Rock Star (Dream Weaver #2) (4 page)

Chapter
6 Love Bites (So Do I)

              Quiet. Warm. Safe. The smell of new carpet, new drywall filtered into my sleep. It felt homey; but home was old and comfortable, saturated with the scent of decades of life permeating the walls. I relaxed in the warmth, content, for the moment, to lay utterly relaxed in this place, halfway between awake and asleep, where there were no demands on my body or soul. Slowly, I drifted fully awake. I stretched and yawned, then opened my eyes. There was no band. No stage. Just silence. Silence, and this warm quiet room in an unfamiliar place.

             
What band? It was all a dream, right? But it felt so real, so right. I cradled my head in my hands, massaging the memories in my brain. I shook my head, rattled my thoughts, so maybe gravity could pull them back to their places. Two realities warred inside my brain; some forgotten reality and a vivid fantasy life. I pressed my fingers to the deep creases on my brow.
Okay. I am Emari Sweet. Check.
And there my list crumbled. Was I the front man for a band? Or was that a dream? But how could a dream be so lucid? I rewound my memories like an old 8mil. film to the last memory that felt real. I remembered driving to a home, pulled by an invisible thread. My car slid into a ditch, yet a magnetic force lured me on. There was a house, somehow familiar and yet forgotten. My fist cracked and crumbled like a frozen polyalloy Terminator as I rapped on the door. I wanted flee. I wanted to stay—until dark chocolate eyes scanned my face; warmth prickled against my frigid cheeks; strong hands pulled me inside where I was faced with fear and familiarity.

             
This life of a rock star warmed my thoughts, so real—and illusive. It was a life I loved, but a life that was not my own. The room around me was dim, windowless, lit only by a torchiere lamp in the corner that spouted amber beams across the ceiling. The curves of the recumbent chair matched and supported my own. The walls were barren, painted dull matte beige, devoid of color and vitality. I wondered, momentarily, if this was the psych ward up at Sacred Heart. This was the kind of furniture Adrian, my quasi-uncle and therapist, would have in his office. A large square ottoman was pulled up to the side of my chair as though someone had been sitting at my side. Comforting? Or interrogating?

             
I slung my legs to the side of the chair and stood on weak, wobbly legs. I took in my surroundings more fully. For all intents, it appeared to be a home recording studio, acoustical and sound proofed. But what kinds of sounds were they hiding? My screams for help? No guitars leaned on stands, no drum set in the corner, no recording equipment. No sound board, or mikes, or bundles of patch cords or stacks of monitors. Just me and my loony bin chair.

             
My gaze ranged the walls to the door. It was shut, holding the outside world at bay—or perhaps holding me in. Relief and panic clashed inside me. Would the door be unlocked? With silent, tentative steps, I slunk to the door and curled my fingers around the cold metal knob that shifted only a fraction of an inch and stuck. My heart surged with anger.
I will not be made a prisoner
. With a quiet snarl of defiance, I wrenched the knob and it yielded to my demand. I only needed a crack to peek out at what was beyond; I held my breath, and listened. Nothing but stillness and more quiet seeped through the gap, though I was certain the pounding of my heart boomed loud enough to be heard by anyone nearby. The room was scantly decorated with a couple of arcade-style video games and an ancient Pinball Wizard game. A Snooker table, with a beautiful stained-glass hanging lamp above it, served as the centerpiece of the room. This place was getting stranger by the moment. Who kept an arcade in their home? Or was this even a house?

             
Lithe as a serpent, I slithered around a corner and slunk up the stairs. The third stair from the top popped like a gun blast in the quiet stairwell, and I froze, sucked in my breath, and prepared for confrontation. But none came. Only more silence challenged me. I slowly released my breath, before I turned giddy from lack of oxygen; then crouched and peeked around the corners in both directions. Muted daylight flooded this level. To my right, the stairs continued up to another level; beside that, a closed door. At the end of the short hall were what looked like closet doors, and across from that another closed door of blonde cedar with polished brass fixtures. In front of me and a couple feet to my left, was a long wall with two closed doors. The wall was covered with pictures that I couldn’t quite make out. The closest photo to me vaguely resembled an old sepia photograph of two bodies hanging on a gallows. I shuddered at the macabre thought. Who in their right mind would display pictures of death on their walls? The ghost of a memory tickled inside my brain as though I did know someone who just might enjoy something so dark and sinister. That someone with dark chocolate eyes. But I shook away the thought, and returned my attention to the room before me. A varnished cedar railing ran the length of the hall on the left side and at the end I could see a door to the outside world.

             
Could I make it to the door unseen, unheard? Peeking around the corner to my left, I found a modern kitchen with black marble counter tops, and beyond that, a small dining area with sliding doors leading out the back of what, I now knew, was definitely someone’s home. Two steps led down to the wide open living area with one huge barren wall with inset speakers that acted as the screen for the reverse projection TV that hung from the ceiling under the balcony on the floor above. Another nudge of familiarity poked at me. A long overstuffed, black sectional and two matching recliners faced the screen; and at the far end of the open room was a formal dining table large enough to seat ten, a corner fireplace and the biggest bay window I’d ever seen.

             
And I had seen it before, though I couldn’t quite remember when. This area of the house niggled at my memories. I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples trying to force the memory to surface. There were vampires here—there had been, but they were gone now, driven away by…I couldn’t remember.
But, vampires aren’t real—Are they?
The house felt both safe and nocuous at the same time. Fear and longing shuddered through me. I wanted to go home. Home to familiar and safe—to normal; where everything either soothed me or scared me—but not both at once.

             
The door to the outside lay only feet away. The murmur of voices drifted over the banister from one of the rooms upstairs. Curiosity tugged at me, but fear and freedom pushed my feet toward the door and home. My coat hung on the oak coat tree by the door, so I slid it on. My fingers trembled on the knob and I eased the door open with a quite
shush
. Frigid air blasted my face and caught my breath. Gingerly, I pulled the door closed behind me and scanned the yard. My urban orange CX9 was parked in front of the garage, my keys thumped against my hip in the pocket of my coat. Sucking in my breath and my courage, I darted for my car. I wanted to go home. I wanted away from this strange house, with the distant memory of a strange man that lured me here and ensnared me. I wanted Eddyson and my fuzzy, zombie sheep jammies, and the safety of my security system—and Pinky, my stun gun.

             
My feet skated on the ice as I got a few feet from my car. My arms flailed as I tried and failed to find some purchase. I was about to hit the ground—without a doubt. As my body descended to the icy hard ground, a flurry of sparkling snow whirled around me, twin tornados of ice evolved into strong arms that caught me before I went down.

             
“Emari,” the chocolate-eyed man said as he righted me.

             
“Let go. Let me go.” I writhed in his grasp, a worm evading the fisherman’s hook.

             
“Emari, please. I don’t want to hurt you.”

             
“Let me go. You can’t keep me here against my will. I’ll scream,” I warned, and fished through my mind for escape plans.

             
The dark-eyed man grumbled in frustration and clamped a hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry, Em. But I can’t let you go like this.” He wrapped me in his steely arms.

             
“Sabre, don’t…” came a voice behind me; the voice of the second cyclone.

             
But it was too late. Darkness ensconced me and my body melted.

*          *          *

              Consciousness drifted into my mind like smoke snaking through wood. My eyes drifted open and I bolted upright. I wasn’t in the gloomy recording studio, but the dim sunken living room with the giant theatre wall.  I rolled off the couch into a predatory crouch, and tried to convince myself I could totally kick ass if they came at me again.
Damn! Where is Pinky when I really need her?
Her ten million volts would sure come in handy right about now.

             
The stairs up to the next level were brightly lit like a beacon to guide my way. But only silence spilled from above. I drifted into the cusp between the dimness and light, listened to the nothing that chilled me to the bone. That second cyclone said a name.
Sabre. What? Like the sword?
The name was drenched with familiarity. I stalked up the stairs like a robber, painstakingly silent, and aware of every rustle of my clothes, the
shush
of my feet on the carpet, the blast of my panicked breath. Carefully, stealthily, I peeked around the corner to the second set of steps, and probed the silence. The bones of this newer house didn’t creak like my cottage in the woods. I didn’t know who or what awaited me at the top of those stairs. Was I a hostage sure to face pain and be forced back down to the dim ‘music’ room? Or was I among friends that I just didn’t quite remember? But why wouldn’t I remember?

             
I glanced once more at the front door, my escape hatch, before I headed up the stairs to the next level. Somehow, I didn’t know how, I just knew that my answers lay upstairs, in one of those less familiar rooms. There were no voices to draw me, no sounds to follow, just a knowing that a part of my life existed up these stairs and down this hall. My answers, my solutions lay past all the closed doors to the last one that was ajar a couple of inches, and glowed ill-omened around the edges like a passage to another realm. Another couch stretched behind the railing, a higher viewing point for the gigantic movie screen below. The light from within cast a bright stripe across the floor and the railing, and sliced the couch in two.

             
I edged closer, silent, barely breathing, listening for any sound that might give me away or reveal the occupant of the golden lit room. Through the bright crack, I spotted the corner of a large desk in a deep varnished mahogany. I eased myself closer. An wingback office chair sat behind the desk and I spied a man’s elbow, resting on the arm of the chair. I leaned toward the shaft of light and was rewarded with the sight of half the man’s face; his lower lip rested on point of his steepled fingers, his dark eyes and chestnut hair. He was statue-still, deep in thought. Then, his body shifted my direction.

             
“You may come in, Emari,” he said, so quietly I wondered if I imagined it, though I knew I hadn’t. I pushed the door open a few more inches.

             
“Sabre?” I closed my eyes and rummaged my memories, not really sure how I knew his name. Recognition and fear battled in my heart; each with a valid argument.

             
Sabre smiled and leaned toward me. I couldn’t help feeling like Eddy when he heard a strange sound. My eyes stretched wide, seeing but not comprehending all I perceived.

             
“Yes, Emari. You remember,” he said, as he held his hand out to me.

             
My feet drifted forward a few steps of their own volition. “You’ve got some explaining to do, I think,” I told him.

             
I eased closer and slid my hand into his, and with the warmth of his touch came a gentle trickle of memories. Sabre was—a friend? Of sorts. He wasn’t the fiend, the kidnapper I’d feared he was, but the abstracted memories were laced with uncertainty, some hidden dark truth plated through with sentimentality.

             
“You’re safe here, Emari.”

             
I tried to smile, my best fake smile, and Sabre chuckled. Turning from his condescending amusement, I noticed another man in the room as he rose from another chair across from the desk. I scanned his face from my place of presumed safety, cowered against Sabre’s side. Those eyes. My heart raced and I ducked behind Sabre, a shield between me and those eyes. They were the eyes that followed me in my dreams, stalked me through the streets of Seattle, hunted me from the cheering crowds. The glint on the irises was alluring, drawing in my heart; but my heart was still filled with hesitation. Who was this man with the magnetic pull on me that awakened a dormant terror? The battle of divided fronts raged in my head.

             
Sabre’s arm snaked around my waist and he pulled me against his side. I clutched his shirt in my fist. His presence was my only anchor to the truth, and even that was tenuous. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a self-satisfied smirk creep across his lips as he watched the other man, who glared at him and sneered. “Sabre…” I cowered against my protector, not sure if he was any safer.