He threw the phone to the end of the bed and ran his hands through his hair. Stupidest fucking decision he ever made in his life, to take this job. He should’ve known better. Did know better. Did it anyway.
Didn’t matter now. He was stuck with it. He turned to the side table, and there the Spellbook lay, so innocent looking, leather-bound and richly elegant. In its original form it was a collection of scrolls sealed together, but magic shaped it to a more appropriate casing for this realm.
In his hands the leather was warm, the texture pure luxury. Under his fingertips it seemed to respond to him. Pulses of magic swirled, provoking images of homecoming, of contentment. Was that him, or was it the spellbook?
Merc pulled away, setting the Spellbook down and ignoring the twinge the separation provoked. Time to get dressed and move again, with images of a woman with beautiful black hair and almond-colored eyes in the back of his mind.
Chapter Three
‡
It wasn’t the endless blue of the ocean in front of her, and no sign of the beautiful man with the intriguing tattoos, tattoos she more than once wanted to explore with her hands. Hands, and maybe beyond that.
As usual, Amana went from sleep to total wakefulness. Since going back to sleep wasn’t an option, she pushed herself onto her knees, bringing her arms up to stretch her back. A yoga session would be nice, but there was too much to get ready before tonight’s meeting. She had packing to do. Her gut was telling her that a moment’s notice was coming up, and she needed to be ready.
A hot shower, kettle on the stove, and even as she finished her breakfast and packed her purse, her thoughts refused to turn away from the man in the dream.
It had been a long time since she had dream walked without meaning to, so long it seemed like total control was finally hers. Last night’s meeting with the man destroyed that hope.
Though he was worth the semi-depressing reality her magic was still something of a wildcard. The power that hummed beneath his skin marked her fingers, and that warm leather and musk scent that even the salty ocean air couldn’t erase lingered when she breathed deep.
She was a teenager again, obsessing over a man she shared a long walk and a couple dozen sentences with. No, worse. As a teenager she’d had more sense. Well, that, and a little brother who towered over most adults and would beat up any guy who made her cry, which meant most guys made the wise choice to avoid her, leaving her with few opportunities to moon over beautiful men with tattoos.
And since when was she into tattoos anyway? In her experience tattoos meant trouble. And dear gods, that man exuded trouble. It wasn’t even a question in his case.
Total teenager moment. Maybe her magic was making up for her lack of usual teenage craziness by tossing an inappropriate guy in her path.
An alarm sounded, and she looked to the clock on the wall. Time to put the man to the side and meet up with the next job.
Chapter Four
‡
The howl pierced through the moderate noise of the bar, and in time with everyone else, Amana looked up from her drink to see the reflected gleam of yellow eyes before the five men bent their heads and laughed.
Yellow eyes were predominant in a few of the wild races and the howl didn’t narrow it down that much, but before the question could do much more than shape itself in her mind, a feminine voice sounded from up and to her left. “Werewolves. Their furry butts are going to be kicked out if they don’t shape up.”
The woman had a heavy mass of barely restrained black curls and hazel-green eyes that were bright against the caramel tone of her skin, but it was the cunning in them rather than the beautiful color that had Amana holding her breath for a split second before self-preservation kicked in enough to erect her normal façade of pleasant neutrality. The woman continued. “You are Amana, yes? I’m Inara. Please, let me show you to your future employers.”
Inara turned from the bar and started toward the four stairs that led to the raised seating area, situated away from the billiards and darts, this area instead meant for more intimate drinking and conversing. At the farthermost table, the one with the most space surrounding it and allowing the most privacy, were seated two women. As if Amana activated an invisible tripwire, the moment she was in sight the two women looked up and straight at her.
The first woman was an explosion of powder blue, from the spikes of her semi-mohawked hair to the vest and tight jeans she wore on a body that could almost pass for a prepubescent boy’s due to both the short height and lack of curves. Blue lips and blue eyeshadow were heavy on a face that reflected the same mixed heritage as her own, Japanese with some European nationality.
While the Japanese woman would attract attention first, anyone with an ounce of self-preservation would realize it was her companion who needed to be scrutinized. Long red hair was the only splash of color against white skin and black clothing, which while fitted was loose enough that the woman would have full range of motion in any situation. She leaned back in her seat, but the movement was too studied, too casual, the predator in her too pronounced to be hidden.
Come into my parlor…
No, not a spider, not this one. Not the mechanical efficiency that characterized insects, but neither did she have the feral wildness that was being displayed by the werewolves. She was something else.
Inara strutted over to the table and sat in the chair by the blue-haired woman. “Fallon, Laire,” Inara said, motioning to the red-haired woman and the Asian woman in turn, “behold, I present to you Amana. Rhaum promises she’s exactly what you are looking for.”
“Hope so,” Fallon answered, and though the words were innocuous, as was the tone they were said in, in Amana the urge to flee and not look back struck hard, an urge that in normal circumstances she would follow without hesitation.
This time was not normal. This time she needed money – a lot of it in a short period. That tightening around her neck, the noose-rope sensation that always told when she was at the end of safety in a particular place, had been strong these last few days. She needed to run, and to run, she needed the money this job would provide. “I need the details before I commit, but from what Rhaum told me, I think I’m perfect.”
Fallon’s eyes were pure gold under the semi-dim light and as hard as any metal dug from the dirt. Without taking her gaze away from Amana, she said, “Inara, we got this. You can go.”
If any offense was taken at the brusque tone, Inara didn’t show it. Instead she got up and brushed past Amana, her leaving represented by a cloud of flowery perfume and the clack of high heels.
Fallon motioned to the chair at the head of the table, placing her diagonal from both of the women. “Sit, please. We’ll talk.”
…to the fly. “I’m fine standing. I don’t want to take up too much of your time if I don’t like the offer.”
“Trust me, you want to sit.” Fallon’s mouth curved into a semi-smile, but no humor reached her eyes. “You’re going to want to stay and hear the details, and it might take a bit to impart all important information.”
A violent impulse begged Amana to physically wipe that smile off the redhead. No doubt others had that exact same impulse. No doubt others curbed it in milliseconds, the same as she. “And why do you think that?”
Laire was bent forward, her elbows on the table, her chin resting on her palms. The picture was one of detached disinterest, but the downturn of her blue lips, the way her eyes stayed resolute to not look in Amana’s direction, told a different story. Laire was not happy to be here.
All feigned amusement left Fallon’s face. Now she was all hard lines and burning directness. Laire looked at her and her lips parted only a scant inch, only the barest suggestion of opposition, but whatever Laire saw had her lower her head, swallow words not yet formed.
Fallon looped her arm over the back of the chair, relaxed predator, sure her prey was cornered. And in that voice that was one shade darker, one tone lower than expected, Fallon said, “Nakoa.”
> With the touch of Amana’s fingertips to the wooden table, as she sat upon the unexpected softness of the cushion, in her head the undeniable clang of iron bars reverberated, against her neck the noose went choke tight, and by the expressions on the faces of the two women who were taking her measure – one clinical, one almost sympathetic – they knew it. “How do you know that name?”
“You’re good,” Fallon said, the tone holding genuine compliment. “It took us a very long time to get to you. Your brother’s protection of you is rather touching as well.”
Get to you. Why? Why?
The slow trail of red liquid down a white wall, splatter of red against white, white, white, absorption of the linen that took just a tiny drop and with it created a large blot, as large as the hole in his head.
Sound penetrated Amana’s consciousness, click, click, click, and at the moment before full awareness she jumped and swatted at what was in front of her, only to find it nothing but the snapping fingers of Laire. “Yep, she’s back,” the tiny woman said.
“Thank you for the update of the obvious.”
There was a glass of water on the table. Amana grabbed it and drank. It was only after she set the glass back down that the trembling of her hand became apparent. Strange, there was no sensation of trembling, only the bone deep cold that convinces you you’ll never be warm again. “What have you done to Nakoa?”
Fallon let her arms fall free and dangle by her sides. It looked casual, inviting, except her hand was curled next to the shaft of her boot, near where a small yet suspicious bump lay higher than elsewhere on the footwear. “Not a damn thing. It’s really the opposite. We’re here to give you good news regarding the possibility of getting him away from his current predicament.”
“No one has ever been interested in helping him go free.” No one but her. It was all on her, and that was fine. That was right. And she would get him free no matter the price.
“Let’s change that then, shall we? Let’s talk about how we’re going to get your brother out of prison.”
“Yes. Let’s.”
The club around them quieted, the way people did when the lights went down in a theatre. Amana turned to the crowd, but all looked normal, people still dancing and clapping each other on the back. “We should have some privacy for this discussion,” said Laire, who had brought out a nail file and was beginning to work on her nails.
So the small woman was a wizard or a mage. And though spells to silence areas were common enough that Amana couldn’t tell from that alone how powerful the Japanese woman was, Amana had no doubt the two women in front of her were not to be underestimated. “Who are you?”
“Guild.”
An insane urge to laugh bubbled inside her, and Amana buried her head in her hands to stifle any errant sounds. How long had she been running from this possibility? “I guess I should be grateful you’re not necromancers.” She wasn’t, but she should be.
“I like anyone who looks at the bright side. It suits my naturally sunny disposition.” Fallon’s comment had Laire snorting, but with only a side-eyed look at the magic caster, Fallon continued. “We know what you are, Dream Crafter.”
“How can you know what I am? I don’t even know what I am.” And she didn’t. There was no example of what she was outside of legends, tales so old there was no way to tell fact from fiction.
Fallon tilted her head, the rise of her eyebrow sharing incredulity someone would doubt her. “We have sources you wouldn’t know about. Granted, even with those there are a lot of open questions, but we know enough.”
“Good for you. Whatever you know, I don’t, and I haven’t been eager to find out anything about what I’m capable of.”
“You know you’re capable of affecting the real world.” Fallon leaned forward, eyes intent like a cat before it strikes. “And that’s the only thing we’re going to ask you to do.”
The only thing? What she’d been fearing a repeat of for the last decade? What put her brother in jail? And Fallon sat there, a devil holding out Amana’s dearest desire in exchange for her soul. “What is it you want me to do?”
“The facilitator Hadrien, you’ve heard of him?” Technically Fallon was asking a question, but it had that flatness of tone that told the asker was only asking out of politeness, the answer already known to them.
Of course she knew Hadrien. He never was able to amass enough power to get to the top of the food chain, but the bastard had his hands everywhere, from outlawed magic to underground fights to procuring women for all manner of servitude. Yes, she knew him all too well. “What do you need from him?”
“He’s become a little too bold in his black market procurement. Right now he has something of extreme importance that he’s getting ready to place on private auction. It’s known as the Spellbook.”
“A spellbook? What type?” She had enough dealings in her life with wizards and mages to know a spellbook with rare spells would be worth a nice amount.
Laire spoke, her voice a high enough pitch that any bartender would double-check her ID before serving her a drink. “The Spellbook. The one and only. So unique and so powerful it doesn’t even need a fancy name. Believe me, you don’t want to know what wizards would be capable of with that in their possession.”
Something like that available to the types Hadrien would be in contact with? “How did a middling crook like Hadrien get hold of such power?”
A brief flicker passed over Fallon’s face, no doubt an internal debate over what information to impart. She seemed to feel this was harmless enough, for she said, “He was lucky enough – or unlucky enough – to double-cross some powerful people. He’s hoping that the sale will be enough to buy him protection for the rest of his miserable life.”
“And where exactly do I fit in?” That was what she needed, the price of getting her brother free.
Fallon’s hand rested on the wood of the table, her fingers moving to punctuate her words. “Here’s our problem. The Spellbook is guarded by the most feared mercenary in the new realms, and I can attest his legend is well earned. He already knows we’re after him and is guarded against a good part of what we could throw at him. It would be best for us not to get into a combat situation. What we need to do instead is attack him with something he has no defense against.”
“And you need me to…?”
“Meet up with him in his dreams and come into the waking world with the Spellbook. After you give us the book, we go get your brother and bring him out of jail. All nice and proper, and you two wouldn’t even be on the run for the rest of your lives like you would have if your plan to break him out succeeded.”
Nakoa with her, walking down the beach, hand in hand and free and together. It had been a dream that kept her going for the last several years, and now the reality was in her grasp. “I can’t.” The words poured out, even as her heart screamed at her to stop, to think of Nakoa, to offer them anything in return for her brother’s love and warmth and safe near her. “You know why I can’t. If you know us, you know what happened. You know everything else, so you know what happened that day.”
Yes, that day, those twelve hours where everything changed, everything was destroyed. More words, begging words, words to plead her case that she’d never been able to utter to the police or a judge or any of the long line of people who had taken the shy, sensitive young man and made him an animal. “You know he shouldn’t be there, locked in a cage. You know what that is doing to him. He’s dying there, and he doesn’t deserve it. He’s there because he loves me. You’re Guild. You’re supposed to make things right. You know the truth.” Tears marked her face now, tears she reserved for the long, lonely nights before the rise of dawn, where she would scrub them away and start once again looking for the way to free Nakoa, spend another day surviving so she could keep him going as well.
Throughout the impassioned speech, Fallon’s face never changed. No hint of compassion entered her eyes, no downturn of lips or furrowed brow to indicate she was touched
by Amana’s words.
Laire though…Laire stopped filing her nails, her mouth parting as she twisted her head, not enough to look at Amana, but enough to indicate every word said was being heard. After a moments silence, Laire looked to Fallon. “Do we have to lay this on her?”
If Fallon was surprised at Laire’s question it didn’t show. Instead, her gaze still hard on Amana, she answered, “I’m sorry it worked out for you like it did. I am. But we all make our choices, and we live with what unfolds.”
Amana shook her head. “There was no choice-”
“Don’t.” Fallon’s voice was a sonic crack, a stop to everything that would follow. “Add as many qualifiers as you want to help you keep going. I won’t even say you don’t deserve them. What I won’t hear is how there wasn’t a damn thing you could have done different. That’s bullshit, and the argument could be made that as it stands, some semblance of justice is being served.”
After a long look at Amana that seemed to be judging if she would speak again or move, Fallon turned to Laire and said, “So you know, having her go into his dreams is Plan A. Plan B is we head over to Short Shit and offer him anything he wants if he can get the book.”
Laire’s eyes grew to enormous proportions and her whole body went into alert. “What do you mean anything?”
“Anything means anything.”
During their moments-long stare-off, Amana wiped off her face and buried emotions where they would wait to be dug up later.
Fallon was calm. Laire’s agitation was growing bit by bit at the mention of this mysterious person. Finally, Laire turned back to Amana. “You have got to do this job.”
There went that hope of support. Fallon reached into the pocket of her pants and handed her a card. “Read this number.”
Amana wiped the tears away and read. There was magic in the card. The number seared itself in her brain in the first pass, and afterwards the card vanished.
The Dream Crafter Page 2