(Moon 2) - Edge of the Moon

by Rebecca York

  "Jesus!" Jack said again, making no attempt to hide his revulsion.

  "But we stopped him. He saw us, and he lost his train of thought. So maybe that's what's going on. The demon brought us into it. And now he wants us to go back and stop Black Trousers again."

  "Okay, after reading the book, I can buy that. But why us?" He gestured in frustration with his good hand. "Why is he giving us all this information now? And why the hell doesn't he just give us the guy's name, so I can arrest him?"

  She shared his frustration. "Maybe he's finally telling us stuff he didn't want to reveal because he's gotten desperate. And… maybe there's a magic spell that keeps him from telling us Black Trousers's name."

  "That's just great." Jack muttered. "The problem is, we're screwed either way. If we don't stop Black Trousers, the demon keeps torturing you."

  "Not just me. Us," she corrected.

  "Yeah, well, right now it looks like you're taking the brunt of it. But that's nothing compared to what happens if Black Trousers does get it right. If he succeeds with his damn ceremony, we don't want to be anywhere around."

  Kathryn took in the ominous tone of his voice. "What happens?"

  He gestured in anger toward the book. "Jonathan Zacarias wrote Portal to Another Universe as a warning. His friend succeeded in the ceremony, but the demon wasn't willing to let himself be enslaved. You've heard of the Nemes explosion when they thought a big chunk of southern France was incinerated by a meteor. Well, that was the demon avoiding capture. And there's no reason to assume this one won't take the same route. Which means the explosion is going to be like a nuclear weapon landing on Rockville."

  Kathryn gasped. "That's what you read in the book?"

  "As near as I can figure it out—yes."

  "You've got to call Granger."

  "And tell him what—that a demon is going to blow up Rockville? He'll put us in the loony bin for sure, and then we won't be able to do a damn thing."

  She looked around the warm, cozy room, feeling trapped. "What are we going to do?"

  He ran his good hand through his hair. "I wish to hell I knew."

  The anger in his voice made her raise her head. "Jack, I'm so sorry."

  "For what?"

  "I got us into this."

  He smoothed her damp hair back from her face. "How do you figure that?"

  "I reported Heather missing. Then you came to my house. That's how all this started."

  His jaw muscles tightened. "You had to make the report. It was the right thing to do."

  She breathed out a small sigh. "But look at the consequences."

  "You mean, I got to meet you?" he said, his voice low and husky.

  She felt her heart stop, then start up again in double time. Somehow, she managed to say, "You made it pretty clear you wished you hadn't."

  "That was when I was freaked out by the… bond forming between us. It was too fast. I couldn't deal with it."

  "The bond, yes," she said softly. "Are you saying you can deal with it now?"

  "Not completely. I don't like knowing that outside forces are operating on me—on us. But there are compensations. I've found out what kind of woman you are."

  "What kind?"

  He grinned. "Are you fishing for compliments?"

  "Maybe I need some."

  "You're the bravest woman I've ever met."

  "How?"

  "What you go through every time you step into one of those dreams would have driven a lot of people crazy. And then there was the way you threw yourself at Black Trousers in my hospital room."

  "I had to!"

  "Why?"

  "You were in danger. And, Jack, I care very much what happens to you."

  "Kathryn." His hand stroked gently down her cheek. She turned her head so that her lips brushed his fingers. He went very still. Watching him intently, she opened her mouth, using her teeth, then her tongue, to play with his flesh.

  Desire flared between them—desire and something so much more profound that her breath caught. "Jack, please. I don't want to think about magicians and demons and terrible explosions right now," she whispered.

  "Neither do I."

  "Oh, Jack." She clasped her arms around him and found his lips with hers.

  When the kiss broke, he said her name, his voice thick with emotion. Yet in the next moment, she heard him make a rough noise.

  "Oh, Lord, Jack, is your arm hurting?" she asked, abashed that she'd been thinking about making love when he had just gotten out of the hospital that morning.

  "It's not that. I was sitting across the room, watching you sleep, thinking about how much I wanted to make love with you. But I can't help comparing myself to how I was in the dream—when I didn't have my damn arm strapped to my chest. I'm afraid I'm not going to be much good to you, sweetheart."

  She gave him a slow smile. "If that's your only problem, then lie back and relax, and we'll see if we can work something out."

  His gaze locked with hers, he did as she asked, easing to his back, giving her control of the situation. Feeling powerful and alive, she bent over him—kissing his mouth, his cheek, his hair, gentle kisses that were as full of warmth as they were filled with desire.

  She ached to tell him she'd fallen in love with him. But she kept the words locked inside her, trying instead to show him how she felt.

  Carefully she reached down to unbutton his shirt, spreading the fabric apart so she could slide her hand over his chest, under the sling, playing with the thick hair covering his warm skin, and finding his nipples with her fingers.

  Each time she touched those dark nubs, he sucked in a quick breath, and she grew more confident in her power to please him.

  When she moved away from him, he made a sharp sound of protest, but she only smiled at him as she pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it onto the floor. Nerves stopped her for a few seconds. Ignoring them, she reached around to do the same with her bra.

  His heated gaze made her nipples harden as if he'd touched them.

  "Sweetheart, you are so sexy. So beautiful."

  She felt beautiful. She felt like a sex goddess. Holding his gaze, she reared up on her knees and skimmed her panties down her legs.

  Naked, she bent over him, sweeping her breasts back and forth across the part of his chest that she could reach and the fingers trapped in his sling.

  "Kathryn, dear Lord," he gasped out, then gasped again as her hand slid down his body to find the rigid shaft of flesh behind the fly of his jeans.

  He arched into her touch, and she heard his breath catch as she rocked her hand against his erection.

  She had never held a man more firmly in her power, and she took complete advantage of him, slowly lowering his zipper.

  She gave him a lazy, provocative smile as she reached inside his pants, her touch going from light to firm and back again, her whole being caught up in the excitement of giving him pleasure. She had never been so bold with a man, never felt her own excitement grow as she teased and aroused and pushed him toward the edge.

  "Kathryn, please," he moaned.

  Quickly she skimmed his jeans and his briefs down his body, and he helped her kick them away. He was still wearing his shirt, but she wasn't going to take the time to get rid of it.

  She had much better things to do, she decided, as she lowered her head to his erection, caressing him with her face, then using her lips and tongue and finally taking him fully into her mouth.

  He made low, incoherent sounds as he used his good hand to play with the silky flesh of her bottom, then reached between her legs to find her most sensitive flesh, stroking and caressing and turning her molten while she indulged her appetite for him.

  "Kathryn, stop. I want to be inside you when I come," he grated.

  "God, yes."

  Raising her head, she looked into his smoldering eyes, her gaze locked with his as she straddled him, using her hands for balance as she lowered her body onto his.

  He cried out—half curse, half thank
s—as she brought him inside of her.

  Going very still, she stayed where she was, her eyes drifting closed, as she focused on the wonderful feeling of his penis filling her so completely.

  "Look at me," he demanded, his voice husky.

  She opened her lids to see that his eyes had darkened with passion. He gave her a slow smile as he took a visual tour of her body, starting with her face and slowly moving downward.

  She might have felt vulnerable and exposed. But his words were too warm for that. "Lord, what a beautiful view," he whispered.

  "Of you, too. You are so beautifully made. So masculine."

  Slowly she began to move, building her own pleasure and his. With his good hand, he reached up to caress first one breast and then the other, his touch inciting her to quicken the pace.

  His eyes held hers as she climbed the high peaks, knowing he was taking the journey with her.

  She felt his body go rigid below her, heard his shout of pleasure. Then she was driving for her own climax, her movements frantic now until release seized her. Her whole body seemed to vibrate in a series of strong contractions that shook her to her very core, then left her limp and panting.

  She would have collapsed on top of him, but she remembered his injured shoulder and shifted to his left side, sliding down onto the bed beside him.

  His arm came up to clasp her close. Her eyes drifted closed, and she dozed, warm and relaxed in the aftermath of passion.

  SIMON sat in his easy chair, reading more on astral projection. But his mind was only half on the book. He was open, alert, waiting for the opportunity he knew would come. This morning he'd felt the need for action. Now he knew he only had to wait for the next time the redheaded bitch and the cop dreamed together.

  The minutes ticked by as he crouched like a spider in the center of its web, waiting for a hapless insect to come along.

  Finally, it happened. The delicate strands of the web sent out a vibration. His body jerked, and he knew the time had come. They were both sleeping. Their guard was down.

  His face contorted. They'd been having sex again. He could feel that, too, feel the satiety and the lazy relaxation of their minds and bodies. And feel their vulnerability.

  They had fled Montgomery County. He had felt them moving farther from him—in distance. But they could never get far enough away.

  They were his.

  He closed his eyes, watching them. They were in a rustic-looking room. Snuggled together in a pine bed covered with a much-washed quilt.

  They thought they were safe. Let them dream on—for a few more minutes—until he got there. This time he sensed that they were sleeping in the dream world, too. He could sneak up on them, plunge his knife into the woman, and be gone before the cop could do anything about it. And then the triangle would be broken—and he would be free to go after the demon.

  Quickly he left the library and hurried down to the ceremonial chamber, ready to say the spell that would bring him into their dream.

  JACK stirred. He had been lying snug and warm, his arms around Kathryn. Both arms, which meant this must be a dream, because in some corner of his mind he remembered that he'd been in an automobile accident, and his right arm was in a sling.

  But when he reached for her, she wasn't there.

  He heard her scream—a bloodcurdling sound that he felt from the roots of his hair to his toes.

  He was out of bed in an instant. Not the bed in the cabin. The bed in the Greek pavilion where they'd first made love.

  He dashed outside, looking wildly around—seeing a wall of flame shoot up to his right. And through the flames, he could see Kathryn, tied to a stake, the fire licking at her white skin, searing her flesh even as he watched.

  "No," he cried out, running at full speed toward her, determined to snatch her from the inferno. Before he reached her, the dream dissolved around him, and he shouted out again in renewed panic.

  Then his eyes blinked open, and he found himself in the bed again. Kathryn was lying beside him, tears leaking from her eyes.

  "Oh, God, sweetheart, sweetheart," he crooned, holding her against himself as best he could, cursing the damn injury that kept him from pulling her fully into his arms.

  He felt her trying to rein in her tears and finally bring herself under control.

  "It's okay," she finally murmured.

  "What do you mean, okay? How the hell is that okay? You were in the middle of a fire—tied to a stake."

  She gulped in air. "It saved us. Black Trousers was coming, like he did the last time we dreamed together, and the thing woke us up in time."

  Jack stared down at her. "You saw him?"

  "I felt him. At the end, I felt him. He had to wake one of us. He seems to pick on me."

  Jack let loose with a string of curses. "And he's getting more violent. What the hell does he want from us?"

  "You know what he wants! We have to find Black Trousers. Because either he's going to get us—or the demon is going to push us beyond what we can take."

  "Yeah. Great." Jack heaved himself up and reached for the jeans that had ended up draped over the foot of the bed.

  Kathryn pulled on the tee shirt and panties she'd been wearing. She was covered up before he'd finished struggling into his jeans.

  "Find Black Trousers. Sure," he spat out as he paced back and forth across the cabin. "He's been killing people for months, maybe years, and nobody's found him. He's a clever bastard. He makes sure his victims don't fit any particular pattern. He uses a bunch of disguises. He has different cars and vans. Which probably means he has plenty of money." He stopped, and dragged his good hand through his hair. "And I can't protect you from him. I can't protect my family. I had to leave them with Ross Marshall."

  She crossed to him, took him in her arms.

  "Do you know how it makes me feel that I can't protect you?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "How do you know?"

  "You said you'd discovered what kind of woman I am. I always knew what kind of man you are. Steady. Responsible. Strong. And beating himself up for not cracking this case. Jack, you're the one who figured out he's a serial murderer."

  "With your help."

  "Okay, then. We make a good team. So let's get to work."

  Easing away from him, she walked to the kitchen, where she began opening bags of snack foods. Willing her hands to steadiness, she poured pretzels, cookies, corn chips, and salsa into bowls she found in the cabinets.

  By the time she'd carried it all to the table, she was feeling more grounded. "Something to drink?"

  "Dr. Pepper. It's perfect for this place."

  She poured the drinks while he brought his laptop computer to the table.

  "Come sit over here, so you can look at the screen with me."

  "What are we going to do?"

  "See if two brilliant minds can come up with his picture."

  "But he's always been disguised."

  "Let's see if we can work around that."

  She pulled over a chair, drawing close to Jack. He turned and kissed her ear, and she snuggled closer. "I like working with you, Detective," she said.

  "But I'd better keep my mind on business." He brought up a program that let victims of crimes build a picture of the perpetrator. Pulling the computer close to his body, he typed with his left hand and used the fingers protruding from his sling to press the shift and control keys.

  "Want me to type?" she asked.

  "I can do it."

  "Okay. Then I'll be right back."

  Probably, he thought, she was going to the bathroom. Instead, she opened her overnight bag and got out the magic wand. Jack watched her carry it back to her chair, then turn it slowly in her hand as they began to work.

  "You think that will help?"

  "It can't hurt."

  He turned back to the computer, starting with a general face shape.

  "Long but not too narrow," she said, pointing with the wand to one that looked right.

 
They progressed from that to hair—dark and long.

  She and Jack both had excellent visual memories—she because of her art background, he because he'd trained himself to observe people. And they had no trouble building a picture of the man who'd come to the hospital room.

  As his face emerged, Kathryn felt goose bumps raise themselves on her arms. They were finally getting somewhere! Doing something constructive.

  Unless he'd worn contacts, he had gray eyes. Narrow lips. An average sort of nose. Slightly hollow cheeks. A face that looked smooth—except for a big mustache.

  "Take the mustache off," she murmured. "It doesn't look right."

  Jack followed directions.

  "That's him," she whispered.

  Jack didn't seem so certain.

  "What?" she asked.

  "The hair is wrong," he mused. "It was long and dark in the hospital. But remember, I saw him doing that ceremony in the privacy of his own torture chamber. He's got short blond hair." With a few keystrokes, he changed the hair. "Yeah. That's better."

  Jack copied the face into another file, then added other details—coming up with the old man who had stopped to ask directions, then reported them to the police department.

  Again, Kathryn felt spooked. "He changes his looks, but when you've got the eyes and mouth, you can see it's the same guy."

  Jack nodded and saved the files. "You want to go on and do the workman you saw around your neighborhood? The man in coveralls?"

  "I don't think we have to bother. He looked like a cross between the young image and the older one."

  "Okay. Then bring me the phone," he instructed.

  Kathryn watched him unhook the instrument, then plug the computer into the connection.

  "A modem?"

  "Yes." He wrote Granger a memo, explaining that these were two composite pictures of the guy who had tried to murder him—one as he usually looked and one in his old man persona.

  Almost as soon as he'd sent them, he was surprised to receive a reply, thanking him for the pictures and adding, "The lab identified the drug from the hospital as insulin. In sufficient quantity, it would be lethal. We're not sure how much he was intending to inject into your IV line because some of it spilled on the floor."