The Dream Crafter(4)

As usual, Amana went from sleep to total wakefulness. Since going back to sleep wasn’t an option, she pushed herself onto her knees, bringing her arms up to stretch her back. A yoga session would be nice, but there was too much to get ready before tonight’s meeting. She had packing to do. Her gut was telling her that a moment’s notice was coming up, and she needed to be ready.

A hot shower, kettle on the stove, and even as she finished her breakfast and packed her purse, her thoughts refused to turn away from the man in the dream.

It had been a long time since she had dream walked without meaning to, so long it seemed like total control was finally hers. Last night’s meeting with the man destroyed that hope.

Though he was worth the semi-depressing reality her magic was still something of a wildcard. The power that hummed beneath his skin marked her fingers, and that warm leather and musk scent that even the salty ocean air couldn’t erase lingered when she breathed deep.

She was a teenager again, obsessing over a man she shared a long walk and a couple dozen sentences with. No, worse. As a teenager she’d had more sense. Well, that, and a little brother who towered over most adults and would beat up any guy who made her cry, which meant most guys made the wise choice to avoid her, leaving her with few opportunities to moon over beautiful men with tattoos.

And since when was she into tattoos anyway? In her experience tattoos meant trouble. And dear gods, that man exuded trouble. It wasn’t even a question in his case.

Total teenager moment. Maybe her magic was making up for her lack of usual teenage craziness by tossing an inappropriate guy in her path.

An alarm sounded, and she looked to the clock on the wall. Time to put the man to the side and meet up with the next job.





Chapter Four




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The howl pierced through the moderate noise of the bar, and in time with everyone else, Amana looked up from her drink to see the reflected gleam of yellow eyes before the five men bent their heads and laughed.

Yellow eyes were predominant in a few of the wild races and the howl didn’t narrow it down that much, but before the question could do much more than shape itself in her mind, a feminine voice sounded from up and to her left. “Werewolves. Their furry butts are going to be kicked out if they don’t shape up.”

The woman had a heavy mass of barely restrained black curls and hazel-green eyes that were bright against the caramel tone of her skin, but it was the cunning in them rather than the beautiful color that had Amana holding her breath for a split second before self-preservation kicked in enough to erect her normal façade of pleasant neutrality. The woman continued. “You are Amana, yes? I’m Inara. Please, let me show you to your future employers.”

Inara turned from the bar and started toward the four stairs that led to the raised seating area, situated away from the billiards and darts, this area instead meant for more intimate drinking and conversing. At the farthermost table, the one with the most space surrounding it and allowing the most privacy, were seated two women. As if Amana activated an invisible tripwire, the moment she was in sight the two women looked up and straight at her.

The first woman was an explosion of powder blue, from the spikes of her semi-mohawked hair to the vest and tight jeans she wore on a body that could almost pass for a prepubescent boy’s due to both the short height and lack of curves. Blue lips and blue eyeshadow were heavy on a face that reflected the same mixed heritage as her own, Japanese with some European nationality.

While the Japanese woman would attract attention first, anyone with an ounce of self-preservation would realize it was her companion who needed to be scrutinized. Long red hair was the only splash of color against white skin and black clothing, which while fitted was loose enough that the woman would have full range of motion in any situation. She leaned back in her seat, but the movement was too studied, too casual, the predator in her too pronounced to be hidden.

Come into my parlor…

No, not a spider, not this one. Not the mechanical efficiency that characterized insects, but neither did she have the feral wildness that was being displayed by the werewolves. She was something else.

Inara strutted over to the table and sat in the chair by the blue-haired woman. “Fallon, Laire,” Inara said, motioning to the red-haired woman and the Asian woman in turn, “behold, I present to you Amana. Rhaum promises she’s exactly what you are looking for.”

“Hope so,” Fallon answered, and though the words were innocuous, as was the tone they were said in, in Amana the urge to flee and not look back struck hard, an urge that in normal circumstances she would follow without hesitation.