“Hey, baby,” a masculine voice said.
Hunter glanced at the man leaning against a pizza shop window. His clothes were stained and ripped and his hair was greasy and unkempt. Ah, the human race at its best. He pitied the poor woman who’d attracted this man’s attention.
“Sweetie, don’t give the cold shoulder.”
Hunter kept walking. He wished he could do something for the woman being accosted, but he wasn’t in any kind of shape for more confrontation. Besides, he was trying to keep a low profile.
The drunk ran up to Hunter’s side and draped a heavy arm across his shoulders.
“Baby,” Drunk said in a low voice.
Shit.
He’d forgotten he was a woman.
How did a woman brush off a man? They always made it look so easy. Not that he’d been on the receiving end very often, but it was bound to happen at least a few times in two thousand years. He needed to keep walking.
Hunter shrugged off Drunk’s arm and sped up. The taxi was only one more block away.
Drunk scurried to Hunter’s side and put his arm back across his shoulders. “Is that the way to treat a fine man like me?”
Hunter rolled his eyes. He’d seen finer. Heck, he’d
been
finer.
He should say he’s married.
He didn’t know where the idea had come from, but he couldn’t say that, he had no proof. His gaze jumped to his hands. He hadn’t even thought to check if
Anaea
was married. Her fingers were splashed with blood,
Anaea’s
and the mage’s, but she didn’t wear a ring.
Relief flooded him. He wasn’t sure why. In truth it was sad this woman was so completely alone. Kind of like him.
Except his empty life was by choice.
Of course, he didn’t really know anything about her at all. There probably was someone who loved her and waited for her to return home. Which meant he had two days to take care of business before a missing persons report was filed and the police started looking for him... her.
The Dragon Court Clean Team was going to love him. Blood and an abandoned car on the
Queen
Street
Bridge
and two, maybe three, bodies in the hospital. He was going to have to buy
Capri
a half
dozen more rare orchids for her hoard just to stay on her mostly-pleasant side.
“Listen,” Hunter said, “my boyfriend is waiting for me.”
Drunk squeezed Hunter close. “I’m sure he’ll share.”
“After ten years in the state pen for manslaughter...I doubt it.”
Drunk leapt back as if he’d been stung.
Hunter bit his lip, forcing his expression to remain blank. He wasn’t sure where that line had come from, but it worked wonders. He’d have to keep it in mind the next time he was stuck in a female body—which was going to be never if he had any say in it.
“You’re joking, right?”
Hunter shook his head. “I suppose we could ask him.”
Drunk didn’t respond. He spun on his heel, found a new target across the street, and rushed away. Hunter didn’t wait for anyone else to take his spot. He marched to the closest taxi and got in, and instructed the driver to take him to the train station.
* * *
As the taxi pulled up to the station, Hunter scanned the area for anyone dressed in a dark trench coat. There was no one around. It was
late,
at least an hour past
, and passenger trains didn’t run at this hour in
Elmsville
. Good, since it would be easier to spot danger, and yet bad since he’d stand out like a sore thumb on the security cameras.
He paid the driver and got out. He’d need another taxi to get to his hotel, but he’d call one from a different company to cover his tracks.
The snow had been shoveled from the walk and his boots crunched on the salt. He checked out the waiting area through the large windows as he approached.
Still empty.
The glass door was heavier than he
remembered,
reminding him that the last time he was at the station he’d been healthy and male. Little things seemed off to him, ever-so-slightly bigger or taller, and he wondered how long it would take for him to get used to it.
He shook his head. He wasn’t going to get used to it. He’d contact Grey, have him arrange for an appropriate body, then hand over the medallion with Saber’s soul inside ready for rebirth and make his own, discreet transfer. Grey would know what kind of body to look for. They both had an appreciation for warriors after taking their Crusaders.
The lockers sat to the right of the building in a narrow hall just past the public washrooms. He’d lost his key when he’d lost his body, but a dragon didn’t go more than a few centuries without picking up some useful skills.
He eased over to his locker, at the far end, almost out of sight of the security camera, and blocked the view with his body. He could only get away with blocking the camera for a moment before drawing attention to himself, but the lock on the door was simple and would only take a few seconds to pick.
He bent the bobby pin at a right angle, scraped the plastic tip off one end, slid it into the lock, and froze. His fingers held it, he could feel it, but he couldn’t move his hands. He tried to glance over his shoulder but couldn’t turn his head, either.
Where am I? What am I doing?
Anaea’s
sudden thoughts washed over him.
He gasped.
No, he didn’t gasp. She did. He dove into his mind to find the breach in his psychic box. But it was gone. There was no indication it had ever existed. He hadn’t even noticed its disappearance and he couldn’t figure out what had happened.
Neither can
I.
Anaea
looked at her hands, making his head move against his will.
He struggled to regain control, but couldn’t break her will this time. He had to do something or a security guard would figure out that something wasn’t right.
Hunter grasped at the first thing that came to mind.
You’re having a bad dream.
The situation was past any graceful salvage. He’d take whatever worked.
How can I be having a bad dream when you just thought about needing to do something about me?
Who do you think you’re having a conversation with?
Her thoughts flashed through him as she considered the possibilities.
Someone shot me,
she said without the panic he’d expect.
A dream, remember.
Oh.
You should go back to sleep.
She giggled at the ridiculousness of that, but thankfully their body stayed silent.
How can I go back to sleep when I’m already asleep?
Why don’t you try to find
out.
She yawned and it felt as if she rolled over in his head and drifted off. He wove another quick box around her consciousness, but didn’t believe it would hold her. His first box hadn’t disappeared because of his lack of skill, but because the strength of her will was something he’d never encountered before.
He finished picking the lock and fished out a small backpack containing cash, a prepaid cell phone, and a key ring with spare hotel and car keys. As he walked back to the front door he called a cab on the phone. It had been a long night about to go into a long day. He needed to get to his hotel room, pick up a few things, call the Clean Team to take care of this mess, and make arrangements for a new body. His current one was too crowded.
* * *
Anaea
floated in
a viscous
warmth. It enveloped her, clouding her vision and soothing her senses. She felt at ease for the first time in a long time. It had been months since she’d felt so truly and completely relaxed. Her fight against the cancer had seemed never ending and yet there had been an end. She’d chosen it and jumped... no, she’d...
Memories of the bridge and the man swept over her and she sat up with a start.
She was in her mother’s hammock, swinging from side to side. A gentle wind sighed through the twin maples above her and caressed her face, bare neck, and arms. She wore the breezy white sundress she’d purchased for her honeymoon with John three years ago. And while she still loved the dress, she had serious second thoughts about her husband.
Dappled sunlight danced over her but she couldn’t bring herself to ease back into the hammock. As wonderful as it all seemed, it wasn’t right. She’d never sat in this spot while wearing that dress. She’d torn the hammock down the night her mother had died—joining the father
Anaea
had only known through photos and stories.
And then she realized she was whole. Impossibly perfect and complete. The curve of her right breast was fleshy and real, matching her left, not a falsie.
Like it had been before.
Her throat and chest tightened at everything she had lost.
The weight in the hammock shifted, and a masculine hand slid up her arm to her shoulder.
“
Lie
back,
Anaea
.”
Strong, muscled thighs braced her on either side. They were draped in thin cotton, and she ran her hands over them, feeling their chiseled contour.
They reminded her of Mark’s legs, of his lean-muscled body, and of the relationship that would never be between them because she’d married John instead. She’d often dreamt of Mark, her college sweetheart, but never like this. Those dreams were soft and aching, filled with what-ifs, where he stood at a distance and reached out for her. But when she realized she could run to him, that she was free of her husband’s charm, he turned his back on her.
Whoever was behind her eased her back against his chest and she glanced up. It wasn’t Mark, but the man from the bridge. A thin scar sliced through his left eyebrow, and his nose was offset as if it had been broken a long time ago. His eyes were deep brown and filled with such warmth.
That warmth seeped through her, heating her from within, radiating safety and comfort.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, even though she felt he belonged there.
“You’re dreaming.”
He had said that before. She had believed him then, but she wasn’t so sure about that now, although it certainly felt like a dream with the hammock and the dress and him.
“Just relax,” he said. “Enjoy this moment, this serenity.”
“But who are you?” She couldn’t get the sensation out of her mind that something wasn’t right.
“I’m only a dream.” He wrapped his arms around her, offering the comfort she had longed for since her husband had left.
If she relaxed, she might be able to believe this was a dream.
A soothing, comforting dream.
Better than the heartbreaking dreams about Mark. She certainly wanted to let this man hold her and ease everything that ached within her. But the faint buzzing at the edge of her senses wouldn’t let her melt into his embrace.
“
Anaea
.”
He whispered her name.
She closed her eyes, savoring the gentle tone. It had been too long since anyone had said her name with affection.
A chill swept over her. Something wasn’t right. She could feel it
niggling
the back of her mind.
Something about this man and people shooting at her.
She pushed away from him, making the hammock rock. Cold panic swept through her. She’d been shot. She was in trouble, hurt, and had to wake up.
“Relax,” he said, reaching to pull her back into his embrace.
She scrambled out of the hammock.
“No. I’m hurt. I need help.” She shook her head. “I have to wake up.”
“But isn’t this better than reality?”
“Yes...” She stared at him. His face was full of acceptance and understanding. “No... Someone has to tell the police what happened to you.”
“
Anaea
.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing all thoughts of him from her mind. Just wake up. It’s just a dream. An amazing, wonderful, dream—
No. Wake up!
She could feel consciousness just out of reach.
Just a little farther.
Anaea
woke with a start. She lay on the floor on a thick carpet. From her vantage in the shadowy room, she could see a pair of table legs and beige-on-beige striped wallpaper lit by a stream of weak sunlight.
Taking a slow breath, she waited and listened. She couldn’t hear anyone nearby so she sat up to get a better look. She was between a simple desk with padded chair and a king-size bed. The heavy drapes across the window were closed tight and pale light slipped between the cracks around the edges. To her right was a door with a floor plan and fire escape routes plaque-mounted above a peephole.
To her left, a door leading, presumably, to the bathroom.