STOLEN BRIDES

By

Ashley Ladd

(c) copyright Elaine Hopper July 2003

Cover art (c) copyright July 2003 Eliza Black

New Concepts Publishing

4729 Humphreys Rd.

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

Chapter One

“Captain! Terrorists!” Lara, the head stewardess shouted over the com, her voice quaking with fear. “They’re killing the passengers. Ohmigod! They’re disappearing….”

Disappearing. Kat Craven, Boeing 747’s youngest female pilot, grabbed her weapon and jumped to her feet, blood surging through her veins. She wasn’t going down without a fight. How could a terrorist, much less terrorists in the plural, get past their stringent new security measures. No demands been made so the hijackers mustn’t want ransom. Just another batch of kooks who thought revenge or religious doctrine justified killing innocents. Her head pounded relentlessly. Revenge on who, though, and why?

The door exploded in a flash of blinding light, evaporating in a cloud of dust. A Viking of a man with shoulders almost the width of the doorway filled her vision. Silky white blonde hair grazed his shoulders. Intense lavender eyes raked over her, assessing her, as he faced her holding no more than a small iron rod. Brows almost invisible they were so white against his alabaster complexion pinched together. Deep lines creased his wide forehead.

Behind him the whisper of life faded. When he moved, empty seats met her eyes as far to the back of the plane as she could see. Only a child’s tattered teddy bear lay in the aisle, lonely, staring blankly at her.

Rage exploded in her as she fought back tears. Her finger shook on the trigger of her gun. “You bastards! You killed everyone! We’re going to crash.” Not that it mattered any longer to their passengers or crew but to innocents on the ground.

“Your plane’s already crashed. You’re already dead.”

The oddest accent Kat had ever heard tinged her attacker’s words. A globe trotter, she couldn’t begin to guess his nationality. The nonsensical words buzzed in her ears. Already dead?

Blood pumped furiously through her veins. “What do you want?” Didn’t he want to negotiate. Make demands. They must want something. Then realization struck. They wanted the plane, to crash it into a nuclear power plant or important government building. She couldn’t let them.

“Do it!” a second, smaller man urged, scowling at his watch. “We waste precious time.”

Survival instinct kicking in, Kat squeezed the trigger aimed at the leader’s head. A bright flash of light disintegrated the cabin wall behind where the terrorists stood. The men were there one moment, gone the next, before the bullet hit them. She blinked, unable to believe her eyes. “What the he--”

The iron rod pinched her neck, paralyzing her down to her tongue so that she couldn’t utter a syllable. Her vision blurred, but she couldn’t blink so much as an eyelash. She slumped, unable to catch herself. When she expected to hit the floor, she was sucked into a vortex. Only her lungs vibrated, the pressure against the walls of her chest almost unbearable. How long she zoomed through the psychedelic tunnel of swirling color she couldn’t begin to guess. Maybe an eternity. Perhaps only a second. Time buzzed by in the vacuum.

Without warning, she landed. The ground was spongy and soft. Her backside protested as her vertebrae clenched violently.

“No more incoming. Escort the female to processing.”

A large hand appeared before her face. Masculine voices devoid of emotion drifted over her. Her muscles twitched, telling her the paralysis had lifted. She squeezed her finger, but her weapon had disappeared. She didn’t remember dropping it, but she must have when her muscles went limp. That or her abductors had taken it from her when she was incapacitated. An ex-Air Force fighter pilot who had once before been taken prisoner of war, she wasn’t going to be taken captive again without a struggle. She’d kill herself before being tortured again. But she was damned if she wouldn’t take a few of the enemy with her. Trained as a lethal weapon herself, she jumped to her feet and swung around in a high karate kick aimed at the aggressor’s face.

Her captor caught her leg mid-air lithely, as if she moved in slow motion. Off-balance, she tumbled hard on her ass. Silly as it sounded, she couldn’t phrase a better question. “Take me to your commander. I demand answers,” she said as regally as she could considering she lay flat on her back, the animal still encircling her ankle in his iron grip.

“We intend no harm.” The man released her leg without warning so that it flopped hard to the ground. Tendons that had never made themselves known before screamed at her. She was in excellent physical shape, but she hadn’t tried that drill team style high kick maneuver since her high school days more than a dozen years before.

“Hijacking a plane and kidnapping the pilot is an odd way of showing it.” She longed to rub her aching muscles where a Charlie Horse was giving birth, but she was damned if she’d show an ounce of weakness. So she stretched to her full height, rolled her shoulders back and thrust her chest out, facing him squarely. Unfortunately, he towered a good six inches over her 5’9” stature, forcing her to tilt her chin to meet his gaze which put her at a distinct disadvantage.

“Follow me. Processing must commence immediately.” The man remained infuriatingly calm, rigid but not noticeably tense.

Her blood boiled and it took every bit of her military training to keep her expressionless mask in place. She stood at parade rest, refusing to move until he answered her questions. “Not until you tell me what this place is and why you brought me here. What type of--thing--was that that transported me here?”

She gulped air into her over-exerted lungs as she took in her surroundings. The air tasted strange, almost like cinnamon, but tarter. Spongy and porous, native plant life was more like an undersea panorama than above ground foliage. The sky she’d always known was gone. One that matched the man’s lavender eyes replaced it. It grew deeper in hue as seconds ticked away. Three moons chased each other across the heavens.

She blinked several times. Three moons. She couldn’t be on Earth. Her abductors weren’t terrorists. They were aliens. She was in even more trouble than she’d dreamed only seconds ago. No Green Beret or Navy Seal special operatives would rescue her here. She was on her own. “What planet is this?”

Dear God, she’d never thought she’d ever say anything so trite. If she had to die, she wanted to be buried on home soil, not some alien rock in another galaxy.

“Your questions will all be answered after everyone is processed. Haste is imperative.” Irritation slipped into his tones. His formerly lavender eyes darkened to violet. He moved his head and the tips of his pointy ears peeked out.

Pointy ears. She gaped at them, her jaw slack. Her head pounded and it grew increasingly difficult to drag air into her aching lungs. “Holy Star Trek! A blonde Spock.”

The word everyone registered, if late. “The others aren’t dead. What is this processing?” Suspicion seeped into her bones. The last time she’d been processed she’d been strip-searched way too thoroughly, hosed down, dressed in prison garb, and thrown into a cell with rats larger than her foot.

A prisoner she might be, but not a fool. Her traitorous body wouldn’t follow orders, however, and she lapsed into coughing spasms, her lungs seeming to collapse in on themselves. Then her knees buckled and she pitched forward. With each gasp of air, her lungs screamed. Her chest tightened unbearably as if ready to implode.

Her tormentor hoisted her into his arms almost effortlessly as she gasped for breath. “We require emergency healing!”

“Why wasn’t this female processed immediately, Davek?” A wizened face lined with deep creases peered into her face. Several tendrils of silvery hair escaped the band that pulled the majority away from his face. He flashed a penlight in her eyes, dilating her eyes, blinding her to further observation. “Why has this female not been processed yet?”

“Healer, this fool warrior resisted processing. She’s not been treated to accept our atmosphere as yet.” The man’s words contradicted the gentle arms that cradled her.

The healer grunted and narrowed his eyes at the younger man as he injected something into her thigh. “You know this atmosphere’s poisonous to her kind. We lost the majority of the first travelers before we discovered this. Your father won’t be pleased if she expires. Few breeders were harvested this mission and this one is of child bearing years.”

“Breeders. Poisonous air?” She thrashed about, trying to lift her head but it swum dizzily. They were trying to poison her. Nothing made sense.

“Take her to the healing ward. She will need intensive care and observation.”

* * * *

In ancient reverence, Prince Davek knelt before his father, the King of Antara. Then he pulled himself to his full height and lifted his chin. “The mission was successful, Father. With one exception.”

“Give your report.” King Sordel nodded, sitting forward in his chair. “How many fertile breeders did you acquire?”

“Only ten that will serve our purposes. Most of the females are beyond their child bearing time or haven’t yet come into it. Some have been sterilized. Some who were already mated have their mates in attendance.” Davek hesitated, reluctant to reveal the source of his failure. However, it wouldn’t surprise him if one of his father’s advisors hadn’t already informed him one of the breeders hovered on death’s precipice. “One resisted processing. She lies in the healing ward under intensive treatment.”

Visions of the warrior female popped into his head. A splendid form strained against her uniform, but she was much too militant for his liking. Females on their world were subservient to their mates. This one would never submit to her mate’s commands. It was doubtful they could ever remove the obedience collar from her safely.

His father’s brows drew together as he tapped his fingers on the arm of his bejeweled throne. “Keep me advised of the female’s progress. Meanwhile, make our new citizens welcome and start the assimilation process.”

“That has been started already, Father.”

“Choose the eight worthiest unmated men in the kingdom and prepare the mating ritual. Hold the celebration on the night of the three full moons. By this time next cycle, I wish to hold the welcome feast for nine new infants.”

“Only eight unmated males, Father?” Davek frowned. He had heard nine infants, had he not. “But there are nine healthy breeders.”

“You will take first selection. Continuance of the royal line, of our world, must be assured.”

“As Prince I had hoped I would be given the freedom to decide when to take a mate, even if I must wait until our next mission, or the one beyond. None of the breeders rescued on this mission are suitable.” The warrior female’s exquisite face flashed in his mind. Exotically lovely she might be with her rare raven locks and rounded ears, but she would also be disobedient, independent, and willful, not at all the qualities he sought in his mate or the next queen of Antara.

His father drew himself to his feet, his expression thunderous. His voice boomed through the castle. “As monarch, it is your duty to be an example to our people. You cannot expect your subjects to select a mate if you refuse to do so yourself. I will be in attendance at the ceremony to oversee your selection. If necessary, I will choose for you.”

Davek bowed to his father, cursing the gods for the millionth time for casting a plague upon their own females that stole their fertility. Formal mating with one of the alien females meant he could no longer indulge in the pleasures of his concubine, a woman who pleased him immensely but who could never produce an heir. “I submit to your will, Father King.” He bowed and backed out of the King’s throne room cursing the Goddess under his breath.

DREAM GUARDIAN

By

Joy Nash

(c) copyright July 2003 Joy Nash

Cover art (c) copyright July 2003 Eliza Black

New Concepts Publishing

4729 Humphreys Rd.

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

Chapter One

The music sounded like something from outer space.

Julia Maria Borelli crammed her head under the pillow, but the howling barely dimmed. Root canal would have been less painful.

Jewel lifted one corner of the pillowcase and peered at the clock. Great. Just great. Six A.M., and the tenant in the upstairs apartment was blasting Yoko Ono loud enough to produce permanent hearing damage.

If there were a place for Jewel in hell, it would sound like this.

Yoko's voice careened up an octave, heedless of innocent bystanders. Jewel sucked in a breath. She hadn't seen her new neighbor, but a rusty U-haul had been blocking the alley when she'd left for work last night. Just her luck, she now shared her South Philly rowhouse with a tone-deaf jerk.

She rolled out of bed and staggered into her miniature kitchen. If anything, the screeching was louder there, and the high-pitched accompaniment did nothing to improve Jewel's mood. She grabbed a broom, climbed on top of the breakfast bar and pounded on the ceiling with the blunt end.

The effort was futile, given the volume of the so-called music, but it felt good. She slammed the broom into the ceiling again. This time it stuck.

“Oh, shit.” She tugged it out, releasing a shower of plaster. Apparently, the one-hundred-year-old ceiling was no match for an angry woman wielding janitorial equipment. Now she'd end up paying for repairs.

Out of her travel fund.

A blinding surge of anger propelled her into the hallway and up the stairs. She pummeled the door to the cretin's apartment.

It opened while her fist was in mid-swing. Unable to stop her forward motion, she fell over the threshold, into something--no, make that somebody--hard.

A strong hand grasped her arm and held her steady. Jewel regained her balance and looked up, into the darkest eyes she'd ever seen.

They were so black that she couldn't tell where the pupil and iris met. They were the sky in the hour before dawn: clear, brilliant, and lit with the sparkle of a thousand stars. Black diamonds set in a face of harsh angles.

High cheekbones and a long, patrician nose. A jutting chin touched with about three days' worth of stubble. Long, dark hair falling over a proud forehead and brushing ever-so-slightly against a firm jaw. Her gaze traveled lower.

Jewel caught her breath. Despite the fact that last night's frost had put a damper on spring, her new neighbor wasn't wearing much at all.

And he was ripped. The man must have been working out forever. His incredible pecs and washboard abs were dusted with the most interesting sprinkle of black, curly hair, which disappeared into the low-slung waistband of his Sponge Bob boxers. Jewel swallowed hard and tried not to stare at the bulge rounding out Mr. Squarepants.

My God. Andrea Bocelli and Fabio rolled into one incredible, heart-stopping package.

That would be one heart-stopping package with hideous taste in music, she reminded herself.

“Yes?” His voice was deep and husky, a welcome contrast to Yoko's latest attack on C flat.

Jewel peeked around the hottie's massive shoulders. His apartment was even smaller than hers. His head came dangerously close to the ceiling, giving Jewel the impression of a giant crammed into a playhouse. She'd interrupted his cooking--the heady aromas of coffee and bacon wafted from the doll-sized stove.

She stabbed a finger at the source of her audio agony--a half-built computer wired to a portable CD player. “Do you think you could turn that thing down?”

“Sorry.” Mr. Hunk strode to the offending instrument and bent over. While he adjusted a knob, Jewel ogled his tight butt and long, hard thighs.

Blessed silence filled the air. Thank heaven. Now was the time to lay down the law about blasting alternative music.

“I'm Jewel. From downstairs.” Mentally, she winced. Not an auspicious start for a dressing-down.

He stood up and turned around. “Hello, Jewel.”

She detected a hint of an accent. Dare she hope it was Italian?

Long seconds ticked by while she stared at her neighbor's pecs. Maybe he wasn't a total wash. She could try introducing him to classical music.

He cleared his throat.

She looked up into his sinful eyes.

Then he smiled.

Wow.

A few stuttering heartbeats passed before Jewel gathered her wits. “And you are....”

“I am Darius.”

“Darius,” she said. His name swept over her tongue like chocolate mocha cappuccino, and for once in her life, Jewel couldn't think of what to say next. God, she was an idiot. What was wrong with her? She didn't normally fall apart over great ass and a smile like a Greek god. At least, she didn't think she did.

“Please, call me Dar. Would you like to come in? I am preparing breakfast, and your company would be most welcome.”

Definitely an Old World accent. “Okay.” She trailed him into the kitchenette, ignoring the open sofa bed as she picked her way past an assortment of half-unpacked moving boxes.

He shoved a pile of computer guts off a chair. She sat down at the breakfast bar and eyed a stack of programming magazines, the only neat element in the chaos he called home. Who'd have thought? It looked like her new-found Apollo was a geek.

He rummaged through one of the boxes on the floor by the refrigerator and took out two chipped ceramic mugs. “Coffee?”

“Sure.”

He moved to the stove, where a real coffee pot, battered but serviceable, was perking merrily. She could see the brown liquid bubbling in the little glass doohickey on top. Dar poured two cups of steaming java. Jewel wrapped her hands around her mug and sniffed appreciatively.

Dar transferred several slices of crisp bacon onto a plate lined with paper towels, then cracked half a dozen eggs into a bowl. Within moments, it seemed, he presented Jewel with a cheese omelet so light it barely touched the plate.

He sat his buns of steel down in the chair opposite hers and took a swig from his mug, then bent his head to his meal. Jewel took a bite of omelet and tried to remember when a man had last cooked for her.

Nothing came to mind, unless she counted the time her older brother, Joey, had boiled the spaghetti water, but even then, she'd had to open the jar of sauce.

She took another bite, then realized that Dar had already finished and was staring at her breasts. Admittedly, she didn't have much up top, but….

Jewel caught her breath, suddenly aware of her attire--the soft, snug t-shirt and silky boxers she slept in. The outfit didn't leave much to the imagination.

A weird flash of hunger ripped through her. Not her own--the emotion was Dar's, though how she knew that, she couldn't say. She gripped her cup and gulped a mouthful of java.

She waved her fork at her plate, trying to distract him. “This is great. Thanks.”

He caught her gaze. “Any time.”

He might have been talking about breakfast, but somehow Jewel doubted it. She cleared her throat, which had suddenly gone dry. Maybe if she just pretended she was fully clothed, he'd get the hint. “So, where'd you move from?”

“New Jersey. Just across the river.”

“Did you live there long?”

“No.”

“Where'd you come from originally?”

He hesitated, then replied, “I'm an alien.”

“Illegal, I bet.” Anything that looked as good as Dar did had to be illegal.

“You could say that.”

“Where were you born?”

“Tar'ana.”

“Is that in Italy?” She held her breath.

“No.”

“Then where is it?”

His expression darkened. Jewel ran over the question in her mind. It was harmless enough. So why did Dar suddenly look like he was going to explode?

“My home is a planet in the Tarnassa System,” he said tightly. “Fifteen light years from Earth.”

Jewel hid a spurt of annoyance. Typical geek humor, badly in need of an overhaul. Of course, he couldn't know she was the very last woman he should be baiting with alien jokes. Joey and his best friend Ronnie had seen to that, back in tenth grade when she'd still been naïve enough to believe the X-files were real cases from the FBI. The incident known as “Spacey Jewel's Alien Abduction” was a permanent part of Borelli family lore.

“Okay, Mr. Alien,” she said, trying her best to look amused. “I'll bite. Why'd you come to Earth? Research? Invasion? Or are you just slumming it on the wrong side of the Milky Way?”

Dar's serious expression didn't flicker. “None of those things. I am a fugitive.”

“From justice?”

“No.” He nearly spat out the word. “Not from justice.”

A slap of raw anger hit Jewel so hard she nearly fell off the chair. As before, instinct told her the emotion came from Dar, even though she felt it in her own gut.

What the hell was going on?

She closed her eyes and counted to ten. The anger receded. Then she opened her eyes. Dar was staring at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted two heads.

“What?” she said.

He shook his head, as if trying to clear his brain. “Jewel, do you sing?” He held himself very still, waiting for her answer.

“How did you know that?” she said, stunned. Then she remembered. “Oh. You must have heard me running scales yesterday. Yes, I sing--opera.” She watched for his reaction through half-closed eyelids. No one ever expected a young, skinny diva.

“Opera.” Dar's eyes turned thoughtful for a moment as he searched some internal database. A startled expression flitted across his face.

“You are a singer of stories,” he whispered, and Jewel felt his surge of elation. She gripped the edge of the table. This was too weird.

“It suits you,” he said.

She looked at him in surprise. “No one's ever told me that before. Usually they think I'm nuts. My father does.”

“Why?”

She jabbed her fork into the last of her eggs. “I don't know, maybe because he thinks I'm a flake and I need a husband and six kids to keep me busy? Oh, and then he's of the opinion that hell will freeze over before someone pays me to stand on a stage.” Those miserable words still echoed in Jewel's head. “When I left home, he told me I'd be back in a week. But you know what?”

Dar raised his eyebrows.

“That was two years ago. I came to the city on my own and won a scholarship at the Academy of Vocal Arts. Plus, at night I'm a singing waitress at Victor's.”

He shot her a baffled look. “Who is Victor?”

“Victor's isn't a person, it's a restaurant. The Victor Café. The wait staff sing arias between courses. The tips are fantas--”

A low, vibrant hum interrupted her words. Dar was on the computer-slash-CD player in a flash, bending low, turning dials and tapping on a small keyboard Jewel hadn't noticed before.

She blinked. “I thought you turned that thing off.”

Dar didn't answer, and she had the distinct impression he hadn't heard her. She sensed his tension, his soul-consuming hope. He spiked his fingers through his thick black hair. A moment later, the noise stopped.

Dar dropped back on his heels and uttered one short, sharp word Jewel didn't recognize. No doubt its English equivalent had four letters.

She scooted her chair around to face him. “Is something wrong?”

He pushed to his feet and shook his head. “I'm hoping for a message from....” He paused. “My brother.”

“On that? What is it, some kind of ham radio?”

He stared down at the thing. “Not exactly, but similar.”

“Wouldn't email be easier?”

He hesitated again, then shook his head. “Your Internet isn't capable of transmitting a message through the rift in space-time.”

Jewel gave him a half-smile, but truthfully, Dar's geek humor was not amusing. She couldn't complain about his cooking though. She contemplated her empty plate and wondered what he had planned for dinner.

Before she had a chance to ask, Dar, who had been heading back to the kitchen, froze in mid-step. His body went rigid. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. A low, inhuman cry vibrated in his throat.

Jewel's heart lurched. Maybe he was epileptic or something. “Are you okay--”

The words died on her lips as Dar took two jerky steps toward her and gripped her shoulders. His fingers dug into her flesh and pinned her to the back of the chair, but the pain she felt from his touch was nothing compared to the agony pouring from his soul.

She closed her eyes against it, but it did no good. She felt her soul reach for him, touch him in a place she was sure no other had before.

A landscape of ice invaded her mind. Miles and miles of ice, harsh wind and rocky peaks. A wilderness so desolate Jewel found herself fighting back tears.

“Jewel--”

She opened her eyes and gasped at the emptiness she saw in Dar's eyes. Something cold and dark lurked there. A feral demon, wrapped in black power. She sensed it reaching, circling, heard its soul-shattering cry. It hungered, and wouldn't hesitate to take what it needed.

Then, suddenly, it vanished.

Dar blinked, then looked down at his hands. He jerked them off Jewel's shoulders as if he'd been stung.

He straightened and attempted a smile, but his hands were shaking. “I'm sorry, Jewel. I didn't mean to frighten you.”

Jewel's chest tightened. She could feel the cold swell of Dar's fear, and she sure as hell wasn't too calm herself. What had happened?

She wasn't sure she wanted to know, so she didn't ask.

“Well, I better be going. I have class in an hour.” She pushed her plate back and stood. Dar's gaze tracked her movements, but he made no move to stop her as she inched to the door.

“Thanks for the breakfast.” Jewel jerked the door open and nearly fell into the hallway.

* * * *

Dar'ii Uus, son of Larn, watched the delicate Earth female scurry from his dwelling like a short-haired kornos pursued by a wild gorna.

A Singer of Stories.

May the Ancestors have mercy.

He battled the urge to pursue her. The effort nearly brought him to his knees. Dar had walked on Earth for more sun rotations than he cared to count, searching for a Singer. Now, at last, the woman he sought had come knocking--nay, pounding--at his door.

And how had he greeted the unexpected arrival of his salvation? Like a slavering demon on the hunt.

He closed his eyes and began a Prayer. The intricate chant emerged from his heart, steadying him. The Voice, always with him now, faded into the shadows, but he did not allow himself to hope it had gone completely. Soon enough it would be back with double the force.

But for the first time since his shuttle had crashed on Earth, he did not fear the call to the Dream Journey.

He had found his Singer--his Dream Guardian--the woman who would tame the dark demons of his soul.

Had Goreth been as lucky? Dar crouched by his makeshift Rift probe and coaxed the controls to a higher frequency. He'd sent his message into the Rift for one full Earth year, yet no answer had come from his twin. Was his brother dead?

No. Dar would know if he were, as he had felt the loss of his sister during the massacre. The mindlink that Dar shared with Goreth was silent, not broken. Dar rose and paced the length of his new dwelling, which he had chosen because of its location on one of the slender threads vibrating from the Rift.

A shaft of sunlight streamed through his open window. The golden ribbon spilled onto the floor's soft covering, illuminating swirls of dust. Dar smiled. The day would be bathed with heat.

He stepped into the light and turned his face to the sky. The yellow sun kissed his skin with a mother's love, and like a new babe, he craved the caress. He could almost believe that if he stood long enough in the sun's embrace, it would melt the winter ice of his heart.

His body welcomed the warmth, but his mind spun in cold circles. Goreth had made the most of the diversion Dar's shuttle had provided--Dar had seen his brother's ship disappear into the Rift an instant before his own smaller craft was hit by the Mardulan spiker in pursuit.

There was every chance that Goreth and the others had reached Tar'ana rather than being forced, like Dar, to put down on the nearest inhabitable planet. But though he prayed Goreth had reached their homeworld, Dar could not be sure of his brother's fate. He could only look into the eyes of his own destiny.

Those eyes were deep and brown, set wide and framed by dark curls. Their owner was small and lithe--beautiful, and brimming with passion. Her scent was of spice and freedom. Her skin was fine, and softer than the rallah cloth his mother had loved to weave. The memory of it lingered on his fingers.

In her presence, the long years of ice and captivity seemed no longer than a heartbeat. Jewel's goodness had touched Dar's soul. Could she tame his demons? His life depended on the answer.

She had instinctively tried to do just that when the Voice had called to him. He'd pulled back from her protection, but not before she'd been badly frightened. She'd bolted out the door as if running for her life.

Which, a nagging voice whispered in his head, she was.

Dar pushed back a flare of guilt. His circumstance was dire, and Jewel was his last hope. He considered the dilemma. He could not pretend to be a man of Earth--a Dreamer did not dishonor his Guardian with lies. Yet if Jewel knew the whole truth, she would run as far and as fast as her slender legs would carry her, leaving Dar to face his Journey alone. The ravenous demons hidden in his soul would devour his mind, leaving him insane.

A chill wind swept through his heart. Dar had wished himself dead many times since he'd set his feet on Earth's soil. He could endure physical bondage, pain, humiliation--even death. But to travel the Dream Path without a Guardian….

That prospect truly terrified him.

Never before--even on those nights when he lay in chains awaiting Shata's pleasure--had he felt such despair as he had when he contemplated facing his Dream Journey alone. At least during his years as a slave, he had shared the mind link with Goreth.

Here, on Earth, unending loneliness iced his soul. Dar had contemplated taking his own life, but the lust for survival that had sustained him for so long would not allow him to choose a coward's path. He had prayed instead, pleading for the Ancestors' mercy, though the Old Ones rarely saw fit to dispense such a commodity.

Now, it seemed, they had.

The chill vanished, leaving Dar's soul to flare as hot and bright as the brilliant orb floating in the Earth's blue sky.

He had little choice. His survival depended on Jewel taking the role of his Dream Guardian. He would need to set the snare with infinite care.

He did not flatter himself that she would be happy when he succeeded.

SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED

By

Dominique Tomas

(c) copyright July 2003 Michelle Levigne

Cover art (c) copyright July 2003 Eliza Black

New Concepts Publishing

4729 Humphreys Rd.

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

Chapter One

No one had touched Rahzel in all the years since she left her mother and home.

* * * *

Rahzel’s dream lover walked beside her through a hazy landscape of blurred greens, blues, pinks and yellows. It reminded her of a watercolor painting she had made as a child. It had been her favorite, and one of her Bunker siblings dropped it in the water, to hurt her because Rahzel scored higher in all her tests.

“Nothing is quite real yet,” He smiled. “Nothing except how beautiful you are. The most beautiful woman I have seen in....”

“Centuries,” she said. How did she know his thoughts? “I’m the only woman you’ve seen in all that time. I could be ugly as a crater on one of the moons, and you’d still think me beautiful.”

How did she know that, too?

“Not true.” He laughed, his big, dark eyes sparkling as if they held all the stars in the night sky. “True, in strict fact, but not true where matters of the heart rule.” He raised a big, hard, warm hand and cupped her face. “Does anyone realize what a treasure it is, simply to touch, to breathe, to hear?”

She shivered, stirred from her toes to the ends of her hair. Energy flowed from him, through her, into the ground, making the air hum.

“Tell me you want me,” he whispered. He drew closer and she felt his breath, warm on her face.

“Want?”

“Want.” He slid his other arm around her waist and drew her against him.

Heat flooded her body, melting all her joints. Her skin tingled and burned where her leg and hip and torso pressed against him.

“Come find me, love. Hunt for me. Fight for me. I’m fighting the dragons, but you have to come out of your tower before we can be real.”

Rahzel winced, frowning as the warning chimes sounded through her dream. Just a few more seconds, a few heartbeats. He had finally touched her. She had felt the warmth and hard strength of him. Just a little longer … and this would no longer be a dream.

Ridiculous, she knew. How could dreams become reality? How could her dream lover become flesh and blood?

When would someone touch her outside of her dreams?

“Rahzel, are you In-Link?” Mikla’s creaky tones replaced the chimes.

At least Mikla still had a body, and she chose to use the audio Link for all communication. Most other Mind-Divers would have jumped straight into Rahzel’s head when they wanted to communicate. The last time Rahzel had tried to stay in one of her dreams and ignore a communication Link, Lynnit had caught a glimpse of her private world.

Then Rahzel had caught trouble from the Mind-Diver Council.

“My shift doesn’t start for another half hour,” she said aloud, and opened her eyes. It was no use trying to stay asleep and slide back into the dream.

She couldn’t even remember his name now or any of his features except his enormous blue eyes. They had burned like flames, making promises that sent delicious, rare tingles all through her body. Her dream lover had touched her. Nobody had touched her since she left her mother’s Bunker and she took her assignment in Link Station Beta-Ten-Zeta.

“There’s some program contamination in the etherworld. We’re to report all anomalies we experience from now on. Duty shifts are doubling up,” Mikla said with a weary sigh. “You’ll get the new schedule after you’re done with this shift.”

Rahzel shoved aside the thick layer of blankets that weighted her down with the warmth she craved from a living body and sat up. She swung her legs over the side of her bed and turned to the curved wall where the microbe filter screen sparkled and hummed. Despite the height of the tower holding her Station, she had no better view of the landscape beyond the Domes than anyone else.

Someday, she wanted to see a sunrise or sunset. Was that too much to ask?

For now, despite the exalted rank of Mind-Diver, all she could see was the misty air inside her Dome and the rounded tops of the Bunkers full of sleeping families, spread out around her in every direction. This early in the morning, she had thought the air inside the Dome would be clear, instead of the usual mist. When the sun rose, so would the microbe count and the chance of catching some newly mutated disease that the regular health-checks, bio-scans and immuno-bots hadn’t registered yet. The mist came from all the decontamination sprays and other provisions. Had there ever been such a thing as clear, clean air, or was that another invention of the fictions she read in secret?

Rahzel’s face burned at simply thinking of her not-quite-forbidden vice. She loved to read about the interaction between men and women; adventures and physical pleasure; beautiful clothes and wild animals and lavish feasts. And especially about that outmoded, death-defying activity called … sex.

“There was another outbreak during night shift,” Mikla said, breaking into Rahzel’s thoughts. “You’ll have to monitor the decontamination process through to the end before you finish your duty shift.”

“Acknowledged.” She waited until the triple chimes signaled Mikla had finally broken contact.

Rahzel wanted to curl up on her bed and try to retreat into her dream. She had time to waste until her duty shift began, didn’t she?

Even the frustration of thinking about her dream lover, knowing she couldn’t hide in her dreams until night, was better than thinking about the contaminated Bunker.

Some disease had managed to bond to that Bunker clan’s DNA, evading every procedure and protocol for eradicating disease and protecting Human life. Every member of the clan had to go to a testing station. They would be separated into isolation bubbles, even the smallest children. They would undergo testing. The clan might be sterilized if their DNA had mutated, making the gene-family vulnerable to disease. Rahzel was glad she was a Mind-Diver, rather than a Health-Tech. She would rather unravel data tangles and computer program errors, rather than watch children cry and scream themselves into catatonia or tell a woman she had lost the right to breed.

Rahzel shook herself, mentally as well as physically, and got out of bed. She physically manipulated the dials to turn on the lights in her Station and close the draperies so she wouldn’t see the depressing gray scenery below her. It was probably easier to go through her morning routine using mental commands to her Station’s mechanisms, but Rahzel liked doing things with her hands rather than her brain. She felt more real, more alive. It gave her pleasure to move the dial controls and feel the cool metal under her fingertips. More than three-quarters of the planet’s Mind-Divers had opted for upgrading to a non-corporeal existence, but she couldn’t stomach the idea of having her brain removed, to spend the rest of her conscious existence in a vat of nutrient solution, wired directly into the etherworld controlling the planet.

She wanted to live. She wanted to be flesh and blood, to be tired and dirty and enjoy showers, to be hungry and taste her food. Maybe even endure pregnancy full-term--though most of her generation opted for the womb replicators.

Rahzel let herself play with the thought of having a child here in the Station. There was plenty of room. She liked the idea of having company after years of physical solitude. Hadn’t she enjoyed the younger children in her Bunker home? Still, she had to consider the difficulties of spending ten hours every day In-Link, keeping the planet’s infrastructure functioning properly. Babies and small children couldn’t be left to the attention of robotic nurses for days at a time while their mothers lived inside the etherworld.

And yet, she wanted a baby. Wanted to feel it come to life inside her. Wanted to hold that warm, wriggling bit of life. Because her mother had enjoyed the duty, the thought of having a child thrilled Rahzel. She had even researched childbearing when she was young.

That was when Rahzel had learned the disturbing fact that males and females once cohabited, even sharing beds and hygiene implements--even touching, bare skin to bare skin. Most of the databytes claimed sexual contact, even genital manipulation, had only been for the sake of procreation. Rahzel knew better. She had learned early how to dig deeper, to find the hidden reference Links. That was when she learned about billions of works of literature that celebrated the physical pleasure that came with the act of male impregnating female.

Her dreams of decadent luxury and having a lover started soon after she had moved into her Station, just before she hit puberty. Perhaps her rebellious thoughts came mostly from her total isolation, but what if her research had prompted a slow slide into madness, even a death wish?

She knew she should abandon her research, wipe her private data files of all the fictions. Maybe she should even ask for a mental reconditioning?

The problem was that Rahzel enjoyed her research, the images in her mind, the ghost sensations in her body. If extra vigilance to avoid discovery was the price she had to pay to avoid punishment … so be it.

“Grains,” she told the nutrition dispenser. A slot opened, depositing the pre-programmed amount into the cooking cup set under the unit. She added water, then took a few moments to decide what spices to use today.

Rahzel liked experimenting, rather than opting for the pre-cooked lump that came from the central, sterile, nutritionally-correct kitchens for her Dome. Mind-Divers were known to be eccentric. Encouraging their eccentricities made them more mentally agile, able to solve the planet’s problems before the general populace even realized problems existed. So, when she requested a kitchen for her personal use, she received one.

She ate her breakfast while listening to an audio report of activities in her Dome and the surrounding five Domes during night shift. All quiet. No emergencies, beyond the contamination that had required the Bunker’s evacuation. The report continued playing, the Station’s sensors moving the audio feed to the cleanser stall when Rahzel approached it. She peeled out of her nightshirt, dropped it into the sanitation drawer, stepped into the cleanser stall and requested hot water scented with lemon. She stepped out exactly two minutes later, dried off, finger combed her hair out of her face, and strode across her room to the Link chair.

“Reminder to Mind-Diver Rahzel.” The audio system buzzed, and Rahzel wondered if there was something wrong with it, or if the program file had been contaminated by that problem Mikla mentioned. “Hair length is nearing the obstruction point. Please have hair cut before it interferes with your cranial inputs.”

“Reminder acknowledged,” she said, and fought not to sigh while the audio pickup could catch the sound.

She punched in her security clearance codes and brought the headset out of storage while trying not to grumble. Most people, especially Mind-Divers, shaved their heads for ease in hygiene. Living alone, she was free to grow her hair as she wanted, as long as it didn’t provide a haven for disease or interfere with the cranial inputs in her scalp.

The heroine of the novel she was currently reading had hair past her waist. The hero liked to weave his fingers through her hair, bury his face in it and fill his lungs with the perfume of her scent.

Rahzel wondered what it would be like to be with a person who didn’t smell of disinfectants. A man who wanted to touch her, hold her, indulge in decadent sensory enjoyment. If she grew her hair to shoulder length, maybe she could brush it and pretend it was her dream lover touching her for real.

Then there was no more time to indulge in such unnatural thoughts. In ten more seconds, her mind would no longer be private, but a tool to control, protect and purify the planet. The survival of the Human race depended on the Mind-Divers, and Rahzel was proud of her part in it. She lifted the headset and carefully fitted the net of microfibers and gold-plated prongs around her head. As each prong settled into the millimeter-wide sockets of the cranial inputs implanted across her scalp, a tiny click sounded inside her mind. Each click grew louder and the physical world retreated from her senses. As the last connection slid into place, a white haze of static filled her mind. She slid back into her reclining chair, left her body behind, and streaked through the etherworld.

THE LOVELAND CURSE

By

Jane Toombs

(c) copyright July 2003 Jane Toombs

Cover art (c) copyright July 2003 Eliza Black

New Concepts Publishing

4729 Humphreys Rd.

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

Shortly after she roared past Gerlach on her father's old Harley, Zenna Ruthven saw the towering form of the Burning Man silhouetted against the early evening sky. Not on fire yet, still waiting. Northern Nevada's Black Rock Desert stretched out to either side of the road, miles of flat land where little grew, with bleak rock hills in the distance. The most desolate part of the state, according to those who decided such things.

This was the last night of the event, festival, orgy, choose one or all. After true darkness fell the crowd would burn him, dancing around the flaming pyre, many either drunk or stoned out of their minds, some naked, some in bizarre costumes. She smiled. Here, tonight, might be the only place in the world where she wouldn't be noticed. Or if she was, no one would be surprised. Or care. Anyway, wasn't a desert the proper place for someone like her?

Olga, about the only friend who hadn't deserted her after that horrible surprise ten years ago, had tried to talk her out of going. So it was risky, so what? Leaving town overnight held risks for almost anyone from Loveland. Zenna didn’t care. If she wanted to celebrate Labor Day by mingling with the other Burning Man aficionados, that was her own business. It wasn't as though she'd betray anyone.

As she came closer to the site, her eyes widened at the milling mob kicking up desert dust as they interacted. All types and ages of vehicles, all types and ages of people. More thousands than she had anticipated. But what better place to lose herself than in a massive crowd celebrating this bizarre ceremony? The only worry she admitted to was how to keep the Harley safe.

She throttled down and eased off the road into the desert proper, weaving between people until she finally saw a vast herd of bikes tethered to a long metal pole supported by many, many crossbars. Noting the Hell's Angels insignia on most of them, she nodded. Hers would be safe here. The worn dragon insignia her mother had given her father for his bike would fit right in. As she chained her bike to the pole, Zenna ran her hand over the dragon. Should she have made the connection? Shrugging, she picked up her backpack, turned away and plunged into the crowd.

Tents, campers and makeshift shelters littered the ground, A helicopter whirled overhead--no doubt a news crew videotaping what they regarded as the weirdos below. A man hailed her.

“You alone, babe?”

She glanced at him and shook her head, but he followed her, a big guy with a beer gut. “My old man's one of the Angels,” she lied. “He packs iron.”

The guy veered off. Zenna sighed. She'd come here to get laid, hadn't she? Yeah, but she got to choose and he wasn't even close to the one. Not much time before dark, though, and the moon was just past full, so she'd best do some quick looking.

She found herself distracted by the many weird characters in the immense crowd--what a zoo. She'd known from the articles she'd read and from seeing the Burning Man on TV last year that it would be like this, but experiencing the festival in person was still more frenzied than she'd expected. Would she be able to find anyone who appealed to her?

No faltering, now, girl, she told herself. You're here, do what you came to do. There must be someone here at Black Rock, among more men than you've ever before seen in your life. The problem was she wasn't at all accustomed to crowds.

A half hour later she'd rejected at least fifty possibles. Some were okay on looks, but too stoned or drunk to suit her. Others she might have considered were with women already. Nothing was really wrong with many she passed, but they just weren't right. Was she being too picky? No fun being still a virgin at twenty seven because of what she was. No man in Loveland would touch her, which is why she'd gotten desperate enough to try the Burning Man. She was trapped for life in Loveland--who knew, this might be her only chance to find out what it was like to have a man. At least once.

The chopper seemed to be settling down. As near as she could tell in the fading light, it seemed to land toward the dark hills, some distance away from the camp area.

She'd have to keep an eye out for the news crew. No way was she going to be on camera either now or later.

Tunneling through the mob made her increasingly uneasy. There were far more people here than the entire population of tiny Loveland, she decided as she fought her way toward the edge of the crowd. Eventually it thinned out enough so she wasn't jostled on all sides, but, just as she'd begun to relax a little, Zenna felt someone watching her. An older man, his graying hair in braids. Looked to be Indian. Native American, to be politically correct. Paiute probably, this being their stomping grounds in the old days. His interest in her didn't seem sexual, though.

“You do not belong here,” he said.

She stopped and stared at him. “Why not? You're here.”

“I came to meet the stranger.”

Zenna swept her hand to indicate the entire scene. “You picked the right spot. I never saw so many strangers in one place in my life.”

“They belong here as much as anywhere on this earth..”

“And I don't?” What a strange conversation. Time to break it off and continue her search.

“You belong, but not in this place. The stranger--” The old man paused as though listening, never taking his gaze from her.

Feeling he'd pinned her to the spot, Zenna found herself listening, too. For what? She shook her head, preparing to leave. “I won't keep you from--”

“Ah,” the old man said, “now I see. You were in the dream, after all. Like me, you're here to meet the stranger.”

She could hardly deny her purpose in coming to the Burning Man was to meet a stranger, but this old guy was weirding her out. What dream? She didn't want to know. “Maybe I'll see you around later,” she said and started to turn away.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. “I mean you no harm, but you must wait. He's coming near, the stranger. Wait and meet him.”

Though at the far edge of the crowd, they were far from alone. Stragglers continued to pass them, aiming at getting closer to the effigy before the fire was lit. She tugged at her arm and he let her go.

Before she could move further or speak, he said, “Do you dream?”

Zenna blinked. Sure she dreamed, dreamed that when she looked at herself on those certain moonlit nights she was not what she saw.

As though she'd spoken the words, he said, “I have true dreams.”

She knew what that meant. He fancied himself a shaman. Could even be one for all she knew. At another time she might have been interested. But she had no time to waste.

“Whether for good or ill, you will meet the stranger,” he added.

Shaking her head again, she started to veer away and almost ran into a tall, tanned man with golden eyes. Everything else about him was the same appealing shade of tan--skin, hair and clothes. Even the cape he wore--a cape, of all things--was tan. He glanced at her, but then focused on the Paiute.

“You are Sleeping Fox?” he asked. “They told me at Pyramid Lake you'd be here.”

The old man nodded. “You are called Curtis Helms.”

“You know me, then?”

In answer, Sleeping Fox fished a cell phone from his jeans.

Curtis smiled, revealing white, somewhat pointed teeth.

The better to eat you with, my dear? Nonsense. Her own teeth were somewhat pointed. Why am I standing here gaping at the man? Zenna asked herself. Yet she knew. She might never have dreamed of Curtis Helms as the Paiute had, but he was it, cape or not. Her chosen one--for tonight at least.

She cleared her throat. “I'm Zenna,” she told him. “Sleeping Fox dreamed we would meet. I didn't believe him, but he seems to be right.”

The cape swirled as Curtis turned to take a good look at her. She hoped he wasn't into voluptuous blue-eyed blondes, because she was slender, with dark hair and hazel eyes.

“Zenna,” he said, holding out his hand.

She placed her hand in his, expecting him to shake it. Instead, he continued to hold hers, warming it--and more.

“She's been waiting for you,” Sleeping Fox said. “You and I will talk later by your helicopter. I go there now.” Without waiting for any answer, the old man trotted off into the desert.

The helicopter belonged to the stranger?

“Waiting for me,” Curtis repeated as though to himself. He smiled at her. “I've rarely been so fortunate.”

Zenna realized now that he had a slight accent, one she couldn't place. His words seemed to mean he liked how she looked, but where did they go from here? She'd never seduced a man in her life.

“If that's true,” Curtis went on, “you're not here as a participant in this ritual.”

“Um, well, I would like to watch the effigy burn tonight.” She couldn't trust herself to be with him after darkness completely cloaked the earth and the moon rose. “We have time before that happens. Time to become acquainted.”

She could only nod. Here he was, this was no time to back off.

Still holding her hand, he led her away from the crowd, pausing only to lift a blanket from an improvised clothes line strung between two campers. She drew in her breath.

“I'll return the blanket,” he told her. “Thievery isn't my line.”

Finding her voice, she asked, “What is your line?”

“At the moment, you. I find it best to focus on the moment.”

Now that it appeared she was going to realize her moment, the one she'd longed for, doubts sprang up like sand fleas, nipping at her. What was she doing with this utter stranger?

He squeezed her hand. “This Black Rock Desert appeals to me almost as much as you do.”

“Most people find Black Rock barren and desolate.”

“Which you are not,” he said. “But I can tell you're nervous. Don't be.”

Not a chance in hell she was going to blurt out that it was her first time. Okay, she'd stop jittering inside. This might be her one and only chance to find out what it was like to be with a man. He was who she'd picked, and she wasn't going to be sorry she'd made the choice. This man in tan was the right one.

“Do you know Sleeping Fox?” he asked.

“I met him shortly before I met you. He told me a--a stranger was coming and I should stay and meet him. I didn't want to or mean to, but....”

“Zenna,” he said, and she noticed he said her name differently than most, with a slight stress on the Z. It charmed her. “I won't take more than you wish to give.”

As he led her to an isolated spot between two boulders, some distance away from the crowd, she kept turning the words over in her mind. How much did she wish to give? Shouldn't it be all if you expected good sex? It crossed her mind he could be anything--a serial killer for all she knew. Yet Sleeping Fox had more or less sent her off with him. Was it possible they worked together, preying on women?

She couldn't bring herself to believe that. So, okay, was she in any more danger from this man than any other stranger at the Burning Man? If she started worrying about his character, she might as well have stayed in Loveland where her purpose would never be fulfilled.

He spread the blanket on the ground and gestured for her to be seated. She forced herself not to hesitate. Instead of seating himself, he knelt at her feet and started to remove her biker boots.

“You don't have to--” she began.

“Allow me.”

So she did. He then took off her socks and began massaging her feet. His hands were magic, no denying that. At least he wasn't just going to jump her bones with no preliminaries. That was a plus. Also, he'd taken charge, making her relieved she wouldn't have to fumble around trying to be the aggressor when she hadn't a clue how. She relaxed under his expert touch, refusing to let herself wonder what was to come. She intended to enjoy every moment, just as he'd suggested.

Her jeans came off next, his hands continuing their gentle strokes up each leg, no farther than the knees at first. Her anticipation mounted. How wonderful to feel a man's touch. This man's touch. By the time he ventured higher, stopping just short of touching her bikinis, she caught her breath, aroused without even one kiss.

After removing her T-shirt and bra, he caressed her breasts, sending her further up, her mind in chaos, her body throbbing for completion. And still his hands slid over her, promising everything. She's waited twenty-seven years for that promise. Any moment now her wish would be granted. Her eyes drooped shut as she gave herself up to unadulterated pleasure.

His hands continued to work their magic, finding places where she'd never even touched herself. She sensed an inner wave beginning, one that would lift her higher than she'd ever been before. With more to follow.

“You've closed your eyes,” he murmured.

Languidly, she opened them, startled to find darkness outside as well as behind her closed lids. Over his shoulder she saw the moon. And felt the first wrench.

Terror slithered through her. She pulled free, scooped up her clothes, jumped up and ran, aware his touch had made her forget what she needed to always remember. She'd stayed too long, now she must lose herself in the darkness. And find a safe place to hide while it happened.

By the moon's thin silver light, she spotted a good-sized rock that she thought she could move. Stopping, she gave it a heave. The rock tilted up and she shoved her clothes underneath, letting it ease back down, then stripped off her bikinis and dropped them nearby for a marker before taking off again.

The change was almost complete by the time she located a boulder large enough to crouch behind. When she stood again, she stared toward the effigy, now aflame. The Burning Man. No longer did she have the courage to venture near, not as she was now, not even to catch a last glimpse of Curtis. There were far too many people. And she was more weird than any of them. Her sigh came out in a hiss.

She'd never see him again. Her entire reason for being here was no longer valid. If she were able to mount the Harley and ride back to Loveland right now, she'd be off like a shot. Since that was impossible, she'd have to stay where she was until moonset.