The Strange Path (15 page)

Musicians played somewhere, their music less stuffy than in the previous vision. Torches flickered here and there, providing illumination as the sky turned gray and then a deep blue. Stars slowly spread across the darkening sky, jewels across the vast quilt of night. None of them sparkled as much as the jewel in the garden.

Whiskey remained in shadows, watching the intriguing woman from the dance floor as she stood dripping beside the fountain, her dark hair damp, wilted ringlets about her face, generous lips opened in laughter at the antics of someone else. Her dress, a simple affair of burgundy, hung tight against her body, showing off a delectable feminine form. Whiskey tested the air, searching, locating her scent, a spicy odor that promised fire and sweetness. As if aware of her audience, the woman paused in her play, looking up at the balcony. Several moments passed, Whiskey’s eyes meeting hers, knowing the woman detected her outline in the shadows.

The woman’s glance dropped away, decorous, a delicate blush coloring her skin. Another girl ran by, startling her and she automatically splashed her playmate, receiving a thorough drenching in response. When she looked up at the balcony again, she held an inviting shy smile.

Whiskey felt the full effect of arousal flood through her body.

“I want you,” she whispered.

Flash.

Whiskey sat at a small table in her room, fire blazing nearby, a light repast spread out before her. Across the table, brilliant green eyes regarded her in unskilled flirtation. Whiskey’s heart trilled as she remembered this scene; she’d seen this moment the night before when leaving the hotel.

The woman’s lips curved into a smile as she tasted something or other from the meal before them. “These are very good,
Ninsumgal
.” Her voice held a musical lilt, one Whiskey identified as Irish.

She didn’t answer, too intent on this vision licking her rich red lips, something she vowed to do herself before the morning dawned. She leaned back in her armchair, lazily swirling the contents of her glass as she watched with hooded eyes. Both of them knew it was a matter of time before Whiskey took her.

They had plenty of time.

Flash.

Those lips, swollen from many kisses, opened as the woman cried out. She leaned against the corner of a four-poster bed, one hand holding the carved wood, steadying herself. The other buried in Whiskey’s hair, the fingers digging into Whiskey’s scalp. The woman’s naked thighs spread wider, hips hitching as Whiskey expertly tongued her.

Whiskey breathed in the scent of spice, pleased at her catch. The woman writhed against her touch, the sight and sound setting Whiskey’s heart pounding uncontrollably. Unable to hold herself away, she dived back into the heady taste, slaking her thirst with the liquid fire of her lover’s arousal.

Flash.

Whiskey burst from the dream state, panting with uncontrollable lust. Her body on fire, she still tasted the woman on her lips, smelled her on her fingers. Gasping, she stumbled to her feet, the Book tumbling to the mulch below. She shook with the effort of calming herself, soothing the rampaging desire until she could think.

What the hell was that?
Breathing deep, she banished more of the yearning, sinking weakly to the ground. Her traitorous body still cried out to be touched, and she forced her hands beneath her thighs, effectively pinning them. Catching her breath, she did her level best to not squirm.

It couldn’t have been a memory. Whiskey knew she’d never have forgotten bedding the woman, not with these emotions boiling so close to the surface. Another wave of need raced through her as she recalled those throaty cries. Growling, she closed her eyes and shook her head. The vision, the sounds, the smells would not be dispelled.
Who the hell was that? Who are the O’Tooles?

She pushed her thoughts to the earlier part of her vision, the dinner and dancing. Now she recognized the clothing. She’d seen them in movies and television.
The Middle Ages?
Uncertain of the exact time period, she concentrated, remembering the tunics and trousers of the men, the gowns of the women.

The woman’s emerald gown flowing by the dinner table.

What had she said? ‘
I want her.’
But who had answered? The man’s voice seemed familiar to her then, but not now. ‘
I’ll see to it, my
Ninsumgal
.’

Scoffing, she released her hands from their prison, and crossed her arms. So now she was past life royalty? Who had she been, Henry the VIII or something? No, she felt as she did now, a woman. If it were a past life memory, would she have felt a difference being a man? Besides, her voice had been her own in the vision.

“Shit!” She couldn’t believe she entertained such a preposterous idea. Reincarnation was as hokey as witchcraft, as ethereal as the existence of God, one of a hundred other theories that had been created to make humankind feel above the piles of crap to be slogged through during a lifetime. That didn’t make any of them true. Dorst hadn’t said anything about this being a possibility. He’d said people saw their futures or past. Whiskey had never seen any of this.
Some sort of hallucination? Is that an option?

Her emotions and body once more under her control, she grabbed up her belongings. She stuffed the Book back into her satchel, refusing the dwell on the sensual feel of the warm leather. Her lighter remained out long enough to shakily light a cigarette before she stuffed it into her pocket. She needed music and dance, and something to drive the images away.

Chapter Eighteen

Whiskey slid through the crowd, flashing lights illuminating her path. With Tallulah’s closed, she’d come to Malice on a hunch. The bouncer with the golden/brown eyes had immediately allowed her entry. She knew he’d probably call Fiona, but at this point she didn’t care. The vision had left her with unspent arousal; Cora’s arrival would be a welcome relief. At the bar, she handed over her backpack and ordered a drink. The bartender recognized her, equably securing her belongings and sliding a glass of Chivas Regal toward her.

No one touched her, the dancers in her path stepping aside automatically with seemingly no thought about why her presence caused them to shift out of her way. She grinned, wondering at this newfound power. Reaching a corner of the dance floor, she set her drink on a nearby table, and began to dance. The music pounded in her blood, crashed against her skin, and raised her to a more familiar trance-like state. Nothing but bass and drum and guitar, techno and rock and pop. So much better than those bizarre chants; clean, pure, true. She relaxed into the known, sighing in relief that this had not been sullied. Eyes closed, she felt alone and separate. Her senses crooned to her, whispered the truth of her surroundings; the nearness of other dancers, the smells of food and sweat and sex. Time had no meaning. A rejuvenation coursed through her, her separation of self fading the longer she danced. Reveling in the moment, she feasted on the excited, youthful atmosphere around her, somehow gaining sustenance in the process.

She drew attention. She couldn’t tell how she knew with her eyes closed. Perhaps it was an extension of what had happened at Tallulah’s with Dorst, or maybe seeing the woman of her dreams in the garden had triggered this knowing. The thought of the woman derailed Whiskey’s sense of self for a split second, a vision of the woman crying out in passion overloading her. Whiskey shook her head, pushed it away. The subtle aura of the dancers reaffirmed itself and shifted, a bubble of intensity focusing in on her, drawing closer. She ignored it for the moment, too drunk on the music and lust, almost wishing for the change to go away. She had enough to deal with tonight.  Surrounding her, insistent, the bubble condensed.

Opening her eyes, Whiskey saw an older woman circling her, dancing separately but mimicking her moves. Whiskey looked her over. She couldn’t be more than twenty-six or so, no taller than her, maybe an inch shorter if the boots were any indication. The woman’s Levi’s and tight Henley shirt fit her well. Dark brown hair curled around the collar, while brown eyes regarded Whiskey with a speculative smile.

Whiskey breathed in again, almost swooning at the smell of the woman—a mixture of cologne, soap and musky excitement. Her body’s arousal flowed through her with liquid heat. She quirked her lips in a welcome smile as she acknowledged her dance partner, adjusting her steps to include the woman. On a different level, she felt the bubble coalesce around them, closing out other noises and voices. Emboldened, the woman eased closer, dark eyes flickering over the lithe body before her, an answering grin on her face.

Previous experience dictated a very short dance. Most adults looking for an evening’s entertainment rarely stayed long after a choice had been made. Not wanting to prolong the seduction, Whiskey stepped forward, pressing against the woman, arms lightly draped over her shoulders. Hands found her waist, riding her hips as their bodies melded into each other.

Feeling the woman against her heightened sense of touch, Whiskey gasped at the physical rush. The hands at her waist slid easily beneath her camisole, fingers gently massaging the skin of her lower back, easing down over her cargo pants to squeeze her rear. She pressed against the thigh between her legs, grinding in time with the music. Burying her hands in dark brown curls and tasting the woman’s lips, Whiskey delved deeply with her tongue. Around them, dancers continued their gyrations, making the couple sole occupants in a circle of sound.

***

The woman tugged her through the dark doorway. “This way.”

Whiskey followed her into a small living area. She saw comfortable mismatched furniture, a fireplace with a hearth that spanned the width of the room, and a small entertainment center
sans
television. The woman, unable to see, moved tentatively, one hand questing before her toward a lamp. Whiskey smiled, releasing her hand.

Turning, the woman reached out, but Whiskey stepped aside. “Okay,”  she said with a laugh. “Stay there, and I’ll light some candles.”

Whiskey found the woman’s giggle irritating. She ignored the flash of displeasure. “Don’t bother.” She moved behind her, slipping her hands forward to caress the woman’s belly and chest. “I see all I need.” Her vision had sharpened as much as her hearing and smell. She couldn’t quite explain the difference to herself other than the available light from a distant streetlamp provided plenty of illumination. She found it curious that the woman couldn’t see much at all.

Her need pulsed stronger with each heartbeat as she slid her hands under the Henley. Any thought of prolonging this liaison fled from the rush of heat in her groin as the woman accepted her control, relaxing against her, gasping as Whiskey pinched and massaged her breasts. Whiskey nuzzled the lithe neck, unable to resist the temptation to nibble. She roughly cupped the woman’s sex through the jeans, finding the material slightly moist as she squeezed.

The woman’s hips hitched, and she groaned aloud, panting. She brought her arm up to caress the long hair behind her, baring her neck for further attention in the process. Her free hand slid down Whiskey’s arm, pressing the hand at her crotch as close as possible.

Lost to the smells and sounds and sensations, Whiskey soon had her partner naked. The woman was splayed across the couch, playing with her breasts as Whiskey concentrated on other areas. On sensory overload, her mind and body were one, a wall of fiery need that blotted out everything else. Beneath her lips and tongue, she felt as well as heard the rapid pulse of her conquest. Heated skin against her cheek, liquid desire beneath her mouth, the essence she desired pumping just under the surface.

A scream and a curse forced her out of her fugue. The woman scrambled backward along the couch away from her. Whiskey, disconcerted, tried to engage her partner again as she moved forward, the copper taste in her mouth inciting her passion. The resounding slap drove her back, clearing her head.

“You
bitch
! What the fuck are you doing?”

Whiskey rocked back on her heels, shaking her head. The woman fumbled with a lamp, switching it on. Whiskey winced, and covered her eyes at the sudden blinding. She heard another angry curse, and peered through her fingers.

“Christ! I’m bleeding!  You fucking
bit
me!”

A smattering of blood flowed from a puncture on the woman’s inner thigh, sluggish and glittering in the lamplight. Whiskey licked her lips, tasting the copper mixed with musky lubrication. She felt another rush of need wash over her, the woman’s blood calling her soul. Sudden disgust rolled through her, and she stumbled back.

“What are you waiting for? Get the fuck out of here before I call the police, bitch!”

Whiskey barely had the sense to collect her shirt and pack before stumbling from the apartment, leaving the door standing open. Behind her, she heard the woman swearing, threatening police and legal action. By the time Whiskey reached the fire exit down the hall, the apartment door slammed shut and two locks clicked into place. She burst through the stairway door, and staggered down, struggling into her shirt as she went. The coolness of the evening washed over her as she stepped outside. Letting the door close on well-oiled hinges, she leaned against the wall beside it, panting.

What just happened?

Licking her lips again, she tasted the last of the woman’s blood. It exploded across her taste buds, awakening a hunger she hadn’t known existed. She used her fingers to search for more around her mouth that she may have missed. Dizziness swept over her. She crouched against the brick, putting her head between her knees to keep from fainting. Several moments passed before she felt strong enough to move. A distant siren brought her head up, wondering if the woman had made good on her threat. Whiskey didn’t need an assault charge on her record. At eighteen, there’d be no juvenile detention for her; she’d spend her time in county jail. Even Fiona couldn’t save her from this.