Fairytale (5 page)

But Adam had his revenge, sort of. He’d made
his own money, bought the place back. Brought his mother here to
live out her days in peace, without a hard-drinking, hard-hitting
husband to worry about. She’d died here, and Adam liked to think
she’d died content. But he knew deep down, she’d never got over her
husband’s betrayal.

He knew exactly how she’d felt. Because the
fact was, he was on the verge of losing it all over again, due to a
remarkably similar kind of betrayal.

But he wasn’t going to think about his
ex-wife or her uncanny similarities to his old man right now,
either. Right now he was thinking about that damned dream. Hell,
that’s what he spent most of his time thinking about.

His childhood dream had to have had a basis
in something he’d read or heard somewhere. And Adam’s obsession to
find the myth or tale that was its source had made him one of this
country’s top experts on fantasy and myth. Hell, he’d made a career
out of the knowledge he’d gained. He’d published books on the
subject of fairytales and their origins.

But even so, he’d never found the story that
must have inspired his dream.

Or the woman.

Though he knew it had all been nothing more
than a fantasy, he’d let the search for its source consume him.
What could a seven-year-old have seen or read or heard that would
have instigated a dream that real? That vivid? So lucid he’d been
sure it hadn’t been a dream at all. There had to have been
something.

When he’d seen the painting, he’d become more
convinced of that than ever. Someone else knew about this mythical
land. Certainly the artist knew. Even knew the name of the forest
in Adam’s dream. At the bottom of the painting, cleverly woven into
the lush greenery so that it was all but hidden, was a single word.
And Adam supposed most people would have assumed it was the
artist’s signature, if they’d even been able to discern it. But
Adam knew better. The word at the bottom was
Rush.

No myths or legends he’d studied had come
close to describing the land he’d believed he’d visited back then,
or the woman he’d seen. None mentioned this forest of Rush by name.
His obsession to find the source of that fantasy grew stronger
every day. Christ, he ought to be grateful for his father’s stern
intervention, or he might be a
real
basket case by now, as
real as the dream had seemed to him at the time.

He looked at the painting again, and again a
small chill raced up his spine at the powerful similarities to his
childhood delusion. The artist had captured Adam’s dream right down
to the tiniest detail. Right down to the pictures in the tree bark.
Right down to the hypnotic power of the woman’s eyes.

Somewhere, there was an explanation for all
of that. And if it took the rest of his life, Adam would find
it.

No time to dwell on it now though. He had a
class in twenty minutes.

“So, according to this ancient Celtic
manuscript, what characteristics would you expect to find in your
average fay-female? If you read the assigned chapters, you’ll know
this stuff. Come on.”

Adam sat on the edge of his desk, watching
hands pop up all over the room. This group was nothing if not
enthusiastic. Even if they were a bit too imaginative for his
tastes.

“Miss Monroe, let’s hear your opinion.”

The twenty-year-old aspiring swimsuit model
beamed at him, shifted in her seat, her skirt sliding a little
higher on her thighs. Nice thighs, too. She was taking this class
for easy credits. He let her get away with it mainly for the view.
Carla Monroe bending over was a rewarding experience.

She ran a finger along the scooped neckline
of her blouse, tracing her cleavage, drawing his eye.

He wondered if she was more interested in
screwing him for the challenge or for the grade. Had to be
something. It was always something where women were concerned,
wasn’t it?

“They’re brimming with energy,” she said
slowly, drawing the words out. “Particularly
sexual
energy.”

Too bad she was a pink slip waiting to
happen, or he might oblige her. Too bad he needed his tenure here
so damned badly. A year ago, it wouldn’t have mattered. A year ago,
he’d had money to burn. Or he’d thought he had. He’d been
blissfully unaware of the ways his young wife had of moving money
around. By the time Sandra and Adam’s pal Rob had sailed for parts
unknown, they’d taken him for damn near every penny.

The only thing in this world worse than a
thief, he mused, was a female thief. A beautiful female thief. A
beautiful, ruthless female thief who didn’t bat an eye at the
prospect of ripping out your guts along with your money.

He swallowed hard, but the bitterness
remained like bile in his mouth. “True, Miss Monroe. This work
suggests that. What else?” He glanced around the room.
“Michael?”

“Their power over mortal men is the most
interesting thing,” Michael said. He took his wire rims off as he
spoke, twirled them between his fingers, then slipped them back on.
“That one passage was...almost scary.”

A murmur of laughter rose from the students.
Adam flipped open the book and read aloud. “Many a man has died of
longing for one such as her. For her skin has the flavor of honey
which contains a magic all its own. Once a man’s lips taste her
nectar, he is bound to her for all his days. Be forewarned, then,
for her spell cannot be broken. Look for the sign...the sign of the
cradle moon above the mound of Venus. Be it pale, you might yet
escape with your heart and mind intact. But be it crimson, she is
of royal blood, and too strong for a mortal man’s resistance. Even
a glimpse into the eyes of such a one may spell your ruin. For if
she looks upon you with longing, your days are numbered. Run while
you can, ‘ere she captures your soul and leaves your body vacant,
to waste away unto death with longing for a love you can never
have.”

The laughter died as he read, and when Adam
looked up, it was to see rapt interest on the faces of his
students. And someone whispered, “Maybe it’s not a myth.”

“Yeah,” someone else stated, forgetting all
about waiting to be called on. “Hell, you said this Celtic text is,
what? Nine hundred years old? Maybe it’s...you
know...nonfiction.”

The murmur of agreement that rose in the room
made Adam grate his teeth. Then he stopped grating them, and the
book in his hand hit the desk with a bang worthy of any shotgun.
“For crying out loud! You—” His reproval was interrupted by the
ping of the little timer bell he kept on his desk. He sighed,
lowering his head, drawing a new, calming breath. Reminding himself
they were just kids.

He’d been a kid once. He’d had some pretty
farfetched notions himself.

Not gonna think about that. Not now.

“Okay, time’s up. What do you say tomorrow
you come in here with some
intelligent
theories, hmm? Like
maybe, what sources the author might have drawn on to come up with
his version of fairy lore.”

He closed the book, turned his back,
dismissing them with the gesture. But the exodus was quieter than
usual. Calmer, and he peered over his shoulder to see intense
expressions on many young faces. Christ, they weren’t actually
considering the possibility the text was anything but fiction, were
they?

Imagination could be taken too far. It could
be dangerous.

It can leave bruises, right Adam?

Shut the hell up.

Not to mention obsessions. Like your
obsession.

He ignored the voice in his mind. The one
that sounded like his father’s voice. It didn’t bother him again,
as he dropped the heavy book into his briefcase, followed by a file
folder full of essays and the wind-up timer. Which left the desktop
as barren as the surface of the moon. Clean. Orderly. The way he
liked it. He locked the drawers, pocketed the key.

His own theory was that the newly translated
discourse on the qualities of fay folk was a collage of other myths
and legends. Some imaginative soul had picked bits and pieces from
stories he’d heard, and put them together to make his own version.
It had the flavor of classical Greek tales of sirens, luring
sailors to their deaths with the beauty of their songs. Maybe there
had been a little Arthurian inspiration, as well. The Lady of the
Lake with her ethereal beauty, nearly human in appearance, but too
beautiful to be mortal.

Adam grinned a little as he thought there may
be a bit of succubus lore tossed in for good measure. Drawing a
man’s soul from his body into her own, leaving him to wither and
die of longing for her. Sounded like a new spin on a succubus to
him. Hell of a way to go, too.

He set the case on the shiny surface of the
desk, deciding to list his possible sources on the board for
discussion in tomorrow’s class. No doubt once he got the ball
rolling, the kids would come up with several more. He turned
around, picked up a new piece of chalk, and began writing in bold,
noisy strokes across the spotless blackboard. Siren, he wrote. And
beneath it, succubus, and beneath that, lady of

the la—

He paused with the chalk a hairsbreadth away
from the board. A tiny chill crossed his nape, cold fingers
spreading down into his spine, and he knew he was no longer alone.
He turned his head, then his body. A woman stood in front of his
desk. And there was something...familiar about her. Something he
couldn’t quite put his finger on.

His gaze dropped slowly to the spot about hip
level where pale denim crawled tightly into the juncture of her
thighs. Then it rose, over the barest glimpse of smooth-skinned
belly where the blouse didn’t quite reach the jeans. He saw her
navel, and he thought of honey.

Man, he’d been too long without sex.

He told himself to look up faster, but his
stubborn eyes continued the slow scrutiny and he realized he was
secretly savoring it. He wasn’t normally such a hound. She must be
emitting some kind of musk that spoke directly to his libido. She
could be a troll for all he knew. He hadn’t taken more than a brief
glance at her face yet. Because, hell, why rush it? The black
t-shirt fit her as if it were made of spandex. It molded and hugged
her high, round breasts. And Adam figured if she didn’t want to be
looked at, she wouldn’t be wearing it. So he looked. And then he
moved up a notch, to see the pendant around her neck. A pewter
fairy, wrapped seductively around a quartz crystal point.

He lifted his brows, wondering if she were a
new-age yuppie or a potential student. If she were a student he
probably shouldn’t be eating her alive with his eyes right now.
Because she might be one of those types who screamed sexual
harassment if a man so much as crooked an eyebrow in her direction,
and she might get him fired. No fear of that with Carla Monroe. She
practically begged to be looked at. But this woman might be
different.

The thought gave him the jolt he needed to
bring his gaze up where it belonged. To her face.

But then his mouth went dry. A fist seemed to
drive itself into his gut, forcing all the air from his lungs in a
harsh, noisy exhale. Because she was incredible, and because her
eyes sucked him in like quicksand, and because he had the oddest
feeling that he knew her. Or should know her. Or...or
something.

Her eyes were hidden behind small round
wire-rims, but they were still huge and dark and exotically
slanted. The glasses did nothing to conceal their almond shape or
invisible power. Ebony. He couldn’t tell the pupils from the
irises. A fringe of paintbrush-thick lashes surrounded them. Like
black holes surrounded by cilia. They would entrap and absorb
everything that came too close, and there would be no escape.

He blinked and shook himself, feeling awkward
and even a little dizzy. As if he’d had a few too many drinks.
Which made no sense at all, since he’d had nothing stronger than
coffee.

What the hell was the matter with him,
anyway?

“Mr. Reid?”

He cleared his throat and told himself to get
his act together. “Yes. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to enroll in your class.”

Several answers sprang to mind, the first and
most obvious being that she ought to be in the admissions office
and not in his classroom. The second being that she ought to be
anywhere in the goddamn universe other than his classroom.

But what he said was, “Sorry. This class is
full. Check back next semester.” If he didn’t know better, he’d
almost think he was afraid of her. All five feet and possibly
100-pounds-soaking-wet of her.

When her gaze fell in apparent
disappointment, he was finally able to look away from the eyes that
had seemed to envelop him and hold him captive. To distance
himself, take in the full picture of her face. Like stepping back
for a better view of that painting he’d found at the Capricorn.
Exactly like that. So much like that, he shivered
involuntarily.

Her face was heart-shaped. Her hair, endless
cascades of riotous, gleaming black curls. She could have been any
age, nineteen to thirty-nine. Impossible to tell. One delicate hand
rose, and she fingered the pendant she wore, moving it back and
forth on its chain.

She was nervous.

“It’s very important that I take this class,”
she said, and her voice reminded him of water chuckling over
stones. Deep and smooth and refreshing. But he wasn’t too entranced
by it not to notice the silt of desperation stirring beneath the
surface.

“Why?”

“I’m...” She lifted her chin, met his eyes
again. “I’m...it doesn’t matter...”

Her words trailed off, and she averted her
eyes almost guiltily.

“This is going to sound like a line,” he said
slowly, ignoring every warning bell going off in his head, though
they were damn near deafening. “But I have the feeling I know you.
Have we met?”