Stranger (30 page)

He had enough rational thought to shift his body so that, with each surge into her, he rubbed her clit. This turned her into a demon, and she broke her wrists from his grasp to score her nails down his back. The hot trails of pain shifted to fiery pleasure.

“The claws come out,” he rumbled.

She was past hearing. “Catullus … yes …
please.”

He gave her what she asked for, letting slip all control and thrusting with every ounce of his strength. The bed shook, its branches quaking as if in the middle of a storm.

Her legs locked around him as she came with a cry, her head thrown back, mouth open.

His orgasm hit him with the force of a gale. It rolled on and on, draining him, lifting him. Each time he came inside her, he believed he’d reached the pinnacle of pleasure, and each time he gained still greater heights. Now he soared above mountains. His release was endless, and yet over too soon.

He lowered himself down and then rolled to his side, cradling her against him. For some time, they simply looked at one another, running hands over sweat-dampened skin, languidly kissing, making incoherent murmurs that they still managed to understand.

“Have to follow procedure,” she said, languid. “Postexperiment interview.”

He groaned. “Can’t talk. Lost power to speak.”

She admonished, “Mr. Graves, you have to respect the methodology. How can we learn and advance our understanding without sticking to the rules?”

“Hang the rules.” He nuzzled the base of her throat.

“Subject is being unruly. But he doesn’t seem to be losing focus. Do you feel like inventing something, Mr. Graves? Reading a technological publication?”

“God, no.” His body and mind both felt utterly satiated, incapable of anything but lying in bed with her supple, warm body pressed to his.

“Your initial hypothesis has been disproved,” she continued in a precise, practical tone. “And since the variable has been altered, we can thus conclude that you do
not
become distracted after orgasm.” Her smile turned self-satisfied. “Not when you’re with the right woman.”

He saw this was so. And it amazed him. He had no desire to get up and busy himself. His mind didn’t whirl with a thousand ideas, all demanding his attention. Peace. She’d given him peace.

“I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.” He pulled her tight against him, wrapping her in his arms. A flame of a woman who blazed without burning.

They were quiet, breathing in and out together. Sharing flesh and heartbeats and stillness.

“I could be like this forever,” she whispered.

An unwelcome edge of reality cut along his contentment. “You may have to.”

She smoothed the tip of one finger across his furrowed brow. “No, none of that. This is our moment. Our island and shelter.”

Her touch soothed, and lassitude stole over him. When his eyelids drooped, he fought to keep them open.

“Rest now,” Gemma murmured. “The time for worry is later.”

Time,
he thought, sinking into sleep. That was all he wanted with her. And now they had time in abundance—the sweetest punishment he would ever know.

“Wake up! Eyes open!”

Catullus started awake to see Bryn hovering over his face. The pixie fluttered his wings anxiously, stirring minute currents of air across Catullus.

“How the hell—?” Catullus’s groggy mind, roused from an uncharacteristic deep slumber, struggled to make sense of what he saw.

“We must go!” Bryn piped. He zigzagged back and forth across the bed. “Now, now!”

True to form, Gemma continued to sleep, entirely unaware of the pixie’s shrill demands.

Sitting up so that the blankets pooled at his waist, Catullus ground the heel of his hand into his eyes, rubbing them alert. “How did you get here?”

The pixie looked at him blankly. “I flew.”

“I mean,” Catullus gritted, growing irritable, “how did you find this cottage? We’re up a tree in the middle of an ocean.” To demonstrate, he rose from the bed, stalked to the door and threw it open. As before, an endless sea stretched all around.

“That’s if you leave by the door,” Bryn explained as if talking to a slow child. “Try opening the window.”

Catullus frowned, glancing at the small windows. The view out of them was the same as what the door revealed: limitless ocean. Figuring that he had nothing to lose by proving the pixie wrong, he strode to one window and, after unfastening its catch, swung it fully open.

An astonishing view. Forest. The selfsame forest in which he and Gemma had arrived.

Mystified, Catullus walked back to the open front door. The ocean continued to glitter, uninterrupted. Several times, he went back and forth between door and window. Each time demonstrated that what he saw was not illusion. Somehow, if one exited the cottage via the door, one would tumble down into an immeasurable sea. Yet one would stand on a forest floor if leaving the cottage through the window.

“Goddamn Otherworld logic,” he muttered.

“This is the Sea of Lovers,” Bryn explained at his shoulder. “When you and the woman entered the cottage together, you created an enchantment.”

“I don’t have any magic, and hers isn’t strong enough to do something like this.”

“Everything is made of magic in Otherworld. Even cottages. After you both entered this place, you fashioned a spell. To give you what you desired most: time and solitude.”

“So we were transported to this …” Catullus waved at the ocean out the window. “Sea of Lovers.”

“And when you were ready to leave, you could.”

“Through the window.” He chuckled ruefully. Seeing Bryn staring at him, Catullus realized he was naked. He gathered up his clothing and began dressing. “What are you doing here?”

The pixie perched on the lip of the tub, which was now empty. “I went to Brightworld. Had to see for myself.” He shivered. “Bad, bad. The giant king moves ever closer to the Primal
Source. Chaos. Terror. And if he reaches the Primal Source …” His wings trembled, but he managed to collect himself. “You say the Man in the Oak can speak with the giant king, make him stop?”

“Yes,” Catullus answered, though this had yet to be proven.

“Then I will take you to him.” Bryn tried to imbue his words with bravado, only partially succeeding.

Catullus would not ask Bryn if he was sure, lest he talk the pixie out of his decision. Knowing that time grew scarce, he padded over to the bed to wake Gemma. It took him saying her name three times, and then giving her a rather ungentle shake before she finally stirred.

Seeing him sitting on the edge of the bed, she smiled drowsily and stretched. “More experimenting?” Her voice, husky with sleep, sent dark currents of need shimmering through him. She scooted up to sitting. The blankets fell from her, revealing her breasts, and she reached for him.

Catullus quickly drew the blankets back up to cover her, which pained him, not unlike drawing a curtain over a magnificent stained-glass window. “Experimentation later. We have a guest.” He glanced over at Bryn, who sat at the foot of the bed, eyes the size of pennies.

Clutching the blankets to her, Gemma blushed. “Turn around, pixie,” she ordered.

Bryn obliged, though he looked quite disappointed. Catullus wondered if it was bad luck to crush a pixie in one’s fist.

As Bryn stared at a wall, Catullus brought Gemma her clothing. She stood and, after looking gloomily at her decidedly grubby dress, began to clothe herself. For Catullus, watching her dress was another exercise in self-restraint.

“You look almost as unhappy as I do to be putting these things on again,” she noted, fastening the buttons on the front of her bodice.

“A shame,” he sighed, “putting clothing on that goddess’s body of yours.”

She smiled wickedly. “I’m looking forward to more
worship.” With the last button done and fully dressed, she gathered focus. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Succinctly, Catullus explained everything that Bryn had told him, and why it was imperative that they leave immediately to locate Merlin. As he spoke, Gemma grew serious and attentive.

“We’ve tried thinking it through,” she said. “Between the two of us, we couldn’t find a way out of here. We’re still trapped in this cottage, in the middle of the ocean.”

“Go out the window, of course,” Catullus answered.

Some aspects of a person’s character were so deeply ingrained, nothing short of death could alter them. For Catullus, the desire to build and create and understand the mechanics of everything around him remained a constant presence, from his earliest memories. Even as an infant, he couldn’t be left alone in his bassinet, lest he disassemble the whole thing with his stubby, curious fingers. More than once his mother had come into the nursery to find his cradle in pieces, or a wind-up toy reduced to its smallest parts, with him in the middle of the chaos, quietly and happily sifting through the debris.

He had no recollection of this, being rather small at the time, but family lore held sway over individual memory. It didn’t surprise him, though. He continued to take apart and reassemble anything that wasn’t welded together. Most likely, he’d try to dismantle his coffin as it was being lowered into the ground.

For Gemma, her curiosity and need to know wove into the fabric of her essence. She could not stop being a reporter in search of information. He loved this intrinsic quality of hers, revealing a mind fully aware, a searching, questing nature that called to the exact attribute in himself. In all his life, he’d never met anyone, male or female, with the same driven mind as his own.

Still, he was glad that he wasn’t on the receiving end of Gemma’s queries now. Bryn Enfys had that privilege.

As they journeyed through the endless forest of Otherworld, through sheltered vales, along creek beds, passing scores of creatures straight from a child’s book, Gemma peppered the pixie with a nonstop deluge of questions. Fortunately, Bryn’s vanity enjoyed being the center of so much attention, and from so lovely a woman.

“Is all of Otherworld like this?” She waved at the arching canopy of branches overhead. “A vast, hyperbolic English wood?”

The pixie, buzzing just ahead, chuckled despite his continuing apprehension. “Otherworld has many forms, many guises. Immeasurable sapphire seas, as you’ve seen. Gold and green fields that roll to infinity. Cities of crystal, of fire, of ice. One could never map Otherworld. For as many minds and souls there are in Brightworld, so Otherworld grows and shifts.”

“How are Otherworld and Brightworld connected?” She picked her way along the edge of a pond, where curious water faerie watched. When one of the tiny female creatures swam close to Catullus, eyeing him with interest, Gemma scowled and swatted at the faerie. It drifted away, giggling.

Catullus hid his own smile, but felt a rush of gratification. He never thought he’d inspire jealousy in a woman.

“Otherworld is made by Brightworld,” Bryn explained. “Just as Brightworld needs Otherworld. They each shape and create the other, existing side by side. We fey beings need the mortal imagination—it feeds us, gives us the breath of our lungs and flesh of our bodies. Builds our homes and causes the trees to grow.”

“And how does Brightworld need Otherworld?” asked Catullus, whose own curiosity was mighty and ravenous.

“The mortal mind and soul must have magic, else they shrivel and becomes dead things. There had been a time when magic flowed freely between the two worlds, sustaining
each other.” Bryn looked somber. “That time is long past, and every day more and more mortals wither inside, trapped in their world of smokestacks and steel. Soon, they will be nothing but barren desert within.”

“And if that does happen,” pressed Gemma with a frown, “what then? Will Otherworld disappear?”

The pixie smiled wryly. “Otherworld will go on, but it will not grow, will not flourish. And there will always be some mortals of Brightworld who have magic within them, even when encased in prisons of brick and commerce.”

For some time, Gemma was pensive, quietly slipping into her own thoughts as they continued to trek through the forest. There was much to ponder, and, as much as he took pleasure in her curiosity, he respected the depth of her mind, too; that she not only asked questions, but truly contemplated what she learned. Yet she did not live exclusively within her head, as evidenced by her voyaging alone to the Canadian wilderness in pursuit of story and experience. And she handled a derringer damn well. And made love like a pagan.

Impulsively, he took hold of her hand and kissed it.

She glowed with surprised delight. “My gallant knight.”

“My lady warrior.”

“I’m no fighter,” she laughed. “Merely a journalist.”

“Nothing ‘merely’ about you.” He stopped and tugged her close. They stood, chest to chest, hands interlaced, gazing at one another. He felt the rise and fall of her breath, saw the life and energy of her shining in her azure eyes, the humor curving her lush mouth. The mouth he had to kiss.

He bent his head, and she tilted back to meet him. It had been only hours, and yet far too long had passed since he kissed her, touched her bare flesh. Made love to her. And he needed all of these things, as much as he needed water or food to sustain him, if not more.

The thought of food roused his stomach, and a loud
growl issued from his belly. Gemma gave an uncharacteristic giggle.

He sighed and stepped back slightly. So much for romance. He glanced up at the sky, but time functioned differently in Otherworld, and golden light seemed to speckle the ground regardless of the hour. They had been walking and walking for what had to be hours, but no change was reflected in the light and shadow. His pocket watch wasn’t working, either. No way to judge the time.

“We’ll stop for a moment and have something to eat,” he said. “I believe Mrs. Strathmore packed us some sandwiches.”

Gemma frowned, but not at him. Her anger was for herself. “I dropped the basket when the Heirs started shooting at us. Damn it.”

“Don’t castigate yourself. I would’ve done the same.” He pressed a kiss on the tip of her nose. “We can forage. I’ve done plenty of that.” He turned and looked around for some promising bushes and trees. Something had to produce edible fruit, and they could try fishing in one of the ponds or creeks.

“No need,” chirped Bryn, fluttering close. “You’ve but to speak, and I can have any food you desire. What do mortals like? Beefsteak?” A platter with a sizzling, red steak appeared, hovering in front of Catullus and smelling like paradise. “Or … what is that dreadful thing called? Pudding?” The steak vanished, and a flaming plum pudding took its place. The spicy scent immediately transported Catullus to New Year’s dinners with his family.

His mouth watered. “I’d love a good mutton pie.”

“Done!” The pudding disappeared, and the most gorgeous, golden brown mutton pie materialized. Gravy bubbled up from the vents cut into the top crust.

An unseen knife sliced into the pie, and a perfect wedge hovered up and into Catullus’s open hand. He allowed himself the moment’s pleasure of simply staring at and smelling the culinary wonder, little caring that it had been summoned
through magic. Then he brought it up to his mouth, ready to take a bite.

“Catullus, no!”

Gemma slapped the mutton pie out of his hand. The wedge flew through the air to land in some nearby mud. He stared at it, stunned, as his empty stomach rumbled in complaint.

“Why—?”

“The stories my granda told. About traveling to the land of the Fair Folk.” Her eyes widened in alarm. “I just remembered. You’re never, never supposed to eat
anything
in faerie land. Not a crumb, not a bite.”

“Why the devil not?” He eyed the wedge of spoilt mutton pie with dismay.

“Because it will trap you here. Forever.”

His attention snagged, he turned back to her. “If either of us eat anything in Otherworld, we will be unable to leave?”

“Stuck here eternally.”

“Like Persephone and the pomegranate seeds.” He whirled on Bryn, and, while the remainder of the mutton pie vanished, the pixie did not. “You knew,” Catullus gritted.

The pixie smiled without a hint of regret.

“Not much of a friend,” Gemma said tartly.

Bryn only shrugged. “The ways of Otherworld outweigh such mortal ephemera as friendship. We always seek to add more mortals to our realm. We like their light,” he added by way of explanation.

Frowning, Catullus said, “Foolish. If you trap Gemma and I here, who will go back to Brightworld and stop Arthur from reaching the Primal Source? For you know that once he touches it, the magic of Otherworld will be enslaved.”

Bryn looked abashed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Even pixies can be thick in the head,” Gemma snorted.

Catullus pressed a hand to his still-growling stomach.
Now the journey was all the more troublesome, since neither he nor Gemma were to have anything to eat or drink for as long as they were in Otherworld. He’d gone without food before—a long siege against a band of Heirs in the Sud Tyrol came immediately to mind—and he didn’t care for it, but he was more concerned about Gemma.

“Will you be all right?” he asked her. “I don’t know how long we will be here, with nothing to eat.”