face with gentle fingers.

You never say my name.
Even as he pushed the words into her mind, his fingers moved to the bruises.

At once Solange felt the ache in her bruised face recede. She hesitated. How to explain without hurting his feelings.
This is a dream. I made you up. I don’t have a name for you that feels right.

He smiled at her, his eyes now very, very blue.
Have you ever considered that maybe I made you up? That you are my dream?

She would love to be someone’s dream, but doubted seriously if that would ever be so. In real life she was abrasive, her only protection when she felt too much. Sometimes it seemed as if she went around with her heart shredded all the time.
Somehow I think someone like you could have come up with a better dream.

Someone like me? I am a warrior who has spent a thousand years looking for my lifemate. I know exactly who she is and what qualities she has.

Solange sighed. This conversation skated too close to having to admit her shortcomings. She didn’t want to remind him of all the times she whined about being alone and afraid and tired.
I made you Carpathian. I didn’t mean to, you know. I respect Juliette and MaryAnn’s husbands.

Lifemate,
he corrected gently.
When we are bound, soul to soul, we are called lifemates. That binding goes from one life to the next.

She smiled at him and sank down beside the fire. He filled the cavern with his masculine strength.
That’s a beautiful concept. Juliette is very happy with Riordan, her lifemate. He’s bossy, but really, after watching them, I can see he does everything to make her happy.

As I would you. I have waited too many years,
csitri,
and my time on this earth draws to an end. I have ingested vampire blood in the hopes of entering the camp of our greatest enemy and spying on them. I will be unable to come to you. Already the blood is consuming me, perhaps faster than I believed it could. I will have only a few risings to complete my task before I must seek the dawn, or go down fighting. I could not find you in this life, but hold hope for the next.

Her heart nearly stopped beating. Panic set in. Full-blown panic. Dreams didn’t end like this. Nightmares did. He wasn’t real, but he was the only reality for her when life closed in and she had nowhere else to go. She’d fallen in love with him, as silly as that sounded. This man with his warrior’s scars, the face of an angel and demon, all in one, this man with the soul of a poet.

No. I refuse to let you go. I won’t. You’re all I have. You can’t leave me alone.

He touched her hair, rubbing the silky strands between his fingers.
Believe me, little one, I would prefer to stay with you in our dream world. You have so many times gotten me through moments I found not a little troubling. But I have a duty to my people.

Her throat clogged with unexpected tears.
If I am the lifemate you talk of, isn’t your first duty to me?

His smile was sad.
Had you truly been my lifemate, when I heard your voice, you would have restored colors and emotions to me.

You’re feeling sad. I can see it in your eyes and hear it in your voice.

Merely a trick,
csitri
. I wish for these emotions and draw from memories. You have sustained me these last few years, and I thank you for that.

No! I won’t give you up.
It was selfish of her. He had a right to his nobility and sacrifice. Hadn’t she sacrificed her entire life for the women of her species? But to give him to the vampires . . .

In desperation, without truly thinking her decision through, Solange shifted, right there in the crook of the Kapok tree, and, clinging to the branch, called out to the only man who mattered to her. Solange Sangria, the woman who had never needed—or wanted—any man, of royal blood, powerful in her own right. A warrior renowned and feared.

In her human form, in her own voice, born of desperation and need, terrified that her dream lover might be real and going into danger to sacrifice his life for his people, she lifted her voice to the heavens, allowed the skies to carry it far and wide. She humbled herself before the forest dwellers to save him—to save herself.

“Don’t leave me!”
The cry was torn from her throat, from her soul, her anguish spilling like the blood of her family onto the ground where everyone she loved had been slaughtered and she’d been left alone—the last hope of justice for the women and children of her species.

The sound of her voice lifted the birds from the canopy and spread through the forest like the wind, filling every empty space, her sorrow so acute the very trees shivered and the animals wept with the rain.

3

But then beyond hope, you came into my dream . . .
Glowing eyes like a cat, but fierce need like a child.
Your warrior heart, loyal. Your anguished, “Don’t leave me.”
Your head in my lap:
Csitri!
Strong and wild.

DOMINIC TO SOLANGE

T
he birds went quiet. The monkeys ceased all sound. Even the insects held their breath. Everything in the forest stilled. Color burst behind Dominic’s eyes, blinded him, even within the body of the eagle, so that for a moment all he could see was vivid, acute colors, every shade of green, dazzling reds and violets, the flowers on the trees drenched in water and bright beyond all imagination. His stomach clenched and shifted, nausea rising like a tidal wave, the colors so bright they beat at his mind after centuries of seeing in shades of gray.

He thought the eagle would be a protection, but the colors had nowhere to go, no way to disperse behind the eyes of the bird, beating at him, filling his mind, overwhelming him with the various shades of brightness. The macaws stood out on the branches, staring at him curiously as he sailed to the ground and shifted into his own form. Dominic staggered, pressing one hand to his roiling stomach and the other up to shield his eyes. There was no way to stop the colors—it was as if a dam had burst in his brain and every conceivable shade and tint, every hue, mingled and fought for supremacy.

Sorrow lived in him, breathed in him. Regret. Fear. Shock. Every emotion that could be felt hit him in the next wave of attack. He went to one knee, trying to process, to sort out what he was feeling and what
she
was feeling, the emotions so overwhelming they left him disoriented and vulnerable. His lifemate was alive—was here in this rain forest somewhere close. His dream woman, the woman he had courted so slowly, building trust between them, was real, not the insubstantial myth he thought her.

No.
His denial was low, his shattered call back to her.

This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not after so many centuries. Not when he’d given up and committed to a path that would destroy them both. She couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. He had only days to live. If he touched her, claimed her, bound them together, she would be locked to his fate.