Incubus (10 page)

His only reply was a quick, half smile. Then he lunged, and all Caroline could do was react from pure instinct that came from heaven knows where.

For the next few moments, their swords did all the talking. The sound of it echoed off the walls, fit for an Errol Flynn movie. Once, Caroline let her guard down and narrowly escaped a nip from Meical's sword.

“Keep your eyes on mine,” he rasped, “and stop watching my sword hand.”

“Are you giving me advice in the middle of my dream, you cheeky thing?” she shot back at him.

She laughed and parried another of his thrusts,
turning his sword aside, which brought them shoulder to shoulder.

With a low growl, Meical bent and kissed her swiftly.

“Cheater!” she half squealed, and shoved him back.

“This will end the way you want it to end, Caroline. Just remember that.”

“Then you're going to need bandages, buddy.”

He was so fast. He seemed everywhere. But she found she could anticipate his moves, as though they were dancing, as though she'd been fencing with him all her life. They seemed perfectly matched in every way.

After a few minutes, however, the sword began to feel heavy in her hand and the room a lot warmer. Meical looked more tired than she did. What was that about? Why should either of them feel tired in a dream?

Needing a rest, she maneuvered to get the table between them for a moment. She thought she'd just duck and roll, but Meical planted his boot on the hem of her nightgown, and with a rip, she almost rolled right out of it.

“Time out,” she said, trying to straighten her nightgown.

He smiled and withdrew for a moment, panting and pacing.

“How much longer are you good for,” she asked, “just out of curiosity.”

“Not tired, are you?” he shot back.

“Aren't you?”

He smiled, but it was a hard, resolute smile. “No quarter.”

She got her nightie untwisted and came out from behind the table. “Fine, then.”

Meical closed the distance between them in two strides, and they were at it again.

Either he'd been taking it easy on her before, or else, Caroline's skills were waning with the night. She barely managed to keep up with him, let alone stay ahead of him. He worked her backward, foot by foot, into the wall. When she couldn't go any farther, she tried making a fast slide to the left, but he blocked her and beat her back.

She parried three swift lunges, feeling the weight of his blow all the way to her molars.

With a feint and another lunge, he speared the sleeve of her nightgown to the wall. They eyed each other, breathing hard.

“Surrender,” he whispered.

Caroline made a pretense of considering it, while she caught her breath and watched Meical let his guard down. When he seemed to relax a moment, she leaped away, and with a rip, left her empty sleeve on his sword.

Meical laughed and sent the sleeve flying with a flick of his wrist. “I see you intend to fight until I've stripped you naked. Good. It'll save me the trouble.”

She darted away and kicked the table over when he charged after her. He leaped it as though he had springs in his feet, rolled and came to his feet, all in one move, just in time to corner her again.

She lunged and tried to get around him; he parried and forced her back and back and back until she again had the wall behind her and nowhere to go.

Caroline elbowed him in the ribs, shouldered him to push him back and whipped her sword around, certain she was about to leave a mark on him somewhere.

But he caught her by the wrist, nudged her into the wall once more and disarmed her in two seconds, all with ease that told her he could have done it at any moment he wanted to and had only been playing with her.

Caroline stared up into Meical's brilliant gray eyes, watching his mouth descend. He kissed her deeply, but oh so gently, while the damp heat of their bodies wrapped her up like a blanket and drained away the last of her strength.

Teasing her lower lip with his teeth, he parted his mouth from hers slowly. “I say again…surrender.”

“Okay, but…what if I don't want to…you know…”

“But you do want to. Otherwise, I wouldn't have won. You just haven't made up your mind yet.”

She hated the logic in this dream Meical. “Will you take a rain check?”

“No.”

“How about an alternate prize? Name whatever you want.”

“Hmm. Let me think.”

While he was “thinking,” he nuzzled her neck, nipping her from her earlobe to her shoulder. Caroline slipped precariously closer to surrender by the time he
lifted his head and said, “Fine. Tell me what you wanted if you had won this little scrap, and I'll let you off.”

She shook her head, mute with need from the memory of his lovemaking in the last dream. It rushed through her mind and body in full color, sensation, sound and life, eclipsing everything but this moment here and now.

Meical kissed her cheek. It was a chaste, butterfly kiss, and yet it lingered. “It appears you're in a dilemma, then.”

“P-part of me sure is,” she gasped.

He laughed softly, tossed his sword aside and swung her up in his arms. He turned and started toward the fireplace, where the table still lay on its side.

“Hey, Meical, aren't you going the…wrong way?”

Her voice left her as the table jerked upward into the air and landed right side up all on its own.

She hadn't done that. She knew she hadn't. It would never have occurred to her.

When he laid her down on it, she murmured, “Hey, I'm not sure about this.”

His mouth found hers. Once. Twice. A third kiss. “Liar, liar, pants on fire…”

And as he said it, the fire in the hearth behind them sprang up, hot and insatiable, like the hunger she saw in his eyes. Her skin prickled from head to toe when he bent to kiss his way along her quivering abdomen. She could feel his hard mouth through the muslin nightgown, demanding, devouring…

Let go. Let go. Let go.
The words sang in her mind, voiceless, ravenous.
Let him in. Trust him. Make it real.

But making Meical a part of her life for real meant endangering his life.

Rivera.

Caroline caught Meical by the hair and yanked his head up to make him look at her. “I changed my mind. I don't want this.”

He drew back and regarded her, mouth parted, face strained. “I see.”

He was so gorgeous, even as exhausted as he looked right now. She wanted him so much. She wanted his love, his admiration, his protection.

Tears stung her eyes. “It's just that this all seems—to be getting out of hand…”

Meical turned his head aside, and Caroline felt a tremor pass through him. He gathered her up and set her on her feet. By the time her head quit twirling like a top from sitting up too fast, he was on the other side of the room, retrieving their swords and replacing them on the wall.

He said over his shoulder, “The alternative is still an option. Tell me what you would have claimed as your prize, if you'd won, and then let us call a halt to this dream of yours.”

If she told him, it wasn't as if he'd really know. She'd probably wake up the instant she said it.

“Okay,” she answered, “I'll tell you what I wanted.”

He turned from the swords on the wall and looked at her. “What you
want,
” he corrected. But there was no smile, no laughter in his eyes now.

“I wanted all of this.” She gestured at the room,
because her voice deserted her. Her throat ached with longing. “You and me. Like this. In my real life.”

Meical wet his lips with his tongue and took a step or two closer, but stopped, ran his hand through his hair, turned and paced away, paced back, then turned once more to face her. “Say that again, Caroline. Please.”

She hurled the words at him. “What did you expect me to wish for? Two healthy legs?”

The room began to dim; the walls fluttered like paper in the wind.

“I didn't expect anything,” he returned softly. “Please. Say it again.”

Tears clouded Caroline's vision, and longing all but closed her throat before she got the words out. “I want this with you for real, Meical Grabian. For real. But it can't be like that. Not really. I can't let it happen.”

The floor turned to colorless gelatin underfoot, and Caroline slipped downward into the shadowy lake of sleep.

It can be real, if you want it to be.

Whether those words were an echo of her unspoken desires, or a plea from her dreamed-up Meical, it didn't matter. None of this was real. None of it could be.

Burke was the only reality in her world.

“T
hank you for giving me some of your time today, Mr. and Mrs. Feinstein.”

“What did you say your name was?” asked Mr. Feinstein, holding the door open for him.

He smiled at the couple as he entered their apartment. “Burke. I'm very grateful for your help in locating my old friend Caroline.”

Mrs. Feinstein led the way to a living room, and Burke took the armchair she offered him. The couple sat down on a sofa across from him. They regarded him with caution because this situation involved their child. People were always careful about their children.

The Feinsteins's little darling had brought them some momentary fame in the local news a couple of days ago,
when they told how she'd gotten lost during their family vacation and was then rescued by a psychic.

For effect, Burke took a memo pad out of his coat pocket. “I don't suppose you have the lady's address, do you?”

Feinstein shook his head. “It was dark and we were pretty upset about Megan. We didn't notice. It was just a cabin out in the woods. No house number. But a local doctor seemed to be a friend of hers, and the sheriff certainly knew her. You could contact one of them.”

Burke made a note of it. “The reporter you talked to didn't seem to know the actual name of the town she lives in.”

“We didn't want that information released. The young lady doesn't want anyone to know where she is.”

He ignored Mr. Feinstein and met Mrs. Feinstein's gaze with a hopeful smile. “If I show you a photograph of her, could you tell me if she's the lady who found Megan?”

He didn't wait for Mrs. Feinstein to agree. He took his wallet from his back pocket and slipped Caroline's picture out of it. “I'm afraid this is an old photograph. It's all I have.”

That much was true. He'd located the picture in a student newsletter that spotlighted the contributions of psychology grad students attending UTEP. With a little legwork, he'd tracked down the student who'd taken the picture.

Burke looked at the picture every day. He liked to paper clip it to his visor in the car while he drove from one stop to the next along Caroline's trail. She
was always a step ahead of him, and this time, she'd managed to elude him completely.

None of his prey had ever done that before. She was very special. He'd make her death swift and painless, out of deference to her ingenuity.

The Feinsteins leaned forward and looked at the photograph. Burke waited patiently.

“Like I said, it was nighttime,” said Mr. Feinstein. “I'm not sure this is the same girl. The cabin was dark inside. She wouldn't let anyone turn on a light. And her hair wasn't the same. It was short and curly and a different color.”

Caroline had changed her hair color three times since she'd been running from him. Burke resisted the urge to ask them what color her hair was now. He hoped it was red. She would look gorgeous with red hair.

“The main difference,” said Mrs. Feinstein, “is that the lady who helped us was…well…missing a leg.”

Burke nodded sadly. “Yes, I heard about the accident. This photo was taken before that. I can't tell you how badly I've wanted to be with her and give her my support.”

Accident… More like fiasco. Rivera's men had bungled the job, and Caroline had suffered because of it. A true hunter would not have allowed that. Although, having come to know something of his prey's personality, he suspected Caroline was the kind who enjoyed taunting her pursuer. She was clever and beautiful and brave, just the kind of woman a real warrior might be tempted to play with before completing his job.

Hopefully she wouldn't tempt him too much.
He wasn't made of stone after all, and he had his principles—unlike the idiots Rivera had sent to kill her.

When Burke caught up with her, he would give her a chance to outsmart him. He'd even let her beg for mercy. That was something he never did. It was demeaning to both the hunter and the hunted. But for her, he would set aside his usual scruples. That was the sort of urge she brought out in a man. She made him willing to lay aside his code. She had no equal. In all his days of hunting, he'd never come across such a match for his skill.

“So, would you say the lady who helped you is the same young woman in this picture?” he prodded the couple.

Mr. Feinstein opened his mouth to speak, but his wife touched his arm, and he said nothing. Her eyes narrowed as she returned Burke's gaze. “I don't think you ever mentioned how you got to know this friend of yours you're looking for.”

Mrs. Feinstein's conscience had apparently made a sudden recovery. But it was a little too late. Burke smiled guilelessly and tucked the photograph back into his wallet and returned his wallet to his back pocket. “A mutual friend introduced us, and we've tried to stay in touch ever since.”

Mrs. Feinstein folded her arms across her chest. “The girl who helped us was pretty specific. She didn't want anyone to know about her. We only agreed to give the reporter our story because Megan already told a friend of hers at school, and that friend is the daughter of one of the newspaper's assistant editors. But we were very
adamant that the young woman's name and location be withheld.”

“That was very admirable of you,” he said blandly. He stood up and shook Mr. Feinstein's hand. “I've overstayed my welcome. Thank you so much for your time. I'll keep looking for Caroline. Maybe I'll get lucky one of these days.”

Once Burke was back in his car, he dialed his contact. “Tell Mr. Rivera I've found her. Not yet. Is your team in place? Just watch her father's house. That's all. The first move is mine. I don't want any accidents. Olek is of no use to me if he's dead.”

 

How did she expect to deal with Meical's problems objectively if she couldn't look at him without imagining him naked?

This morning even the scent of him lingered with her. The memory of Meical above her, the light in his eyes, his kiss, his tenderness, his need, left her breathless.

But today she would set aside her infatuation, and when he arrived for his therapy session, she would treat him like her patient. Period. Her methods would work for him. They always worked. Everything was going to be fine—as long as she didn't think about what a good kisser he was.

Meical showed up at her door at ten, and although she went weak in the knees at the sight of him, she managed to pull it together. They stretched out on the floor in front of the fire, she handed him a tablet of drawing paper and dumped a box of new crayons in
front of him, ignoring his soft smile while he watched her line the crayons in a neat row within his reach.

She took out her notebook and her green polka-dot mechanical pencil with the dragon eraser top on it and turned to him with a look of compassionate professionalism.

“I need you to help me finish a story,” she said. “I'm going to start it, and you take it from there. Okay?”

He propped his cheek on his fist and regarded the crayons and paper tablet. “Are you serious?”

“Humor me.”

“If I trust you enough to answer these questions, I expect you to show me equal trust and answer mine.” He met her gaze with glinting eyes. “Understood?”

Caroline sighed. Meical was not the kind of man to relinquish his control in any situation. He was apt to see his cooperation as a concession on his part. He'd naturally want something in return. The difficulty was finding a way to give Meical what he wanted without jeopardizing her secrets.

“Okay,” she said, “whatever subject we discuss about you, we'll discuss about me, too.”

She could sense that her answer was unacceptable. Meical sighed and reached for a crayon. Caroline fixed her gaze on his choice. He went for red. That was what she'd expected. Red for anger. Next it would be black. Betrayal. Sadness. If she were right, that is.

“Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Meical Grabian,” she began.

He shot her another are-you-serious look.

She smiled and went on talking. “What Meical wanted more than anything was…what?”

Meical abandoned the red crayon in favor of the black one and drew a rectangular shape on his paper. “His father's books. That is, he wanted his father to share them with him.”

The rectangle he drew began to take shape. He went for the red crayon to make what looked like a doorknob. A door. She watched him take up the black crayon again. A door at the top of a stairway, and it all looked larger than life, as it would to a small boy. Good. This was just what he needed.

She prompted, “Meical liked his father's books because…”

“They were important to his father. But his father shared his books with someone else.” The black crayon snapped in two. “Sorry.”

“No problem. I have plenty. The books were valuable?”

“More than anything else. No. Actually, there was something else his father valued more. The one he shared them with.”

“And Meical the boy dealt with that by…”

“Making himself content in the kitchen with his mom and three sisters. We had a good time every night down there without the two of them.”

His shift from third person came earlier than Caroline expected. There was an old-fashioned lilt in his accent that hadn't been there a moment ago. It was almost as though he were reliving the memory. This was better than she'd hoped for.

“I love parties,” she prompted again.

“We roasted chestnuts and sang and told stories.”

He picked up the red crayon to add a glow of light under the door. And then he added red to all the shadows. His movements were quick and harsh and hard.

“And?” she murmured.

“It was fine until they came downstairs from their studies.”

“And the fun stopped?”

He snorted. “Entertainment must always be the sort that improves one's moral fiber, or else it's idleness, and you know what they say about that.”

“'Idle hands are the devil's workshop,'” Caroline quoted.

“Precisely. So, we always had to be virtuous.” He broke the red crayon, too, but kept coloring with ferocious stripes of red. “Frivolity was not the good Vicar Bowman's cup of tea.”

“Bowman? So you were named—”

“Meical Grabian Bowman.”

But he didn't use his last name? Classic rebellion. To be such a complex man, Meical's problems were straightforward. In fact…almost too easy. She gave herself a moment to probe his emotions. He seemed to be on the up-and-up—except for a hint of a hidden agenda that she couldn't get to. Mostly there was lots of guilt inside him.

Just to be sure what direction they were headed, she made an exploratory remark. “Your father was proud of you.”

“Not at all. I was a ne'er-do-well.” He tossed the red
crayon aside and picked up the black again. “So, when Father lost him…”

“Whom did Father lose?”

“My brother Freddie. The good vicar's son.”

“You were his son, too.”

“Only by blood.”

Caroline eyed the picture he'd drawn. “Where does that door lead to?”

“Father's study.”

“Where his books were?”

“And where he and Freddie spent hours sermonizing. Freddie was bound for the church. Father was preparing him for a brilliant career saving souls.”

“What career did Freddie want?”

Meical looked up with an expression of surprise. “He wanted precisely what Father wanted, of course. That was Freddie.”

She smiled. “But not Meical.”

He shook his head and rolled onto his back. “And that was the beginning of the end of Meical the boy.”

She watched his chest rise and fall with the intensity of his emotions. To give him privacy, she withdrew to the kitchen.

His childhood was definitely part of his problems, but Neshi said it was a recent trauma that had put Meical into his current instability. If she could discover what had happened to him, she'd know how far into this anger cycle he was, and whether it was apt to turn inward or outward. That was crucial because Meical could go either way.

She rejoined him and settled down in the floor beside him.

He gave her an unsettled look. “You're brilliant, you know. I've never told anyone that rubbish before.”

She shrugged. “It's what I do.”

He reached for the picture he'd drawn and looked at it. “I was eighteen when Freddie died. Pneumonia. We were all grieved, but my father lost himself over it. He wanted me to take Freddie's place.”

“In other words, he wanted you to be Freddie.”

He nodded, pursing his lips. “I wasn't cut out for the pulpit. I'm too hotheaded. And not the least bit quick-witted.”

She put a hand on his and waited until he looked up at her. “You were—and are—precisely who and how you need to be. And no one has the right to expect you to be untrue to yourself.”

His jaw twitched and he looked away swiftly. “You'd have gotten along very well with my mother, Caroline.”

“I'm glad you think so. Let's talk about friends.”

She watched the smile play across his face. “That would be Ellory Benedikt and his family. And Talisen his—um—wife. Fine girl. She keeps them all straight.” He cleared his throat softly. “There's nothing I wouldn't do for them.”

Caroline noted the thread of longing that ebbed from Meical as he said it. “When was the last time you visited them?”

She felt him recoil. He seemed momentarily unreachable.

“Before,” he murmured. “Before this.”

That was the first reference to his breakdown she'd heard from him yet. Caroline proceeded gently. “Meical, do you know what happened to you?”

“Yes.”

“You understand why you have the emotional problems you have?”

“Completely.”

“Dr. Neshi explained things to you?”

“Thoroughly. He made it clear that things may not turn out well for me.”