Secret Worlds (224 page)

***

It was strange to walk to him. She didn’t feel the eagerness and nervous energy that usually propelled her to run. Tonight, the pit of her stomach clenched tighter with each step. Two eternities were spread out before her, but she would only be able to lay claim to one, and the choice wasn’t even hers.

She knew she would honor Michael’s choice. That was what made this so difficult. She had relinquished control, and without it, she felt lost. If the house was dark, she would dissolve into the shadows, never to touch Michael again. She had to. She didn’t trust herself not to beg him to take her. Michael knew there was no way for them to be together. There was no way to break the cycle. They had tried everything. Amaia didn’t imagine there was any way he would want to keep trying, to keep experiencing the heartbreak. He had a chance to be happy, and it wasn’t with her.

As she neared, she closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see anything until she arrived. In the darkness of her mind, she tried to prepare herself for the sight of his darkened window. All she could think of was turning and walking away. Anything beyond that made her stomach drop.

She was so close. In the dark, she would be able to see him, but he wouldn’t be able to see her. Good. If the answer was no, she didn’t want him to see her walk away. She had killed in cold blood on more occasions that she could count, she had rented her body out to more men than she could possibly remember, and she had never felt shame during those acts. Yet if Michael rejected her tonight, she didn’t think she would ever be able to rid herself of the stain of knowing she was a creature he couldn’t love.

One eyelid cracked open and then the next. At first, her eyes couldn’t focus to make out anything in the orange flare, partly because her mind didn’t want to know what was there. Instinct took over and she picked up speed. Michael’s house was on fire.

Her eyes focused, and she stopped. There was no fire. After the shock wore off, when her mind registered the reprieve, the picture before her took form.

The house was a festival of lights. Two candles glowed in each of the windows and two parallel rows of candles led to the entrance. Sitting there in front of the door was Michael, scanning the tree line as if willing himself to see in the dark. His frame was taut, vibrating with the tension of having to stay put, his breath puffing in clouds in front of him. When his eyes swept her hiding spot, she saw all of her insecurities, hopes, and fears mirrored in them. The slight breeze played with the flames, and the light danced across Michael’s form.

A smile erupted on her face, and she broke into a run. Her mate called, and she would not keep him waiting.

Pick up right where this book ended with the sequel,
Immortal Echoes

http://CaethesFaron.com/Immortal-Echoes
.

Caethes Faron’s writing is influenced by her observations of this imperfect world and the flawed characters who inhabit it. She writes equal opportunity books featuring gay, straight, and bisexual characters. Her bittersweet love stories are just as likely to leave readers in tears as smiles, and her love scenes don’t fade to black. She enjoys empowering the powerless and exploring the nature of human relationships in different sci-fi and fantasy settings.

She’s lived in seven states and is always looking for the next place to call home with her husband and two dogs. She currently resides in Florida.

Get
Fates Entwined
, the prequel to
Haunting Echoes
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http://CaethesFaron.com/FreeBook
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~~~~

Doppelganger

I am who you are.

~~~~

I push myself into your body, absorb everything that is you, and wear it like a glove.

Then there are two of us.

I glide along pavement under a blanket of night, and cling to the shadow of a young woman with perky tits. It’s Friday evening and we are waiting in a line outside a bar in Orlando. She’s with several friends, all of whom she clearly feels are of less importance, given her constant chatter and their rapt devotion. All she can talk about is a European vacation her family is going on in less than two days: the long plane ride, places they will stay, sexy foreign men with “to die for” accents, and the shopping she will be doing.

I am a myth—a night fright—a demon’s blunder. I have no name, no sex, no flesh … unless I wear one of you, a human. I will be wearing this one by the time she boards her plane.

The line moves. I move with it, a shadow stone skipping other shadows.

***

Another bar, another Friday night, a different town—I’ve been wearing perky tits for five days.

“So, CeCe, your whole family was, like, dead when you got home?” the guy on the barstool next to me says. “Crap. That had to be hard.”

Yeah, perky tits’ name is CeCe. A bit too … adorable for me, but anyone who can drag attention from a bunch of guys in a sports bar offering free food during happy hour, is my kind of wardrobe.

All shoulders and ass, Mr. I’m-Doing-You-A-Favor looks at me with dreamy blue eyes through jet-black bangs that hang to his lower lids. He has a chin screaming to be nibbled and a little strip of chest peeking out of his half unbuttoned shirt that makes me want to explore.

“Yes.” I take a sip of my White Russian. “It was.”

Scantily clad waitresses with plastic smiles rush from table to table with cumbersome trays of jostling liquids, overflowing ashtrays, and half-empty tip jars. Loud music pulses overhead and a group of college kids working the free food source knock it up a notch with riotous laughter and taunts. I need to get Dreamy-Eyes out of here and into me, big time.

“So, like, you had to be totally freaked,” he presses on. “I mean, hell, I’d be brain-dead if that happened to me.”

I don’t want to tell him he’s tipping the cranial scales on brain matter already. And I sure as hell don’t want to tell him the girl with chestnut hair and eyes he’s so superficially concerned with is actually on a thirty-day tour of Europe—I’m just a carbon copy. Nor do I care to mention the dead family thing is only a fantasy of mine—so wish my doppelganger, wannabe mother was in a body bag. Unfortunately, I’m sure Mommy is Down Under, perched on one of Purgatory’s barstools and probably sipping her beverage of choice. I take another sip of mine and catch a reflection of my host in the half empty glass.

When I borrowed/cloned/absorbed CeCe’s persona—my kind calls it doubling up—she was sitting on a toilet at Orlando International Airport, illegally smoking a clove cigarette. The smell was horrid; the taste was worse. Sometimes, being a doppelganger is a pain in the ass.

My poor relationship choice clears his throat. One side of his mouth turns up in a nasty little grin. I take another sip of my drink, briefly contemplate walking—very briefly—and then continue to make small talk with Blue Eyes.

“Yep, when I found my family, I wanted to crawl in a hole and die.”

Not a lie since I live in the sewers.

“Where were you the night they got killed?” He just wouldn’t let up.

If only they could just shut up and put out. Humans! Why all the chatter? All I want is a little steam.

“Met this chick,” I say. “I was absorbed by the possibility of a lasting friendship. We hung out half the night, found out she had to leave three days later, I made the best of it. Can we leave it at that?”

Not a lie. I’d followed CeCe around all weekend, watched her party last Friday and Saturday nights, and then I doubled up on her. If I could’ve stayed longer, I would’ve held the real CeCe’s hair while she puked into the toilet at the airport Sunday morning. But getting caught is not an option since I’m supposed to kill the host before donning it. My kind is not fond of doubling up. Mother says I should be a good little doppelganger; hit hard and run fast is her motto. Screw that.

Just to add a little smite to my recklessness, I briefly thought about leaving the real CeCe in the restroom, and then board the plane with her family, them none the wiser. I am her double. Sure glad that didn’t happen. It was a stupid idea. I don’t know what I was thinking; like the chick was going to wake up, be happy she’d missed the flight, party down, and not worry in the least when no one from her family calls to check on her from Europe? Duh! What happens when Mommy and Daddy start Facebooking family vacation pictures with
her
in them? Talk about serious drugs and therapy sessions.

“You’re not gay, are you?” Blue Eyes blurts.

God help me, I laugh. I could tell him the gender of my sexual partner, or for that matter, the body I choose to wear really doesn’t matter much. I’m down for the ride, male or female, if they piqué my attention. Evidently my laugh is enough to quell his concerns.

“Cool, because I like you.” He runs a hand seductively up the inside of my left thigh, face moving toward mine, and fingertips taunting the edge of my black lace panties. “And because I do, I’m gonna tell you right up front, if you’re looking for a high-priority, total commitment, long-term relationship kinda thing, I’m not your man.” His grin curls into a borderline pervy smirk that’s lasciviously delicious. “See, I can only concentrate on one thing at a time.”

Yeah, I got that the first time he opened his mouth.

His middle finger flicks the elastic on my panties. “And I concentrate real hard.”

His other hand reaches for mine.

Damn him all to hell. The guy is yummy enough to eat, if he would just keep his mouth shut.

“Well, then, I guess you’re my man,” I say, and give his raised zipper a little squeeze.

It takes him a few seconds. I can almost hear cogs roll as he probably plays his comment and my answer over and over in his head. I’m about ready to spell it out for him, but he finally gets it.

“So, your place or mine?”

“How about the alley behind the building?” I toss a twenty on the bar and lift my glass.

“You’re shitting me, right?”

“I would never do that.” Setting the empty glass down, I stand—chest not an inch from his lips—and run CeCe’s store bought fingernails along his leg.

His hand slides out from under my skirt and lands on his knee. I give it a little pat as I toss my leather jacket over my shoulder and head for the bright red exit sign.

Glancing at the mirror over the bar, I watch him chug his beer, slap money on the bar, and scramble to his feet.

Outside, I strut past a dumpster and down an alley alongside the building. When I turn, Blue Eyes pushes me against the wall and runs his lips up my neck to just under my ear. The noise from the bar is nothing more than a vibration through the brick at my back. As he nibbles, I stare at the dumpster ten feet down the alley. It reeks of stale beer, rank food, wet cardboard, cigarettes, mold, and vermin.

Rats to be exact. Ah, the smells of the street. It almost makes me feel like I’m down in the sewer—home sweet home.

He stands over me with both hands spread on the brick wall by my head, his jeans rough as he knees my legs apart. I drop my shoulder, and my jacket falls beside our feet. Blue Eyes works the buttons on CeCe’s silk shirt, and his thumb finds her nipple under a black lace bra. A moan escapes my lips as his tongue muscles them apart.

I open my legs to his caressing fingers, breaths short and shallow. CeCe’s heart thumps under the shell I’m wearing like a second skin. Together we experience a rising need, a surge of sensation from deep within.

Blue Eyes pulls back and I moan with a strong desire to have him close again. He locks eyes with mine, reaches under my ass, and lifts me until I’m riding his hips. Head on my shoulder, teeth grazing my neck, he pins me to the wall with his chest while he unzips his jeans. Sliding CeCe’s skirt over my hips, he reaches under her panties and pulls them aside.

He grabs a fist full of my hair, and a whimper of desire escapes me as Blue Eyes slides inside. My legs tighten around his hips, and pull him deeper.

He was right back there in the bar when he said he could only concentrate on one thing. I have a hunger to feed and he’s doing a fine job nourishing it.

***

Two days and three guys later, I’m lying by the pool behind CeCe’s tri-level home on Lake Harris, soaking up the rays. I’m thinking about Blue Eyes, when an old woman appears beside me. I know it’s my mother the moment the host opens her mouth.

“Get out of that body and get into this box.” The wrinkled woman shoves an empty and soggy Tampax box at me. It smells like sewer water. “You’re coming home with me, young lady.”

Although the smell of the sewer is an appealing reprieve from the overly chlorinated swimming pool, I am where I want to be at the moment.

“I’m not getting in that box, Mother.” I could bolt, but if I do I’ll have to leave the CeCe double behind, evaporating in a cloud of black smoke. Humans are not made for speed. “Look,” I say, pointing at CeCe’s body, “I’m nineteen. I don’t have to go anywhere with you.”

“You’re a doppelganger, not a human. Age makes no difference. You’re a fledgling and you’re body jumping, imbibing in alcohol, having sexual relations with whatever crosses your path—I saw your little gutter-slut with that man in the alley the other night! Don’t tell me it wasn’t you!—and most of all, you’re leaving a trail of unexplainable situations a mile long! Move it.” She shakes the box at me. I wonder if she even knows what was originally packaged in it and what it was used for.

“Gutter-slut,” I say, pointing at my host’s body again, “has a name. CeCe. The real CeCe was not sucking down the drinks or fornicating in an alley. I was, with her
borrowed
body. It could be worse, Mother. The real CeCe could be shopping across the street, or I could have told the
real
CeCe about us, taken her Down Under, and both of us could’ve joined you at Purgatory. But none of that happened—did it?—because the real CeCe is in Europe for the month. My last body was in the hospital in a coma for, like, forever! So, I am not body jumping!”