Heated Fantasies Part 3

She didn't care if she had somehow been transported to some exotic, purple-skied planet. Mace was mace, and it still should give her a moment or two to run if she needed it.

Dammit, even if the mace itself had no effect on this man or any other that scared the bejesus out of her, the cylinder itself was a fairly hefty metal object and would hurt like a b.i.t.c.h if she whacked him over the head with it.

At nearly six-feet tall, and with an impressively muscled body beneath his black slacks and black shirt, she couldn't help but understand how intimidating this man could be if he so chose to be. As she carefully looked his physique up and down, Clare felt her own lighter brown eyes drawn toward his dark chocolate-brown ones.

He looked to be somewhere in his mid-thirties, but she didn't want to set much store by her first impression-heaven knew how people aged or what cosmetic surgery was like in this world. His cropped dark brown hair had no sign of gray in it, and his roughly chiseled features had very few lines, so she had trouble believing he could be too old.

She felt the tension in her body relax even more as she noticed the warm brown orbs twinkled merrily at her, and the wide, s.e.xily dimpled grin on his face made him appear very relaxed and exceedingly friendly.

Had she really lucked out so easily? Clare winced at the slight underlying cynicism in her mind. Since when had she been such a grouchpot, willing to question and doubt everything?

Since you looked up from a book to discover the sky was an interesting shade of purple, Clare, her mind snarked. Meeting a nice person within five minutes of her life being turned utterly upside down seemed like a coincidence, but Clare tried hard to hold judgment for the moment on whether this was good or rotten luck.

Clare felt startled to realize she had taken half a step toward the unknown man. She needed to trust something or someone, and her instinct told her this man was a sound bet. It was only a tiny step, but she knew it had shown the man she was willing to trust him for now.

Her stepping toward him had caused him to hastily push what appeared to be a small notebook or something farther into his pocket, and for a moment it snagged her attention. She knew she had never seen the notebook before, but it drew her attention and curiosity for a moment.

She shook herself, realized she had been staring near his groin. Clare blushed slightly-even though she hadn't been staring at his crotch, she felt embarra.s.sed he might have thought so.

Instead of standing there in a strange silence, Clare decided to be friendly to the man.

"I'm...uh...new around here," she started hesitantly. Clare tried not to laugh, or cry, at the understatement of her words. "I don't know you and don't really know what you want," she said, hoping to have him able to explain even some of what seemed to be going on.

The man nodded and his smile broadened. The warm, friendly gesture had Clare relaxing even more. This strange man seemed genuinely pleasant and approachable and some of her nerves and hesitancy receded.

"I am Gavreel Montague, but everyone calls me Gav," the man started, "and I am exceedingly interested in that vampiric tome you have with you. Do you think we could go somewhere quiet and have a look at it, please?"

Clare wrapped her arms around the heavy tome, letting the mace fall back into its place in her bag. She no longer truly believed she'd need it against this man, but his interest and knowledge about the book she held startled her a bit, but for the moment she had bigger worries on her mind.

Where the h.e.l.l was she supposed to take him? she wondered to herself. She seriously doubted if she continued along what was supposed to be her way home she would end up at her familiar little apartment.

Feeling like a child in the playground, desperately holding on to her favorite doll, Clare tried to think and not concentrate on how her legs had started to tremble. She fiddled with the strap of her purse with one hand, still retaining her tight hold on the heavy tome.

"I'm Clare," she reciprocated the introduction politely. "Clare Rooney. And..." She paused for a moment, hating the catch in her voice. You will not cry, she repeated to herself fiercely, you will not cry. "I...I think I'm a little lost. Uh..." she trailed off, having no idea what to do or say.

Pride had her not wanting to admit she had no "quiet place" to take Gavreel Montague to, even if she was willing to be alone with him and let him study the tome she held.

She didn't want to invite herself over to his house, she still had no solid reason whatsoever to disqualify the homicidal ax-murderer scenario, and yet she knew she would have to take a leap of faith sooner or later on someone.

"How about we just sit here on this bench for a moment?" Gavreel replied softly. Clare felt relief wash through her at his words. That at least solved some of her problems.

"I have something I really quite desperately need to look at inside your book," he continued gently and without urgency, "and then we can talk about where you want to go."

"I want to go home," she said quickly, blinking hard to fight away the tears that crowded there. Even though Clare had nothing and no one to really go home to, she desperately wanted to see her own paintings, wrap herself up in her own quilt and touch her own possessions.

She felt her shoulders shudder as Gavreel came up to her and put a warm arm around her. She tensed for a moment, not knowing what he would do, but even so, she didn't feel threatened by him. His touch was gentle, almost fatherly, and light, very light so as to not freak her out totally.

Clare relaxed as she realized deep inside herself she didn't feel scared of him. Instead, she just felt the soothing, calming presence of the only familiar face she had. For a brief moment she buried her face in his shoulder and let the few tears she couldn't hold back fall onto his black shirt.

Gathering all her strength and courage, she shook herself and wiped a hand over her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said hoa.r.s.ely. "You must think I'm the biggest idiot."

"Not at all, my dear," Gav said softly. "I think you are incredibly brave, seeing as you're lost in a strange world and all. Let me check this one thing in your tome and then I will take you to Alderic, an old friend of mine, and we'll see if we can get you back home again."

Clare smiled, felt immeasurably better knowing this man, at least, and was on her side. She let him lead her back to the bench she had sat on-was it really only a few short minutes ago?-back at home, and she let him take the heavy old tome out of her hands.

She couldn't help but notice as he rested the tome on his lap, that his eyes had lightened, his smile happy and satisfied, his dimples creasing his cheeks in a kind of s.e.xy, sweet manner.

Clare smiled, recognizing and knowing the feeling of absolute obsession for knowledge and books that this man appeared to be genuinely showing her. Obviously Gav was also an avid researcher, just like herself. She felt herself relax in his presence, the deep-seated recognition calming her even more than his words and actions could have.

She watched as Gav opened the book to the dedications page, peered over his shoulder as he softly read the words he had obviously been searching for.

"To reach your heart's desire One must travel far and wide.

But then take the time to look inside- That's where, for what you search, you will find.

"d.a.m.ned riddle mongers," Gavreel cursed quietly under his breath. Clare looked at him, a faint smile on her lips. She, too, hated riddles, but the strength of Gav's anger surprised her somewhat. She gloried for a moment in something other than her own problems to mull over.

"I take it a riddle was not what you were expecting?" she said, trying carefully to hide her laughter at her new friend's obvious frustration. When Gavreel looked up into her eyes and smiled wryly, she knew he had understood what she meant.

"b.l.o.o.d.y well annoys me, simply because I can read this and think it means one thing, but you can read it and think it means another. Riddles are utterly subjective according to whomever reads them."

Clare nodded, understanding. "Well, if you know who wrote this book, then you could probably make an educated guess as to what it means."

She smiled back at Gavreel when he gently handed the book back to her. She held it close to her chest, the one and only solid, real thing in this seemingly unreal world. Besides, she couldn't help but hope the book and the bench might somehow be instrumental in her return. The bench itself looked different than the one back home, but its placement looked to be exactly the same.

Clare sighed. She had no idea how she came to be here, so how the h.e.l.l would she be able to get home? She pushed the worrying thought far from her mind, determined to try and stay positive.

When Gav stood up, holding a hand out to her, she gathered all her courage. She stood, held the tome tightly with one arm, and took his outstretched hand with her other hand. They were both silent, lost in their own thoughts as he led her down one of the winding paths through the park, surprisingly, in the same direction she had earlier chosen to take.

She continued to remind herself that she just needed to sit down comfortably for a few moments, just needed to keep on breathing deeply and calmly and everything would be perfectly fine. Clare rallied her spirits as they flagged upon leaving the park. She fiercely told herself to stop worrying, she could easily ask directions back to that particular park, even a.s.suming Gav refused to bring her back.

Besides, she had every intention of viewing this park again soon in the full daylight. Once she and Gavreel hit what she a.s.sumed to be the city streets, she felt her knees begin to wobble and her heart patter faster.

Strange cars with no wheels moved around the streets in a dizzying manner. She couldn't see exactly how they moved, but she much preferred the p.r.i.c.k to her curiosity than the hysteria bubbling away just under the surface of her thoughts.

Shop fronts seemed similar, yet somehow alien. There were a number of people wandering the streets in all sorts of strange fashions that had Clare gaping. Men and women walked in groups, talking and gesticulating madly while wearing what looked similar to an ankle-to-neck-length Lycra bodysuit.

Even though Gav wore what appeared to be synthetic pants and a Lyrca-ish shirt, he at least looked to be dressed fairly normally. The bodysuits just weirded her out. How did one get into and out of them?

From the brief glimpses Clare could catch as Gavreel led her down a confusing maze of streets, one after the other, she couldn't tell if everyone seemed so large and muscled, or if the suits were just molded that way.

As they made their way behind what looked vaguely like a bar, Clare smiled at the large, gaudy neon sign announcing the place as "Scooper's Pub". Clare felt her feet stop of their own volition. Three super-skinny women stood huddled around in a small circle together, smoking what appeared to be a dark, dark red cigarette.

It wasn't the cigarettes alone which had her stopping, but the fact their bodies were so scantily clad as to make even Clare blush for them. A thick band of differing colors seemed to magically stay up across all three of the women's indecently large b.r.e.a.s.t.s, covering their nipples and pretty much nothing else. A black bow tie was loosely tied around each woman's neck, and two of the three women wore ultra-micro short-shorts, while the third appeared to be in the shortest miniskirt Clare had ever seen. The pleats flared and only barely refrained from flashing the blonde's a.s.s each time she moved with her female friends.

"Come on, Clare, you don't want to offend the escorts," Gav's deep voice chided softly as he tugged on her arm. Clare resisted, too busy gawking.

"Those women escort people wearing that?" she asked, incredulous.

"Come on, Clare."

Clare tried to twist her head to look further at the astonishingly clad women. "They are likely at the pub as femservers," Gav explained softly as he led her with a gentle hand on her arm, "but I can promise you, with those outfits, they are almost certain to double as escorts. Besides, Lea, the blonde in the skirt, is a friend of my sons', and she at least is a decent woman."

Clare walked along, grumbling internally when the women were out of sight. She tried to digest what she had just seen.

"Who on earth would want to be escorted by a woman dressed like that? Even if Lea is a nice woman," Clare asked, still wanting to know more about the women as she and Gav turned another corner.

"Ah," Gav said, hastening his pace. Clare wondered for a moment if his pace had increased because he didn't want her to see many more people, or if they had just entered a bad side of town. "Escorts are women of the night, umm...hired body tenderers."

"Oh," Clare said, understanding dawning on her. She felt slightly sorry for the women suddenly. "Yeah, we have them too, but we don't use such nice names for them. And what were they smoking?"

Gav took one quick, penetrating look at her, making her smile. She suddenly felt like a naughty thirteen-year-old being caught by her parents smoking a cigarette.

"I don't intend to try it out...well," she conceded ruefully, "not unless it's really good and somehow magically not harmful to my little gray cells."

"Gray cells?" he asked quizzically. Clare sighed.

"Don't ask. The cigarettes?"

Gav shrugged as he knocked what sounded like a prearranged staccato on an old wooden door.

"It's septron, an herbal concoction to dull pain and heighten the senses. Escorts use it commonly before a particularly big night out. I wouldn't recommend you try it as you would have no tolerance whatsoever to it."

Clare smiled curiously.

"No tolerance?" she repeated, her thirst for understanding, and insatiable curiosity aroused. "So what effect would it have?"

As the door opened a crack, Clare could feel warmth escaping from the brightly lit interior. Gav turned to her and smiled with complete understanding. Clare felt her own face smile in return. On this level, this curious, knowledge-gathering level, they stood toe-to-toe in understanding and agreement.

"It would either make you high, make you hear the tiniest of sounds and make the clothes feel too restricting on your body, et cetera," Gavreel said seriously, "or it would knock you out, send you to sleep and it would work its way through your system in your dreams. They would be bizarre, so real and lifelike you would have trouble distinguishing between what truly occurred and what was pure fantasy."

Clare opened her mouth to ask yet another question, but Gav interrupted her first.

"Trust me, my dear," he cautioned and Clare paid attention, "neither of these occurrences would be particularly fun for you."

That said, and without another glance to her, he stepped in through the door.

Clare thought for a moment about both ways her body might react to septron, and shrugged. She had to admit Gavreel was correct, neither reaction sounded particularly fun when put this way. So reluctantly she pushed the drug from her mind.

Instead, she looked into the small, warmly heated lit entryway Gavreel had stepped through and hesitated a brief moment.

She realized for the first time she was in a place she had no idea about, and had no real knowledge as to how she had arrived. She knew no one except Gav, and was about to follow said man, whom she hadn't known for twenty minutes, through a door into heaven knew where.

She frowned as the outrageousness of her situation hit her for the first time.

Was she utterly out of her mind?

Clare looked around her and then sighed in resignation. Truly, what choice did she have?

Come on, she cheered to herself, tried to rally her flagging spirits. You've gone with your gut instinct this far-why not jump in with both feet?

Clare snorted to herself, and took a deep breath. With more faith than courage, she stepped through the doorway and followed where Gavreel Montague had led.

Chapter Three.

Clare walked into the hallway and saw Gavreel a dozen paces ahead, walking straight through the end of the hallway and into the open room beyond. As she slowly followed him, she took the time to look at her surroundings.

Deep inside herself she knew she was procrastinating, putting off the moment she would have to establish the how-and more importantly, why-of what had just happened. Her stomach dipped when she acknowledged she would also have to find out where exactly she was, and how she could possibly return back home.

She admitted to herself she was a little scared. She was also rather apprehensive about what would happen to her, but even so, she couldn't deny her wonder at how oddly normal the house she found herself in appeared at first glance.

Since everything else she had witnessed in the last ten or fifteen minutes had been almost alarmingly different from what she had always perceived as the norm, the fact this house seemed, for now at least, remarkably standard had a soothing effect on her frazzled nerves.

The walls were painted a restful, clear blue and seemed to invite her to slow down and take her time. Not in any sort of hurry, Clare responded to the subconscious soothing and slowed her pace to almost a standstill.

From the outside, the house had seemed small, skinny and almost like a one-room condo of some sort. Yet a number of doors were on either side of the narrow hallway, showing her the house would likely turn out to be much larger than it appeared to be from the outside.

The hallway easily fit the width of her body, though admittedly she and Gav could not have walked down the hall side by side. What looked like charcoal sketches of winged, fanged people were dotted along the walls, drawing her avid curiosity and interest.

Clare paused to glance at these sketches as she pa.s.sed, wishing she could stay for hours and linger over them, study them. The second sketch she found had her hand reaching out of its own volition, wanting to remove the sketch and bring it down to her for closer inspection.

A man stood in the picture, tall and proud, in a pair of pants, shaded in black. His wings were outstretched and also shaded a very heavy charcoal-black. Dark hair, yet not the pure black of his clothes and wings, fell around his face, framing him almost. The man's eyes, also very darkly shaded, appeared to blaze from his face.

Clare belatedly realized the man wore no shirt, his bare chest muscled and appearing almost to ripple as he stood there, straight and proud. His lips were curved in anger, or maybe defiance. Small fangs peeked through the lips, giving him the look of a demon, or maybe a newly fallen angel, angry and still defiant.

Clare couldn't really express what it was, but something about this man, this demon-angel man drew her, made her heart beat faster and yet simultaneously freeze. She had an unusual reaction to this man, not even fully understanding it herself.

Finally giving in to her desire, she let her fingers gently run over the man's face, his fangs. Relieved the charcoal, or whatever it was, didn't smudge or affect the sketch at all, she let her index finger ever-so-lightly trace his outspread wings.

The man appeared as if he had been surprised, caught unawares and was reflexively readying for battle. A wary man, she mused to herself whimsically, reacting instinctively and a.s.suming he would always be kicked instead of helped or loved.

Clare could feel her heart go out to this handsome man, as she could somewhat relate to the a.s.sumption everyone would rather hurt than help you. This wounded, aggressive man struck a chord deep inside her, similar though not as potent as her reaction to the ancient tome. The image of the winged man reached out to touch something she had never felt inside her chest.

With an astounding feeling of regret, Clare moved on from that sketch, her gaze drifting back to it, wishing she could remove it from the wall and take it with her. Instead, she imprinted the picture of that man in her mind and moved on.

The sketches seemed to be just that, sketches, not detailed paintings, and yet the simple, quick strokes of charcoal seemed to capture each person very clearly and well.

Three more men and one woman were sketched and hung along the wall. None of the rest of them touched her as the first man had, yet all of them were interesting in their own way. Each person depicted appeared to be wearing differing styles of clothes, the woman and two of the men in what looked like jeans, but in completely different surroundings, from inner city to caught mid-flight in the open air. The third man wore boots, black pants and a leather-looking jacket.