Changeling Dream

by Dani Harper

  And then suddenly he did. With the blinding intensity of a lightning flash, James suddenly understood exactly what it was that he wanted. Needed. To see her with a man’s eyes. To touch her with a man’s hands. To puzzle out the connection between them as a man. The unexpected urge to resume his human form was so powerful that he ached with it—and was nearly overwhelmed by it. The white wolf jumped back from the bed as if it was on fire, and James fought to stay in control. He wanted nothing more than to bolt down the hallway and out of the building, to race for the forest. But there would be no sanctuary there as long as the riddle of who this woman was—and who she was to him—remained unsolved.

  Maybe if he slipped out of the wolf’s skin . . . if he was in his human form just for a moment . . . maybe then he could remember her.

  A sudden breeze stirred the air in the room although there was no window open. A flurry of blue sparks eddied about the wolf as static electricity built. The animal vanished. A tall, powerful man stood in its place—and abruptly sat down hard on the floor.

  Ow! Jesus! His teeth had snapped together with enough force to make his head ring. Luckily his tongue hadn’t been in the way, and thank God he hadn’t made too much noise. James’s skin prickled as a new awareness stole over him. He was different. Human skin. He’d forgotten how it felt, wasn’t sure that he liked it. And everything else seemed different too. Not only was his outward form changed, but his senses had shifted, altered. Almost dulled. In human form, Changelings possessed stronger senses of sight and smell and hearing than real humans—yet not nearly as powerful as what they experienced as wolves. The sudden difference was confusing, almost frightening. James held his hands out as if for balance, in spite of the fact he was still sitting down. He glanced over and marveled that he had hands, waggled the fingers on one, then the other. He had forgotten what that was like too. Had it been so long?

  His heart hammered against his ribs. Emotions assailed him and were beaten back as James struggled to stay in control, to orient himself to this new state of affairs. He tried to breathe normally, succeeded mostly. Awkwardly he pushed his hair away from his face, glanced down quickly, and was relieved to find clothes. They felt odd—they just didn’t move with him the way that fur did—but thank God he was dressed. It hadn’t even crossed his mind when he called the Change. The woman was certain to be upset if she awakened to find a stranger in her room. A naked stranger would likely have her screaming the place down.

  He looked over at the bed. Didn’t intend to wake her, of course, didn’t want her to be frightened. But he needed to know, he had to know who she was.

  James rose shakily to his feet, feeling as coordinated as a newborn giraffe, and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. He looked, really looked, at the woman for the very first time. She lay on her back with an arm curled above her head, the other arm outflung. She had a childlike appearance at first glance, her pajamas covered with silly cartoon frogs, but the rumpled material clung to soft curves, rounded breasts, things the wolf wouldn’t notice but the man did. Her short blond hair was a pleasing riot of cowlicks, but it looked wrong somehow. It should be long. Somehow he remembered that her hair had been long. But when? Where? James tried to will the memories to return, frustrated that there were only baffling fragments that meant little. He had been so certain that as soon as he resumed human form, the hazy picture in his mind would clear and the troubling puzzle would be solved. The disappointment was almost tangible.

  The woman beside him was breathing deep, still oblivious to his presence. His human presence anyway. He turned his attention to carefully studying her features. There were faint, fine scars along the cheekbone, the underside of the jaw, tiny irregularities that Changeling eyesight perceived, but ordinary human eyes would never know. What had happened to her? He felt he should know, that it was important. It meant something. The woman—J-something, her name begins with J—certainly meant something to the wolf. Did his wolf side know things that his human side did not? J, Jane, Jennifer, Julia, Ji—Ji—Jill, Jill, Jillian. It was a small triumph to remember her name, although he suspected the wolf had supplied it. He whispered it softly, conscious of how his human mouth formed each syllable. “Jil-li-an. Jilli-an.” Repeated it until it didn’t feel so damned awkward, as if his lips were out of shape or something. He had a name now but it didn’t prompt any further memories. He wondered if she knew him, then realized it was far more likely that she knew not the man but the wolf, had seen the animal somewhere. She probably wouldn’t recognize James at all. Disappointment poked again at his insides, and he swore softly, then got up and paced silently about the room.

  A hefty pile of mail and newspapers occupied a small table by the door and he fanned out the top few envelopes. Dr. Jillian Descharme, DVM. He was strangely relieved to have remembered her first name before the address labels revealed it to him—yet her last name was unfamiliar. It looked like it might be French, maybe French-Canadian, but he had no idea how to pronounce it. She was a veterinarian, and that struck no particular chord either, except to explain why she was living at the clinic. She obviously worked with his brother. For a fleeting moment James considered asking Connor about the woman—but dismissed it quickly. He didn’t want to involve his brother unless he had to, would far rather figure things out for himself.

  James replaced the mail, trying to arrange it the way it had been, when he happened to glance up. A calendar was on the wall, and he stared at the year in disbelief. It was a joke, had to be. His attention snapped back to the mail and he pawed through it now, seeking postmarks, rifling through the newspapers for a date. Each time he found one, he’d toss it to the floor and find another. And another. Jesus Murphy, that can’t be right. There has to be a mistake. The year looked bizarre, like science fiction. Could the century have turned without his knowing?

  When he got to the bottom of the pile, he leaned against the wall and stood there for a very long time. His mind fought to accept that he’d been running as a wolf for more than thirty years. Dear God, it hadn’t felt like that long. A wolf’s concept of time was limited. It was aware of the moon and the seasons—but it didn’t count them. His human side had paid no attention at all, preferring to give up all awareness in favor of the wolf. Finally James blew out a breath and straightened. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. One year or thirty or a hundred, he was damn well going to run as a wolf again, just as soon as he solved this particular puzzle.

  He sat on the bed and studied the woman, noticed things that he hadn’t as a wolf. Her features combined to create a unique beauty—the wild cap of hair, the fine sharp angles of her face, the tiny frown between her brows. She looked like a bad-tempered faerie. And she smelled good, a little different through human nostrils, but the scent was still distinct, still tantalizing. He knew the scent because the wolf knew her scent—but her face, however appealing, told him nothing at all. His frustration mounted. Why couldn’t he remember her? Why did he know her name, her smell? She was completely human, but he had heard her thoughts in his mind as clearly as if she was a Changeling too.

  James thought of the strange vision he’d had on the trail, the momentary sight of a much younger Jillian, injured and anticipating death. What had happened to her? She said the wolf saved her life but how? When? The questions beat at his brain as hopelessly as the moths against the bedroom window. James glanced over at it, noted the graying of the night sky along the eastern horizon. He almost sighed, although whether it was in relief or resignation, he’d be hard-pressed to say.

  He fully intended to leave. Was going to get up and walk out the door. Instead his hand went to Jillian’s face, brushed the wisps of hair away with a tenderness he didn’t know he was capable of. Her fair skin was soft, so soft . . . and it hit him hard that he hadn’t felt a woman’s skin, hadn’t wanted to feel a woman’s skin, in fact, hadn’t so much as thought of it for a long, long time. He brushed his fingertips lightly over her cheek, felt something electric along his own skin. A connection puls
ed between them. . . .

  “Who are you, Jillian?” he whispered. As if in response, she sighed and turned a little toward him. It distracted him just long enough for a snake-quick hand to seize his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

  James found himself staring into furious green eyes. Mentally, he flailed for the appropriate words, realized there weren’t very damn many for a situation like this. Shit. He cursed himself for being a complete idiot even as he tried to paste on what he hoped was a friendly expression—he’d had no time to practice. “Don’t be afraid. It’s . . . it’s not what you think.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jillian had all kinds of things she intended to say to this nervy intruder, right before she pounded the creep into next week. At least that was her plan. The words stuck in her throat when she opened her eyes and saw an enormous Viking looming over her—or so her mind tried to tell her. The strong intelligent face, the warrior build, the white-blond hair, those blue, blue eyes . . .

  On some level she couldn’t help noticing the stranger had a warrior’s voice too. Low and quiet, almost a growl with steel underneath it. And familiar somehow.

  She didn’t indulge the odd thoughts, just continued to glare murderously at him while maintaining her grip on his wrist. Tried to ignore the fact that her fingers couldn’t even reach halfway around that powerful wrist. Tried to ignore the fear that clawed at her throat, the terror of a nightmarish past repeating itself. “What the hell am I supposed to think?”

  “You were dreaming—” He caught the fist with his free hand, stopping it just under his chin, held it. He frowned and shook his head.

  Jillian was certain that instead of stopping her attacker, she’d just made him mad. That furrowed brow brought a frightening ferocity to his features. And although he wasn’t exerting any pressure on her fist, it was effectively caged in his iron hand. Oh Jesus, what now? She tried to think. Could she bring a leg up, kick him in the head? Let go of his wrist with her free hand and arrow her fingers into his throat? All her martial arts training seemed to desert her as she looked up into that harsh yet handsome face.

  “You should have done that first, you know,” he said, surprising her. “Should have decked me just as you opened your eyes, doc.” His words were slightly halting, as if unfamiliar with the language. “It would have been a hell of a lot more effective than grabbing my wrist, would have used the surprise to better advantage.” He continued to hold her fist, held it close enough to his chin that she could feel his close-cropped beard against her knuckles. Never taking those blue, blue eyes from hers, he quickly turned the wrist she held in her other hand, neatly freeing it and seizing her wrist instead. “See? Bad choice for you. Want to try it again?”

  She goggled at him now. Was this some kind of a sick game? “Try what?”

  In answer he released both her hands and sat back. Jillian didn’t hesitate. She snapped her body into a roll that took her out of the opposite side of the bed. She landed on her feet, sprinted for the corner of the small apartment that served as a kitchen. Dove behind the tiny island, ripped out one drawer after another in search of a knife. Found one at last—a pathetically blunt paring knife, not the long-bladed one she’d hoped for—and whirled to face her attacker.

  Except she wasn’t being attacked. The stranger was gone. The door was closed. On shaky legs Jillian came out from behind the island, holding the knife in front of her, eyes flicking everywhere. Cautiously she sidled along the wall until she could slap on the light switch. There was no sign of the blond man anywhere. She checked the door handle, found it locked. She lowered the knife. Suddenly she sensed rather than heard something and whipped around. Gaped. The white wolf was sprawled on her couch. At least she thought her couch was under it—the massive white creature dwarfed it. The wolf let out a very puppy-like yip and wagged its great plume of a tail. Reality tilted crazily as the floor came up and hit her.

  Jillian’s hair had a mind of its own and shoving her hand through it—as she did frequently—made it even more unruly. She didn’t notice, wouldn’t have given a damn if she had. It was the end of her second week in Dunvegan, her second week of work at the North Star Animal Hospital. And every night since her arrival, she had been awakened in the night by vivid dreams of the wolf. They were good dreams, pleasant dreams to be sure, but the constant interruptions to her sleep were sapping her energy.

  And what was she to think about Monday night’s dream, the bizarre one about the big blond man? Waking up on the floor the next morning had weirded her out. She didn’t have a habit of sleepwalking, yet there were three kitchen drawers thrown on the floor, the contents scattered across the linoleum. Just how did she sleep through that? She’d had her hand on the phone to call the cops and report an intruder—then realized that the white wolf had been there too. Just as the creature had shown up in her dreams every other night. Yes, officer, there was a man in my room but the wolf on my couch must have chased him away. Nope, not a good plan. Maybe she’d run into a real wolf on the trail, but there was no way she was going to convince anyone, even herself, that a wolf had actually been in her apartment.

  Come to think of it, how about the guy’s clothes? They were shredded as if he’d been in an explosion—there was barely anything left of that shirt. But his body looked completely fine. Way more than fine. She thought of his powerful chest, the smooth muscled abs, all plainly visible through the gaping holes in the material. She rubbed her hand over her face to rid herself of the goofy smile that popped up. Okay, okay, so the guy’s built. Really, really built. But those clothes just aren’t normal. In fact, she was reminded of that old Marvel comic book, The Incredible Hulk, that her cousin used to collect. Every time the big green guy turned back into his alter ego, Bruce Banner, his clothing hung in tatters. The comic had never mentioned how Banner managed to afford a new outfit every day.

  She yanked at her hair with one hand as if to jerk herself back to reality. The whole thing was just silly, way too ridiculous for words. Obviously no one would deliberately dress like that unless they were on a movie set. She’d been having a stupid dream, no doubt brought on by eating chocolate ice cream before bed. Jillian supposed the dream should rightfully be classed as a nightmare, but it was tough to do when the blond man was just so damn sexy. Talk about something worth dreaming about. Did that signify some kind of progress, that she was now dreaming about good-looking guys as well as wolves? There hadn’t been much time for dating in the past few years, but she wasn’t dead. She wondered if she was lonely, if that was why her mind had conjured the man. She certainly had a much better imagination than she’d thought. It was annoying, however, to find herself hoping to dream of the big Viking again. So far, though, only the white wolf had appeared.

  “I’ve got to get some real sleep. Now I’m missing a man who doesn’t exist.”

  It was just past five when Jillian stripped off her gloves and gown and headed for the pot of coffee in the staff lunchroom. She hadn’t had breakfast, missed lunch, prayed that maybe she could get just a minute or two to eat something now. And rolled her eyes when her mouth automatically started to water. The Watson’s sublime food should carry warning labels, she decided. Caution, tasting may lead to addiction. She selected a plump little pie enticingly labeled “Rosemary Chicken” and popped it into the microwave. Stood there with her hands on the counter . . .

  “That must be some daydream you’re having, hon.” Jillian blinked to see Birkie waggling her perfectly shaped eyebrows at her. The scent of rosemary filled the air, and the woman waved her over to the table where the pie was waiting.

  “You’d better get some food into you. I imagine it’s been a long day in a long week for you.”

  “Yes, yes it has, thanks.” Jillian bit into the pie gratefully. The exquisite flavor was heightened by her hunger, and when the pastry had disappeared completely, she closed her eyes in bliss and sighed deeply.

  “You’ll be glad to know the “Closed” sign is on the door, and I’m about
to take the really good coffee out of the vault to make a fresh pot.”

  “That’s a good thing on both counts.” Jillian noticed the older woman’s clothes. She knew, knew, Birkie had just hosed blood off the concrete floor in the large animal wing. A lot of blood, due to a pair of steers being dehorned. Yet the older woman looked as fresh and put together as she had at the beginning of the day. The suit, a turquoise blue one today, was wrinkle-free, spot free. It even looked hair-free, a near impossibility in this business. Jillian had been forced to change her scrubs at noon, but even the fresh ones were now wrinkled, blood-spattered, covered with fur from three species, plus one knee was torn. She restrained a sigh, not the satisfied one of a few moments before but the sheer resignation of knowing she’d never be able to match Birkie’s level of tidiness. Instead, she settled for running both hands through her unruly hair.

  “By the way, you’ll want to watch out for the dead parakeet over by the cups. The bossman ran out to a farm call, left the bird on the counter for Caroline to package up when she gets back from the feed store.”

  “Dina Monroe’s bird? The fat blue one?” Jillian walked over to inspect the unfortunate creature in its clear plastic baggie. It looked like a cartoon, the way it was sprawled on its back with wings askew, legs in the air and feet curled tight. Classic heart attack pose for budgerigars.

  “Yup. Dina insists on having it sent out to the lab. She’s certain the creature perished from some new and fascinating disease instead of from eating too much buttered toast from her husband’s fingers. If its poor heart had held out a few more months, they could have eaten that bird for Thanksgiving.”

  Jillian couldn’t help smiling at that. “What do you stuff a parakeet with? A crouton? My God, it’s truly frightening how people manage to give their pets the same health conditions and bad habits they have. Both the Monroes are pretty economy-sized themselves.”