Carpathian 21 - Dark Peril

down his arms and find solace in her.

    She could never quite decide on the color of his eyes. She loved making them intensely blue, but then at times they would be like the green of the emerald. She was always fascinated by her dream lover’s eyes.
    Never the same, always unpredictable, they mirrored the mystery of the man. He had a poet’s soul. He was very gentle, his voice mesmerizing, melodic and quite beautiful. He often sang her to sleep when pain clouded her mind and she lay alone in the dark with her heart pounding and the taste of fear in her mouth.

    She dared not dream of him when she was in human form, or around anyone else. He was hers alone, and she needed to protect him, so she only allowed him to invade her dreams when she was in the shape of a jaguar. Deep inside the animal’s body, she couldn’t murmur aloud where another might hear of him. He was her secret weakness—or strength—however she was in the mood to view her dream life.

    She made certain he had all the attributes of a noble man, someone like her stepfather, who took on a wife and child and loved them with everything in him. She’d never been treated differently by him, not even when his sons were born. He’d loved her and treated her like a princess, even spoiled her. She’d loved him so much, and if she ever had a man of her own, which she knew was impossible, he would have to have that generous, loyal, giving spirit.

    Some small part of her smiled. She’d given those attributes to her dream man. And she needed him now, when the past was too close and everything had gone so wrong. When she’d failed and a woman had died.

    I need you. Come to me tonight. I’m so tired. I couldn’t save the woman before they got to her and she killed herself, threw herself into the river. I tracked them for four weeks and fought to get her back, but I was too late. Sometimes it feels like I’m always too late.

    She visualized him, building him inch by inch in her mind. The strong thighs, narrow waist and burning eyes, very green tonight. Lately, when she’d called him to her, he bore new scars, a strange thing in a dream where she was the conjurer and yet she couldn’t remember attributing new scars to him. A few burn marks on the left side of his face and neck, spreading down his shoulder, worsening along his arm. Maybe, because she’d sustained wounds, her dream lover did as well.

    She chose a limestone cave deep beneath the ground to meet him—a safe place where the jaguar-men wouldn’t be able to find them even if they were searching. She pulled the cozy cavern, a place she often chose in which to recuperate, from her memory, and added a warm fire and a few soft chairs. In her dream, she could afford to be feminine, although she wasn’t beautiful like Juliette or Jasmine; her body bore too many scars and she’d long ago forgotten how to smile—unless she was with him. Even though she wanted to see herself as beautiful in her dream world, it was impossible. She couldn’t imagine smooth, flawless skin or a willowy body.

    The nice part about her dream man was he didn’t mind that she wasn’t perfect or not feminine enough. He didn’t mind that she sometimes wept, or showed to him what she couldn’t show to the rest of the world.
    And he would never betray her, never disappoint her; she could whisper her deepest fears and worst secrets and he would still accept her. He knew things about her no one else did.

    She pictured the cavern, the Mayan artwork decorating the walls, stories of lives long gone, a world in the distant past where the moon and stars were close and jaguars walked the night upright—men to respect and revere, not shun and despise. A much happier time. She couldn’t imagine herself in a dress, a soft feminine outfit like Juliette often wore, but she made certain she appeared as nice as she could. Her favorite top, soft and clingy, which sometimes made her feel a bit of a fool. She never wore it in public, not even around her cousins, but when she wanted to feel feminine and maybe a little pretty, she put it on—just for a moment.

    Of course she wore jeans, never a full skirt, because he’d see the scars up and down her legs. She knew he wouldn’t care, but she wanted to appear her best for him. She’d considered trying earrings, and once, MaryAnn, a woman she knew and admired, had painted her nails, which for some strange reason made her feel more feminine, yet she was too embarrassed to try to