chapter One
If sleep deprivation driving was an Olympic sport I’d be gold medaling tonight. Exhausted after so many sleepless nights, the effects of jet lag were a real concern. However I was determined that on my first day in England I would get to Stonehenge, damned roundabouts notwithstanding. There was no reason, valid or otherwise, that I had to see Stonehenge immediately. It was a draw, a pull, some inner-compass leading me there. Unfortunately that same compass didn’t have a true north, so I was stuck wandering, chasing the famous megalith on a strange British map.
The sun had long since set, and the roads were inky paths bleeding black through the grassy hills and across the plains of Wiltshire. I hadn’t passed another car in more than a half hour, and it was a lonely feeling. It was Mid-Summer’s Eve, at least for a little while longer. According to the car rental clerk, a strange little man with violet eyes, it was a beautiful time to be here. We’d see about that when the sun rose, hopefully finding me having seen Stonehenge and finding my way back to my hotel in London. I thought it reasonable to assume I’d see it, satisfy this slightly obsessive inner draw, then come back later as a traditional, mentally stable tourist. I rounded a corner, lost in thoughts of feather-topped mattresses and 600-thread-count sheets, and I nearly missed it. I screeched to a halt and backed up, weaving like a drunk. I was gobsmacked at its size and beauty, by the subtle power implied by the huge stones set atop others like door lintels. Cloaked in moonlight and shadows, the stone circle appeared as it had in my dream and, though it seemed imposing, it still called to me like a siren’s song. I parked the tiny car haphazardly on the edge of the small road, unfolded myself from the driver’s seat and walked toward the stones.
A small, nagging pulse began to build at the base of my skull, worsening with every step I took closer to the standing stone circle. I shook my head, trying unsuccessfully to clear the fuzziness that descended. Pressure built until my ears needed to pop, and I worked my jaw to no avail. Still I moved forward. I stumbled when, in a moment of clarity, I remembered the stones been fenced off years ago to prevent just this sort of thing. Perhaps something had changed, I thought. Perhaps. My mind shifted to the dense shadows cast by the tall stones and my concern dissipated, a puff of breath in the cold air.
The night was silent save for the sound of the wind. It was clear and cool, bordering on cold, and my little windbreaker wasn’t really jacket enough. I couldn’t bring myself to leave, though, even to go back to the car for a heavier coat. I wandered among the stones, thinking about their history and mine, wondering what would be left of me after so long. Would I leave a mysterious legacy? Or would I crumble under the elements and disappear? The latter felt more likely.
I paced the circle and drew my fingertips over the weathered stones in no repeatable pattern as I walked this circle from my dreams. The intermittently clinging moss lent a random slickness that contrasted harshly with the weather-roughened stone. There was a sense of peace that came from standing within what I had come to think of as my circle. I trailed my fingertips around the largest of the standing stones and looked up. What an unbelievable night sky. The stars were so dense they made me dizzy. I stumbled to the altar stone and lay across it like the proverbial sacrifice. The alter stone was somehow smaller than I thought it would be, and, in turn, it made me feel smaller, insignificant. Tears slipped from my eyes unbidden, sliding passed my temples and into my hair, leaving cold tracks the breeze danced across. I felt broken, adrift. My parents had been my mentors and my very best friends. Losing them was a physical pain I wasn’t sure I could withstand. Eleven months since the accident, and I still didn’t know how I was going to live without them.
The night sky was so close it felt like I could touch the stars and pluck them one by one from the heavens. I picked one out of the infinity, a less brilliant one toward what I assumed was the south, and thought, Starlight, star bright, first star I’ve chosen tonight… Wouldn’t it be cool if I could wish away my problems, my hurts, my reality? I could be someone else, here in this land of myth and mystery, and I could obliterate my past. I could be strong again, and quick-witted, with little fear of the unknown and a great sense for adventure. In three words—my old self. And what harm could wishing do, really? Urged on by memories of a sunny childhood and simpler days where nothing was impossible and I was loved unconditionally, I followed through and wished for just that—a changed reality. Love, unconditional or otherwise, would have to be a bonus the Fates would figure out because the loss of my parents had shattered my heart. With the smashing return of their memory my hope winked out. But my wish had been made. Things beyond my understanding were set into motion. I couldn’t take it back.
Without any warning the stars spun, increasing in velocity, and the altar felt as if it tilted hard to my right. I dug my fingers uselessly into the stone, breaking fingernails down to the bloody quick. Bracing my feet against the end of the altar, I tried to hold on through this inexplicable rush of vertigo. I got incredibly nauseous and two spins from tossing my last American meal, the world stopped. I felt weightless for a moment and I heard the stones breathe, “Adael i ddechrau.” Let it begin.
Why could I interpret that voice? I rolled off the altar and ran for the car like a drunk on a three-bottle bender.
I reached the little coupe and wrenched the door open, physically throwing myself inside. I slammed the door shut and locked it. Breathing hard through my mouth, I shook uncontrollably and felt like I couldn’t get enough air.
I’m dreaming, sleepwalking. I have to be hallucinating—no other explanation than that.
The last sign I’d passed had promised me I was less than two hours from my hotel bed, and I decided I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to make it back there. Surely a good night’s sleep would cure my overactive imagination. I couldn’t stop myself from glancing back over my shoulder at the standing stone circle as I turned the key and cranked the Mini’s engine over. Standing near the altar, a shadow within a shadow, was a person. And that person was staring at me. I left a trail of burned rubber as I headed back to London.
The lights of the city danced over the car’s shiny red paint as I drove past a handful of traditional tourist stops that were far from common—Kensington Palace, Parliament, Big Ben. I’d finally slowed when I reached the outskirts of the city. The farther I got from the standing stones the more likely I thought it that I had both suffered some sleep-deprived auditory and sensory delusions and imagined my shadowy observer. It was easier to convince myself of my temporary break with reality, too, since the shaking had stopped. I found my hotel and, after the night I’d had, chose to spring for valet parking. Being American, I was pre-destined to pull in through the wrong lane. The valet smiled indulgently, and I could tell he knew I was a foreigner. The Nikes, faded blue jeans and Abercrombie T-shirt probably labeled me an American just as much as my backwards driving did. Oh well.
“Good evenin’, miss,” he said, tipping his hat to me.
“Hi,” I replied, smiling. I love how some Brits don’t pronounce the Gs at the end of words. I handed him my keys and turned back to reach into the car and grab my laptop case out of the back seat. I noticed a folded up sheet of ivory-colored paper in the passenger seat. Huh. I didn’t remember buying any paper like that. Maybe it was from the previous renter. I grabbed it, struck by its odd texture, and stuck it in my back pocket. I would inspect it when I was checked into my room and settled. I walked through the revolving front door and into the lobby, impressed that the travel website had actually been right about this place. It was lush. Done in white and gray Italian Carrera marble, the walls were washed in a soft gray with mahogany wainscoting all around. The ceilings had to be at least twenty feet high, and there was a small fountain littered with coins set in the middle of the lobby floor. The elevator doors were polished silver, not that tacky brass color that American hotels use. The furniture looked antique, though I would probably never be able to tell a reproduction from an original, even at gunpoint. The wood on the furniture matched the mahogany color of the wainscoting, but the velvet on the sofa was what arrested my attention. In deep, blood red velvet, it was the only primary color in the room.
I went to the long reception desk and presented my reservation. The black-jacketed clerk looked everything over and took my credit card for incidentals.
“It’s a non-smoking room, right?” I asked. All I needed after all this stress was an excuse to buy a hard-pack. I missed my cigarettes.
“Of course, unless you’d like to change?”
Oh cruel world, why do you mock me? Feeling more like a cocaine addict than a nicotine junky, I set my jaw and shook my head. “No, no change, thanks.”
“Very well. Welcome to the UK, ma’am,” he said with a smile, swiping the card and handing it back to me with an electronic room key imprinted with the Union Jack. “Enjoy your stay at the Pemberton. Just press star zero if there’s anythin’ we can do for you.”
“Thank you,” I said. I pulled out the travel handle on my laptop case and asked, “Will the bellhop bring my bags up tonight?”
“Of course,” the clerk replied. “Do you need them immediately?”
“No. In the next half hour will be fine. Will you call up before delivery, though, in case I’m in the shower or something?” I requested, trying my best to not draw attention to my travel-ravaged hair or my wrinkled clothes.
“Of course,” the clerk replied again, studiously avoiding looking at my bedraggled self. The guy gave great eye contact.
The manager, dressed in a fitted black suit, walked out of his office behind the desk and greeted me. “Hallo, Ms…” he paused, looking at my reservation, “…Niteclif. It’s nice to have you with us. Wait. Niteclif? The American?” He looked at me expectantly, almost anxiously.
“Yes,” I said, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.
“There’s a message for you.” He disappeared back into his office. He returned quickly, carrying a message on ivory-colored paper. As I accepted it I realized it had the same look and feel as that that had been on the car’s front seat. What were the odds?
“You must be mistaken.” No one knew I was staying here.
“No, ma’am. I’m relatively certain this is correct as the gentleman who dropped it off earlier this evenin’ was quite adamant that you receive his missive upon your arrival.” He flushed, pulling at his collar. Either the guy had tipped the Manager well or he’d threatened him.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll, uh, just take it to my room.” I took the message and saw my name written on the front in an elegant black script—Madeleine D. Niteclif. The bellhop approached with my bags as I was about to comment on the red wax seal melted over the back flap and impressed with a serpent of some type. He tipped his cap at me in the same manner the valet had, friendly but formal. I decided that all of the ivory-papered messages in the world couldn’t be as intriguing to me as the number of pillows on the bed. I was exhausted. So I thanked the desk clerk and manager again and, with the bellhop hot on my heels, headed to my non-smoking hotel room and a good, quiet night’s sleep. Let’s hear it for willpower.
Ten. That was the number of pillows on the heavenly bed in my room. Done in the same marble and mahogany as the lobby, with still-impressive twelve-foot coffered ceilings, the room was lovely. The walls were a complementing soft gray, with the floor-length curtains done in a dark smoke. But it was the bed that had stolen my heart. There were Celtic designs carved into the headboard and climbing vines carved into each of the four posts. The duvet was a white and gray striped silk, and there were solid white and gray throw pillows artfully arranged against the headboard. One blood red pillow was the sole splash of color in the room. On the wall, at the foot of the bed, was a plasma screen TV. There was a small writing secretary under the window, with an antique-looking chair sitting in front of it. I was in love with the whole room. I’m generally not a mystical-whimsy-and-throw-in-some-vines kind of girl, but the bed was so romantic, and I was in England and it all fit together of a piece. I’ll admit, once, that I rolled around on the bed like a kid. Okay. Moving on.
I peeked into the bathroom, curious. If the bedroom screamed I’m worth a fortune! then this room quietly projected wealth; no screaming here. It was all Italian marble and polished chrome fixtures. Not modern, exactly, just elegant. The shower was a solid green-glass-walled enclosure with four fixtures and enough controls to launch a satellite into orbit. I would have to figure it out later. The bathtub was an old claw-foot tub made for soaking. There was even a telephone on the wall nearest the door.
The bellhop waited while I dug around in my backpack for my wallet and I tipped him what I hoped was a decent amount. Then the bellhop surprised me by counting off a few notes and handing the rest back to me.
“This is more’n sufficient, miss. Wouldn’ wanna cheacha or nuttin’,” he said, bobbing his head. “Have a good evenin’.” He gave me one last shy smile, and he was gone.
I clearly needed to learn my pounds from my silver or I was going to get screwed at some point. I’d have to worry about it tomorrow, though, because right now I needed a bath. I desperately wanted a shower but, like I said, the controls were going to take some non-sleep-deprived concentration. The tub? Simply run hot water. I could do that.
I made sure the security latch was thrown on the door, and I shed my clothes. Just being out of the grimy things made me feel better. I stood in the bathroom, waiting for the tub to fill up. The papers. I had forgotten all about the two pieces of paper—one from the car, one from the front desk—that I wanted to look at. But the tub was almost full.
They’ve waited all evening. They can wait a little longer.
I stepped into the hot water and sat slowly, leaning back and sinking almost to my chin. I could feel individual muscles begin to relax and I sighed, running my hands back and forth through the hot water, grateful for such a small pleasure. The water stung my broken nails a little, and I made a mental note to rub an antibacterial cream into the tips before bed. I could feel myself slipping off to sleep. As I didn’t want to drown, I sat up and began scrubbing the travel grit off myself. I washed my hair, dunking it to rinse it out. I’d cut it pixie short before the trip so maintenance would be an easy task. Finishing the bath, I got out and toweled off. I reveled in my bare skin and, catching a glance of myself in the mirror, turned to analyze what I saw. I held my arms out parallel to the floor and looked at myself from all sides. I was tall for a woman at an even six feet. My waist was slightly indented above insignificant hips, which only served as a place to join my legs to my torso. My arms and legs were toned due to kick-boxing lessons, but they were still soft enough to be feminine. My breasts? All woman. I’m tall but not large, and thin but not runway model anorexic chic. My hair was naturally a dark brown bordering on black, my eyes a light green. I had always been easy going and generous with my smiles, with an open and accepting personality. I had even once been considered quick-witted by friends and co-workers. Of course, none of that mattered much anymore. Grief was my new moniker, and I wore it and bore its weight well. I sank slowly to the floor and watched as I disappeared from the sink’s mirror. Disappeared. How appropriate. Curling my arms around my legs, I made myself as small and insignificant as I could there on the cold marble floor and I allowed myself to weep for my losses. Grief, rage, terror, longing, abandonment—they all poured out in an open cry of invocation to any deity who would hear me, but my spiritual phone didn’t ring.
I pulled myself up off the floor, emotionally as well as physically thrashed. I treated my fingertips and crawled up into the highboy bed, yielding to the pull of sleep before my head hit the pillows. I began to dream.
Standing in an empty ballroom, I was wearing the most amazing gown. It was a sheath dress, which suited my tall figure well. Simple but stunning, it was done in a deep garnet color—a haltered number that highlighted my long arms and pale complexion. The slit on the side of the dress ran nearly to my hip and gave no question as to my length of leg or the fact that I was built like a woman. The lack of a true neckline combined with the plunging back made my neck appear longer, and left no doubt about my lack of a bra. I wasn’t the type of woman who should, or really could, go without and I felt slightly self-conscious, even in sleep. My short, dark hair was tousled as if I’d just rolled out of bed. It was all sexy as hell, and I was talking about me. I’ve never thought of myself as beautiful, but in the dream I was. My only accessories were a large diamond pendant hung on a white gold chain and white gold wrist cuffs. I was barefoot.
I walked across the ballroom, the only person inside. Music played somewhere else, a waltz, and I wondered if I could learn to dance to it. I stopped and swayed for a moment then began to walk again, but this time my step was in time to the music.
“With only a little modification, my love, you’ve learned the steps,” said a deep male voice behind me. I knew I was dreaming because I didn’t spin around in fear. Instead I turned, focused on being graceful. Anyone who knew me would know that grace and I didn’t have a long and happy history. Anyone who knew me…for one moment I thought of my parents and the ache in my heart was like a mortal wound, my shoulders hunching to protect my heart. Time froze for a moment, and then the pain loosed its grip, and I stood straight again under the heavy burden of my grief.
Oh the beauty of dreams. The owner of the voice stood close to me, clothed in a light blue silk shirt over faded out jeans. He, too, was barefoot. Odd, I’d never had a foot fetish before. But I did have a thing for tall guys, and this guy fit the bill. He was easily 6’7”, with broad shoulders, lean but evidently well muscled as the shirt slithered across his shoulders and around his waist as he moved. It was almost like the shirt was a living thing, and my fingers twitched with the need to rub it between my forefinger and thumb. His hair was a dark brown, shot through with strands of gold and copper and it brushed the tops of his shoulders. He had a square jaw with firm, full lips, and gorgeous shaped eyebrows sitting on a perfectly proportioned face. But the eyes were what did me in. His eyes were an almost sapphire blue, dark with an even darker ring around the iris. How did I know? I’d drifted toward him as I took him in, almost as if he’d called me to him. I stopped. Had he called me?
“Only out of sleep, my love,” he said, his voice hinting at the potential for a deep Scottish brogue. Oh sweet hell, I could fall for the voice alone.
I closed my eyes. “Say something else,” I said in a cool, commanding voice.
He chuckled, an almost sinister sound that echoed in the ballroom. “Something else,” he parroted.
My eyes snapped open. “Very funny.” I glared at him. “This is my dream, so lose the pathetic humor and just stand there and look pretty.”
“‘Look pretty’?” he asked, incredulous. “Did you just tell me to look pretty?” His eyebrows rose, mocking my choice of words.
“I don’t read romance novels, so I refuse to use the words burgeoning, smoldering, blazing, heroic, manly, or turgid in any of my conversations—even in my dreams. So yeah, look pretty. Besides, this is my dream. You shouldn’t be provoking me.”
“Is it your dream?” he asked, moving even closer to me. He smelled like sunshine and night air combined right after a new rain. It was a mouthwatering smell. I leaned in to breathe him in since there are no codes of decorum in sleep.
He chuckled again.
“What?” I demanded.
“Already you’re drawn to me,” he said softly.
“Arrogant much?” I stepped back, agitated. He raised a hand to caress my cheek. In a move as natural as breathing, I laid my face in his hand and sighed, my irritation immediately forgotten.
The stranger’s head snapped up, and he let out a low string of creative curses, dropping his hand. “I got here first,” he growled, the sound reverberating in his chest.
“Ah, but the point is I got here.” I turned toward him and gasped. The newest voice belonged to a prime male specimen. He wore a black suit, with a black silk shirt and cool European-style black shoes. He was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome, topping out somewhere around 6’3” and built like the statue David. His hair was black, a true black that I knew would have hints of blue in the sunlight. Pushed back from his face it hung past his jaw to his jacket collar and it was almost hard to see where the hair ended and his jacket began. His face was absolutely gorgeous, with sculpted cheekbones, dark brows and lashes that I would have considered literally killing him to get. His eyes were a bright light green, like new grass, and they were intense, focused on me and Mystery Guy #1.
“Did you think that a mere dream walk would keep me out, Bahlin?” asked the dark-haired man. “I am more powerful than that and, like you, I have a strongly vested interest in Madeleine’s future.”
“Maddy.”
“Pardon?” tall, dark and yummy asked, turning his attention back to me.
“I go by Maddy. But if this is my dream, you should know that.” I fisted my hands at my sides, the irritation returning as I recognized the sheer number of idiosyncrasies in my dream. It was like I didn’t know myself very well at all, and it struck me that this whole dream sequence was, somehow, very wrong. “You know, I’ve never dreamed of two men arguing over me. That’s ridiculous. Men, plain men, don’t argue over me. You two Greek gods definitely wouldn’t. Argue, that is.”
“Greek gods?” Bahlin chuckled.
“But we’re not Greek gods,” said the other man. “We’re—”
“No,” roared Bahlin. “You will not reveal our true natures to her in a dream. Besides,” he said, his voice cooling, “it’s just a figure of speech. Right, Maddy?” With less than a thought he was standing at my side again, his chest nearly touching my right shoulder. I turned toward him slowly, like a flower turns toward the sun, because it must, when the other man approached me. He walked quickly but with the grace of a dancer. His approach stopped my turn to Bahlin, as I’m sure he intended.
“Then I shall introduce myself formally, at the very least.” He moved lightly for such a large man. He bowed a very courtly bow in front of me and said, “I am Tarrek, First Prince of Faerie.” He picked up my limp hand and kissed it, and the contact was electric, sending little jolts along my nervous system.
“Really? A faerie prince? That’s odd. I can’t figure out why I’d dream about the Tuatha de Dannan. I’m not into that supernatural, paranormal crap that seems to have taken over literature—okay, the world. Though I really do absolutely love Laurell K. Hamilton, and I did like Twilight, but…”
“Do you always talk this much?” asked Tarrek, curiosity evident in his voice, while still holding my hand.
“Hey! My dream, my altered reality.” I took my hand back more forcefully than absolutely necessary. Something stuck in my head—my altered reality.
Bahlin chuckled from somewhere behind me and said, “At least you had a better response than being told to look pretty.” He stalked around me with lethal, predatory grace and I was suddenly facing him too. He stood inches away from Tarrek and the tension between the two men nearly crackled, as if proximity made their dislike of each other even worse.
“Then I, too, shall formally introduce myself,” he said. “I am Bahlin Drago, but you may simply call me Bahlin.” He took my hand and bowed over it, but his bow was different, less deferential. “And the pleasure is all mine.” He turned my hand over in his so that my palm was facing up and he kissed it, lips slightly parted, slow and sensuous. A cool breeze blew through the room, ruffling the men’s hair slightly. The wind carried the scent of Bahlin, and I was momentarily speechless.
“A pleasure for me, as well,” I said, trying to recover some type of control over my behavior, but the harder I struggled to master myself, the less in control I felt. I began to shiver, disturbed even in sleep. I felt almost as if my thoughts were somehow being steered to influence me, though to what end I had no idea.
The three of us stood in silence, a tight living and breathing triangle. The tension between the two men continued to escalate until Tarrek said through clenched teeth, “We will not fight tonight.”
“The choice may not be yours,” Bahlin responded, fisting his hands at his sides.
“Stop,” I cried, and I shot up out of sleep like a drowning woman coming up for air.
Disoriented, I looked around the bedroom and it took me a moment to remember where I was. I was drenched in sweat and the bed was destroyed. The duvet was on the floor, the silk sheets were pulled off the mattress, and the pillows looked as if I’d thrown them around the room in a fit of rage. Strange. I couldn’t remember exactly what I’d been dreaming, but it didn’t seem like it had been this disturbing. It definitely wasn’t anything like the nightmares I’d been having prior to leaving home. Even the memories of those dark dreams made my stomach cramp with remembered fear.
Unable to sit still, I got up and began collecting pillows. I picked up the duvet and set the bed to rights. It took longer than I expected because the bed was so tall, but I got it done and crawled back in between the sheets. Seemingly impossible, yet true, I felt even more exhausted than when I’d first laid down. What had I been dreaming? The memory became more elusive the harder I chased it. It felt like it had been important. I slid back into sleep and for the first time in months it was, thankfully, dreamless.