The COMPLETE Witching Pen Series, Boxed Set (24 page)

At that, Pueblo had promptly disappeared, finally knowing he could reach her if he slept – although he didn't quite know what he was going to do when he got there. How could he make her remember without being able to give her his blood?

As a fleet of possible scenarios ran through his mind, his eyelids drooped, and he drifted off.

~*~

Lizzie lay in bed with Paul, as far away from him as possible, without trying to look like she was as far away from him as possible. Somewhere in the last hour and a half, her feeling of dread had turned into an intense anger at her situation. Something was missing. Something vital. She didn't want to think that Paul was the type to keep things from her, after all, he was kind and caring – certainly seemed it, anyhow – and she liked to think she wouldn't marry a schmuck.

But she was tired of feeling useless, like a hamster caught up in a Ferris wheel. Actually, that's exactly how she felt: stuck in a cage. Every now and then, her brain would exercise itself by going around the wheel, trying to gather something new; she'd think she was on the edge of some important discovery, but when the wheel stopped and she got off, everything was exactly the same as when she'd got on. And she was sick of it. And angry at feeling helpless. If Paul knew she was having an affair … well, he had said nothing. Which meant he was deceiving her. Whatever the intention, keeping things from her was inexcusable – which, in turn, meant he wasn't so caring and kind.

She was fuming. She was fuming so much she wondered if smoke was coming out of her ears.

"You didn't wear a condom this afternoon," she blurted out, not really knowing
that
was the sentence that would leave her tongue.

He froze in place, then looked at her confused. "We never wear condoms, Elizabeth … I mean, Lizzie."

"So, was I on the Pill?"

"What pill?"

If he keeps this up, I swear I'm going to go all Carrie on him … Ooh, I remembered a movie!

She allowed herself half a second to feel triumphant about that before continuing. "The
contraceptive
pill. We haven't had children all this time, we must have used some form of protection."
Oh, hell, did I use protection with the other guy? Shit! What if I'm pregnant and I don't know whose it is?
 

Don't be stupid, Lizzie, get a grip.

"My goodness…" His mouth turned up at a corner. "I think it's swell that you remember about, well, about condoms, but I'm not sure what you mean about contraceptive 'pills'."

Hmm … yes, she did remember condoms … and vibrators. Bonus.

"
Birth control?
Birth. Control. Pills." She spoke slowly. Maybe she'd married an idiot.

His expression remained blank. "Lizzie, there are no pills for controlling conception – I assume that's what you mean? You can't just take a pill and hope you don't get pregnant. We've always used your cycle as a guide, and you're due in a few days, so you're highly unlikely to get pregnant from what we did earlier."

"But … what about the Pill?" she asked again, dumbly.

"
What
pill? Lizzie, I'm befuddled…"

Befuddled? Swell?
Something in the little Ferris wheel of her mind suddenly clicked into place, and she found her brain racing over all the events of the past week: no telly, no car, a kitchen she just couldn't figure out how to use, no fucking decent coffee…

"Paul?"

"Yes?"

"What year is it?" She suddenly wished she'd paid more attention to all those newspapers he liked to read … and the mail – the date on the mail. Why had she never thought to look more closely at the mail?
Because everything's always addressed to him, that's why.
 

Even as she asked him the question, she didn't know what the correct answer was, but she was pretty damn certain she'd know if it was the
wrong
answer. Surely she'd know if she was in the right century or not?

Out of nowhere, a memory filled her mind as clear as day: Big Ben striking midnight, the fireworks going off, everyone cheering, the arduous walk back through Trafalgar Square and the swarm of people in high spirits, the huge billboard in the square that read …
oh, my God
…
2000
. She remembered it!
She remembered celebrating the turn of the millennium!
 

"Are you remembering something?" came his hopeful voice.

She couldn't look at him. Her insides were trembling.

He took her hand. "It's the 9
^th
of October, 1956."

No no no no no no no no…

He seemed uncertain, then carried on… "It's not been an overly eventful year for us, but quite a bit has been happening around the world. Guy Mollett became the Prime Minister of France and Morocco has finally gained its independence, there was a huge fire at the Eiffel Tower at the beginning of this year; oh – Grace Kelly – do you remember her? She married Prince Rainier III of Monaco… And in America, Elvis Presley is fast becoming the new 'King of Rock n' Roll'. He doesn't get played over here, but your friend, Jenny, tells you all about him in her letters. Do you remember Jenny? She moved to New York with her husband, Steve, last year. We all thought she'd go mad moving away from London, but it turns out she loves New York more." He chuckled, then looked at her, no doubt seeking out some kind of recognition from her.

She must have looked a sight, because concern stole over his features and he placed a hand on her forehead. "Sweetheart, you looked flushed. I think you're burning up a fever."

"Carrie…"

"What?"

"Carrie," she croaked out again.

"A friend of yours?"

"A film…"

"Darling, you're not making any sense—"

She grabbed the lapels of his 1950's striped pyjamas and screamed,
"Stephen King!"
 

"Er, no, Elvis. I said Elvis was the new king…"

Another scream lodged in her throat, threatening to burst out like a fireball any second now. She felt it before she saw it. It was like a backdraft, and her body was the wind channel it flew through. As uncertain as she had been of everything this past week, she could see with complete clarity that she was about to spontaneously combust. It made no sense, but she knew it with more certainty than she knew the grass was green, and even more certain than that, was the knowledge that she
could not
control it. In an instant, she saw Paul dead in her mind, his face contorted into a mask of anguish as flames consumed him – her flames. Terror at what she knew was coming rose within her, and it was this terror, chasing the fire, that saved Paul's life. It overwhelmed the rage she felt; it overwhelmed the fire, and everything flickered black and white in front of her eyes, like the screen of an old TV, before she lost consciousness.

~*~

He was in the desert. Of course he was in the desert. There was no other place on Earth that felt like home to him … and this was where he'd met Amy, so this is where he would find her again.

Closing his eyes, he focused on his sense of smell and let the light breeze talk to him. Images filled his mind as each new scent hit him: a scorpion nest under the sand, about one hundred yards to the west;  vultures circling around dying prey much further out to the north than he could see; cacti under the earth about to bloom – interesting – there must be humidity in the air. They might be in for a storm soon. And
there.
He turned and flared his nostrils to catch the scent that he'd almost missed – a compelling mix of lemon, roses, a hint of something that he could only describe as 'windblown', and underlying it all, that unmistakable aroma that was only Amy. It shot a yearning straight to his loins. It was always like that when he was near her it seemed, whether in reality or in dreams. He'd have to keep his hands on a leash.

She was just a few hundred yards or so to the east, and his senses told him she was stationary. Concern stole over him. Being still in the middle of the desert was never a great thing … then he remembered this was a dream, and that the threat of dehydration was a false one. Hell, her scent was so
real,
this didn't feel like a dream at all.

It took about ten minutes for him to find her. She sat on a dune, looking out across the horizon, the sun making her hair shine like spun gold. His breath caught in his throat and he fought the urge to run his fingers through those silky tresses, pull her head back and consume her mouth with his own.

Caveman,
he chided himself.

"Hey," he called out, gently.

She turned and smiled at him. Dear God, his heart actually swelled. She was beautiful … although her eyes looked sad.

"I knew you'd come," she said. "I can see you now."

He stood there, mute, like some buffoon. There was so much he wanted to say, but he didn't seem capable of forming words, and where was he supposed to start anyway? Sorry I bonded you to me? Did she even remember? "I've been looking for you everywhere," was finally what tumbled out of his mouth. Well, it
was
the truth.

Her smile widened.

He took a step towards her, but she took a step back.

"We have to stop this."

Dread filled him. "Stop what?"

"
This.
This affair. I mean, I can see why I'm having an affair with you – look at you, for God's sake – but it's not fair on Paul, and I don't want to deceive him."

"Paul?" In his mind, his fist met a face he couldn't see properly. "Amy, we're not having an affair. This whole life you think you have isn't real."

She stood there, staring at him, stunned.

Okay, so maybe he should have broken it to her more gently.

"Say that again," she whispered.

"This life you've been living—"

"No. My name."  She walked right up to him and placed her hands on his bare chest, eyes pleading. His panther purred – it was dying to shift.

"Say my name."

"Amy. Your name is Amy."

"Oh, God." Tears spilled over her cheeks.

"Hey…" He gathered her in his arms and she clung to him, sobbing tears of … well, he wasn't sure. They seemed like tears of relief. "Amy, Amy, Amy," he whispered in her ear as he held her. "You know, I think I could say your name over and over again for all of eternity, and never need to stop to catch a breath."

And when the fuck had he gotten so corny? Deciding not to embarrass himself any further, he said nothing and just held her, letting her cry through whatever it was she needed to.

Eventually, her breathing became more regular, the sobbing less. She gathered herself and pulled out of his arms, meeting his eyes with her soft blue ones. "Thank you … so much."

And didn't that just make him feel like a dick. She had no idea of all the things he needed to apologise to her for.

He shook his head at her, but she brought her hand up and cupped his face, stilling it.

"Amy—"

"I've been trying to remember my name since forever … since I got the amnesia – it feels like forever."

"Amy, there are things you need to know, and—"

She kissed the centre of his chest. Her mouth was warm and wet, and whatever he was about to say came out as a low groan instead.

"Amy—"

Her tongue traced his right nipple.

"Oh, fuck it, woman, I'm trying to do the right thing, here!"

She ignored him.

"Amy—"

"Don't," she demanded, as she pierced him with her gaze. "I don't even know what the right thing is anymore. I just know you have something I need." She pressed her hand against his cock.  Damn thing was threatening to burst out of his jeans.

Somewhere in his lust-filled mind, he registered, with amusement, that his subconscious self had chosen to wear the jeans instead of his loin cloth. Go figure.

"You have something I need," she repeated, her voice hoarse. Then she slipped her hand under the waistband of his jeans.

Minx!
He clenched his jaw.

A heady moan left her mouth. "No underwear?" she teased, her throaty voice laced with humour. She wrapped her fingers around him, and he lost his self control. With a growl, he did what he'd wanted to do since he first saw her sitting here, and fisted his hand into her hair, forced her head back and plunged his tongue into her waiting mouth.

She was pure intoxication. Where he was a bundle of all consuming heat, she felt like air – the cool breeze of spring to his sweltering summer. Jesus, he could drown in her.

She welcomed him into her, yielded her control, surrendered that delicious mouth of hers, and all thoughts flew out of his mind, save one: he needed her under him, around him, joining with him… Except
no –
he didn't want her to see
that
side of him.

A half-hearted sound of protest left him one last time – this really wasn't what he'd come to find her for – but it quickly died against her mouth, when she pulled the button of his jeans loose and started to fist him in long, hard strokes.

What a fucking fantastic dream.

He gave her ankle a little nudge with his own, and she stumbled with a small yelp. They both landed on the dune and he uttered a little thank you to whomever it concerned that dream sand felt much less coarse than real sand.

Her body under his was indescribably amazing. Every little movement she made extracted some kind of response from his own body.

Working his way down her throat, he slipped the straps of her dress down to reveal the most gorgeous breasts he'd ever seen in his life – small and perfectly round, and just the right size for his impatient mouth. The vibrations of her moan travelled all the way down the length of him when he took one of her breasts completely in his mouth and sucked gently. Her hands were on his head, holding him there as she thrust her chest up at him, and he relished the feel of her rosy-tipped nipple hardening against his tongue.

He pulled up the hem of her dress, and groaned when he found her slick with wet heat between her legs. "God, Amy…" He drew down her knickers. "These are coming off right now."