Goddess of the Rose (Goddess Summoning #4)(20)

It's just a delusion, she reminded herself firmly. Nothing more than a symptom of my overactive imagination.

But no matter what common sense told her, Mikki knew that what she was hearing was real - at least to her. At this moment what was happening had become her reality.

Her heart was beating erratically. Get out of the gardens and into the park where I' ll be surrounded by lights and people! Her mind nagged at her, belying the rush of sexual excitement that stirred low in the pit of her stomach.

She wasn't dreaming. She was not safely asleep in her apartment or retelling an erotic fantasy to her girlfriend, or even mixing up lines on a script because of nervousness and too much chianti. Something out there was stalking her. She had to get to safety. As soon as she left the rose gardens, she would be away from the shadowed darkness of their paths and the night-shrouded privacy they afforded. Then she could scream for help. Even if the actors and stagehands had all packed up for the night, someone was always within hearing range in Woodward Park. Plus, she would be well illuminated within the park's free-standing light fixtures. Easy for rescuers to see her.

And easy for him to see, too, that "other" part of her whispered seductively.

Mikki quickened her pace.

A muffled grunt - a mighty burst of breath that sounded as if it came from a blacksmith's bellows rather than a living being - came from the path that ran parallel to the one on which she was walking. Separating them was only a neat bed of profusely blooming Tiffany roses. Mikki sent a furtive look across the pink-faced flowers.

She wasn't close enough to the park for the city lights to help her see him very well. She only caught the flash of glowing eyes before he spun away from her. Size - she gasped - the creature was immense. Against her will, her body flushed with a wild rush of excitement.

A sudden, violent snarl made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. He was flanking her. He meant to cut her off from the lights of the park.

Faster! her rational mind warned. Get out of the gardens and into the light of the park and then scream for help! Fear overshadowed excitement, and in a frightening parody of her dream, Mikki ran.

WHEN he felt her presence, he thought he was dreaming. Again. He didn't understand them, but he welcomed the dreams as rare gifts. They relieved the unending darkness of his entombment. They almost gave him hope . . . almost.

But the fabric of this dream was different. At first that didn't surprise or alarm him. He'd been there generations and had only infrequently been allowed the wisp of a thought . . . the enticing aroma of the living world . . . any living world. Each time it had been a little different. Over the years he'd strained to hear the sound of a voice, the touch of a soft hand, the scent of roses and spice. Sometimes he'd be rewarded; most of the time he had not.

Until recently. The dreams had come to him. That was when she had entered his prison and he had begun to live again.

He had reveled in the dreams, inhaled her until he felt drunk on her essence. Dreams . . . who better than he knew what magic they held?

Perhaps he would dream of touching her skin again. Perhaps . . .

Then her blood had spattered against the cold stone that entombed him, and the pain that jolted him shattered the past two centuries like ice cast against marble.

He hadn't believed he had been freed. He'd thought it was just a cruel delusion. It might have taken a decade for him to attempt even a small movement of one of his massive muscles if her scent hadn't begun to wane.

She was leaving him. Escaping from him.

No! Not again!

Embracing the pain, he flexed his great muscles and broke the barrier of shrouding darkness.

He scented the air. Yes, there, layered within night smells of roses and blood, was the anointing oil. He commanded his stiff body to move, and he followed the fragrance he knew too well through the dark, unfamiliar garden. With an enormous effort of will, he did not crash through the few rosebushes that separated them and seize her. He forced himself to wait until he was able to more carefully control the beast within him. The creature had been penned too long . . . his needs were too raw . . . too brutal. It would not do to rend her flesh with his claws. That would solve nothing. He must capture her gently, as he would a delicate bird, and then return her to the destiny she had thought to escape.

Controlling the ferocity within him, he stalked her. He could not see her well, but he did not need to. The anointing oil drew him; she drew him. And she was aware of him. He could feel her panic. But there was something else - something unfamiliar that radiated from her. He frowned. Something was wrong. He picked up his pace as she left the rose gardens and burst into a small pool of light. He stopped abruptly.

This was not the priestess he sought. Disappointed and confused, he stood frozen, watching as she struggled with the opening of the leather satchel she carried, clearly looking for something. A weapon? Her eyes frantically searched the dense shadows behind her - the shadows in which he stood.

"Come on! Where is that damn cell phone?"

He heard her unfamiliar voice and saw that she was trembling as she searched through the satchel - trembling so badly that the slick leather of the bag slipped out of her hands and fell to the stone path with a sickening crunch.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" the stranger said.

She dropped to her knees and slid her hand into the purse, and he heard her breath rush from her lips, as if in response to a sudden sharp pain. She jerked her hand back. He could see that her fingers were sticky with blood.