The Dream Crafter(3)
His gaze returned to her from overlooking the ocean, and the smile faded from his mouth, though not from around his eyes. With tentative grace, he reached out to stroke her face, his thumb brushing from cheekbone to temple, to push a strand of hair behind her ear, the touch conveying shocking intimacy even though he kept it respectful, light, not moving anywhere she would complain about.
“Such beautiful skin,” he said in a voice so low it was almost drowned out by the waves, but the breath that carried the words covered her and drove his admiration deep.
“I like your hair.”
The smile returned to his lips. “Thank you. I do it myself.”
“Maybe next time I can help?” If only there could be a next time. In this way, in this one way, the dreams always failed her, because no matter what she wished, the next time never happened.
“Yes.” His head lowered, a controlled descent during which his gaze darted from her mouth to her eyes and back again, the crease between his brows suggesting he was asking a question of himself. “Please do.”
Amana woke up, the lightness in her chest disappearing as her eyes met the bare white walls of the room.
Chapter Two
‡
Merc opened his eyes, flat on his back, the cracked, spotted ceiling ready to rain down plaster above him, sounds of cars zooming past on the outside roads filtering in through the thin walls.
He was in the dingy hotel room he took for a few hours rest before moving on. Not a beach, sandy and warm with a beautiful woman on his arm, the salt taste still on his tongue.
He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, wanting to grind the dream into his brain before he lost it. It had been so real, but no, nothing magic had been going on. His ink was quiet, undisturbed. The black lines were stark on his tan skin with no changes in color or shape, and no prickling sensations around them to alert him to any undesired persons after him. No dream walkers. No wizards or mages.
Only a beautiful woman and only the nicest hours he had experienced in a very long time, and both were no more.
The tightness in his chest was from sleeping on a shitty bed that hit every muscle wrong. If any other reason caused it, it would make him a damned stupid fool.
Merc sat up, the sheet falling from his chest to pool in his lap. He stretched his arms up high, the muscles giving a sleepy burn at the movement, but before he could work out all the kinks the phone rang, the number unlisted. Not a surprise – most of his phone calls were from unlisted numbers. “Yeah?”
“Still safe?”
Merc’s fingers tightened with the instinctive desire to throttle the owner of the smug voice. Hadrien was courting death, and if he kept stepping out of line, Merc was going to deliver. “I told you not to contact me unless necessary.”
“Me knowing my property is safe is very necessary.” The singsong, childish cast of Hadrien’s words had Merc gritting his teeth. “And of course, I care about your welfare as well.”
The tattoos pulsed beneath his skin, the black lines covering his arms and back reacting to the anger rising from Merc’s gut, crashing through his body, demanding release, movement, destruction. “Hadrien, I will get the Spellbook back to you, but there is no magic in place to protect you after that moment. I suggest you don’t fuck with me in the meantime.”
A pause, and then the singsong was gone, and only curt words designed to cover a tremor of fear came through the speaker. “I’ll call the day before delivery to give you the final time and location.” The call disconnected, and Merc was left with the thwarted desire to deal pain and no one to release it on.
He threw the phone to the end of the bed and ran his hands through his hair. Stupidest fucking decision he ever made in his life, to take this job. He should’ve known better. Did know better. Did it anyway.
Didn’t matter now. He was stuck with it. He turned to the side table, and there the Spellbook lay, so innocent looking, leather-bound and richly elegant. In its original form it was a collection of scrolls sealed together, but magic shaped it to a more appropriate casing for this realm.
In his hands the leather was warm, the texture pure luxury. Under his fingertips it seemed to respond to him. Pulses of magic swirled, provoking images of homecoming, of contentment. Was that him, or was it the spellbook?
Merc pulled away, setting the Spellbook down and ignoring the twinge the separation provoked. Time to get dressed and move again, with images of a woman with beautiful black hair and almond-colored eyes in the back of his mind.
Chapter Three
‡
It wasn’t the endless blue of the ocean in front of her, and no sign of the beautiful man with the intriguing tattoos, tattoos she more than once wanted to explore with her hands. Hands, and maybe beyond that.