The Dream Crafter(28)

“Mysterious masters do not lessen the questions in your life.” There was a faint strand of resigned knowing in his voice, and if they were on the beach, she’d question him further about that statement. Now, though, she awaited his verdict, this man who was unexpected judge, jury, and possible executioner.

Even with the early morning coolness, Amana’s skin prickled and beads of sweat formed along the hairline at her neck as Merc kept his still vigil in front of her. He asked nothing else, his eyes once again shielded by bangs so no hint of possible thoughts could be seen.

With her nerves stretched like an old rubber band, his sudden rise from the seat had her jump in response. His hand came up in an instinctive sign of stay, easy though the facial expression remained blank. His voice was tired when he spoke. “Come here.”

She rose and took the seat he pointed to, a stiff chair with hard slats and handcuffs already attached. He cuffed her in and said, “I’m napping for ninety minutes, and then we’ll be on our way.”

She waited, but nothing else, nothing that told her of when to expect that other shoe from the sky. “So what are you going to do with me?”

“You work for the Guild, no matter for how long or for why. Technically, you’re my enemy right now. Until I figure out my plan from here, you’re staying with me.”

Relief jolted through her system, waking her up as efficiently as caffeine. He wasn’t going to kill her. “I understand. Thank you for letting me sleep first.”

His expression was puzzled, perhaps because of her lack of yelling or threats or any of a hundred-and-one ways she could be annoying in her helplessness. It lasted only a moment before he fell into bed and went to sleep with a quickness that spoke of a soldier’s training to sleep wherever and whenever the opportunity arose.

She made a token pull on the cuffs, but they were too sturdy for her to get them off, and any serious try would have him up and out of bed in moments. She’d have to keep her eyes open for chances while they were traveling.

He was a mercenary. Whatever happened between them in the dreams was useless here and now, and she needed to remember that. Dreams were over. Reality was here, and any confusion between the two would only lead to her downfall.





Chapter Sixteen




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The building was nondescript. Big and blocky and brown brick, and not even with magical intervention would she be able to describe it in any other detail.

Pulling in between a hot rod on one side and a group of motorcycles on the other, Merc put the minivan in park and got out. Since at this moment discretion equaled self-preservation, Amana waited until he circled the van and opened the door for her. “Why are we still in the minivan?”

“It’s roomy, it’s comfortable, and its acceleration and handling are finer than anyone in pursuit would assume. That throws off the pursuer’s calculations and gives me an edge.” Merc rattled off data like he’d been through this several times before. Considering his profession, he probably had.

It still seemed goofy. The car couldn’t have stuck out more if there had been a spotlight shining down on it. Since she had hopes of rescue this worked in her favor, but it did suggest Merc wasn’t as good as he’d been portrayed.

It seemed their connection wasn’t only in dreams, because after a quick look at her face, Merc said. “Defying expectation is one way of avoiding getting caught. You’d be surprised how often hiding in plain sight works.”

Merc adjusted the strap of the messenger bag currently slung across his chest. The Spellbook was inside, and every so often he tilted his head to look back at it, a slight frown on his face. He did so again, and Amana asked, “What’s wrong? Is it hurting you?”

“Do you feel it?” Less than a second after the question was asked, Merc’s lips thinned and he gave the tiniest shake of his head.

So he hadn’t meant to ask her or let her know anything was amiss. Still, it was out, and it was best to acknowledge the fact before he could start to brood over conspiracy theories. “I don’t feel anything, but I’m not magic like you either,” she said, motioning to the black lines on his arm.

After a few moments of silence, his only answer was a nod, and then he was leading them to the front door, which opened into an underground club. Unlike what she had expected from the exterior of the building and the quality of cars parked around, this place was stylish, women dressed in full hair and make-up and men in something other than jeans. Amana’s tug on her rumpled white blouse and quick hand through her hair didn’t quite settle the low hum of embarrassment running through her blood, especially with the catty double-takes a few women favored her with as she passed by.