Pleasures of the Night (Dream Guardians #1)

Pleasures of the Night (Dream Guardians #1) Page 34

But why the Key was a Dreamer and why the traits attributed to it were so important, he didn't know. And the pendant…

His eyes closed on a shudder. There, in the ancient text, he'd found a drawing of the pendant Sheron had given him so long ago. A relic of the old world. A part of the prophecy the Elders had never shared with anyone. The stone would protect her, the glowing reaction it had to her proximity enhancing her abilities in the Twilight. She'd been able to create the door without it. With it, he imagined she would be able to keep Guardians and Nightmares away from the portal altogether. She would finally be safe in dreams.

When he'd first translated that section of the text, he'd been confused as to why something so dangerous would be given to him, a man who was sent out nightly to interact with Dreamers who might be the Key. Why wouldn't it be locked away?

Then he'd read further.

The Key. The Lock. The Guardian.

Lyssa was the Key, as evidenced by the reaction of the stone, which was the Lock. He could only assume that he was the Guardian. And the result of the combination of the three?

"The end of the Universe as we now know it."

Further translation was sketchy. Many of the words used were unfamiliar to him. But some things were clear. Rupture. Annihilation. To say it didn't sound good would be a huge understatement.

He had to return to the Twilight for answers, and he had to stay away from Lyssa.

Fissure creation wasn't the direction he needed to be looking. He needed to know what it was about Lyssa's ability to see into the Twilight and control dreams that made the Elders so fearful. Why wouldn't a curious Guardian, like him, be an equal threat? And the stone. What was it? What was its purpose? Why had it been given to him?

And what did this all mean? Were the Elders malevolent or benevolent? He didn't know, but he couldn't help thinking that if their cause was just, they would have shared it freely with the Guardians. They'd lied about so much. They said the trip to this world was one-way, but parts of his translation led him to believe otherwise. Why would they hide the ability to travel freely between the conduit and this plane? It was only one of countless unanswered questions.

But, if he was wrong about the round-trip travel, it was possible he could wake again in this world. Aidan's jaw tightened. He couldn't allow that to happen if his presence here jeopardized Lyssa. He would have to prevent it. By whatever means necessary.

The water in the shower upstairs turned off, galvanizing him into action. Aidan washed quickly in the downstairs bathroom, then moved to the kitchen, steeling himself inwardly for the parting that was rapidly approaching.

Hearing the low, warbling birdcall that said it was safe to proceed, Connor set his jaw grimly and entered the Temple of the Elders. Using comms wasn't possible in a situation like this, where their transmissions would be picked up and used against them later. By necessity, this was a stripped-down mission. His favorite kind.

Philip had taken out the guard at the entryway with a blow dart dipped in tranquilizer. Then he'd retrieved it from the unfortunate man's neck so that no evidence was left behind. The guard would awaken with only the vague sensation of having dozed, perhaps in boredom. Connor would do the same to the lone sentinel in the control room. They hoped their careful planning would prevent them from being both seen and remembered. If they could manage to get some answers and then retreat without being detected, he would consider the engagement a resounding success.

Keeping this objective in mind, Connor moved within the shadows, his senses alert, his steps deliberately planned and timed to avoid being recorded. He entered the middle hallway that led away from the haiden. The hall to the left branched off toward the living quarters of the Elders. The hall to the right led to a secluded, open-air meditation courtyard.

So far, so good.

As he walked, a vibration beneath his feet drew Connor's attention to the floor. The stone shimmered and became translucent, frightening him for a moment into thinking the ground had completely disappeared and he was about to fall into the endless blanket of stars revealed. He groped for the wall in an instinctive gambit to save himself, then the view of space melted into a swirling kaleidoscope of colors.

"Fuck me," he breathed.

Arrested by the display, Connor stared agape, wondering if what he was watching was real or a projection of some sort.

Then, knowing time was short, he forced himself to ignore the vertigo caused by the floor and continued on. With each step, ripples of writhing colors spread outward, as if he were walking in a body of shallow rainbow water. Up ahead, he spied an arched entryway and stealthily pressed his back to the wall directly next to it. He glanced inside and saw one Elder bent over a lighted console.

Connor withdrew the dagger at his thigh and held it away from him, angling the shiny blade to catch the reflection of his industriously working target. He would have one shot at this. If he missed, he would give away his position and intent, and set himself up for severe disciplinary action.

So he pulled out his blowgun with his other hand and waited patiently, ignoring the drops of sweat that slid down his temple. When the Elder finally turned away to remove a book from the wall of volumes behind him, Connor filled the doorway, taking the space of a heartbeat to aim before sending the tiny dart flying across the not inconsiderable distance between himself and the Elder.

He then returned to his spot, his gaze on the wildly swirling floor, waiting until he heard the thud of the unconscious Elder falling.

Before he entered the room, Connor whistled, telling Philip that he'd succeeded and to start the clock ticking. The tranquilizer would not hold for long.

"Tell me all your secrets," he murmured, setting his blade next to him on the control panel. Before him lay a semicircular panel of lighted buttons. Above that, embedded in a raised lip, were a dozen small vid screens, each one displaying a view of various Guardians engaged in their assignments. He stared at the display, his mind faltering at the realization of what exactly he was looking at.

All this time, the Guardians had assumed their moments spent in a Dreamer's stream of unconsciousness were private. They were not.

Which means they would have known of the captain's suspicions about the Dreamer. They would have seen the growing attachment between the two. Perhaps they had even fostered it by sending him back to her. They had allowed the relationship to progress because they were aware, not because they were ignorant.

Intrigued and horrified by the thought, Connor set to work, running through the archives with nimble keystrokes, trying to prove or disprove his guess. A quick glance toward the doorway showed him that the hallway floor had resumed its appearance of marble now that he no longer stood upon it. Too many oddities in a world he once thought he understood completely.

All the years he'd spend teasing and dismissing Aidan for his overwhelming curiosity rose up as bile in Connor's throat. Sex and fighting were all he had cared to focus on. How frivolous that seemed now. Life was not as simple as a halfhearted search for a centuries-old prophecy.

Who are the Elders? Who put them in charge? Why the drastic change in their appearance? Where did they learn about the Key? Why do we stop aging? Don't you ever wonder these things?

You ask too many questions, Cross.

Stupid. He never went into any mission without knowing every facet of the situation, yet he'd lived his life without knowing jackshit, as the past few moments had made abundantly clear.

"No more." He rolled his shoulders back, the primary focus of his life switching in one powerful moment of epiphany. "That's all about to change."

Then he heard his name and stilled, trying to discern where the sound had come from. He heard it again, and his wide-eyed gaze lifted to the row of monitors. "Cross."

On the farthest screen to the right he saw Aidan's dream… and Aidan.

As Lyssa put lotion on her face, she considered her dilemma and wondered what, if anything, she could do about it. She couldn't help Aidan with the books he'd brought with him since his language was beyond her, but she had noted that the new books he'd purchased the day before had been about Stonehenge. She didn't know why the place held such interest for him, but she would find out.

No matter what she had to do, there was no way in hell she was going to let him just walk out of her life. Not after what he'd shared with her this morning. Her immortal warrior had gone his entire life without needing or loving any woman—until he had found her. Now she was his dream, and it was a gift she wouldn't give up without a fight.

Stepping out of her bathroom, Lyssa paused mid-step. Aidan lay on the bed, asleep. She smiled affectionately, her heart swelling with emotion. "My poor darling. Even dream lovers need to rest sometime."

She padded barefoot across her short-pile oatmeal carpet, her hands tightening the fold between her breasts that kept the towel from falling. Standing over her bed, she took in the clothing he wore—loose-fitting black pants and matching vest. Unlike the clothes he'd purchased yesterday, these garments fit him perfectly, hugging him like a second skin to his hips, where the trousers then flared wide for ease of movement. The foreign material and seamless construction reminded her that they came from different worlds.

Her heart in her throat, she memorized his beloved features as they looked in that moment, the hard, angular lines softened by slumber. Aside from the strands of silver hair that lined his temples, Aidan looked no older than her thirty years.

"Gorgeous," she breathed, deeply enamored with his bared arms and golden throat. Bending over, she pressed her lips to his. "I love you."

He slept on.

Needing coffee desperately, Lyssa dressed in a cotton mini-dress decorated with soft pastel flowers. She was halfway down the stairs when she heard a familiar voice calling her from the open front door.

"Lyssa?"

She bounced the rest of the way down. "Hi, Mom." Her hug was exuberant.

"What the hell happened to your entryway?" her mother asked, poking at the cracked and powdered remains of a tile with the toe of her heeled sandal.