Authors: Ingrid Weaver
Tags: #mobi, #Romantic Suspense, #Paranormal Romance, #Fiction, #Shadow, #epub
Delaney's Shadow (8 page)
“It’s around my ankles. It’s wet and cold and—”
“No, that’s only dew. Let go of the bad part and see the good.”
“Max, I
can’t
. I forgot how.”
can’t
. I forgot how.”
He moved his hand down the shadow of her arm. Energy sparked along his palm. “Feel the moisture on your skin.”
“Max!”
“Use it. Make it do what you want.”
Her breath hitched. “My skin’s burning. Don’t you smell it?”
He did. He could feel his own skin puckering. He had nothing to shield himself. She’d brought him into this dream as naked as he’d been in his own bed. “Think of the dew. There’s rain, too. It’s going to put out the fire.”
“But—”
“You’re safe, Deedee. Nothing hurts here. Nothing bad happens.”
“Nothing bad.”
“It’s our own special place, remember?”
She unlocked one of her arms from around her legs.
“That’s it. Snuff the flames, Deedee.”
She extended her hand past his shoulder. “I still feel them. They’re hot.”
“That’s the sunrise.”
“Is it morning?”
“Sure. The night’s over. The sun’s coming up. It’s shining through the rain.”
“On the roses?”
“Right. Whatever you want.”
Inch by inch, the wet blackness receded from the bed and drew back to the corner where the plant stood. The screams took longer to fade, but they did in time, taking the flames with them.
In place of the nightmare, a rainbow-tinged mist spread through the air. From it came the lilting call of a robin, the whisper of raindrops on leaves, and finally, the image of a rosebush in a slanting beam of sunlight.
Max sat back on his heels and rubbed his palms on his thighs. His skin was damp. He was breathing as hard as Deedee now, but it seemed as if the worst was over. Details continued to appear in the scene that was forming. Sunshine spread past the raindrops to warm his skin. The scent of earth wafted past his face. She was assuming control of the dream herself, as he’d known she could. Her mind had been almost as powerful as his when it had come to building their play world.
She used to love playing hide-and-seek with him among her grandmother’s rosebushes. It had worried him, because she would often snag her clothes on the thorns and sometimes she’d get scratches, but she hadn’t cared because she never got punished. She’d giggle when he found her and raise her arms to him for a hug.
She’d felt small and solid, or the next best thing to solid, since he hadn’t actually been able to touch her. The sense memory of holding her that first time by the pond had been enough to make her real in his mind. That, and the power of Deedee’s own imagination, had given substance to what had happened whenever their thoughts had been together, just as it had tonight. At times, she’d been as pesky as a real little sister, but he’d never been able to refuse her.
Apparently, that hadn’t changed. He could be anywhere, and he’d sense her touch. He would know he was alone, and yet he would feel and hear and smell her so vividly that often he got confused.
His fantasies didn’t confuse him these days. They were what powered his art.
Max returned his gaze to the bed. The sunlight Deedee had imagined was spreading across the mattress, giving him his first clear view of her. Apart from a sheet that was wrapped around her ankles, her legs were bare. So were her arms. A satin nightgown was twisted in tight folds around her waist and hips. It revealed a woman’s body, not a girl’s.
The sight jarred him, but it shouldn’t have. Time hadn’t stood still for her any more than it had for him. She would be close to thirty by now. There was no trace of the baby fat that had rounded her limbs when she’d been a child. Her calves and thighs were slender. So were her arms. He could see the ridge of a hip bone beneath her nightgown and the sloping, feminine curve of her buttocks.
The differences in her weren’t only physical. The child he had known would never have produced a nightmare like the one he’d just witnessed. She’d been pampered and doted on. She’d embodied everything peaceful and good to him because she’d had no concept of evil or of pain. When had that changed?
Deedee rolled to her back on the mattress beside him and flung out her arms, as if abandoning herself to the pleasure of the scene she had imagined. The neckline of her nightgown was twisted to one side, revealing the graceful length of her throat. Ivory satin pulled taut across her breasts and outlined the contours of her nipples.
Max sucked his breath through his teeth. No, she wasn’t a little girl anymore. She wasn’t his sister, either.
“Can you taste it?” she asked.
“What?”
“The rain. Tip your head back.”
“Deedee—”
“Don’t you remember how we used to catch the rain on our tongues?”
He slid his gaze from her breasts to her mouth. “Game’s over, Deedee.”
“C’mon, Max.” She opened her mouth and touched her tongue to her lower lip. The motion didn’t appear childish in the least.
Max felt an unaccustomed stir of conscience. He ignored it and leaned closer.
That was when he saw the strip of raised skin that curled around her right arm from her elbow to her shoulder. It had the shiny pink tightness of a healing burn. A similar, wider scar crossed her collarbone and split into ragged white fingers that disappeared beneath the edge of her nightgown. The satin was pulled taut across that, too. The puckered edges of the scar extended to the upper slope of her breast.
What the hell happened to you, Deedee?
Her eyes opened fast, as if his thought had been a shout. She stared at him.
He soaked in the contact as he soaked in the sunshine. Her eyes were the same warm green he remembered, the color of new ferns, but there was an unfamiliar murkiness in their depths. The nightmare was still there. Waiting. He touched his fingertips to her scarred shoulder. “What the hell happened to you?” he repeated.
The garden vanished, along with the mist and Deedee. And just like that, Max was back where he’d started. In his own bed. Utterly alone.
He reached for her instinctively, extending his mind into the darkness to follow her warmth, but she had shut herself off, curling her mind into a defensive ball the same way he’d seen her curl her body.
He pushed harder, trying to get her back. He needed more. He needed her. He couldn’t lose her this time . . .
Max drove his fist into the mattress, then rolled to his back and dropped his forearm across his eyes.
No.
He didn’t need anyone.
FIVE
DELANEY SCOOPED A FISTFUL OF CLOTHESPINS AND LIFTED a sheet from the wicker basket by her feet. Like so many things here, the smell of fresh air and her grandmother’s lemon detergent took her back to her childhood, effortlessly calling up the days when she’d run along the row of laundry, her hands slapping against damp cotton. She had read somewhere that scent memories were the strongest. They bypassed the reasoning part of the brain and went straight to the vestigial animal brain that governed emotions.
That was probably why she imagined lime aftershave when she thought of Stanford.
Then why did she smell paint when she thought of Max? Why had she smelled it on her sheets when she’d awakened this morning?
She brought the damp fabric to her nose.
It smelled like fresh air and lemon detergent, nothing more. Of course, it would. It had gone through the cotton cycle of Grandma’s heavy-duty washer. There was nothing like hot water and twenty minutes of agitation to get rid of a few leftover molecules of imaginary turpentine. It used to do the trick with imaginary mud pies, too.
Delaney pressed her lips together as she hung up the sheet. She wished she could smile, but she wasn’t quite there yet. A five-year-old believing in a pretend playmate was considered cute. A thirty-year-old doing the same could be considered troubling, to put it mildly.
Her latest encounter with Max had been a dream, she reminded herself. Overall, it had been a positive one, and she should be grateful for that. In fact, she’d awakened feeling refreshed instead of worn-out. For the first time in six months, she’d managed to take control of her recurring nightmare. She’d turned its familiar elements of fire and water into something she could deal with. Sunshine and rain. It was actually very clever, the kind of thing Dr. Bernhardt might have suggested. He would have approved of her progress.
But what would a professional have said about the man she’d glimpsed in her bed when she’d awakened? The
naked
man? Delaney wasn’t sure that she wanted to know.
naked
man? Delaney wasn’t sure that she wanted to know.
While she’d been asleep and battling her terrors, Max had been a hazy presence, more of a feeling than a form. Yet the moment she’d opened her eyes, the image of him had solidified. For a flash, Max had been
there.
The image had lasted only a split second, yet she’d had enough time to see his familiar blue gaze and the lock of hair that always flopped over his forehead. She’d gotten the impression there had been a lot of bare skin, too.
there.
The image had lasted only a split second, yet she’d had enough time to see his familiar blue gaze and the lock of hair that always flopped over his forehead. She’d gotten the impression there had been a lot of bare skin, too.
Apparently, her subconscious had decided that the adult Max slept in the nude.
Max the boy had worn grubby T-shirts and jeans. He would have been too shy to show up with nothing on. The new version of Max seemed to have acquired an attitude along with his height and his muscles. A man like that would have no problem with his nudity.
What the hell happened to you, Deedee?
He’d sounded as surprised by her appearance as she’d been by his. The reaction had made him seem even more real. She’d heard his voice as vividly as she’d felt his touch. Skin that had been as good as dead for months had tingled beneath the warmth of his fingers.
That alone proved it had been only a dream. For one thing, a real man would have been repulsed by the scars on her body. For another, she hadn’t enjoyed a man’s touch in ages.
The thought gave her pause. It was true, she and Stanford hadn’t made love as often in the last few years as they had in their early days, but that was only natural. No one could honeymoon forever. She reached for a pillowcase and gave it a brisk flap to knock out the wrinkles. The back of her hand smacked hard against the clothesline.
The pain knocked her breathless. She dropped the pillowcase and cradled her hand to her chest, blinking away tears as she waited for the stinging to fade. An image of roses and rainbows flashed through her mind. It was the place Max had taken her the night before, where there hadn’t been any scars or skin grafts. There hadn’t been any vengeful stepdaughters or lawsuits, either.
Could that be why her mind was returning to him? Was it a sign she couldn’t cope with her real life?
Possibly. He’d certainly helped her cope with her nightmare, even though she’d had to plead with him to do it. That was an improvement over the way he’d rejected her outright yesterday.
But she had made him up; therefore
she
was the one who had rejected herself, and now
she
was the one who was coping.
she
was the one who had rejected herself, and now
she
was the one who was coping.
This was getting far too complicated. Of all the things she had to worry about, the return of Max shouldn’t be one of them. It simply meant her imagination was functioning again. Hopefully, her memory would follow suit.
She flexed her fingers and leaned over to retrieve the pillowcase.
“Hey, Delaney.”
She turned toward the voice.
Phoebe Spencer, the student who was helping Helen for the summer, was hurrying toward her from the direction of the back door. Along with her usual outfit of cut-off shorts and a tube top, she wore one of Helen’s ruffled gingham aprons. She waved one hand at the laundry basket. “Mrs. W.’s going to kill me.”
“Why?”
“I was supposed to hang that stuff up.”
“I’m almost done. You can pretend you didn’t see me.”
Phoebe shook her head, knocking loose a clump of hair. She’d pulled it into a spiky, magenta-streaked version of Helen’s pouf this morning. “No, that’s not why I came to find you. You’ve got a visitor.”
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