Fantasy

by Christine Feehan

  Yes, she thought, I am dead now and they must let me in.

  But the gate did not open. The wind blew through it and the sun shone on it but no one came to see.

  “Speak to me,” she demanded, clenching the pearly bars. “Tell me if I am damned.”

  The air stirred behind her. Luisa spun. A man stood on the path in a dusty robe. He was tall and bearded, gaunt but strong. His eyes looked out from soulful hollows, their expression too beautiful to bear. Martin sensed Luisa knew who he was.

  “Answer me,” she said in a choking voice. “If I’m damned, I want to know.”

  The man said nothing, only stared at her sadly. Despite his humble garb, a golden shimmer bathed his skin. He reminded Martin of a bodhisattva, a wise old soul come to earth again.

  “I want the ability to choose how I live,” she said. “I want my free will freed.”

  You chose, said the man. You chose when you let your master make you what you are.

  With that, the man disappeared, and the gate, leaving nothing but grass and sun as far as the eye could see.

  “I am damned then,” she said.

  She waited in the silence, empty of everything but despair. Tiny, starlike daisies waved in the gentle breeze. They did not care. No one cared but her. She thrust back her shoulders and firmed her jaw. If she was damned, so be it. She still had herself to answer to. She would live what life she had as she saw fit. If it ended, she would pay the in. price without demur. Her God had rejected her. Perhaps He had a right to. But from now on, her heart and mind were the only judges she would heed.

  Something changed with her decision. Martin felt it. The silence was ringing, the air brightening as if the sun were rising yet again. Each blade of grass glowed like a gem. Luisa’s edges were dissolving. The barrier that had guarded her heart for seeming ages had been destroyed. Energy burst from the earth in a golden flood. The sweetness as it rushed inside her was indescribable, a heady mix of light and love and—

  And then the link between Luisa and Martin snapped.

  Thrust from her vision, Martin gasped. Here, in the material world, Luisa’s body began convulsing. Martin could scarcely hold her shoulders down. She had succeeded in tapping the auric resources of the earth. Now energy poured into her unchecked, energy she obviously was not meant to have. To Martin’s finely honed senses the flow seemed an angry, caustic river. With every second, the violence of her struggles heightened. Tendons stood out on her neck. Her hands curled into claws.

  “Luisa!” he cried, pulling her to his breast.

  He could not connect their minds. The energy was a torrent that swept his attempts aside.

  The door crashed open. Geshe Rinpoche had been alerted by his distress. “Speak to her,” he panted, robe askew. “You must reach into her vision with your voice.”

  “But how can she hear?”

  “Those in trances still hear those they love,” said his teacher. “You must have faith.”

  Martin could not refuse to try. “Luisa,” he said, rocking her gently in his arms, “what you are doing is not safe. I know it feels lovely in your dream. I know it feels as if your angels had at last welcomed you home. But if you do not come back, your physical self will die. You said you did not want that. You said you loved your life.”

  His throat choked up but he forced himself to speak. “I do not wish to lose you, Luisa. I wish…I wish to get to know you on this plane, in this life. Please do not make me wait. Please come back to me now.”

  With an abruptness that shocked him, her convulsions stopped. Her body relaxed, then went completely still.

  He could not help but fear she died.

  “Lay her down,” instructed his teacher.

  Reluctantly Martin did so. She was gaunt, her beauty burned thin, her skin as white and chill as snow. She looked even less human than when she slept.

  The abbot knelt by her other side. “Luisa,” he said commandingly, and laid both hands atop her heart. Martin knew he was trying to use his healing powers.

  For one long, dark moment, nothing happened. She is gone, he thought, even as his mind groaned in denial. Then, like a person saved from drowning, she drew a ragged breath. Martin nearly collapsed in relief. Her eyelids fluttered. She licked her lips. “What—What happened?”

  Though she looked at Martin, the abbot answered. “I misjudged, I’m afraid. That energy was poison to you. You must not try to take it again.”

  “Poison…” A slow, shining tear rolled down her cheek.

  Martin knew what she was thinking: that all that love was not for her. She did not understand her vision had been a creation of her mind. No holy messenger had rejected her. No gates of heaven had been closed.

  Throat tight, he brushed her tear away. “Luisa, the things you saw were just a dream. Your god, if he exists and if he is the source of what we call the energy of the earth, gives this bounty equally to saint and sinner. I do not know why you could not drink, but it is no judgment against your soul, merely an experiment that went awry—as if I were to eat a horse’s hay.”

  She smiled but the attempt was weak. “Tired,” she murmured, her eyes drifting shut. “Need to sleep.”

  Martin and his teacher watched her draw a score of breaths. Then, their thoughts in accord, they stepped quietly away.

  The abbot rubbed his chin. “This troubles me,” he said. “We have left her weaker than before. Even if I found another method to attempt, I am not sure she could withstand it. I am not even sure she would survive a journey home. She must feed, Martin, in the manner of her kind.”

  “We cannot ask any of the monks to let her drink.”

  “No,” the abbot agreed, “we cannot.”

  Martin’s heart thumped in his chest. He knew what the abbot was asking and he knew he could refuse. If he did not offer up his blood, Martin had no doubt his guide would volunteer. Even if it killed him, Geshe Rinpoche would do it. That was the kind of man his teacher was.

  “She will put me in her thrall,” Martin said, the rasp of words not quite a protest.

  His teacher’s gaze was steady. “I believe you are strong enough to resist her.”

  If I want to resist her, Martin thought, far from certain that he did. He remembered Luisa’s harem, the slide of her slim, pale hands along straining skin. How easy it would be, how tempting, to make her upyr magic his excuse for giving in.

  Then a flash of intuition struck. “This is a test,” he said. “You want to know if I am worthy to take my vow.”

  His teacher neither confirmed nor denied the guess. He put his hand on Martin’s arm. “You must decide soon,” he said. “I do not think our visitor has much time.”

  5

  Martin’s strong arms lifted her from the cushions and eased her onto his lap. Even that small motion made the room spin around her head. She moaned against the musty sweetness of his robes, smelling incense and skin and an acrid touch of fear.

  She thought the fear must be for her.

  “Shh,” he soothed. One hand stroked the pale gold curtain of her hair while the other cradled her back. He pressed her mouth to his neck. “Drink.”

  The word made her jerk with longing. She drew back from temptation and stared.

  His gaze evaded hers. “I know you’ve been trying not to, but you are weak.”

  “Martin…”

  “I know you will not hurt me.” The words were fierce. “Just…”

  “Just?”

  “Please do not make me do things I would not wish.”

  Then she understood. Smiling softly, she flattened her palm against his smoothly shaven cheek. His skin was so warm it seemed to burn, its color rich against the whiteness of her hand. His eyes glittered in the dimness, wavering between trust and doubt. “Martin, when blood is offered freely an upyr does not, cannot, suborn her victim’s will.”

  “She cannot?”

  She combed his bristled hair around his ear. “No.”

  “Will you take very much?”

&nbs
p; Luisa shuddered, aroused—or frightened—by a lingering fragment of her dream. “Enough to make you weak. But only for a while. When you recover you will be stronger than before, more resistant to harm or illness. The effect does not last forever: a week, possibly longer.”

  “No wonder those men—” He closed his mouth and flushed. “Forgive me. I did not mean to suggest you had no other charms.”

  “Were you thinking I took my harem against their will?”

  “Well, I am sure you did not have to force them into your bed.”

  She laughed beneath her breath. “Thank you for that, though my scruples have not always been so fine. In this instance, I assure you their thrall was no more than any healthy young male might feel when an attractive woman offers him a sexual adventure. I may have added a few compulsions, of course, to ensure they did not speak of me where they should not.”

  “I imagine they were easier to control because they were young.”

  She saw he meant this as an observation and not an insult, but she squirmed beneath it nonetheless. “How uncomfortably perceptive you are! Yes, older men—or for that matter, younger men with strength of mind—are difficult to influence without the added coercion of a bite. As the years passed, I found I did not like to use that means.”

  “Friendship can be lonely when it is forced, or when it is not with an equal.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes at his understanding. Since her brush with death, Luisa had felt strangely vulnerable, not in body but in spirit—as if her heart had in truth been opened by her dream. His simple statement reached into the raw place, putting into words the yearning of many years.

  “I have been lonely,” she admitted. “That is why your…consideration for me means the world.”

  He smiled, an unexpectedly boyish grin. Seeing it, she was happy despite the danger to them both—not to mention to the achievement of her desire. Assurances aside, stopping before she hurt him would not be easy. Too much time had passed since she last fed and there were too many ways she found him appealing. With one nail she traced the strong blue thread that marked his neck. Her throat tightened. “Maybe I should not do this.”

  “My master says you must feed.” Though Martin’s expression was stubborn, worry lay beneath: worry and an intriguing glimmer of guilt. A muscle bunched in his jaw. “I want you to,” he said, his innate honesty forcing the gruff admission. “I am curious to know how it feels.”

  She could not control the quickening of her pulse. So. He was curious. She skated her fingers down his vein and wet her lips. “It hurts for a moment, for the penetration.” She lifted her eyes to his. “After that, it is erotic. Taking blood is the most intimate act a child of midnight can perform.”

  “More intimate than sex?”

  His voice was husky. A quick, sharp sting told her her teeth had sharpened to feeding length. “More intimate than sex,” she agreed, “though drawing what we need from another’s veins awakens that desire as well.”

  “You will refrain from indulging it, though, won’t you?”

  “You may not want me to. Humans find the act exciting, too.”

  “I have faced attraction before. I am not afraid.”

  But he should have been. Martin could not guess how strong the urge to join could be, a frenzy of lust that sometimes hours of bed play could not sate.

  “My resolve is strong,” he said, sensing her hesitance. “I do not fear to put it to the test.”

  Her smile, gentle as it was, must have been too knowing. His eyes narrowed and he yanked the wrap of his robe halfway down his front. Her smile froze as her body heated. His muscles were tight and flat, their edges chiseled, their development perfectly balanced from sternum to shoulder cap. His chest hair was sparser than a European’s, sheer dark swirls that clung to his flawless olive skin. His nipples were flushed and delicately erect. Yearning to pinch them, she curled her nails into her palms.

  “Drink,” he ordered in a tone that brooked no denial.

  She had not the willpower to resist. With a moan she pressed her mouth to his neck, open, breathing heat and soul-deep need. His grip tightened on her shoulders but he did not push away. She licked him, dragging her tongue up the beating vein until a shiver swept his frame. He was hers now. She set her teeth against him and bit down.

  Blood flowed, filling her mouth with power and life and will as strong as sugared ginger to her tongue. Here was vigor. Here was hot male strength. Enthralled by his taste, she drew on him, wrapping her arms with grateful fervor around his back. Oh, it was good to be close, better than good. Martin seemed to agree. Gasping her name, he slid his hand down her arching spine. She knew he was losing control but she could not hold back. She pushed even tighter to his chest. Her breasts flattened beneath her robe, her nipples as hard as his. When she writhed against him, he murmured what sounded like a prayer.

  It was almost all she wanted, this evidence of his desire. Strength rushed into her with each swallow. She wanted to take him inside her, every throbbing, rigid inch. Desperate to touch his skin, she pushed her hand under his robe. The small of his back was smooth and dewed with sweat. She gripped his narrow buttock. His moan was even sweeter than his blood. Greed swamped her: to have him, to drink him down. Her heart pounded violently in alarm. With a groan of reluctance, she tore her mouth away.

  “No,” he said, a hiss that drew her eyes to his. His pupils were shining jet within rings of azure flame. She could tell he was dazed but not as deeply as most humans would have been. His protest was not the effect of any thrall. She had not taken anything he did not freely give. As if to assure her of this, he cupped her blood-flushed cheek.

  “Let me make you strong. You haven’t taken half of what I can offer. Here.” He pressed her palm to his breast, his voice sinking to a growl. “Bite me here. Slowly. I want you to make it last.”

  A rush of moisture squeezed from the tender hollow between her legs. “Slowly,” she repeated, the word shaking on her lips.

  He nodded, shyness in it, but pride as well. His chin lifted in silent challenge. He did not care how others did this. He was asking for what he wished, drawing the veil from secrets most lovers hid. She thought she had never been so moved by someone’s trust. She knew she could not refuse. “Just a little more,” she agreed, then flashed a grin. “By sips.”

  She bit him slowly this time, letting him savor the dull cold sting of breaking skin. From what she had seen of his country, not to mention the discipline of the monks, she was not surprised he would welcome a little pain. It was a test to him, a hurdle to rise above. True to her expectations, he shuddered with enjoyment as her tongue swept his tightened nipple. Knowing he liked this, she suckled him as she drank. His breath came more harshly and his muscles tensed. His aura pricked like fire where it touched hers.

  But she wanted to offer him more than this. She moved her second hand to the bend between his torso and his thigh. He flinched but did not withdraw. Slowly, giving him time to stop her, she shifted her caress to the rigid swelling where his erection pushed out his robe. Its crown bumped against his belly, its long thick ridge an invitation to measure how much he’d fill. A plenitude, she decided, her body softening deep inside. He was already too hard to get any harder. She could tell from the way his shaft resisted her gentle squeeze. He sighed at the pressure as if he’d been waiting an eternity to feel it. Taking this as permission, she slipped her hand beneath the cloth and held him bare.

  The shock of Luisa’s touch was not one for which he could have prepared. Her warmth, her strength, her devastating knowledge of male desire combined to set his nerves ablaze. His body tightened in every muscle, then melted with delight. He knew he ought to stop her; no man could resist this temptation long. Instead he closed his eyes and let his head drop on his neck. She was rubbing his aching length, her fingers tightening and releasing in a rhythm that made him wonder just how long such pleasure could be borne.

  In all his life he had barely touched himself. Now those years of d
enied sensations seemed to squeeze together into the present, into those burning inches of stiffened flesh. Waves of rapture rolled through him, surging then ebbing, only to gather higher than before. He knew if she did not stop he would unravel like the sexual novice that he was.

  But she had no mercy for his fears. Shifting in his lap, she began to draw on his organ with both hands. The strength of her hold pulled him outward from his body, his testicles drawn up, his tip seeming to burn and prickle each time her fingers tugged its rim. He was going to explode. He was going to burst like a Chinese rocket. Sweat ran into his eyes as he fought the desperate urge. The sounds he made were hardly human.

  He had thought he knew desire; had believed he felt it when the young girls and the widows tried to lure him into their tents. They had smiled for him and tossed their braided hair. They had wagged their hips and let him see them with other men. To them, he was a challenge or a game: the handsome half Khampa who wanted to be a monk. Once or twice he had been tempted but never like this, never with more than his body.

  This was a lust to sear the soul.

  He cried out as she left his breast, and again as she found his mouth. Oh, the taste of her, the feel! She had to lead the kiss, his astonished, enchanting first. It was a mating, he realized, of lips and teeth and tongue. Sensation multiplied as they parried, wetly, sweetly. He tasted a hint of copper, then only her. Her incisors were sharp but they did not cut him.

  So lost was he in pleasure that his body jerked at an unexpected touch. She had curled her thumb over the swollen crest of his erection, pressing the tiny slit as if to block his impending end. The move made him excruciatingly aware of the pressure that was building in his scrotum. An uncontrollable tremor seized his limbs.

  “Touch me,” she gasped against his cheek. “Put your hand between my legs.”

  Heart thumping wildly, he fumbled through sleek warm folds and tangled curls. This was a woman’s yoni. This was a lover’s prize. Her liquid welcome was a wonder as deep as any he had found through meditation. He had called forth her arousal. He had. He slid two fingers through the constriction at her gate and moaned at her forceful clasp. She was soft inside, as soft as the lotus flower most venerated by the sutras. To his gratified relief, her madanachatra did indeed project like a plantain root from the upper petals of her sex.