She shook off her desire and gave him an impatient frown. “Neither of us is a virgin, Tracker. And considering what happened earlier tonight…”
“We got lucky. And I’ve learned not to push my luck.” Before she quite knew what was happening, he jerked up his suit again and stalked out of the bathroom, zipping it as he went.
Arial hurried after him. “Tracker, you still need those cuts tended.”
“I’ve been tending myself for years.” He strode across the bedroom and out into the hall without breaking step. “And I’ll keep on doing it.”
“Dammit, Tracker!”
Before she could say anything more, he closed the door in her face.
INSTEAD of heading across the hall to the bedroom Psych had given him, Josiah strode down the corridor. He knew good and damned well he wouldn’t be getting any sleep for a couple of hours at least.
And unless he missed his guess, Richard was in the same boat.
He stepped into the elevator around the corner, keyed in the code Psych hadn’t bothered to change, and took it down two levels to his friend’s penthouse-in-reverse.
The elevator doors slid open on the smell of turpentine and oil paint. Richard had been indulging in his hobby again. One of them, anyway. Along with genetics, physics, computers. And fuck, rocket science for all Josiah knew.
“Tracker?” Richard called.
“It’s me.” Josiah walked through the library, his boots barely silenced by the worn Persian carpet. Unlike the rest of the underground complex—Arial was right; it was spartan—Psych decorated his personal quarters in castoffs from upstairs. Some truly ugly Victoriana had found its way down here. A footstool shaped like an elephant, gaudy lamps, a bust of Napoleon with a broken nose—everything Richard either hoped to restore or simply couldn’t bear to throw away. “I sent Arial to bed.”
“Why aren’t you in it with her?” Ice clinked. “You two were throwing off so much heat, you damn near singed off my eyebrows.”
“I’m celibate, remember?” He followed the rattle of ice through a doorway hung with a moth-eaten fringed curtain.
“Yeah, right.” Richard snorted as Josiah stepped into the room. “Save it for someone who’s not psychic.”
“You can’t read Hypers.”
“After what we’ve been through, who needs telepathy?” His friend stood surrounded by canvases standing on easels or propped against the wall. His blond hair was still wet from a recent shower, and he wore a pair of loose cotton pants and a faded MIT T-shirt. Ice clinked again as he tipped up a crystal glass of aged bourbon, his green eyes locked on the painting in front of him.
Getting a look at the canvas, Josiah stopped dead with a soundless whistle. Two ghostly women with pointed ears, immense black eyes, and shimmering pale skin swirled around a naked male figure. It wasn’t clear whether he writhed in pain or pleasure. “Fuck.”
“Exactly. I’ve been dreaming about them for years. I painted this six months ago.” Richard took another deep slug of his drink. “How did she know, Jos? Is she psychic, too? Did she see this in my thoughts—can she read Hypers?”
“Maybe.” He headed for the crystal decanter on the scarred sideboard. Poured himself two fingers, no ice. “Or maybe she really did see them just the way she said. Just like she saw the tiger.”
“What tiger?” Richard moved over to a distinctly hideous pink settee and flopped onto it with that boneless grace Josiah had always admired.
Settling into a clashing orange armchair, Josiah described the moment in the SUV when Arial had seemed to touch something that wasn’t there. “I felt it, Rich. Every time she touched that tiger she kept talking about, I felt it. And it drove me crazy. Me—and my Beast.”
Perceptive green eyes studied his. “You think it was your Beast she saw.”
“I’m starting to wonder.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “What if she’s right? What if our powers aren’t psi, but some kind of possession?”
Richard curled a well-shaped lip. “You suggesting we’ve been taken over by devils, Jos?”
“What, like those nuts who think we’re in league with the Antichrist?” He made a dismissive gesture. “Hell no. But if there is some kind of power inside us, and we could get rid of it…”
“You mean have a priest perform an exorcism so you can pretend the last five years never happened?” Anger flashed in Richard’s eyes. “Hell, if you’re really lucky, maybe you can go back to coaching high school football.”
Josiah ignored the stab of longing. To get his life back…“Give me credit for a little sense, Rich. I know that ship has sailed.”
“Exactly. We are what we are, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” he growled as his own temper ignited. “You’ve got all this. I sit in that barren little house in Charlotte, waiting for the cops to call so I can go kick some poor prick’s ass. Not daring to even talk to a woman for fear of starting something I’ll want to finish. I’m sick of this shit, Rich. I want a fucking life!”
“And you think I don’t?” Richard snapped back. “You think you’ve got it bad? At least you can’t hear every woman you meet wonder how big your bank account is. I just love listening to some bimbo speculate about how much she could get in the divorce settlement before we’ve even gone out once.” He stood up and stalked to the sideboard to splash more whiskey into his glass. “Hypers are the only people I can’t read, and half of them want to kill my ass. What’s more, I want to kill them right back.”
Silence ticked past, almost ringing with emotion. Finally Josiah asked softly, “So if I’m right—if we’ve been possessed by some kind of spirit—you saying you wouldn’t get rid of it if you could?”
Rich’s eyes drifted to the canvas with its swirling ghostly women. “I’d give my left nut to get rid of this.” He swallowed half the contents of his glass in one gulp. “But there’s some shit you just can’t undo.”
ARIAL took a shower, reapplied the Band-Aids that had washed off in the process, and made use of the hair dryer and toothbrush she’d packed. Then she slipped into her favorite white silk nightgown.
She might have to dress in jeans, suits, or uniforms during the day, but at night, she liked something a little more girly.
Weary and battered as she was, she was asleep five minutes after her head hit the pillow. Which was why she didn’t see the dragon emerge from her chest and consider her with mild regret.
“You’re not going to enjoy this,” he said. “But it is necessary.”
IN the dream, Arial was twelve years old again. She’d had to do some fast talking to convince Mom it was okay for her to sleep over at Jenny Logan’s house. Jenny’s dad gave Mom the creeps, but Arial had pointed out Jenny’s dad had moved out. Anyway, it was the last summer night before school started, so Mom had, reluctantly, given in.
Now Arial and Jenny were curled up on the bed in pajamas and bunny slippers, munching on popcorn. It had been a busy night. They’d put each other’s hair in ribbons, painted their fingernails pink, and donned makeup from Jenny’s Barbie kit.
“So Sherri Rice said Bobby Miller has, like, this huge crush on you,” Jenny announced, crunching her popcorn with gusto. “He’s really cute.”
Though she could feel her cheeks getting hot, Arial shrugged. Bobby had big brown eyes and killer dimples. “I dunno. I guess he’s okay.”
“Hey, this is me you’re talking to,” Jenny scoffed. “I saw you drop your books when he smiled at you in the hall.”
“It’s the dimples,” Arial confessed, scooping a fistful of popcorn. “The dimples get me every time.”
“Yeah, he…”
“Marion, you bitch!” The savage roar was followed by a furious pounding. “You open this fucking door and take what’s coming to you!”
Jenny jumped, sending the bowl of popcorn flying. “Oh, no, it’s Daddy! He’s not supposed to be here!” She scrambled off the bed and raced down the hall.
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Arial jumped up and ran after her, her heart in her throat.
This was bad. This was really bad.
They charged into the living room to find Jenny’s mother yelling through the front door. “Go away, Carl! I’ve called the cops!”
“You think I care, bitch?”
“Oh, no,” Jenny moaned, twisting her hands together. She was as pale as the popcorn as she looked at Arial with wild blue eyes. “He’s drunk!”
The last time he’d gotten drunk, he’d choked Mrs. Logan. She’d had to go to the hospital, which was why she’d finally told him to move out.
“Maybe we’d better…”
Sirens sounded in the distance. “Hear that, Carl?” Jenny’s mother yelled. “It’s the cops. Go away and sober up, you bastard.”
“Go to hell, cunt!”
The boom of the gun was shockingly loud. Arial screamed, the sound blending with Jenny’s cry. A hole appeared in the front door, smoke and flashing blue light flooding through it.
For a moment, Mrs. Logan just stood there, staring at it with her back to them. Then she slowly toppled over and flopped bonelessly onto her back.
“Mom!” Screaming, Jenny leaped for her mother. “Daddy, what did you do?”
The front of Mrs. Logan’s pretty yellow shirt was all red and wet. It didn’t look real.
This can’t be happening, Arial thought, staring numbly, as Jenny bent over her mother howling in grief. Then, distantly, I should do something. I should help.
The air was filled with shrill police sirens that sounded just like a television show. The door burst open with a rending crash as Jenny’s dad kicked it in. His face twisted like a monster’s, he dove for his daughter, a huge black gun in his hand.
“Jenny!” Arial jolted forward and grabbed for her friend just as the girl reeled to her feet and tried to run.
But it was too late.
“Come here, you little brat!” Mr. Logan grabbed Jenny’s arm, jerked her away from Arial, as two cops charged through the broken door.
For an instant, Jenny’s terrified eyes met hers. Then her father whirled, dragging her between him and the cops, his gun to her chin. “Get back!”
The boom of his gun sounded like the end of the world.
ARIAL moaned in her sleep, flinging out her arms in protest, a single tear running down her cheek. Even as she fought to wake, she heard a distant dream voice say, I’m sorry, my dear. We’re not done. Not yet.
The colorful dragon flowed down the street to the sound of firecrackers, undulating in the hands of the team of dancers who carried it. Drums boomed and cymbals crashed as the watching crowd applauded. Arial, standing with her parents, watched in numb silence.
To distract her from her grief for Jenny, her parents had taken her to see the Chinese lunar New Year celebration in New York’s Chinatown. She knew they were trying to cheer her up, but all she could think about was what a coward she was.
The dragon danced closer, shaking its great head. Its big, long-lashed eyes met hers. “Why do you think yourself a coward?” Its voice was deep, lightly accented with music.
This had to be a dream.
“I didn’t do anything. She was my best friend, and I let her die.”
“What could you have done?” Fireworks exploded around them, flooding the street with smoke. When it dissipated, the dragon dancers were gone. A real dragon stood in their place, towering over her, horned head cocked, as it studied her with wise, golden eyes. “You were only a little girl.”
“Doesn’t matter. I should have made her run away, but I just stood there.” It was her secret, the shame she’d hidden all these years. Even from herself.
“Look again.” The dragon coiled himself around her. His scales felt surprisingly warm and smooth against her skin. “And see.”
Suddenly she was an adult again, standing in Jenny’s living room. A small, dark-haired girl stood watching as a balding man with a mustache kicked in the door. Gazing into the child’s face, Arial recognized the shell-shocked expression she’d seen so often on other witnesses of sudden violent crime.
“Now look at him, Arial. What could you have done?”
Her experienced cop’s eye told her the man was six-two, with the muscle-and-beer-belly build of a construction worker and part-time drunk. “Nothing,” she said in amazement. “There was nothing I could have done. I never realized that before. Or I did, but…”
“But you never believed it.”
“I spent all those years torturing myself.” She shook her head. “I’ve been an idiot.”
“No.” The dragon smiled as the room faded away around them. “You experienced tragedy, but you didn’t let it break you. You made yourself strong so you could defend those who are weak. That’s why I chose you, of everyone I could have had.”
“Chose me for what?”
But the dragon had faded away, too.
CHAPTER FIVE
Arial opened her eyes. In the dim light spilling in from the bathroom, she recognized the room Psych had given her. “Oh, man,” she groaned, rubbing her hands over her face. “I can’t have been asleep more than an hour.”
“Forty-five minutes, actually,” a familiar accented voice said.
She yelped and sat straight up to find the Chinese dragon coiled on the pillow next to her, an expression of amusement in its ancient eyes.
“Jesus!” Arial rolled off the bed, landing with a thump. “You’re real!”
“Of course. You did see me earlier.”
“And you can talk.”
The creature tilted his regal head. “It would be difficult to communicate otherwise.”
She scrubbed her hands over her face and tried to cudgel her brain into something approaching working order. “Tracker’s tiger didn’t.”
“He could if he chose to.” Sharp teeth flashed slyly. “As it is, he seems to get his needs across.”
“Good point.” She watched the dragon launch itself from the pillow and start snaking around the room, exploring, moving like a wave in the air. “Why can’t the others see you? They think I’m crazy.” On a mutter, she added, “And I’m beginning to wonder, myself.”
Coiling around a brass bedside lamp, the beast smiled at her. “Oh, you’re not crazy.”
“Considering you may be a delusion, you’re not exactly a reliable source.”
“Did a delusion claw that pretty face?”
“Why did they attack me, anyway?” She grimaced. “Assuming they’re real.”
“They told you why, Arial. They don’t want Psych to know they exist.”
“Why not?”
“He might find a way to force them from his mind. His will is powerful.”
She considered him. “Could we do that?”
“Oh, I suppose you could learn—if you wish to kill us. We could not survive without you.” He cocked his head, a teasing smile on his snout. “But there are many more interesting things I could teach you.”
“Like what?” She shook her head, frustrated. “Look, do you have a name?”
He considered that a moment. “You may call me Shen-Lung.”
Even in the depths of her grief, Arial had been fascinated by the dragon dance she’d seen in Chinatown. As a teenager, she’d done a research paper on Eastern dragons; she still owned a collection of ceramic dragon figurines. “In Chinese mythology, Shen-Lung controls wind and rain. Are you saying you’re some kind of god?”
“No, but if you’d like a warm breeze or a nice white Christmas, I could certainly oblige.” As she blinked, the creature undulated closer. “Come. It’s time you learned to fly.”
“I can fly?” She’d heard that some Hypers could.
“With a bit of instruction.”
Once Arial had dreamed of flying with a Chinese dragon. Just leaving all her guilt behind…
“Oh, hell, why not?” She felt a reckless smile spread across her face. “What do I do first?”
“Relax.” And the dragon dove into her chest, igniti
ng another delicious surge of warmth. “I’ll carry you until you learn the trick of it.”
Arial gasped, as power rolled through her, heady and intoxicating, literally sweeping her off her feet. As Shen-Lung carried her out into the hall, she found herself laughing like a child.
JOSIAH lay rigidly in the bedroom across the hall from Arial’s, trying not to remember the way she’d tasted. Unfortunately, his dick had a mind of its own, and it was preoccupied with her silken skin and heady scent. He gritted his teeth against the temptation to cross the hall and take up where they’d left off.
He held temptation off with the memory of the pain and anguish in Sharon’s eyes, and the crushing guilt in his own heart.
Frankly, he’d rather jerk off.
Josiah eyed the tent in the sweats he’d donned in an effort to defeat lust. Maybe if he took care of business, he could get a little sleep. He started to snake a hand down his waistband…
Feminine laughter rang in the corridor, a sweet peal of delight.
He lifted his head, frowning. “Arial?” Rolling out of bed, he strode toward the door and opened it.
Just in time to see the hem of a white silk gown whip past at eye level. “Hey!”
Josiah stepped out into the hall and watched in astonishment as Arial literally flew down the hall, soaring along six feet above the floor. Her body undulated, feet together, hands at her side, as if she were swimming underwater. Her hair streamed behind her like a chestnut flag. The skirts of the white nightgown whipped around her, showing glimpses of bare, toned legs.
“Arial, what the hell?” He started after her. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She didn’t appear to hear, moving with such speed he was forced to break into a sprint. A fierce wind blew in her wake, gusting into his face. Yet despite its force, the wind was warm, smelling of exotic spices and femininity. His body responded with a silent growl of hunger.
“Arial, dammit! Come back!”
But she kept going. He lengthened his stride, running hard. By rights, he should have caught her, but she stayed just ahead. He reached one hand toward a slim ankle…
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