Lost Souls. Lisa Jackson
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closed in terror.
Panic swept through her.
It’s only a dream, remember that. You can’t speak, you can’t move, all classic signs of a nightmare. Calm down, shut this out of your mind. You’ll wake up in the morning….
But she didn’t heed the suggestions running through her mind, because something was off here. This whole scene was very, very wrong. Never before when she’d been terrorized by a nightmare had she had the insight to think she might be dreaming. And there was a realness to this, a substance that made her second-guess her rationale.
What did she remember…oh, God, had it been last night…or just a few hours earlier? She’d been out drinking with her new friends from college, some kind of clique that was into the whole Goth-vampire thing…no, no…they insisted it was a vampyre thing. That old-fashioned spelling was supposed to make it more real or something. There had been whispers and dares and blood-red martinis that the others had insisted were stained with real human blood. It had been some kind of “rite of initiation.”
Rylee hadn’t believed them, but had wanted to be a part of their group, had taken them up on their dares, had indulged…and now…and now she was tripping. They’d laced the drink, not with blood, but with some weird psychedelic drug that was causing her to hallucinate—that was it! Hadn’t she witnessed the hint of hesitation in them when she’d been handed the blood-red martini and twirled the stem in her fingers? Hadn’t she sensed their fascination, even fear, as she’d not just sipped the drink but tossed it back with a flourish?
Oh, God….
This initiation—which she’d thought had been a bit of a joke—had taken a dangerous, unseen turn. She remembered vaguely agreeing to be part of the “show.” She’d drunk the fake “blood” in the martini glass and yeah, she’d thought all the vampire stuff her newfound friends were into was kind of cool, but she hadn’t taken any of their talk seriously. She’d just thought they’d been screwing with her head, seeing how far she would go….
But within minutes of downing the drink, she’d felt weird. More than drunk, and really out of it. Belatedly, she’d realized the martini had been doctored with a potent drug and she’d started to black out.
Until now.
How much time had elapsed?
Minutes?
Hours?
She had no idea.
A nightmare?
A bad trip?
She hoped to God so. Because if this was real, then she really was situated on a couch, on a stage, wearing nothing, her long hair twisted upon her head, her limbs unmoving. It was as if she were playing a part in some eerie, twisted drama, one that, she was certain, didn’t have a happy ending.
She heard another whisper of anticipation.
The red light began to pulse softly, in counterpoint to her own terrified heartbeat. She imagined she could see the whites of dozens of eyes staring at her from the darkness.
God help me.
Gritting her teeth, she willed her limbs to move, but there was no response. None.
She tried to scream, to yell, to tell someone to stop this madness! Her voice made only the tiniest of mewling noises.
Fear sizzled through her.
Couldn’t someone stop this? Someone in the audience? Couldn’t they see her terror? Realize the joke had gone too far? Silently she beseeched them with her eyes. Slowly, the stage became illuminated by a few well-placed bulbs that created a soft, fuzzy glow punctuated by the flickering red lamp.
Wisps of mist slid across the stage floor.
A rustle of expectancy seemed to sweep through the unseen audience. What was going to happen to her? Did they know? Was it a rite they’d witnessed before, perhaps passed themselves? Or was it something worse, something too horrible to contemplate?
She was doomed.
No! Fight, Rylee, fight! Don’t give up. Do not!
Again she strained to move, and again her muscles wouldn’t obey. Vainly she attempted to lift one arm, her head, a leg, any damned thing, to no avail.
Then she heard him.
The hairs on her nape raised in fear as cold as the Northern Sea. She knew in an instant she was no longer alone on the stage. From the corner of one terrified eye she saw movement. It was a dark figure, a tall, broad-shouldered man, walking through the oozing, creeping mist.
Her throat turned to sand.
Panic squeezed her heart.
She stared at him, compelled to watch him slowly approach. Mesmerized by terror. This was the one. The man the vampyre-lovers had whispered about.
She almost expected him to be wearing a black cape with a scarlet lining, his face pale as death, eyes glowing, glistening fangs revealed as he drew back his lips.
But that wasn’t the case. This man was dressed partially in black, yes. But there was no cape, no flash of red satin, no glowing eyes. He was lean but appeared athletic. And sexy as hell. Wraparound mirrored sunglasses covered his eyes. His hair was dark, or wet, and was long enough to brush the collar of his black leather jacket. His jeans were torn and low-slung. A faded T-shirt had once been dark. His snakeskin boots were scuffed, the heels worn. Something about him was familiar, but she couldn’t place his face.
Eager anticipation thrummed from the darkness surrounding the stage.
Once again she thought this was a far-out dream, a weird nightmare or hallucination that was now as sexy as it was frightening.
Oh, please…don’t let it be real….
He reached the couch and stopped, the scrape of his boots no longer echoing through her brain, only the hiss of expectation audible over her own erratic heartbeat.
With the back of the lounge separating their bodies, he slid one big, calloused hand onto her bare neck, creating a thrill that warmed her blood and melted a bit of the fear that gripped her. His fingertips pressed oh-so gently against her collarbones and her pulse jumped.
A part of her, a very small part of her, found him thrilling.
A hush swept through the unseen crowd.
“This,” he said, his voice commanding but low, as if addressing the shrouded viewers, “is your sister.”
The audience released an “ahhh” of anticipation.
“Sister Rylee.”
That was her name, yes, but…what was he talking about? She wanted to deny him, to shake her head, to tell him that what was happening was wrong, that her nipples were only stiff from the cold, not from any sense of desire, that the throb inside the deepest part of her was not physical lust.
But he knew better.
He could sense her desire. Smell her fear. And, she knew, he loved her for her raging emotions.
Don’t do this, she silently pleaded, but she knew he read the warring signals in the dilation of her pupils, the shortness of her breath, the moan that was more wanting than fear.
His strong fingers pushed a little more forcefully, harder, hot pads against her skin.
“Sister Rylee joins us tonight willingly,” he said with conviction. “She is ready to make the final, ultimate sacrifice.”
What sacrifice? That didn’t sound good. Once again Rylee tried to protest, to draw away, but she was paralyzed. The only part of her body not completely disengaged was her brain, and even that seemed bent on betraying her.
Trust him, a part of it whispered. You know he loves you…you can sense it…. And how long have you waited to be loved?
No! That was crazy. The drug talking.
But