Dark Dreams

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘No. You’re doing this.’

  ‘I don’t have to.’

  And Imoshen knew he was right. Her body had always wanted him, had recognised him before she did.

  She was falling into an abyss.

  ‘As our blood mingles, so will –’

  ‘No!’ She would not say the formal bonding words.

  A scream rent the air. For an instant Imoshen thought it was her own. But Reothe’s startled expression told her it was as unexpected as it was unwelcome.

  He gave their interwoven fingers a squeeze. ‘Say the words!’

  ‘Not while there’s breath in my body!’

  Another scream filled the air. This time she recognised it for what it was. A great cat’s death scream.

  On a rush, sound permeated the cavern. Men and women yelled instructions. Their boots pounded on stone and metal scraped on metal.

  Reothe cursed. Dropping her hand, he flicked aside a wall-hanging to reveal a passage, and left her without a word.

  Imoshen ran after him, his shirt flapping around her bare thighs. As she ran she brought her wrist to her mouth and licked the old wound. It was all she need do to make the skin knit.

  Her feet carried her through a short passage and out of a torchlit opening into the night. Flaming torches did little to dispel the mist. People rushed past her.

  She heard another terrible feral scream, but this time it was an attacking scream closely followed by the ragged shrieks of someone dying in terror. She did not need to see them to know the cat was shredding its victim’s belly with the claws of its powerful hind legs.

  A white leopard loped out of the mist towards her. Imoshen’s heart faltered. She glanced about but there were no weapons within grasp.

  The beautiful beast slowed and prowled nearer, a growl trickling from its chest. It must have smelt her fear, yet its head lifted as if it was listening to something. Then she noticed the fur under its throat. Shocked, she saw the gaping neck wound but no blood dripped from the injury. A prickling sensation, part awe and part terror, travelled over her skin. If the beast was dead, what was animating it?

  Instinctively she searched for the force which gave the cat life. Now that she probed she felt it, an unknown power source, both angry and ancient.

  Shrieks and Reothe’s shouted commands told her that his people were making a stand somewhere in the mist.

  The beast looked into her eyes, primeval intelligence illuminating its feline features. She knew she was in more danger from this fell creature than from a hungry snow leopard. This had to be the beast Reothe had killed to bring her here.

  Despite her fear, Imoshen knelt as if in supplication and extended her hand, fingers limp. The cat stepped forward. Dainty for such a large animal, it lifted its great muzzle. Jaws capable of crunching bone lightly brushed her flesh. She watched its nostrils flare as it inhaled her scent, identifying her. Then its tongue rasped across her skin.

  ‘If you have been wronged. I will right the wrong,’ Imoshen offered.

  The screams of the dying drove her to her feet. The cat caught her hand in the feather-light grasp of its massive jaws and led her away, its great shoulders brushing her bare upper-thigh. With its guidance she found the defenders.

  The snow cat at her side, she stepped out of the heated mists into a clearing. More than a dozen people were backed up against the far cliff face. Some swung blazing torches, others had weapons of steel. In their front ranks stood Reothe, bare chested, dressed in nothing but boots and breeches, his hair loose. He danced with death in the form of several white cats, swift and silent. Imoshen knew it was only a matter of time before they brought him down.

  Already he was bleeding, or was it the blood of the beasts he had slain? He held a burning brand in one hand and an axe in the other.

  The great cat let her hand drop, then lifted its head and gave an eerie yowl. At this signal the other cats ceased their attack. As if summoned they prowled over to join Imoshen and the great beast by her side.

  Reothe’s companions gasped. Some made the sign to ward off evil, others dropped to their knees, heads bowed, both hands raised to their foreheads in deep obeisance.

  Reothe let the weapon drop. The axe hit the stone with a dull thud. His face held hope. ‘Imoshen?’

  ‘No, Reothe. I promised to right the wrong.’

  The great cat nudged her and she stepped forward with it at her side. She saw Reothe’s eyes widen as he recognised the beast.

  ‘I think you know what to do,’ she told him, though she had no idea.

  Fear crawled across his face. He controlled it and handed the flaming torch to someone nearby.

  Unarmed, Reothe sank to his knees to face the beast. Its head was level with his face, its jaws a mere breath from his throat. It could tear out that slender column quick as thought.

  Imoshen could see the frantic flutter of Reothe’s pulse. Her fingers twined through the beast’s thick fur as if to restrain it. A jolt of pure energy travelled up her arm, almost knocking her back a step. The beast swung its head towards her, a low growl issuing from its throat, but she tightened her hold.

  Why was she doing this? If the ancient ones used this beast to kill Reothe, she would be free of him. Reluctantly Imoshen released the great cat.

  It sat facing Reothe, whose eyes never left its face.

  He was communing with the Ancients. Had he stolen the power he needed to bring her here by spilling the great cat’s blood and releasing its life force? Perhaps the Ancients had sent the cats to seek retribution.

  Without warning the dead snow leopard lifted its paw and slashed Reothe’s chest.

  Burning streaks of pain raced down Imoshen’s chest between her breasts. She staggered backwards.

  Three parallel furrows appeared on Reothe’s skin. For a moment they appeared bloodless, then they grew dark as the blood gathered. Reothe swayed but remained upright.

  The beast lapped at the blood. Imoshen shuddered as she felt its rasping tongue on the flesh between her breasts, drinking from her life force.

  She opened her eyes, unaware that she’d closed them, and saw Reothe watching her. His hands lifted to caress the fur of the great cat’s head. In that instant the tension eased.

  Hardly able to believe they had been released so lightly, Imoshen watched the Ancients’ power leave the cat’s body. Slowly, it crumpled to lie dead at Reothe’s knees. He swayed, then collapsed over it.

  She darted forward, catching him before his head could strike the stone. His body was limp and cold in her arms. The others stood immobile, stunned.

  ‘Help me!’

  They came, muttering fearfully. Between them they carried Reothe back to his cave and made up a bed. She sent someone to bring furs and whatever medicinal herbs they had.

  Imoshen was not surprised to see Drake. She had not seen him since he had tried to abduct her. As she made her once-betrothed comfortable, Drake told her those present were Reothe’s most trusted people. The rest of the rebels were camped two days’ trek away through the ravines.

  Drake and the others treated her with a deference they might have shown a vision, hardly daring to stroke her sixth finger.

  ‘It is well you are here to care for him,’ Drake told her.

  Imoshen felt like a fraud as she arranged the furs to keep Reothe warm and prepared a healing drink for when – if – he woke.

  ‘Leave me now, Drake.’

  He obeyed her without question. She felt ashamed.

  Numbly Imoshen knelt by the low pallet where Reothe lay, and pulled back the furs. Blood still welled from the parallel claw marks. With an instinctive knowledge she knew they were not normal wounds.

  Bathing them only made it clear the skin would not knit without her help.

  She brushed the damp silver hair from Reothe’s forehead. His skin was hot and she watched as fever shook his body. Calling on her healing skills, she smoothed the frown from his forehead with her fingertips.

  His closed eyelids quive
red. What was he seeing in his mind’s eye? Was the power of the Ancients stalking him in those visions?

  Her heart went out to Reothe. She did not condone what he had done, spilling the snow cat’s blood to call on ancient powers, but she did admire the strength of purpose which drove him to that desperate act. He was far braver than she.

  Despite her better judgment, she could not distance herself from him. He was her kinsman and the last of her kind. No one else could save him. She could not stand back and let him wander, trapped in some other plane.

  Imoshen clenched her hands in frustration. Here she was, untrained, floundering against something ancient and infinitely powerful. Fear left a bitter taste on her tongue, straining her nerves to fever pitch.

  A shuddering breath escaped Reothe, but his chest barely moved. He was fading.

  She would have to do it, she had no choice.

  Closing her eyes she placed her fingers over the first of the long claw marks, willing the skin to knit. The hairs on her body rose in protest. A strange taste filled her mouth, making her teeth ache. Reothe’s body tensed under her hands, his skin slippery with a sheen of sweat. An answering sweat broke out on her body, making her shiver despite the steamy air of the cave. She could feel the phantom claw mark on her own flesh burn as it closed in time with Reothe’s visible wound.

  With the sealing of each long welt she felt a path of itching pain etch itself down her chest. The very air grew heavy with tension. This simple healing act strained her concentration until her body felt taut as a drawn bow. Ignoring her own parallel pain, she forced the last wound to close.

  When it was completed something snapped inside her, and she felt light-headed, almost dizzy with relief.

  Now the air held nothing out of the ordinary. Experimentally, she parted the shirt’s fine material to reveal the pale flesh between her breasts. It appeared unmarked. To the naked eye her skin was flawless yet she could still feel the wounds stinging.

  A sigh escaped Reothe. He seemed to be deeply asleep. Sitting back on her heels, she studied his chest. Purple ridges rose where before the cuts had welled with blood. She suspected he would carry those scars till the day he died, just as she would carry the invisible ones.

  He was lying so still. Before his skin had felt too hot, now it was cold. Instinct told her to warm him with her own body heat. But she suspected if she willingly touched his flesh, he would own her body and soul.

  Leaning forward she touched her lips to his closed eyelids in a silent benediction. Then she pulled the furs over him and rose to go.

  Leaving him helpless hurt her more than she cared to admit. The urge to sink down beside him and wrap her body around his was almost overwhelming.

  In desperation, Imoshen turned and walked from the cave. She did not look back. When she stepped outside the sky was already growing light, though the torches still burned.

  ‘Will he live, T’Imoshen?’ Drake asked anxiously.

  Reothe’s people watched her expectantly. What could she say? She had healed his body, but what toll would Reothe pay for trafficking with the Ancients?

  Suddenly their faces ignited with joy and Imoshen felt a presence behind her.

  ‘T’Reothe...’ his followers whispered reverently, greeting him in the old tongue with phrases she had never heard spoken aloud. It sounded like a litany.

  Imoshen stiffened, unable to move, unable even to turn and face him. She had underestimated Reothe. Frozen with fear, she sensed his approach.

  ‘See,’ he whispered. His breath caressed the back of her neck, his words rubbed her senses like warm velvet.

  ‘We are already bound.’ His arms slid around her shoulders and she felt his hard thighs on her buttocks, his chest against her shoulders. ‘You tamed the ancient ones, you saved my followers and then me.’

  His people dropped to their knees one by one, giving the obeisance reserved for the Emperor and Empress, both hands going to their foreheads. Only Drake dared to lift his head and drink in their presence.

  Reothe’s words wove an insidious spell. ‘They love us. They will die for us.’

  Disgust overwhelmed Imoshen. It was wrong to manipulate the innocent love of a desperate people.

  Reothe tightened his hold on her, his voice deeply persuasive. ‘They want to worship something, Imoshen. It is in their nature. Why not us? We are the last pure T’En, our gifts are the true source of the church’s power. For too long the church has sought to destroy us –’

  ‘No.’ But the word was a plea and she despised herself for her weakness.

  ‘Together we could –’

  She dropped into a crouch to escape his tender embrace. Throwing her weight forward she took several steps, then spun to face him. Her rapid movement made the light material of his shirt caress her body. His scent filled her nostrils, a mockingly intimate reminder.

  She tore off the shirt and threw it at his feet. ‘I won’t be a part of it, Reothe.’

  He smiled and looked up as the birds sang to greet the sunrise. ‘Your bonding day dawns. Do you think the Ghebite General will forgive you for abandoning him?’

  Frustration filled Imoshen. Tulkhan was never this devious. He always tried to meet her half way. He listened and learned. Her longing for him was a physical ache. She lifted her hand to the parallel streaks of pain between her breasts, discovering she could feel with her blind fingertips what she could not see with her eyes. Scar tissue.

  ‘I did not ask to come here,’ she whispered. Calling on the power of the Ancients she raked her flesh, drawing blood along those scar lines. ‘Release me!’

  Dimly she heard a shout and saw Reothe dart towards her, but he was much weaker than he pretended and he fell to his knees. Desperately he lurched forward with his arms outstretched to her.

  Her heart contracted and she gasped with sharp dismay at the depth of her feelings for him. Fearful lest his touch undo her resolve, she turned to run and tripped.

  Chapter Ten

  IMOSHEN’S HANDS AND knees stung as she hit the polished wood. A cry of pain escaped her. She felt dizzy, a little sick and very frightened. Where was she?

  That male smell? General Tulkhan... A disbelieving joy flooded her. The Ancients had answered her plea.

  ‘Come to murder me in my sleep?’ Tulkhan asked softly as he watched Imoshen turn with feral grace to face him.

  Tulkhan had been sitting in the chair by his bedchamber window staring out at the cold winter’s dawn, comparing it to other humid dawns in his homeland, when the room had suddenly grown warm and oppressive.

  Even the air had taken on a strange tang, making him aware of unseen danger. He had been about to draw his weapon when, with a palpable, release of tension, the Dhamfeer had appeared naked and disoriented. She was bleeding from three parallel lines on her chest.

  Now she stared at him as if she didn’t believe she’d heard him correctly. What other excuse did she have for appearing unannounced in his bedroom?

  Unless it was to bed him? Tension fed by weeks of frustration thrummed through his body. ‘Either you are here to kill me or to bed me. Which is it?’

  With understanding came anger and Imoshen stalked towards him, magnificent and furious. Her long hair hung around her body like a cloak. Every instinct told him to flee. It was only by exerting his will that he remained outwardly impervious.

  ‘You seek to provoke me, Tulkhan. Haven’t I proved my loyalty to you time and time again?’

  He stared up into her face. With a jolt he noted the tears shimmering unshed in her eyes.

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  Her hands trembled as she pushed the hair from her face, muttering under her breath. He didn’t need to understand High T’En to know she was cursing him.

  Spinning on her heel she stalked off, all wounded dignity despite her nakedness. He was on his feet before he knew it, lunging forward to catch her around the waist. Her skin was icy cold. She arched against him, her body an exclamation of silent fury. The wiry stren
gth in her surprised him.

  Anticipating her reaction, he lifted her off her feet, still writhing, and threw her onto the bed. She twisted in the air like a cat, landing on her hands and knees, her hair splaying around her in an arc.

  A shiver of instinctive awe rippled through him in response to her Otherness. She had never looked more Dhamfeer.

  He tore at his vest. It was an elaborate brocade garment and the thin laces snapped easily.

  Her eyes widened. ‘What are you doing?’

  He didn’t bother to answer. The vest hit the floor. She scurried across the bed but he tackled her before her feet could hit the ground on the far side. They twisted, wrestling.

  It struck Tulkhan that she did not mean to harm him. She used her strength only to repulse him, forbearing to deliver the killing or maiming blows to his eyes or throat he knew she could deliver with ease.

  By the time she lay beneath him, both of them were panting with exertion, their faces only a hand’s breadth apart.

  ‘This is a lie,’ he said and lowered his head to inhale her scent. It hit him like a physical thing. When he went on his voice was hoarse. ‘You could have blinded me and escaped. You are here beneath me because it is where you want to be.’

  She gave a wordless moan and lifted her face to his. He felt her smooth cheek on his throat, her soft parted lips as she traced the length of his jaw with her tongue. An involuntary shudder of pure desire went through him, triggering an answering shudder in her. His heart rate lifted another notch.

  ‘Imoshen.’ Her name was an invocation, drawn from him against his will.

  His lips sought hers and instead he found a cheek wet with tears. Stunned, he shifted his weight onto his elbows and studied her tense face. What he saw made him smile. Her eyes were fierce, denying the tears on her cheeks and the trembling of her chin.

  Silently he sat up so that she was free to climb off the bed, but she threw herself forward into his arms.

  There was no mistaking the sincerity of her embrace as she wound her arms around him. He could smell fire and blood in her hair. ‘Where have you been this night, Imoshen?’