“But you did.” His eyes were swimming in tears and he wondered if he'd ever be able to think of Zianne or dream of her without tears.
“I have my soulstone, and while I'm here in your mind, I certainly don't feel dead.” She shrugged. “I don't know if a Nyrian can ever die if she has her soulstone. Remember, the body you're holding in the dream shack is merely a construct. It's one I created from your fantasies. Have you forgotten already?”
“It's not the body I love, Zianne. It's the spirit inside. I can't feel your spirit anymore. You're here in my dream, but the woman in my arms is growing cold. The life is gone from her.”
“Dream me again, Mac. Bring me back. Nyria wouldn't have even suggested this if it weren't true. She is happy, now that you've saved her people. Did you know that if we'd all died, she would have died as well? Our gods and goddesses only survive because we give them life. Our faith enables them.”
“Are you saying that my faith will enable you?” He grasped her arms just above the elbows, realized he was squeezing her much too hard, and loosened his grasp. “Can my faith give you life?”
“I don't know, Mac. It might. We can hope.” She leaned close and kissed him. Her lips were warm and soft against his and the sweet scent of honey and vanilla made his head spin. And he just kept on spinning, farther and farther from Zianne.
Blinking, Mac opened his eyes. He was still in the dream shack, but his arms were empty. The body he'd been holding was gone. He looked around the small room, but there was no sign of Zianne. It was empty. The few lights on the control panel glowed without blinking. He stared at the skylight, at the dark sky speckled with stars, and he lay there, thinking of the dream.
Of Zianne. What exactly had the dream meant?
He had absolutely no idea. Was it real? Had she come to him, or had he merely created a fantasy where she could ease his heart?
Slowly he crawled out of the recliner and stretched. His bones ached. His muscles were tight and his arms felt like lead. His head hurt, and he realized he still had the stupid mesh cap stretched over his skull. He ripped it off. Tossed it on the console.
Then he glanced at the tote bag against the wall. Even the squirrel was gone. Would that tiny creature have understood that she was no longer needed? She must have escaped to the outdoors when Zianne died. Sighing, his mind spinning and heart heavy, Mac stepped outside. The night was quiet. The news helicopter sat like a large dragonfly, squatting in the open area between the shack and the lodge.
Deputy Alvisa's SUV was parked beside the lodge and all the lights were on around the deck, so it appeared the sheriff's department had finally showed up, the generator was still running, and everyone was probably in there celebrating.
As well they should be. They'd done what he'd asked them to do. More, in fact, since he'd never expected having to put any of his team in such danger, hadn't considered any of them going aboard the Gar ship.
But they'd done it without question. And they'd saved the remnants of Zianne's people.
But Mac really didn't feel like celebrating or even talking to anyone right now, so he went around the back way and took the private stairs that allowed him to bypass the main dining room on his way to the upper floor. Slipping quietly into his bedroom, he gazed at the mess he'd left in here. At least it was barely visible beneath the low voltage emergency lights.
In fact, the crappy lighting left the worst of the clutter in shadow. Clothes and blankets still on the floor, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's sitting on the bedside table, sheets and bedding all twisted and tumbled after hours of sexâall of it a poignant reminder of the last time he'd been in his bed.
He hadn't been alone. He almost wept with the sweet memories of making love with Dink and Zianne. A lifetime ago.
Zianne's lifetime.
It was barely eight. He'd gone without sleep much too long, but as exhausted as he was, his emotions had gone through the wringer, his mind was still mired in grief, and his body thrummed with tension. He grabbed the bottle of Jack and carried it over to the window. All he could see was his own reflection, so he flipped off the lights and gazed across the moonlit plateau at the satellite dishes shimmering beneath a pale moon.
Then he upended the bottle and took a drink. The first big swallow went down rough. He coughed, blinked against the harsh burn, and tried it again. The second wasn't much better. By the time he got to the third, it was going down a little easier.
He took another, and then one more, closing his eyes against the burn but enjoying the pain all the way to his gut. When he upended the bottle again, only a couple of drops hit his tongue.
So much for getting blind, stinking drunk. He tossed the empty bottle at the wastepaper bin. It went in, but the weight took the bin over and it rolled a couple of feet before hitting the wall.
Papers scattered across the floor, adding to the mess, which seemed totally apropos for the way he felt.
Staring around the dark room, his gaze finally landed on the bathroom door. He really did stink. Showering first sounded better than crawling into bed reeking with the stench of the last thirty-six-plus hours. Especially when the bed still carried Zianne's sweet scent. Sacrilege, really, to foul his last memories of the woman he loved.
Unbuttoning his shirt on the way to the shower, Mac stumbled and fell against the wall. The room slowly spun. The whisky had hit him harder than he'd expected.
“Too fucking tired,” he muttered. “Can't hold my booze.” He planted his hands against the wall and pushed himself upright. “Nothing worse than a cheap drunk, is there, Zianne? This time, it's all your fault. Damn but I miss you. Miss you so much.”
Good lord, but he'd been so drunk the first time Zianne came to him. So, so drunk that night after hanging out with Dink. Drunk and depressed and pissed off at life in general.
He almost laughed. Sort of how he felt now. Stumbling over his own feet, he made it to the bathroom and sat down on the toilet lid to pull off his shoes and socks. He almost fell off the pot, trying to get his pants off his butt and down over his feet. The shirt was easy, once he just ripped the buttons off rather than trying to get them through those stupid little holes, but he was glad he was already sitting.
Standing up again? Not so good, but once he was on his feet, adjusting the shower controls wasn't too difficult. Finally he crawled in under the steaming spray, his mind spinning with too much whisky and too many memories of that first night. She'd been so damned beautiful. So perfect, kneeling there in front of him, her violet eyes staring up through lush, black lashes clumped together by the spray. Full lips playing over the tip of his cock, and long, perfect fingers wrapped around the base, stroking his balls.
Her long, black hair had slicked over her shoulders, down her back, and over her breasts with the force of the spray, covering her so completely that only the dark rose tips of her breasts peeked through.
Hair like black silk, spilling over her lean body.
Her lips had been . . . dear God, they'd been perfect. Clasping his sensitive glans, nipping and kissing, her tongue . . . exactly. Just like that. He sighed and leaned his head against the tile as she loved him. Her fingers stroked his taut sac and cupped the weight of his balls and her mouth was the perfect sheath, hot and wet, closing on him and drawing him deep.
So perfect. She'd been only teasing him, hadn't she? She'd not really died. Not Zianne. He opened his eyes, fully expecting to see her, but the only thing staring at him was his dick, standing hard and tall and all alone. His knees almost buckled, but he leaned against the slick tile and set his grief free, tears flowing, mingling with the pulsing shower.
He'd never imagined losing her. He'd worried the Gar might hurt her, but never in his worst nightmares did he imagine finding her and losing her again.
Not when they'd come so close. But long minutes later, when he opened his eyes, praying that he'd see her, he was alone in the shower stall and the steam was rising all around.
Well, shit. He grabbed the soap and a washcloth and scrubbed away the stench. When he finally rinsed himself off, he felt an emptiness where his grief had been.
She wasn't coming back. No matter how much he wished for her, how badly he wanted her, she was gone.
All he had left were his memories. Memories and dreams.
Â
Finn stood off to one side, his arm draped lightly around Liz's shoulders, as Duran talked about their mission aboard the Gar ship. The Nyrian spoke eloquently, without drama or pretense, speaking to the camera in a comfortable, almost intimate manner as he explained exactly what had happened. He easily used Cam's paintings to illustrate their mission, but when he pointed to the one of the bodies hanging in the meat locker, he raised his head and stared pointedly at Finn.
“I want Finn to tell you what Rodie discovered. It's not that we Nyrians lack empathy for the victims of the Gar, but after so many years and so many deaths, we could no longer allow ourselves to feel, or even to see them as sentient beings. Those who could not shut down their emotional reaction were driven to madness and death. The ones of us who survived are not the best witnesses. I fear we lost much during our servitude to the Gar. Much that we hope someday to regain.”
Finn gave Liz's arm a squeeze and stepped up to the front of the group. A number of the sheriff's deputies had entered the lodge and now stood toward the back, but most of those here were Nyrians and the security guards who'd finally been pulled in when the last of Bart Roberts's army had been captured and hauled off to jail.
Finn looked at the now familiar faces and nodded, but as Duran had done, he spoke to the camera. To those who would be learning this story through his words, through Cam's paintings.
“Duran already told you how I'd been interrupted while trying to disable the elevator. To avoid discovery, we raced back to the corridor where Rodie and Morgan were still hiding. Rodie had found a latch that was hidden in the wallâhidden from us, at least. I'm convinced the Gar had a lot of things on their ship coded in colors our eyes didn't register, though we'll never know.
“Anyway, Duran hasn't mentioned the stench, but the three of us humans were well aware that the air on the ship reeked. We were cracking sick jokes about âessence of roadkill.' The air was thin, so we had to breathe deep to get enough oxygen, but we hated thinking of what we were drawing into our lungs. So Rodie found a door, and being Rodie, she opened it. The smell from that room almost knocked us over.”
He realized he was swallowing just the way he had when they'd stepped inside, hoping like hell he wouldn't puke all over himself. Swallowing and sweating, only now he had a camera and worldwide television audience to worry about. He wiped his hand across his forehead. “The lights went on as soon as we stepped across the threshold. Luckily, Morgan was right behind Rodie and got his hand over her mouth before she screamed, but it was all I could do not to scream along with her.
“Cam's done a good job of capturing what we sawârow after row of frozen bodies, hanging from meat hooks.” He paused while the cameraman moved closer to the painting. “They'd all been evisceratedâfrom the expressions of agony on their faces, I think it was done to them while they were alive and conscious. We're talking thousands of people, and when I call them people, I mean just that. Yes, they were alien, but some of them still had clothing on, some of them wore jewelry. They were humanoid. Rodie had her little digital video camera and got a lot of film.”
He glanced at Dink. “Morgan's got the camera. We'll get the film to you later.” He sucked in a deep breath as images he knew he'd never forget flashed across his mind. “I couldn't get over the children. So damned many kids, all sizes, from infants to what were probably the equivalent of teenagers. The women had two sets of breasts, which made us wonder if that was because they had multiple births, but we were just guessing.” He shuddered, shaking his head, remembering. “All of them dead, frozen, hanging there like gutted beef.”
He glanced at Duran. “We asked Duran about the fact this meat locker was down on the lower level, so far from where the Gar lived, and he said it's probably because they weren't as tasty to the Gar as other species. They were probably kept more like emergency rations, in case the Gar ran out of the good stuff.”
He raised his head and looked directly at the camera. “That Gar ship was headed here. They were obviously planning to take all the edibles off our world first. Maybe we would have been tastier than the people in that meat locker. Who knows. It didn't happen because the Nyrians had already made the decision to commit suicide rather than allow the Gar to plunder another planet.”
He walked over to the larger, dark and terrifying painting Cam had done before they actually left on their mission. “See this? Cameron said this came to him very suddenly. He painted it in almost a dream state and has no idea who or what gave him this particular visual, but when he showed it to the Nyrians, they recognized it.