Rising Darkness (Game of Shadows #1)(63)

He kissed her mouth again, more quickly, and then her nose, and the thin, tender skin at her temple. “And,” he said, “we need to sleep. I’ll warn you, I am horribly pragmatic.”

“I know,” she said.

Surprise bolted across his face. He burst out laughing.

She gave him a small grin and hurried on to say, “No, I mean, I agree. You’re absolutely right. We’ve got to get some rest.”

“All right,” he said. “Scoot over. You get the wall side of the bed.”

He was putting himself between her and the door, in reach of his weapons. She didn’t argue with that logic. Instead she slid over and slipped under the blankets. He stretched out on top of the covers with a weary sigh, reached for her and pulled her down against his side. She curled against his long body. He kept one arm around her shoulders, passed the other hand over her hair and kissed her temple one more time before closing his eyes, while she rested her head on his warm bare shoulder.

His male energy surrounded her, warm and nourishing. She relaxed, basking, and something cramped and long-starved melted away.

Maybe that had nothing to do with her ancient, alien self. Maybe that was her human self, relishing the simple pleasure of being held in a strong man’s arms, the exotic sensation of feeling safe and well. She blanketed him with her lighter, more delicate energy, and felt him ease into peace.

They seemed to fit together with such perfection. Contrast and confluence, two interlocking pieces that balanced and sustained each other.

“I’m so glad you found me,” she whispered.

His arms tightened. He murmured, “I am too. Rest.”

She did. She slipped gently into a deep, dreamless sleep, as light and silent and drifting as snowfall.

Chapter Twenty

GRATEFUL FOR THE chance to let his tired body go lax, Michael fell into a heavy sleep.

If asked, he would have said he was so unconscious that he didn’t know a thing, but there was a part of him that went deeper than unconsciousness, that was more buried than his bones. That part was aware of the warm slender body curled against his side, and the bright energy that lay over him like a silken blanket.

The sensations sent him on a strange journey. He crossed a border into an exotic country filled with comfort and easement, and for the first time in centuries, he enjoyed a nourishing peaceful rest.

When an entity began to probe at the corners of his mind with a subtle, delicate dexterity, he roused.

He met it head-on. When he recognized it, he managed to stay the daggerlike psychic lash he had almost flung in its direction.

He said, Astra.

Michael. Amusement colored Astra’s words. Always the stronghold.

Naturally, he told her. It’s what I do.

I’ve never once managed to get all the way inside your head, she mused. Or touch your dream images, not even when you were a child.

He said nothing. He remembered it well, how she had probed at him, trying to get in.

I wish I could figure out how you do that, she continued. It’s a hell of a talent. I can get into anyone else’s dreams, human or otherwise, even the Deceiver’s, although I do not like going there. But not you. You do dream, don’t you?

Of course I do. He pulled an image around him, the mental gesture like donning a cloak.

A great hall in an early Norman castle appeared, with a long scarred wooden table, a massive fireplace standing cold and empty and suits of armor displayed at various points around the room. The castle was from that first, strong memory he had recovered, their home in a previous life. The life that had taught him the simple, powerful lesson of happiness.

He had never let Astra see any other mental image but this public arena where he had once ruled as warlord. It served as both message and reminder to her.

After he had formed the great hall, he created the mental construct of his physical self. Soon afterward, Astra’s small dark, feminine shape appeared. She never appeared as an old woman in dream or psychic sendings. Instead, she wore the appearance of the young woman she had once been so long ago.

She looked so delicate and innocent, in the first blush of her youth, and that, he knew, was one of the most dangerous illusions anywhere in the world.

“What do you want?” he said, his tone truculent. He stalked over to the head of the table and sat. “I’m busy.”

“Are you? Busy doing what?” she asked. She studied him with large, expressive eyes. “I wouldn’t have been able to reach you if you hadn’t been sleeping. Why don’t you want to visit with me?”

She still probed along the edges of his awareness with delicate little touches, rather like a cat lapping at a bowl of cream. He had lost count of how many times he had endured it before. He had always been faintly repelled by the sensation.

“I was resting,” he snapped. “Which is entirely different from just sleep. Let’s get this over with. What do you want?”

She ignored that. “How long will it take for you to reach me?”

“We’ve stopped, so it will be a couple of days.” His foul temper prompted him to add, “If we come.”

“What?” The single word hit him like a slap. Fury suffused her features. “You would never seriously consider such a thing. Why would you make such a threat?”

“Because you’re pissing me off,” he said. “Seriously. I am sick to death of your constant questioning and testing. Now quit screwing around with me, and tell me what you really want. Are you trying—again—to see if I’ve been corrupted?”