by Ciana Stone
Sara laughed and made a sweeping curtsy for Kelly in front of the door. With a dramatic flourish of her short jacket, Kelly swept through the opening. Sara smiled and followed her friend.
She’d been back from the Isle of Sàbhail for nearly six months and still she had no idea who the man was she was supposed to help save, or what she should do to try to find him. Danu had instructed her on history and the importance of trusting her instincts, and urged her to continue to develop her abilities, but she would not give Sara the name of the target. That, she’d said, was the role of the Warrior Hunter.
Sara had been looking. Everywhere. But so far nothing. No one she met made a bell ring in her head or lightning strike. She was beginning to despair. Sure, she’d made some progress in understanding the nature and mechanics of her ability, but she was supposed to be helping save the world and she couldn’t even figure out who she was looking for.
Telling herself to trust that it would happen when it was supposed to, she pushed aside thoughts of doubt and focused on the moment.
* * * * *
“Damn, how’d you make it here before me? Weather’s a bitch.”
Morgan’s head jerked up at the sound of the voice. His best friend Chris slid onto the stool beside him at the bar. Truth be told, Morgan didn’t even remember the drive. His mind was still lodged in the past. Despite his best efforts to put it out of his mind, all he could think about was the day his father died.
“Earth to Morgan,” Chris’ voice snapped him back to the moment. “Jesus, Morgan, you on drugs?”
“Just stuff on my mind,” Morgan commented.
“Babe stuff?”
“Hardly,” Morgan said with a snort.
“Work?”
“Just let it go, Chris.”
“Fine.” Chris raised his hands, palms out, in surrender. “So did you call that girl we met the other night? Kelly?”
“Who?”
“Christ, Morgan, Kelly. You remember.”
“Yeah, right,” Morgan replied. “No, didn’t call her.”
“Are you crazy? She was hot!”
“Then why don’t you call her?”
“Uh, duh, because she gave you her number. You still have it?”
Morgan thought about the crumpled paper he tossed in the direction of the trash can. “Must’ve lost it.”
“Man, you need to get a grip. You’ve been in some strange funk for over a month. What the fuck’s up?”
Morgan shook his head, taking a look around. Maybe it would do him good to talk to someone, but sitting at a bar where there were lots of ears to overhear wasn’t his choice of venues. “Let’s grab a booth.”
Chris slid off his stool, signaling to the bartender to bring his beer to a booth across from the door. He and Morgan claimed the booth and he propped his elbows on the table. “So give. What’s up?”
Morgan sighed and slumped against the wooden back of the booth, his fingers twirling the untouched bottle of beer. “Today’s my dad’s birthday.”
“How long’s he been dead?” Chris asked.
“Since my twelfth birthday,” Morgan replied, feeling a twinge of anxiety talking about it.
“Fuck, man, he died on your birthday? That sucks. What happened? Heart attack?”
“He died trying to save a baby from a wrecked camper.”
Chris looked away, clearly uncomfortable at the sudden welling of tears in Morgan’s eyes. Morgan swiped his hand over his eyes and pushed himself up straight. No way was he going to blubber in a bar in front of his friend.
“He was a hero,” Chris said quietly.
Morgan nodded. Maybe he was. Only he hadn’t saved anyone. Not only did he die with the baby in his arms, the mother died as well. In Morgan’s arms. So in the end, he gave his life for nothing. Morgan supposed that was what cut so deep into him. If either of the people had lived then at least his father’s heroics would have been for something. As it was, it was a waste of a life, leaving Morgan’s mother without a husband and him without a father.
And, Morgan suspected, leaving him with something he’d never known how to deal with. Three days after his father’s death, something happened to Morgan. Something he could not explain, or understand. And something that still scared him.
“Well, hey now,” Chris’ voice drew his attention away from his own fears and demons.
Chris nodded in the direction of the door. “Isn’t that Kelly?”
Morgan cut his eyes over at the door. It looked like the same woman. But he wasn’t sure. He guessed she hadn’t made that big of an impression on him. Certainly not as big as she’d made on Chris.
She looked up and caught him and Chris watching. “Oops,” Chris mumbled and threw up his hand in greeting with a welcoming smile.
Morgan nodded but made no move to invite her and her friend, who stood behind her blocked from sight, over to their booth. He didn’t have to. Chris was already on his feet headed in their direction.
With a curse, Morgan pushed the beer away from him, looking in the direction Chris had gone. Chris had one hand on the woman’s arm at the elbow, leading her toward their booth. The second woman trailed behind.
“Hey, look who I found,” Chris announced. “Kelly, you remember Morgan?”
“Yeah, hey, Morgan.” Kelly’s greeting was not all that warm. That didn’t surprise Morgan. He had said he’d call her.
“Have a seat,” Chris offered and slid in across from Morgan.
Kelly looked from him to Morgan, and then slid in beside Chris. Morgan slid over as the second woman stepped closer. He looked up and suddenly the lights dimmed. Or his vision dimmed. Something dimmed because his peripheral vision vanished. It was like looking through a tunnel. And dead in the center of that tunnel was a set of eyes from a dream.
He nearly stopped breathing. It wasn’t possible! Images flooded his mind, blinding him to reality.
She stood before the opened window, the wind blowing the flimsy fabric of her unfastened robe so that it swirled around her like light. Backlit by the moonlight from the window, her features weren’t visible. She was but a silhouette of womanly curves and billowing long hair.
Slowly she walked toward him, stopping at the edge of the bed. He could make out her eyes, saw desire shining in their depths. His heart beat faster and his breath quickened. His dick swelled to full erection beneath the sheet.
“I’m here for you,” she whispered.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“Whatever you want it to,” she replied and sat down on the bed beside him, running her hand down his sheet-covered body to fist his erection. “Do you want me, Morgan?”
“God yes.”
“Then take me.”
He pulled her down to him, her long hair creating a sweet fragrant tent around their faces as her lips met his. Her taste was sweet, intoxicating. His tongue plundered her mouth, his teeth nipped at her tongue, captured her full lower lip to bite softly.
She moaned and climbed atop him. He could feel the wet heat of her pussy through the sheet. It was a delicious torment, feeling her grind her soft wet sex on him, unable to sink into her. The kiss was unending. At first passive, she became the aggressor, exploring his mouth, tasting him.
He flipped her over on her back and suddenly her face was visible to him, framed by the dark halo of her silky hair. With the light slanting across her face, he beheld her beauty. “I want you,” she whispered. “Inside me. Please.”
No further encouragement was needed. Ripping the sheet away, he parted her legs, gripping her behind each knee to spread her wide. She moaned as he penetrated her in one slow stroke and one hand worked its way down her body. Her fingers worked at the bud of her clit as he watched in lascivious fascination, pumping into her stronger and harder.
The onset of a climax threatened. He tried to slow, but she wouldn’t let him. She bucked up against him. “More, give me more.”
Reality abruptly returned when she shrugged out of her jacket, turning
her head to look at him as she tossed it across the back of the booth. Her eyes widened, her face drained of color and the next thing he knew, her eyes rolled back, she sort of went limp, and hit the floor.
Chapter Three
Sara woke with a start to find herself lying on the floor, cradled in strong arms while people crowded around her, gawking curiously.
“She okay?” a male voice asked. “Should we call an ambulance?”
“No, no. I’m fine,” she insisted. “Just…low blood sugar. I guess I forgot to eat.” It was a lie, and she hated lying but her embarrassment had catapulted the words from her mouth before she could stop them.
“Could you bring her something to eat? Maybe a bowl of soup and some bread?” The voice came from the man holding her. It was a deep-timbered voice, but low and soothing.
She turned to see who held her. It was Morgan. Once again the world tilted crazily on its axis. A soft gasp escaped her lips and his arms tightened around her. “Hold on,” he said, “we’ve got some food coming. Don’t faint again, okay?”
Sara wanted to do more than faint. She wanted to get up and bolt for the door, run far away from the embarrassment, and from the man whose visage made the world spin out of control. She needed to be alone, to figure out what was happening and why. Was this the man? She prayed it was not.
His face was not a stranger to her. She’d idolized him for years, dreamed about him, fantasized about him. Oh god, she’d even masturbated, thinking about him. If he was the man she’d been selected to save then she was going to fail miserably because she couldn’t even look at him without turning into a pile of quivering female need.
“Let’s get you into the booth,” Morgan said and lifted her up in his arms as he stood.
Sara’s arms went instinctively around his neck, drawing her face in closer to his. She smelled him. A scent that was clean and barely reminiscent of deep woods and twilight. A scent that had her pulse racing and dampness gathering in her panties. As he placed her gently on the bench seat, their eyes met.
She could have sworn she read fear in his eyes. That shocked her so that it warded off the threatening faintness and tempered the desire. Why was he afraid? She was tempted to open her senses to try to find out. But the moment passed. He averted his eyes and took a seat beside her.
“I’m Sara, by the way,” she said. “And I’m very sorry.”
“Nice to meet you, Sara,” Chris said at almost the same instant Kelly spoke.
“Forget it.” Kelly dismissed the apology and addressed Morgan and Chris. “It’s just like her to forget to eat. She gets so wrapped up in what she’s doing that it’s like she’s on another planet.”
“What kind of work do you do, Sara?” Morgan asked, looking at her but not meeting her eyes.
Hearing her name roll off his lips gave her an unexpected shiver of something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Desire. Just his presence seemed to have that affect on her, but him saying her name was like the call of a siren that had her mind filling with images of sweat-dampened sheets, wet skin and panting breath. She tried to ignore the feelings and shake off the images as she answered.
“I’m an artist.”
“Really? What’s your medium?”
“Actually I now do everything on the computer, but occasionally I still do oils.”
“And you should see her stuff!” Kelly exclaimed.
“I’d like to,” Morgan replied.
“She makes me out to be better than I am,” Sara said and changed the subject. Talking about herself was not something she enjoyed. “Let’s talk about you,” she asked even though she already knew the answer.
“Morgan’s a photographer,” Chris supplied.
“The Morgan Nicholaus?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
Safely on a subject that she’d been passionate about for years—namely his work—Sara was about to forget her shyness and the awkwardness of the situation. She was a huge fan of his and considered him one of the most talented photographers in the world. If he was the man she was supposed to save, she guessed she could count herself lucky. Even if he did send her hormones spiraling.
“I love your work. Your show at ICP last year was amazing.”
“You saw the exhibit?” Morgan asked.
“Are you kidding? I nearly starved for three months to make the trip to see it! This is really incredible. I can’t believe I’m actually sitting here talking with Morgan Nicholaus. I’m probably one of your biggest fans.”
Morgan fought the smile that rose on his face. Why it should make him so incredibly happy that a woman he’d just met was a fan of his work was a mystery. And yet her compliments meant more than any accolades he’d ever received.
Part of him wanted to bask in the feelings. Another part was still in a tailspin. How could he have dreamed her? Made love to her in his mind? Taken her over and again, in every way possible, seeing her as a submissive, watching her passion overtake her and carry them both tumbling into ecstasy?
“Well, thanks,” he said, trying to shove back questions, and to put a halt to his rising erection. “But the camera does most of the work.”
“You’re too modest,” she argued. “Your use of light is unparalleled and the way you capture the…the essence of expression in your subject’s eyes is masterful.”
“Looks like she wasn’t lying, Morgan,” Chris quipped. “I think maybe she is your biggest fan.”
Morgan chuckled as Sara blushed and looked away. “Must be my lucky day. I always wondered if I had a biggest fan.”
“Well, she’s not all that big,” Kelly jumped into the conversation. “But she isn’t lying. I think she has every book of photos you’ve ever published and her bedroom has—”
“I think I’ve had enough embarrassment for one day, Kel,” Sara cut in softly.
Kelly giggled at the gentle admonishment. “Oops, sorry.”
“Now wait a minute,” Chris said. “You can’t leave us hanging like that. What’s this about Sara’s bedroom?”
Kelly elbowed him gently. “You heard the lady. She doesn’t want you-know-who to know you-know-what’s hanging in her bedroom.”
Everyone laughed, including Sara. “Okay, fine,” she said and turned to face Morgan. “I am the proud owner of number ninety-seven of the numbered prints of Seraphim. It’s hanging in my bedroom and not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could create something that beautiful and…and touching.”
Morgan felt heat rise to his face. The photo she referred to was one he’d taken when he was twenty-two, traveling in Europe. He’d been wandering an old cemetery, taking shots of the gravestones, when he came upon an elderly woman kneeling by a grave, arranging fresh flowers on it.
She’s been talking quietly while she worked but stopped when she realized he was watching, and sat back on her heels, motioning him over with one hand.
Morgan had spent more than an hour talking with her about her deceased husband and had marveled at the change that came over the old woman’s face when she talked of her lost love. It was as if the age dropped away, revealing a glimpse of the beauty she had been in her youth.
Shafts of light split through the clouds overhead, lighting the fine strands of her white hair that had worked loose from the bun pinned to the back of her head. Her white dress was loose and flowing, giving her almost an angelic appearance.
Morgan asked if he could take her photo and she agreed. He got her address and promised to send her a copy. When he returned home, he discovered that the film canister had been damaged and most of the film inside destroyed. All except for one shot. Of the old woman at the grave.
He’d always attributed it to the damaged canister and the shafts of sunlight breaking through the clouds, because in the developed print the woman appeared to have ethereal gentle wings spreading out from behind her. Her hair was haloed in light and while it was clear that she was old, her face was without lines and her eyes seemed lit from within.
He’d titled it Ser
aphim and entered it into a photography contest. That was the photo that had launched his career.
“What touches you about it?” he asked, wanting to know why she was so attracted to the image.
“The beauty and sadness,” she replied without hesitation. “You can see it on her face and in her eyes. Here’s a woman who has known life, who’s loved and lost. Who walked hand-in-hand with her true love, and also had to stand alone. You can see her love and her loss in her eyes, and there’s something else there. Something…pure and untarnished…untouched by time, undiminished by life. She’s…well, she really is angelic.”
Morgan was stunned. She’d summed up in one short but eloquent paragraph every feeling he’d ever had about the photo. Obviously there was more to this woman than just the uncanny effect she had on him. For the first time in his life, he was interested. Not in what she would be like in bed, although that thought had risen. But who she was and what made her able to see things so clearly.
A waitress arrived with a tray of food. When she left, Morgan remained unresponsive, staring silently at her. It made Sara uncomfortable. Not only because she was afraid she’d overstepped the boundaries in her evaluation of his art, but because the longer he looked at her, the more her senses came alive. And with the awakening of her senses came the Sight.
Images swam in her mind, confused and muddled. This was not the time or place. She could not allow the Sight to take her here, now. She closed her eyes and shook her head, willing it to subside.
“Are you okay?” Morgan’s hand closed on her wrist, his voice filled with concern.
She nodded after a moment and opened her eyes. “Guess I…haven’t quite gotten my head together. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he replied. “And thanks.”
“For what?”
“What you said about Seraphim. Think I could talk you into becoming a critic? I could use more reviews like that.”
The teasing tone of his voice eased away the last of the Sight and restored the atmosphere. “How much does it pay? I am a starving artist, you know.”