by Dianna Hardy
Unbidden, her mind took her back to the feel of strong hands holding her over the arm of the couch, forcing her still as masterful fingers—
Right! That's it – enough! Get that thought right out of your head this second! You should not be having an affair.
Frowning, she tried to remember exactly when and how some dominating dream-lover had turned into a very real Paul, then felt her world fall at her feet as another awful realisation hit her. This one left her cold.
Paul hadn't worn a condom. And she had no bloody idea when her period was due.
~*~
When Mary reached Karl's house, all seemed eerily quiet – too quiet.
Gwain was sitting outside on the porch smoking a roll-up.
I guess angels don't have to worry about cancer then, she thought, wryly. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," he replied. "Nice balloon," he added, barely glancing at it.
"Yeah…" She decided to keep the story of the cute but creepy girl to herself. "Are the guys back from Brujii County yet?"
He let out a chuckle as she sat down on the stone step next to him. "Yes, they are, and they brought a guest."
"Oh. Who?"
"Only the fuckin' queen of the Brujii herself."
"Shit. How'd they manage that?"
"Elena prostituted herself."
Her eyebrows shot up. "You are not serious. Elena's the prude of mankind."
Another chuckle. "I may have exaggerated. It seems that Shanka blood has the ability to give the Brujii phenomenal orgasms, and being a race that has had the gift of pleasure stolen from them, the queen – who, by the way, is one high maintenance lady – jumped at the offer of one taste of Elena's blood in exchange for information about Amy … and the Witching Pen."
Mary smiled in amusement. "High maintenance?"
"Mm-hmm. Which is why you find me out here, having a well-deserved break."
"I see," she said with a laugh. "Are the guys inside?"
"Karl and Elena are making her Highness comfortable, and Pueblo's gone home – wherever that is – to catch some sleep, as he's realised that he can, in fact, reach Amy whilst not in a conscious state."
"Wow. One day at work and I miss everything."
"Oh, I'm sure there's more to come, why don't you stick around?"
"Don't mind if I do. Care to share?"
He handed her his half-smoked roll-up. "Not one to worry about your lungs then?"
She took it. "With the dreams I have – nah. Reckon they'll kill me before any disease gets me." She tried and failed to keep that tell-tale trace of pain out of her voice. Damn. She took a drag of tobacco instead. The pain faded just a little.
When she turned back to look at him, he was staring at her with an intensity that caught her off guard.
"You really do have the bluest eyes."
"And you have the driest sense of humour."
"Tell me about the cuts on your thighs."
Fucking angels. She didn't miss a beat. "Tell me about Kat. That's what you call her isn't it?"
"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."
She gritted her teeth, annoyed that she'd walked into that one. "Fine. But I don't have much to tell."
"Neither do I. Katherine Green was my ward. I was her guardian. But I can't do anything right, and fell in love with her when I shouldn't have. She only ever had eyes for Darius, which you read all about in her diary. She loved him. I loved her. She didn't love me. The end. Now you go."
He grabbed what was left of the cigarette from her hand.
Her heart thudded in her chest. She'd never spoken about this before … even those that had seen her naked body had known better than to ask. Christ, how had she ended up sitting out here even having this conversation? But backing down just wasn't her style, so she steeled her voice to hide the quaver in it.
"I've had nightmares from hell since my seventh birthday; when I turned thirteen, they started to get painful – physically painful – even after I woke up. Sometimes the pain would last for two or three days. Then one day, by accident, I cut my finger on a bread knife while making a sandwich. It was the morning after a really bad night. It didn't take me long to realise the pain of the nightmares went away if another physical pain presented itself. So after every bad dream, I started to cut myself, first on my arms, until I realised I wouldn't be able to hide them all the time. I moved onto my thighs. Nobody who's inclined to ask looks there … except you with your inappropriate angel vision." She grabbed the stub back off him and took a final drag as she stood up. Throwing it to the floor, she crushed it with her boot. "The end."
Hell, she was pissed off, although trying her darnedest not to show it. She blinked back her tears of frustration as she strode away.
"Mary…" His voice, low and steady, somehow stopped her in her tracks up to the front door.
When she turned, he was right there in front of her, the very slight breeze gently caressing his light brown hair, his grey eyes looking like graphite under the emerging moonlight. He was only a couple of inches taller than her, but at that moment, she felt ridiculously small and vulnerable, and she didn't like it – not one bit. It would help if he looked disgusted with her, angry, murderous – she knew how to cope with all that – anything but … non-judgemental.
"Thank you for sharing," he uttered, softly.
She said nothing, because she didn't trust her voice. They had never been in this close proximity to each other in the week she'd known him, and now that they were, she caught the scent of frankincense and … something else that she knew but couldn't place … radiating from him. Some sense of familiarity, coupled with a hint of déjà vu, unfurled in the pit of her stomach, and all at once she felt both safe and terrified. She hoped her eyes didn't show her confusion. God knows, over the years she had learnt to rely on her steely interior to keep her from going insane – if she lost it now … well, she didn't know what would happen.
He took one more step towards her. He was totally in her personal space. She refused to flinch, despite the ever increasing sensation that she was about to be broken.
Curse him. This was how other people felt, not her.
He raised a hand and strummed the string of her balloon with a finger. "If you ever need someone to help you ease your pain, all you have to do is call my name."
A vision of The Lock Down – that secret and prestigious BDSM club in London's West End she frequented every other Tuesday night – flashed into her mind. And suddenly Gwain was in her mental shot, dressed the part, complete with whip and appendages. The snapshot was so ridiculous, she almost laughed, until she looked up at his face again. His eyes seemed to grip her like an iron vice and her voice caught at the back of her throat when she next spoke. "You have no idea what I need."
He took her right wrist, so gently, it was a stark contrast to the tenacity evident in his stare, brought it in line with her left wrist and wound the balloon string around them both, twice. Then he pulled the string hard and taut, making her gasp in both pain, and the automatic pleasure that she had trained her body to take from it.
"I know exactly what you need," he whispered. "Call my name." He strummed the tightened string one more time. "No strings attached."
He brushed past her and walked through the front door, that captivating aroma of frankincense assaulting all her confused senses, as it followed him inside.
Chapter Five
Pueblo lay on his bed, struggling to get to sleep after not having slept for so long. His bedsit, tucked away on a side street in Camberwell, was small and bare – he hardly ever used it, preferring to reserve it for emergencies only – but that just made it easier to keep clean and tidy. And he liked Camberwell. Many people considered it a dump, rife with gang warfare, where drugs grew on trees and people were likely to get shot – it was not entirely untrue – but he saw something different. Despite the town's troubles, there was a strong community undercurrent here that felt like home to him, or at least the home he would have had had everyo
ne not shut him out of it.
With a sigh of impatience, he tried once again to relax his body and let sleep take him over. His mind took him to his unconscious encounter with Amy – the soft feel of her pale skin, the look of rapture on her face as her climax built…
Okay, this wasn't helping him to sleep; it was just getting him hot and bothered, he mused, as he looked down at his naked body and semi-hard cock.
Getting up, he pulled out a bunch of herbs from his cupboard and switched on the half-full kettle. He didn't like relying on any kind of drug to get his body to do things, even if they were natural drugs, but time was running out, and this was the only option left unless he wanted to knock himself out by throwing his head against the wall – which he didn't.
He tipped out Valerian and Skullcap into the bottom of his mug, and poured the steaming hot water over the top. He didn't bother with a strainer. Drinking the bits of leaves and root didn't bother him, and he needed the damn stuff to work quickly. While he waited for the mix to brew, he took out his jeans and three pairs of loin cloths from the washing machine and hung them on the warm radiator, hoping the leather hadn't been damaged from the suds, despite the cold wash. The radiator will probably make them go crisp, he thought with a groan.
He'd played with the idea of taking them into a dry cleaners – the look on the attendant's face may just have been worth it – but had decided on the faster, easier option. He'd get new ones made up as soon as he got back home.
He drank down his herbal sedative in two gulps, muting the scorch of the liquid with his fire controlling abilities, then lay back down on the bed.
For the thousandth time, he wondered who this 'other' was. The Brujii – Katarra was her name, or Queen Katarra, as she liked to be called – had not been able to give him much information on this other person. The only thing she was sure of was that he – yes he (Pueblo's anger rose instantaneously at the thought of another man being anywhere near Amy) – was 'innocent'. That's what she'd said. Innocent. He didn't believe it for a second.
On other fronts, however, she had been very useful indeed. She had revealed that the type of magic that had been used on Amy was time magic. She had been hidden within the folds of time, which is why no one could find her. On one account, this was good, because Pueblo's weird Dessec-shifter combination meant he was able to time travel. If he knew when in time she was being kept, he'd be able to go there and get her out. But Katarra could not pin-point where or when she'd been taken, and the other snag in the plan, was that Amy had also had her memory wiped – thoroughly.
Everyone had let out a big "Aaahhhhhhh!" when she'd revealed that particular bit of information, as many sizeable pieces of the jigsaw finally fell into place. This is why she'd been blind in his dream. This was why there was no trace of her in the Akashic records. Wiped from the mind, wiped from the records – they could no longer reflect back her life history for all who knew how to read it.
The memory wipe was a doozy. It was likely that another dose of Pueblo's blood could break the spell, but he had to actually be there in physical form to give it her. Katarra had, however, also sensed a weakness in the memory spell.
"It feels like there are cracks in it," she'd said. "It may be that she's been double-wiped."
"Double-wiped?"
"One memory spell on top of another."
And that accounted for her lack of memory before the age of five. Everyone put all the pieces together and came to the conclusion that she'd had her memory wiped at childhood, and then again more recently. When he got his hands on Etienne, he was going to kill him. Until then, he was just going to have to deal with the guilt that he'd let his own tribe cajole him into wiping her memory as little as nine days ago. Idiot that he was.
"Layers of spells can produce fissures in the magic itself," Katarra had explained. "So it may be easier to break the spell than you think, except … it's no good for the brain – layers of memory spells piled on top of each other like that. Could make her go insane, or permanently lose her memory once she's gone past some point of no return. You should get there fast," she'd added, light-heartedly, as if discussing the repercussions of being late for a party.
At that, Pueblo had promptly disappeared, finally knowing he could reach her if he slept – although he didn't quite know what he was going to do when he got there. How could he make her remember without being able to give her his blood?
As a fleet of possible scenarios ran through his mind, his eyelids drooped, and he drifted off.
~*~
Lizzie lay in bed with Paul, as far away from him as possible, without trying to look like she was as far away from him as possible. Somewhere in the last hour and a half, her feeling of dread had turned into an intense anger at her situation. Something was missing. Something vital. She didn't want to think that Paul was the type to keep things from her, after all, he was kind and caring – certainly seemed it, anyhow – and she liked to think she wouldn't marry a schmuck.
But she was tired of feeling useless, like a hamster caught up in a Ferris wheel. Actually, that's exactly how she felt: stuck in a cage. Every now and then, her brain would exercise itself by going around the wheel, trying to gather something new; she'd think she was on the edge of some important discovery, but when the wheel stopped and she got off, everything was exactly the same as when she'd got on. And she was sick of it. And angry at feeling helpless. If Paul knew she was having an affair … well, he had said nothing. Which meant he was deceiving her. Whatever the intention, keeping things from her was inexcusable – which, in turn, meant he wasn't so caring and kind.
She was fuming. She was fuming so much she wondered if smoke was coming out of her ears.
"You didn't wear a condom this afternoon," she blurted out, not really knowing that was the sentence that would leave her tongue.
He froze in place, then looked at her confused. "We never wear condoms, Elizabeth … I mean, Lizzie."
"So, was I on the Pill?"
"What pill?"
If he keeps this up, I swear I'm going to go all Carrie on him … Ooh, I remembered a movie!
She allowed herself half a second to feel triumphant about that before continuing. "The contraceptive pill. We haven't had children all this time, we must have used some form of protection." Oh, hell, did I use protection with the other guy? Shit! What if I'm pregnant and I don't know whose it is?
Don't be stupid, Lizzie, get a grip.
"My goodness…" His mouth turned up at a corner. "I think it's swell that you remember about, well, about condoms, but I'm not sure what you mean about contraceptive 'pills'."
Hmm … yes, she did remember condoms … and vibrators. Bonus.
"Birth control? Birth. Control. Pills." She spoke slowly. Maybe she'd married an idiot.
His expression remained blank. "Lizzie, there are no pills for controlling conception – I assume that's what you mean? You can't just take a pill and hope you don't get pregnant. We've always used your cycle as a guide, and you're due in a few days, so you're highly unlikely to get pregnant from what we did earlier."
"But … what about the Pill?" she asked again, dumbly.
"What pill? Lizzie, I'm befuddled…"
Befuddled? Swell? Something in the little Ferris wheel of her mind suddenly clicked into place, and she found her brain racing over all the events of the past week: no telly, no car, a kitchen she just couldn't figure out how to use, no fucking decent coffee…
"Paul?"
"Yes?"
"What year is it?" She suddenly wished she'd paid more attention to all those newspapers he liked to read … and the mail – the date on the mail. Why had she never thought to look more closely at the mail? Because everything's always addressed to him, that's why.
Even as she asked him the question, she didn't know what the correct answer was, but she was pretty damn certain she'd know if it was the wrong answer. Surely she'd know if she was in the right century or not?
Out of nowhere, a memory filled h
er mind as clear as day: Big Ben striking midnight, the fireworks going off, everyone cheering, the arduous walk back through Trafalgar Square and the swarm of people in high spirits, the huge billboard in the square that read … oh, my God … 2000. She remembered it! She remembered celebrating the turn of the millennium!
"Are you remembering something?" came his hopeful voice.
She couldn't look at him. Her insides were trembling.
He took her hand. "It's the 9th of October, 1956."
No no no no no no no no…
He seemed uncertain, then carried on… "It's not been an overly eventful year for us, but quite a bit has been happening around the world. Guy Mollett became the Prime Minister of France and Morocco has finally gained its independence, there was a huge fire at the Eiffel Tower at the beginning of this year; oh – Grace Kelly – do you remember her? She married Prince Rainier III of Monaco… And in America, Elvis Presley is fast becoming the new 'King of Rock n' Roll'. He doesn't get played over here, but your friend, Jenny, tells you all about him in her letters. Do you remember Jenny? She moved to New York with her husband, Steve, last year. We all thought she'd go mad moving away from London, but it turns out she loves New York more." He chuckled, then looked at her, no doubt seeking out some kind of recognition from her.
She must have looked a sight, because concern stole over his features and he placed a hand on her forehead. "Sweetheart, you looked flushed. I think you're burning up a fever."
"Carrie…"
"What?"
"Carrie," she croaked out again.
"A friend of yours?"
"A film…"
"Darling, you're not making any sense—"
She grabbed the lapels of his 1950's striped pyjamas and screamed, "Stephen King!"
"Er, no, Elvis. I said Elvis was the new king…"
Another scream lodged in her throat, threatening to burst out like a fireball any second now. She felt it before she saw it. It was like a backdraft, and her body was the wind channel it flew through. As uncertain as she had been of everything this past week, she could see with complete clarity that she was about to spontaneously combust. It made no sense, but she knew it with more certainty than she knew the grass was green, and even more certain than that, was the knowledge that she could not control it. In an instant, she saw Paul dead in her mind, his face contorted into a mask of anguish as flames consumed him – her flames. Terror at what she knew was coming rose within her, and it was this terror, chasing the fire, that saved Paul's life. It overwhelmed the rage she felt; it overwhelmed the fire, and everything flickered black and white in front of her eyes, like the screen of an old TV, before she lost consciousness.