by M. L. Ryan
“If it’s so much easier to do it that way, why not build everything from adobe in your dimension and not use praseo at all?”
“Rare earth minerals are cheap and plentiful in Courso, remember? Plus, not everyone has the power to self-protect an entire house.” Alex said with a wry grin, “Sebastian is quite extraordinary.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t let him hear you say that. His head is big enough as it is.”
A deep baritone voice boomed from behind me. “I heard the words, ‘extraordinary’ and ‘big’. You must be speaking about yours truly.”
“The only thing you have that’s oversized is your ego,” I observed.
Sebastian smirked. “Hardly the only thing, my dear.”
“Where did you come from?” Alex said, changing the subject. “I didn’t hear your car.”
“The dog texted, informing me that meddlesome meter maid was here. I left the Ferrari on the other side of the property and walked over just in case she was waiting for me to return.”
I wondered where Ulut was during our confrontation with Special Agent Scullyham, but it didn’t occur to me he might be texting Sebastian. I made the mistake a few weeks back of taking him along when I went to the pet store to get more hairball prevention treats for Vinnie. He refused to leave until I bought him a particular dog treat displayed next to the register. He loved that two-foot long, skinny piece of rawhide like a mosquito loved a nudist colony. Even though it smelled weird, and when gnawed became a nasty, flaccid mess, I went online to buy them in bulk. It was only after they arrived that I discovered his beloved “bully sticks” were actually wood-smoked bull penises. Once I knew the truth, I couldn’t even look at them without wanting to wretch. Ulut, sensitive to my disgust, disappeared—sometimes for hours—to chew his beloved jerky dicks in peace. It was good to know his failure to appear was for the much better purpose of letting Sebastian know we had potentially problematic company.
We went inside, and Sebastian called Aiden to bring his car back to the house. His laziness and sense of entitlement were appalling, and I laid into him for ordering a subordinate to perform duties outside his job description when he could just as easily have done it himself.
“My dear, driving the Spider is a treat for Aiden. Believe me, rather than put out, he was thrilled when I suggested it.”
He sauntered into the living room and poured himself a glass of this month’s preferred scotch. Taking a long, unhurried swig, his eyes closed as he savored his The Balvenie single malt.
“That’s much better,” he announced. “Now, tell me everything about the wretched flatfoot’s visit.”
9
Sebastian downed another drink while he listened to our summary of the afternoon’s confrontation. He wanted to file a formal complaint, but we talked him out of it. While I found no fault in his desire to stick it to the deputy, drawing unnecessary attention from the local constabulary would only increase the likelihood that we were the ones who ended up getting stuck. Instead, he contacted someone to come out and cast “precision avoidance” that would keep our cryptid hunter off the property. Sebastian hadn’t done it earlier because the magic wasn’t completely reliable. Apparently, instead of making the person think they didn’t want to be there, sometimes they were compelled to expand that feeling to a much larger area. Like the entire state, for example. At this point, none of us really cared if she stepped across the property line and decided to move far away. Like Texas, perhaps. Then she could hunt for chupacabras.
I agonized over whether my feather and its unique DNA would eventually unravel the entire Coursodon Dimension secret, but the guys seemed more annoyed than truly concerned.
“No one of consequence will believe the results,” Alex said as he reached across the bed to pull me against his warm, very naked body. I inhaled his scent; tonight, he smelled like Ben and Jerry’s Coffee Caramel Buzz. Yum. No one knew why I alone perceived Alex’s aroma as various flavors of Vermont’s finest ice cream. It was odd, for sure, but whatever the reason for my unique olfactory senses, it was okay by me.
Alex’s bouquet notwithstanding, I’d been lying there, unable to sleep, for over an hour, trying to remain as still as possible so I wouldn’t disturb his rest. Clearly, my attempt at unobtrusive brooding was a major failure.
“I tried to be quiet,” I whispered apologetically into his chest. “How’d you know I was awake?”
He paused—just for a second—before answering. “You were too quiet to be asleep.”
That made sense, I supposed. No one’s breathing stayed the same throughout the various stages of slumber. “I’d never forgive myself if I caused some sort of, I dunno, global uproar or something.”
“We’ve been over this already. The Courso have been visitors here for millennia, carisa, and there have been many, many times when something or someone genuinely threatened to expose us. This is not one of them.”
“I know, but….”
Alex interrupted my continued expression of inner angst with his lips. The intoxicating fragrance of espresso and brown sugar flooded over me as he deepened the kiss, and I understood why some people enjoyed spreading delicious edibles over their lovers. Food and foreplay — a fantastic combination. This was way better, all the eroticism without the sticky mess or the calories.
Without breaking his attentions on my mouth, Alex’s hand glided under my tank top and gently rolled my nipple between his fingers. I snaked my leg around him, his rigid length pressing against my abdomen.
“You have way too many clothes on,” he complained, and I realized my tank was gone. I didn’t recall Alex pulling it over my head, nor, as best I recalled, did he tear the shirt away. As I pondered its whereabouts, I felt my underwear, too, go missing.
Reluctantly, I pulled away from his lips and gazed with wonder at my now unclothed self. “How did you do that?”
A seductive grin lit his handsome face. “Magic.”
“I hope they aren’t gone for good. That thong was expensive.”
“I’ll get you another,” he murmured as he began to nuzzle an exquisitely sensitive part of my neck.
I trailed my fingernails along the hard ridges of his abdomen. “Disappearing clothes, that’s some trick. Why haven’t you ever used that before?”
“It’s always wise to keep some skills under wraps. But don’t worry, carisa, I have many more,” he growled, turning his attentions lower.
Alex’s tongue flicked against my left nipple while his fingers returned to my right. This new arrangement forced my hands away from his six-pack, but they found a new place to land, entangled in his golden tresses. I loved his hair: the way it brushed his collar, how it glistened in the sunlight, the sensation created when it tickled my thighs.
Like he read my mind, Alex slid further down my body and pulled my legs over his shoulders. Gasping, I arched my hips into his swirling tongue and he slid his palms under my butt, increasing the glorious pressure. When I came—which wasn’t much later—I came hard, screaming his name while my body thrashed against him.
I lay there, spent and a bit dazed, while Alex eased his way upward. Once folded into his arms, I took a few minutes to recoup and enjoy the post-release snuggle. It didn’t take too long, however, to regain my senses and reciprocate in kind.
I nudged Alex onto his back and straddled his thighs, my fingertips tracing the distinct lines of the muscular “V” angling from his hips down to the Promised Land. I continued to explore, moving downward until I reached pay dirt. He let out a breath as I stroked and teased his hard shaft, moaning when I bent down to claim the tip with my mouth. My lips, tongue, and hands combined, working as one, and now with my hair fisted in his hands, he moaned a ragged, “carisa,” to signal his own climax.
I rested my head on his thigh and listened as his breathing calmed and slowed. Alex reached down and guided me back to the strong comfort of his arms.
“I see you have a few tricks of your own. You’ve been holding out on me.”
<
br /> That wasn’t completely true. While flipping through the premium satellite channels a few nights before, I happened upon a show where a group of women were getting tips on how to give the perfect blow job. The teacher, an attractive, middle-aged woman who resembled a CEO of a conservative corporation more than the doyenne of giving head, distributed a dildo to each student to practice the lessons. It was bizarre—a bunch of suburbany chicks, sitting around a coffee table, going down on dishwasher-sanitized, life-like phalli. I thought I was well versed in the art, but the program was really quite educational and provided a bevy of fresh ideas.
I welcomed Alex’s appreciation of my newfound talents, but I decided to keep their origin to myself. There was no harm in letting him think I had an untapped keg of erotic moves just waiting for him to enjoy.
“I’m always trying to up the ante,” I teased.
A mischievous grin blossomed across his handsome face. “I love it when you up my ante.”
And so, I did. Twice.
By morning, my attitude was much improved. Not that I got a good night’s sleep, but there was nothing like great sex to take your mind off the bullshit life flings at you. Today’s excreta were supposed to include another tactical training session with Sebastian. Fortunately for me, those plans were scuttled in favor of a meeting with someone Alex found who might help with Ulut’s problem. We’d already pretty much exhausted the supply of Courso experts, so he decided to be a bit more expansive in our search for a solution.
Sebastian, Alex, Ulut and I piled into a Xyzok-supplied Land Rover and headed west, past the Tucson Mountains, the northern edge of the Quinlan range, the white domes atop the telescopes at the Kitt Peak National Observatory, through Sells, and then south to the tiny town of Topawa.
We were in the heart of the Tohono O’Odham Nation, the second largest Native American landholding in the United States. Its area covered a large part of western Pima County and stretched from just below Casa Grande to the north, all the way south to the US-Mexico border. We were now, in fact, a mere fifteen miles from Mexico, in a somewhat barren stretch of desert. Leaving the paved highway, we turned onto a not particularly well maintained dirt road. The SUV didn’t handle the ruts and gullies as well as one might expect from a hundred thousand dollar vehicle, but just when I thought my liver might soon jostle free from its normal spot in my upper abdomen, we reached our destination.
“No way I’m sitting in the back on the way home,” I complained as Sebastian stopped the vehicle. Ulut sat next to me during the trip and while he didn’t seemed bothered by the bumpy ride while it was in progress, he did run immediately to the nearest bush to lift his leg the moment I opened the door.
The dwelling before us had seen better days. Chipped, once-white paint covered the mismatched wood siding and the small front porch bowed slightly in the middle. A hand-lettered sign, declaring, “Trespassers will be shot,” hung on the rusty, chain-link fence surrounding a weed-studded front yard.
“I hope he is expecting us,” Sebastian said as he unlatched the rickety gate.
Alex laughed. “From all accounts, Mr. Ortiz is a pacifist. I’d be surprised if he even had a gun.”
Sebastian furrowed his brow. “From all accounts? I thought you knew this person.”
“I have never met him, but one of my human contacts within the tribe thought he might be helpful. Billman Ortiz is very old and recalls all the stories of ancient Tohono O’Odham mysticism. Since we’ve struck out with Courso theories of how to allow Ulut to change back, I figured this was worth pursuing.”
Alex went ahead and stepped onto the rickety stoop. The wood didn’t look like it would be able to withstand the weight of an adult, and he bounced a couple of times to test it. At least he didn’t fall through, I thought with relief. Alex turned to where we still lingered by the fence, shrugging before he knocked on the equally sketchy front door.
A minute passed and nothing happened. Alex knocked again, with the same result. On his third try, he rapped a bit harder and called out, “Mr. Ortiz? It is Alex Sunderland.”
Nothing.
Pound, pound, pound.
“Hello? Mr. Ortiz? Your great nephew, Diego, set up this visit?”
The door flung open.
“Don’t make so much of a racket, young man. I’m close to a hundred years old. My home is small, but these legs can only move so fast.”
“Please forgive my rudeness,” Alex apologized.
“I didn’t say you were rude; I was just explaining why it took so long,” he snapped.
Mr. Ortiz looked like what one might expect from an old Tohono O’Odham dude: broad face, high cheekbones, and skin the color of roasted chestnuts with the appearance of well-worn leather. Two long, grey plaits hung down on either side of his head and cascaded over his shoulders. He might have been pushing the century mark, but he appeared much younger. Eighty, tops. He gestured for us to come inside, and as I approached, he winked.
The interior of his house bore no resemblance to the unkempt exterior. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but the eclectic mix of Saltillo-tile floors and contemporary furniture wasn’t it. He even had a big screen TV. Didn’t I see that console in the Ikea catalog? I snuck a peek into the kitchen and the cabinet doors—inlaid with saguaro cactus ribs—looked custom built. I made a mental note to find out if Sebastian had already ordered the new ones for the guesthouse because if he hadn’t, I was going to push for that style.
Mr. Ortiz must have noticed my confusion concerning the incongruities of his digs, or he was used to having to explain them. “I intentionally keep the outside ramshackle. It keeps the riffraff away, and it’s cheaper than an alarm system.”
“The possibility of being gunned down likely helps in that regard as well,” Sebastian observed.
“I believe it does,” Ortiz replied, eyes twinkling.
Alex extended his hand. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us, Mr. Ortiz.”
“Call me Billman,” he answered, pumping Alex’s hand with both of his. “Diego told me about you. Who are your companions?”
Alex introduced us, with appropriate greetings exchanged. In his youth, Billman Ortiz must have been quite the ladies’ man because when he got to me, instead of a hand shake, he lightly kissed my knuckles.
He offered refreshments, which we declined, and invited us to sit. Across the room, I spotted a magnificent basket—about the size of a dinner plate—displayed on a shelf. The pattern was intricate and depicted a stylized man standing at the entrance of what resembled a round labyrinth.
“I’itoi,” Billman said with a nod. “The male figure is I’itoi’, The Man in the Maze. It symbolizes that life is a series of obstacles.”
“I can relate to that,” I grinned.
“I have no doubt.”
There was something odd in his response, or, maybe it was how he looked at me when he said it. Like he knew something we didn’t. Of course, picking his brain was why we drove two hours, the last fifteen minutes of which risking internal hemorrhage.
Billman leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his rounded belly. “So, Diego tells me you want to know about magic.”
“Yes,” Alex began, “we are interested in locations of which you are aware that possess unusual geomagnetic energy.”
The old man lifted his eyebrows. “You came all this way to ask me about vortexes? You could have found some new-age guru in Sedona for that.”
Alex shifted in his seat. I could tell he grappled with how much to tell Billman. “No, not vortexes. We seek information concerning earth energy that transcends the astral plane.”
Leaning forward, Billman pursed his lips. “You ask for my help, but you won’t tell me the truth. Astral plane, my wrinkled butt. I sense magic in all of you. More so in you two,” he said, pointing a finger at Alex and Sebastian. “But even in the dog.”
“Is he human?” I whispered, shifting closer to Sebastian.
“Of course I’m human.” Billman chuckled.<
br />
My cheeks flushed. Billman was about ten feet away; I thought I’d spoken softly enough for only those close to me to hear.
Still grinning, he added, “I’m older than dirt, Hailey, but I’m not deaf. As I said, I am most definitely human. Alex, Sebastian, and the dog…”
“Ulut,” I corrected.
“Yes, Alex, Sebastian, and Ulut are most definitely not.” He inclined his head and considered me. “You, I’m not completely sure about yet. Don’t look so mortified, Tohono O’Odham have always been open to the concept of magic. We understand it. I’ve known about people like you since my great-grandfather told me about another dimension when I was five. Met quite a few over the years, too.” Leaning forward, his dark eyes radiated intensity. “So what can I really do for you?”
Billman listened intently while Alex explained Sebastian in my Kindle, his magical parting gift to me, Keem, Dekankara, and Ulut’s predicament, interrupting only to ask him to repeat the part where I sprouted big-ass wings and spewed fire. Billman shot a sideways glance my way, stiffening a bit, but offered no comment. When the story was completed, he closed his eyes, fingers steepled under his chin. He stayed that way for so long, I thought he fell asleep but, eventually, his lids blinked open.
“I’itoi, the Creator,” he said, nodding to the basket I’d admired, “came to this world from another. He turned his people into ants and led them through an ant hole. When they reached this side, I’itoi changed them into the Tohono O’Odham people.”
Sebastian arched one brow. “And where is this ant hole?”
The old man shrugged. “Some say it is near I’itoi’s cave below the summit of Waw kiwalik. I do not know for certain.”
“Waw kiwalik?” Alex repeated.
“Baboquivari Peak.” Everyone turned to me with identical expressions of incredulity—even Ulut. I met their wide eyes and demurred. “I took an American Indian course as an elective my freshman year.”