Divine by Choice (14 page)

I looked up to see his image blur, and I snapped my eyelids shut, appalled at my body's weakness. “I just want to go home,” I whispered.

“I know you do, Shannon my girl.” His voice was kind. “How long were you disabled when you made your first dimensional trip?”

I tried to make my amazingly tired brain concentrate. “At least a couple of days. The memory's pretty hazy.” Then I added, “And I'm not your girl.”

He ignored my comment. “Keep your eyes closed and sleep. Give yourself time to recover. And don't forget, you have to be strong enough to survive the return trip.”

I shuddered involuntarily. Shifting dimensions was horrible. Exhaustion nagged at me, and I realized he was right. And, my mind whispered, now I had more than myself to worry about. For an instant I felt a rush of fear. Maybe I could hurt the baby with too much of this
Star Trek
—like trading of worlds. Then a familiar wave of nausea passed through me, and I felt an ironic sense of relief. As long as I had the urge to puke up my insides, I had to believe my daughter was doing just fine.

I kept my eyes closed, concentrating on relaxing and breathing deeply. I tried not to flinch as a warm hand brushed an escaping curl back from my face.

“Sleep, Shannon,” he murmured.

I didn't respond, and I heard him picking up the tea and biscuit tray. Through half-open eyes I watched him disappear
back around the kitchen wall, and reemerge with a fresh cup of steaming coffee. He pulled the rocker back so that it was sitting in its original spot, close to the old-time kerosene lamp. He grimaced as he lowered himself gingerly into the chair and lit the lamp. With obvious stiffness he reached for the book that rested facedown on the table. I realized I had watched that same look of pain cross ClanFintan's face after he had been wounded in battle, and I couldn't help but wonder about the injury that had caused him to retire. It obviously still bothered him.

Feeling impossibly heavy, my eyelids fluttered. My last conscious image was that of the cover of the book Clint was reading. It was a collection of essays by an Oklahoma author, Connie Cronley, entitled
Sometimes a Wheel Falls Off.

Boy, does it ever.

A
t first sleep was a dark, beguiling mist. As I submerged myself within it, a stray Shakespearean quote drifted through my changing consciousness, O murderous slumber. Premonition teased my sleep-filled mind, but I couldn't force myself awake, and instead I fell headlong into the arms of DreamLand—a place I usually unabashedly enjoy, even revel in. But from the first moment dream images began to form against my closed lids, I knew this experience would be different from anything I'd known before. Disjointed scenes played against a screen of night. They were ghostly, half-formed apparitions that drifted past my sleeping eyes—part centaur, part demon, part human—nothing that I recognized or could make any sense of.

My sleeping soul shivered and attempted to gain control of the visions, as I had always been able to in the past, but this time the land that was usually populated with fun and fantasy had changed. It was twisted into a landscape of nightmares.

I knew I was sleeping, and I told myself that I could awake at any time, but this gave me little comfort as the disjointed images merged and solidified, morphing into the grotesquely familiar. Like I was watching a mad picture show at the
Hotel California,
I saw a gore-filled reenactment of the final battle
between Partholon and the Fomorians—only this time the scene was minus Epona's intervention and our eventual victory. The corpses of centaurs and humans that I knew had been killed in previous battles were awakened and, zombie-like, they rose only to be slaughtered again.

Some of them only had eyes. Some of them only had fanged mouths. And some of them appeared to have been touched by a divine hand and were unbelievably beautiful. My soul recoiled from all of them.

I did not witness my own death, but I watched as first Alanna, then Carolan, Victoria and Dougal fell under the teeth and claws of the Fomorians. And still the battle raged as over and over again they were resurrected only to be slaughtered anew. Then into my range of vision swept the demon Lord of the Fomorians, Nuada. This time my husband did not vanquish him. I watched helplessly as he ruthlessly disemboweled ClanFintan.

Turning from the body of the centaur, Nuada singled out a lone warrior, one I quickly recognized as the reanimated body of Rhiannon's father, the mirror image of my dad. With a hiss of victory, the winged creature slashed MacCallan's pale throat, almost severing his head.

The scream that had been building within my mind seeped into my dream, and I could hear the echo of my father's name frame the perimeters of the awful nightmare. Suddenly the dark Lord turned and searched the area around him, as if he was looking for someone. His eyes narrowed, and he rose to his full height, wings erect and distended away from his body. Blood and foam spewed from his mouth as if he vomited maggots while he screamed,
“Yes, female! I have heard your call. We will never be free of one another—I will come for you wherever you are!”

I gulped air and my shriek of terror brought me suddenly
awake. Strong arms were shaking me, and a deep voice was thick with worry.

“Shannon—Shannon! Wake up!”

My eyes snapped open, and I looked into Clint's concerned face. My heart lurched at the familiarity of his features. Longing for ClanFintan cut me deeply.

“It's okay. I'm okay.” I tried a weak smile as I pulled my arms free from his grasp.

Reluctantly he let me go. “Just a bad dream?” he asked.

“Yes.” I nodded. “A nightmare.” The word sounded as foreign on my lips as it actually was to my experience.

“Can I get you something? Maybe a drink of water or some tea?” He hovered, obviously reluctant to return to his rocking chair.

“No, I'm fine.” His disappointed look made me add, “But thanks. I'm just really tired. I need to go back to sleep.”

He glanced at his watch. “You still have several hours until dawn.”

“Thanks,” I repeated, turning over on my side so that I faced the wall and my back was to him.

I could hear him resettling into his chair, and I wondered briefly if he was going to spend the whole night watching over me. Not that I should care. He could spend his nights any way he'd like—I'd be out of here tomorrow and back with my husband and my people. But worry preyed on my confidence.

I'd never had a nightmare. Ever.

I was in the third grade before I realized that everyone couldn't orchestrate their dreams like I could. DreamLand had always been mine to control, and it was through my dreams that Epona pulled my soul from my sleeping body and allowed me to be her eyes and ears throughout Partholon. But tonight had been different. I hadn't experienced the goddess-induced
dream vision known as the Magic Sleep. I was certain of that. The images that had played across my sleeping mind had not actually happened. Not in any dimension. It had been a nightmare—a bad dream—sleeping visions that were as unsubstantial as the booger man or the tooth fairy. Switching back and forth between worlds had probably knocked something loose in my head, and now I'd have bad dreams like everyone else.

That's all it was. Really.

I screwed my eyes shut, trying to forget about the evil I'd thought I'd sensed in Partholon. The same darkness I'd felt when Clint had pulled me through the trees to Oklahoma. The same evil Bres and Rhiannon seemed so interested in. I couldn't do anything about any of that now. I had to sleep. I forced myself to relax.

Thankfully, exhaustion beat out paranoia and worry, and I felt myself drift back into the realm of sleep. I wouldn't think about things like premonitions of evil—things that reminded me all too vividly of my nightmare.

Scarlett O'Hara-ing, I took a cleansing breath and let dreamless sleep claim me. I'd think about it tomorrow….

T
he incessant chatter of a mockingbird woke me.

“God, what annoying creatures,” I grumbled as I rubbed my eyes. (Mockers and their nonstop chirping had been one of the things I hadn't missed about Oklahoma.)

“Good morning, Shannon my girl!” Clint looked rested and refreshed as he pulled a thick cable-knit sweater over his head.

“I'm not your girl,” I grumped at him.

He just laughed heartily.

Great. He's a morning person. I filed away another similarity between him and my husband. At least this one was annoying instead of endearing.

I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and stood, careful to keep the thick comforter wrapped around my semi-bare body. “Where's the ladies' room?”

“Through the kitchen.” He jerked his head in the direction of the doorway. “There's an extra toothbrush in the cabinet. And I set out some things Rhiannon left.” He gave me an appraising look that felt suddenly like he could see through the comforter (which I clutched even more tightly).

“They'll fit. Make yourself at home,” he said cheerily.

“Huh,” I muttered, heading in that direction.

“I'll put the coffee on and make some eggs.”

My stomach lurched rebelliously at the mention of food. But the evidence of morning sickness almost brought a smile to my face. The baby was fine.

“Toast and tea are all I need. And I can make both—there's no need to go to any trouble,” I called over my shoulder, slightly disconcerted that he was already making my bed. Was he some kind of neat freak? Without waiting for an answer, I shook my head and walked quickly through the immaculate little kitchen, all at once very aware of the coldness of the wood floors.

The bathroom was surprisingly large and comfortable, complete with a roomy shower, claw-foot tub and, yes, a veritable plethora of toilet paper. I sighed in pleasure.

Modern plumbing
was
one of the things I had missed.

Folded neatly on the washbasin counter were clothes that I could tell were ridiculously expensive even before I touched them. Shaking them open, I fingered the black leather pants; their label read Giorgio Armani. The brown cashmere V-neck sweater was the color of autumn leaves and trimmed with black fur that could only be mink. I guessed Rhiannon had become intimately acquainted with the Tulsa Saks Fifth Avenue. A black lace bra and panty set completed the pricey number. I twirled the wisp of nothing on one finger and shook my head.

“Rhiannon, Rhiannon. Girl, you sure have a thing for thongs.” That was one of our many differences. She was obsessed with thongs and bared boobs and being scantily clad. While far from a prude, I was definitely not the exhibitionist she reveled in being. And, please. I liked a nice-fitting panty that wasn't
made
to crawl up your butt. (I mean, truthfully, who doesn't?)

The shower called my name, and I spent way too long
beneath the pelting stream. And brushing my teeth (twice) with Crest after flossing was practically a religious experience. Looking through the cabinet beneath the sink, I found a hair dryer and Rhiannon's stash of makeup. Looked like she'd cleaned out the Chanel counter. And in the bottom of the makeup bag was the perfect clip to keep my wild red hair back out of the way.

Pulling on the slim-fitting butter-soft pants, I laughed aloud. In place of the modern zipper was a leather string that laced up the front. She had probably had them specially made. Well, I guess you could take the girl out of Partholon, but not Partholon out of the girl.

The sweater fit like the pants—perfectly. I glanced at myself in the mirror and smiled at my reflection. One thing I couldn't deny about Rhiannon, she certainly knew how to dress us to put our best attributes on display.

Wishing for some socks, I padded quickly out of the warm bathroom and into the brightly lit kitchen. Clint's back was to me, and he was busy stirring something that my quivering stomach told me smelled like scrambled eggs and cheese. I headed to the oak table, where toasted bread was already stacked next to steaming biscuits and a variety of condiments. Nibbling on the corner of a piece of dry toast, I cleared my throat. Clint jumped and turned his head to smile at me over his shoulder. And he froze. The smile slid from his face like the tallow skin of a candle. His expression melted and changed, almost burning me with its sudden intensity. My hand stilled halfway to my mouth as I felt my body responding to that look, because I knew it—intimately. It was my husband's face staring at me with all the heat of his desire.

No! My mind rebelled. He just
looks
like ClanFintan. I pulled my eyes away from him and took a big bite of toast. Through a full mouth I asked, “Do you have any tea?”

I pretended not to notice that his voice was still shadowed with repressed lust. “Yes. I've heated the water.”

“Good. I'll take some.”

He unfroze and made a rough grab at a pot holder that was hanging on a hook behind the stove, then he carried the teapot over to the table and set it near a mug.

“There's tea over in the pantry.” He jerked his hand at the door to the corner pantry and went back to stirring the eggs.

“Thanks,” I said between bites.

“Want some eggs?”

“I think I'll stick with toast and maybe some biscuits and jam. My stomach is still doing funny things.” I wasn't sure why, but I felt the need to avoid disclosing my pregnancy.

“Suit yourself,” he said shortly as he ladled himself a generous helping of eggs.

Upon closer inspection I could see they had bits of ham and mushrooms along with the cheese I had so greasily smelled. I ignored them, ordering my stomach to do the same.

We ate in uncomfortable silence. He didn't look at me. I didn't look at him.

As he poured himself a second cup of coffee, and I spread strawberry jam on a still-warm biscuit, I hazarded a glance at him. He was looking everywhere but at me.

“The biscuits are good,” I said sociably.

He grunted a reply.

I sighed. Might as well face the facts and quit playing hide-and-seek. “I guess me looking so much like Rhiannon is kind of a shock, especially when I'm dressed in her clothes.”

His eyes slowly found their way back to me. “Shock isn't the word I would use.” His tone was hollow.

“Well, you looked shocked.”

“Did I, Shannon my girl?” Now he sounded amused. “It wasn't shock that I was feeling.”

Uh-oh. I gulped.

Our eyes met and held. His were dark and sincere, and so hauntingly familiar they made my chest hurt. His expression mirrored ClanFintan—he was so very, very much like my love.

But not him, I reminded myself forcefully, taking a loud, unladylike slurp of hot tea.

“Good tea, too!” I smiled brightly, hoping I had a big booger hanging unattractively from my nose.

“Thank you,” he said. And then added with a smile, “I think you have something stuck between your teeth.”

“I hate when that happens.” I laughed and sucked my teeth like an Okie.

He smiled again and shook his head before turning back to his eggs.

The tension broken, I breathed a sigh of relief and we finished our breakfast in much more companionable silence.

After a compulsory scraping of plates and quick cleanup, Clint went to a closet that was built into the space between the kitchen and the bathroom.

“Here…” He handed me a pair of thick socks and sleek-looking English riding boots.

“Thanks.” I smiled at him before perching on the end of the bed. “My feet were freezing.”

“You should have said something earlier,” he said gruffly as he returned to the closet to drag out two thick, down-filled coats.

“It's okay,” I pulled the boots on. “The floor surprised me with how cold it is, that's all,” I said matter-of-factly, not comfortable with his obvious concern for my welfare.

“It's been unusually cold already this year. Snow's even forecasted for either tonight or tomorrow.”

“Jeesh, snow in Oklahoma in November!”

He held the coat out for me and I shrugged my way into
it, telling myself that it was ridiculous for me to feel uncomfortable when he was only helping me on with my coat. That's what gentlemen were supposed to do.

But his body seemed so damn close.

“Yes,” he breathed. His mouth was near my ear as he repeated, “Snow in November.”

Clint's warm breath made me shiver and I stepped quickly away from him, busying myself with zipping the coat.

“I'm ready!” I chirped.

“I forget you're in a hurry.” His voice sounded strained and I again noticed the lines around his eyes and the silver in his otherwise dark hair.

A flippant remark died on my lips. I smiled sadly at him. “I'm not her, Clint.”

“I don't want you to be her.”

I blew air through my nose in frustration. “Well, you don't know me, so what you are attracted to
has
to be just some kind of rebound or memory of friggin Rhiannon.”

“I haven't wanted Rhiannon since I realized her true nature.”

I didn't know how to respond. Our eyes met. Within his I saw an incredible depth of sadness. God, it was hard to be around him and not care about what he was feeling! I couldn't help but continually notice how like ClanFintan he was, and in more ways than just his appearance. I could tell myself that he was more serious and distant, but all I had to do was think back less than six months and I would remember a handsome centaur who was at first distant and overly serious in response to me, too.

Until I loved him, my mind reminded me. Until I showed him I was not Rhiannon. And Clint didn't need to be shown, he already knew.

I reined in my errant mind.

“I have to go home.” Breaking my eyes from his, I turned and walked purposefully to the door.

“I know you do, Shannon.” With his long stride he beat me there to hold open the door for me.

I didn't say anything, just gave him a hesitant look, willing him to understand. Then I stepped out into the misty light of a cold Oklahoma morning.

“Brr!” I raised the collar on my coat. “Are you sure it's only the first of November?”

“Just past Samhain night.”

“Don't you mean Halloween?” I raised my eyebrows at him patronizingly.

“No, Shannon my girl.” He walked past me again, practically leaping down the few steps that led up to the attractive little porch, his sudden agility surprising me after the stiffness with which I'd seen him move the night before.

There was no yard. The forest seemed to begin almost exactly where the house ended. He filled his lungs with damp morning air and turned back to look pointedly at me. “I mean Samhain. I don't have to be from Partholon to understand the changing of the seasons and respect the mysteries of nature.”

“I didn't mean anything.” I said, chagrined at what a snob I had become (and ignoring the fact that he kept calling me his girl). “I just meant that the name Samhain is archaic here.” I followed him down to the forest floor.

“Nothing is archaic that is in tune with this forest,” he said gently and motioned toward a barely noticeable path that led off to our right. “This way.” He strode away and I scrambled to keep up with him, mumbling under my breath about men and their egos.

“What?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at me.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, then added, “How far to the spot with the dimensional bubble?”

He barked a quick laugh at my description. “Bubble—that's a pretty good description of it. Not too far.” He ducked his head under a low-hanging limb. “About an hour's brisk walk.”

Great. Wonder how far
too
far would be? Jeesh, I hated hiking/camping/roughing it. Suddenly Oklahoma reminded me of Partholon—and not in a nostalgic way.

“Can't we drive?” I asked, pulling what I was sure was a piece of cobweb out of my hair while I checked my wild curls frantically for spiders.

“No way to get a vehicle back here.”

“Too bad you don't have a horse,” I said wistfully.

“I don't like horses.” He sounded defensive.

“What?” I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly.

“I don't like horses. Never have. I don't ride at all,” he said shortly.

My giggles started, and before I could control them they turned into guffaws interlaced with laughing snorts.

“What's so damn funny?”

“Didn't—” I said between giggles “—Rhiannon tell you anything about the people in Partholon?” It was just too damn funny. I mean, please. He didn't like horses and his mirror image was part horse.

“She said she didn't want to be there because she was being forced to mate with someone she didn't love. And there were demonic beings attacking the world. That was it.” He sounded curious even though he kept throwing me annoyed looks every time I couldn't swallow my laughter.