Lucidity (12 page)

“And if you’re really gifted, you can make yourself part of it all. There are those of us, the more experienced, who claim to have walked among those clouds,” she continued wistfully. “Sailed between the rings of Saturn. Strolled through the silt at the bottom of the sea, or visited other dimensions, other times. Me? Contrary to what Violet said, I’m just one of the average lucid loons. It’s all about the clarity, how convincing the dream.”

His lip curled into a half smile, sending her heart soaring. “You must’ve been one creepy little kid.”

Carly nodded, giggling. Geez, the stories she could tell him. “Sometimes I even scared myself. There was this guy in high school. Rodney-something. Captain of the football team, Honor Society, serious all-around stud. I was chunky and shy, with no special skills, and I figured he’d never notice me. So naturally, I wanted him
bad
. I remember dreaming about his little blue Toyota coming down my street every weekend as I sat on the porch, watching. In my sleep, I visualized what he’d look like by the light of the streetlamp near my home, the love songs drifting from his speakers, and how he’d sometimes bring takeout food, or even a little bouquet of flowers. And every single element of those lucid dreams came true.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It came true for the cheerleader who lived directly across the street from me.”

“Oh,
shit
.”

She nodded, agreeing. “It was a spring of pure torture, watching the two of them carry on my romance. I’d forgotten to make
myself
part of the equation. Lesson learned.”

“He must’ve been an idiot anyway, not to see what he was missing.” His voice, low and raspy, nearly made her shiver. “But still, Carlotta. Imagination—”

“Accompanied by conviction is unshakable.” She grinned at the doubt on his face. “Ask any man capable of fantasizing. Imagine having a beautiful woman, naked and eager on her knees before you. She’s been baking in a warm tropical sun, her slender body bearing no tan lines. Her breasts are double-D full, the nipples puckered, as if begging for attention.”

Noting the rapt expression on his face, she moistened her lips, her words barely registering above a whisper. “Her smooth arms rest on your thighs, her fingertips barely tickling the curves of your balls. You can see it in your mind, feel it in the urgent movement of your hips, wanting more. And she hungrily takes your dick between soft, full lips, moaning at the taste of you, trying for all she’s worth to suck every drop of hot, salty seed from your body. Wouldn’t that get your sexual juices flowing, whether she was really there or not?”

The eggs were abruptly forgotten. There was danger in the man’s eye, a smoldering hoarseness to his voice. He was imagining it, all right, with her in the starring role. She swallowed hard, sure she could taste him as she did.

“You do that conjuring stuff well, woman.”

“The devil is in the details, Munroe.”

He stared at her with a ravenous expression, uncomfortably shifting in the chair. “Point made. Life must’ve been pretty interesting for your boyfriend.”

“Fun and games, until I started participating in the experiment. He just picked up and left one day, without a word, while I was attending one of the last training classes. I’m afraid he had issues with my needing to go to sleep at a moment’s notice.”

“If it gave him a chance to see you dressed like that, he would’ve been a fool to complain.”

Carly dropped her fork again, her throat suddenly dry. The room was thick with expectant silence as she searched his face for some sign of sarcasm, both hoping and fearing to find it. His expression was deadly serious.

Was this the time? Could she gather up the nerve to finally tell him that, somewhere in between the running and hiding and potential for tragedy, she’d actually developed feelings for him? Getting it off her chest might be good for her. It had always been a distraction, trying to concentrate on the lucid dreaming while this mass of walking testosterone prowled right outside her bedroom.

Praying her phone wouldn’t choose this time to go off, she squared her shoulders and looked him right in the eye. “Parker, I—”

He was on his feet, pistol drawn, almost before the loud noise registered to her inexperienced ear. A small explosion.

Gunshot
.

Gunshot at close quarters.

Carly jumped up and gripped her chair, only to be shoved unceremoniously back.

“
Down!
” he ordered, squeezing her shoulder. “Get down. Under the table.”

She scooted into the cramped space on all fours, cringing at the sound of another shot. A
closer
shot.

“Take this.” He stooped, shoving his favorite .38 into her trembling hands.

“Munroe, I—I can’t. I’m no good with—”

“I said
take
it. Keep your finger off the trigger unless you absolutely need to shoot. Then squeeze, firm and hard. Stay hidden until I get back. Anybody but me comes through that door, you blow their fucking balls off. Understand?”

He whirled through the room, snatched his ammunition case open and retrieved his Desert Eagle. Before she could cry out or beg him to be safe, he was closing and locking the door behind himself in total silence, as if he’d never been there.

Carly held her breath, held on to the weapon in her hand, more because it was treasured by
him
than with any intent to use it. What in the world was she supposed to do with his gun? This didn’t involve shooting soup cans off a fence. If he hadn’t been behind her, urging her on, steadying her hand, she’d never have managed even that. Would she honestly be able to harm another human being? How could she justify trying to save lives if she could kill someone just to save her own?

Another shot echoed through the frozen air surrounding the small B&B, and her finger curled around the cold trigger. It was a hard, effective killing machine, just like its owner. The fact that both were pretty to look at didn’t change that.

And being a dreamer didn’t mean she didn’t have every intention of making it through this—even if it meant taking someone else out.

Please, God. Let Parker make it through this—all of this—with me…

Chapter Eleven

Please, God.

Yes…
God
.

If he should actually
make
it to his senior years, Parker prayed he wouldn’t become so thoughtless, thick and self-absorbed that he wouldn’t realize the sound of gunfire around a government agent who was obviously either bedding or sheltering a woman might be a cause for
alarm.

Furious beyond belief, he had managed to surprise Vic and disarm him before either of them got hurt. It earned him a hearty handshake from the older guy, who swore there were few men still walking the earth who could catch him unawares.

Parker, in turn, had quietly assured him that, if it happened again, he’d unaware his ass to kingdom come.

Of course, they were out in the boonies and Vic had every right to do a little target practice on his own property. And once Parker had oh-so-nicely pointed out that he was scaring his guests, Vic had humbly apologized.

But holy hell in a handbasket—what was the man thinking?

“Sorry, Munroe.” Vic squinted at the hollowed-out crescent moon carved on the outhouse he’d been pumping bullets into. “Old boozer like me, used to living in shit and trying to do without the juice, gets restless, y’know? And there’s nothing on television at this hour. Got so used to living underground, I don’t know how to act with a legitimate business. Swear, I’d be just as much at home burrowing under that woodpile out back, like some snake. But I meant no harm. Promise, I’ll make it up to ya. And to your lovely lady. Offer my apologies to your little lotus, will you?”

Parker took his time getting back to the room, trying to silence his stampeding heart. Keeping Carly on the run from trouble had been a challenging game. It meant vigilance at all times, being ready to roll at the drop of a hat. And he’d thought dealing with the sexy sleepwear was the toughest part of all.

Facing what he thought was an imminent threat to her safety had jacked up the odds tremendously. It would be even harder now. His feelings had, apparently, clawed their way to the surface.

If there was one thing he’d always been brutally honest about, it was himself. He hadn’t gone out to investigate. He hadn’t gone out to see what the danger was, report back to Shep or his superiors, or to judge whether there was still time to possibly make good an escape.

His actions had nothing to do with his assignment. He’d gone out there with every intention of killing whoever the sonofabitch was who might dare to come anywhere
near
her. Dammit, he was crazy about the woman.

All his professional objectivity, shot to hell. How in the world was he supposed to do his job now?

Violently clicking his cell on, he stalked before the front of the house, seeking a clear signal before jabbing in Shep’s private number. Yes, it was business, but he wasn’t quite ready to contact the suits, and he didn’t like the idea that someone else might listen in. It was a rotten hole he’d dug for himself, with no one to trust or turn to for information—except the handler who might be setting him up for the ultimate fall. The man he’d known for years and really wanted to believe in.

It would call for a little artful dodging, but he’d get whatever dope he could without giving any away. Shepherd would cut him some slack and understand. After all, they were supposed to be friends.

“What the fuck do you want, Munroe?”

Another victim of lumpy-mattress syndrome. “You awake?”

“Haven’t been to sleep yet. Got a little busy overnight.” The purring noise in the background bore little resemblance to that of a cat. “Make it good, make it fast.”

“Fine. I want info.”

“Oh, really? You take off, don’t report in, cop a squat somewhere without letting anybody know, and—where the hell are you?”

Parker opened his mouth to respond, then paused. Shep was, for the moment, his handler. He had every right to know what was going on. And he liked the guy and felt pretty open with him under normal conditions.

Still, there was nothing normal about any of this shit. Hell, Parker couldn’t even think of a reason to justify
not
telling him where they were. But for now the plan was to keep everyone—including Shep—at a distance for a day or so. He hated harboring such doubts, but he’d rather be safe than sorry. “Never mind our location. We won’t be here for long. The group that’s so against the One Hundred. The Temple assholes chasing Carly. Who are they?”

“Why the sudden interest in—”

“
Answer
.”

“Their proper name is actually Temple Malleus.” Shep ticked off the facts like a kid reciting lessons. “Named after the
Malleus Maleficarum
, a treatise against witchcraft written in 1486.”

Parker snorted. “You’re telling me we’ve been running from a pack of witch-hunters?”

“Don’t underestimate ’em, bud. They’re ultraextremists who believe that anyone with special abilities—genetically induced or otherwise—that extend beyond the ‘normal’ are in violation of God’s will. They make pretty whistle-stop speeches and pitch revival tents, but they’ve got a lot of political clout. All progress, all possible futures, should proceed by the book. And I mean
the
Book. Anything contrary to their biblical beliefs must be ferreted out. It’s that Exodus 22:18 thing, y’know?”

“Cut me a break, man,” Parker grumbled. “I haven’t been to Sunday school since snow was safe to eat.”

“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”
The phone crackled like the air before an approaching storm. “An interesting group. There’s actually something appealing about their fundamental simplicity. Been doing my own research. I haven’t gotten to the bottom of what the One Hundred are up to, but it ain’t popular with these peeps.”

Parker had heard of the group—and pretty much ignored their existence. The pipe bombing of an empty abortion clinic. The trashing of a stem cell laboratory. Threats made against NASA. Penny-ante stuff. The idea that they, more than anyone, believed in honoring God’s will was deluded but not deadly. There were no seriously dangerous religious factions practicing in the United States.

Uh-huh.

“Why the sudden interest, Munroe?”

“Just decided I wanted to know what I was dealing with.”

“Why didn’t you just ask the girl?”

“I didn’t want her to think I thought it was important. Which reminds me,” he continued hesitantly. “I want to request a transfer. Maybe something overseas. Away from this kind of petty political bullshit.”

The silence on the other end lasted so long he wondered if they’d been disconnected. “Shep?”

“Now I
know
something’s going on. You’ve never quit on a job before. Too much like giving up for your iron-studded ass.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m tired. Need a change of scenery. And I’m sick of all this running. Give me a stand-up fight anytime, but not this cat-and-mouse crap. Just line up a replacement for me, okay?” he huffed impatiently. “Somebody good. I’ll stay until they check in.”

Shepherd chuckled, and a muted feminine voice echoed the sound. “How about I take the gig? I wouldn’t mind guarding Ms. Phelps’s body. Anytime. Just give me your location and I’ll be—”