Prince of Twilight

She continued babbling as Stormy’s stomach churned, and she led the way through the house’s magnificent foyer into a broad and echoing hallway, and along it into a library. As they walked through the place, they passed other women, all busy but curious. All between twenty and fifty, Stormy thought, taking them in with a quick sweep of her well trained eyes. All attractive and fit. Really fit.

“You certainly work fast once you make up your mind,” Melina said, as she closed the library doors, and waved Stormy toward a leather chair. “Did you bring it?”

Stormy walked to the chair but didn’t sit. Instead, she turned to face Melina, her back to the chair, and asked as calmly as she could manage, “Did I bring what?”

Melina’s smile showed the first sign of faltering. “The ring, of course.”

Disappointment dealt her a crushing blow. So much so that Stormy sat down heavily in the chair behind her and lowered her head. Dammit, she’d been hoping, but she didn’t think Melina was acting. She drew a breath. “I don’t have the ring, Melina.”

“Well, what did you do with it?”

“Nothing.” She forced herself to lift her head, to face the woman, who was, even then, sinking into a chair of her own, looking as deflated as Stormy felt. “So it’s safe to say you didn’t break into the museum and steal it last night,” Stormy said.

“I didn’t.” Melina closed her eyes briefly. “I assumed you had. Figured you’d had a change of heart or…something.”

“I didn’t,” Stormy said, echoing Melina’s own denial.

“Then that means—”

“It means someone else has the ring,” Stormy said.

Melina rose slowly, walked to a cabinet and opened it, then poured herself three fingers worth of vodka. Stolichanya. Good shit. She downed it, then turned and held the bottle up.

“No, thanks. I’m driving.”

“Not for a while, I hope.”

“No? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Melina grabbed another glass and poured, then refilled her own. She capped the bottle and put it away, then walked across the room to hand the clean glass to Stormy. “Because I need your help. Now more than ever, Stormy. You have to agree to take the job.”

“The job was to steal the ring,” Stormy said. “Someone’s already done that.”

“Yes. And now the job is to find out who has it and take it from them. Before it’s too late.”

Stormy was pretty sure she knew who had the ring. And she didn’t look forward to going up against him, although it seemed she wasn’t going to have a choice about that. Maybe with the money and resources of this Sisterhood behind her, she would have an edge. A shot, at least. God knew she couldn’t let Vlad decide what to do with the ring. She didn’t know what sort of power the thing possessed, but she sensed, right to her core, that whatever it was, it might very well destroy her.

Melina sighed. “I have to let my Firsts know what’s happened, so we can begin the search.”

“Your Firsts?”

“My…lieutenants, for want of a better term. Not to mention my superiors.” As she said that, she lowered her head and wiped what might have been a bead of sweat from her forehead. “Stay for dinner. As soon as I have things squared away, I’ll tell you everything I know about the ring. Everything, Stormy. Although…”

Stormy lifted her brows, and when Melina didn’t finish, she prompted her. “Although?”

Melina shrugged. “I get the feeling you already know as much as I do,” she said softly. “Why is that, Stormy?”

Stormy shrugged. “I never set eyes on that ring until yesterday, Melina. I think your imagination is working overtime.”

Melina studied her for a long moment, then seemed to accept her words with a nod. “Will you help me?”

“You keep your word and tell me all you know—and I mean everything, Melina—and I’ll do my best to find and…acquire the ring.”

Melina smiled. “Thank you, Stormy. Thank you so much.” She clasped Stormy’s hands briefly.

Stormy felt a little guilty accepting such senseless gratitude from the woman. After all, she hadn’t said anything about giving the ring to her. And she didn’t intend to.

When the sun went down, Vlad rose from the crypt where he’d spent the day. The crushing devastation that returned the moment his mind cleared of the day sleep was nearly enough to send him sinking to his knees. But he fought it. All was not lost. It couldn’t be.

To be so close—so close to having the ring—and then to lose it that way…

He could only reach one conclusion. Tempest. She must have the ring. She had come for it, just as he had. And she’d beaten him to the theft.

So there was still a chance. He need only find her and—

She’s gone.

The knowledge seeped into his mind, as real and as palpable as air seeping into a mortal’s lungs. Tempest had left the city.

No matter. There was nowhere on earth the woman could go where he would be unable to follow. To find her. To feel his way to her. She would never escape him.

So he followed the trail she had left. A trail of her essence, woven with her yearning for him. And he found her.

She was behind the walls of a mansion, beyond a stone barrier and an iron gate marked by the word ATHENA.

He recognized the place for what it was—it wasn’t the first he’d seen—a base for the Sisterhood of Athena.

They were involved with Tempest? With the ring? By the gods, how? Why? Why would Tempest entangle herself with the likes of them?

Vlad planted himself outside the tall stone wall that surrounded the place, though he could easily have leapt it. He didn’t need to. His power over Tempest was strong enough that he could crawl inside her mind, see everything she saw, hear everything she heard. He could feel her thoughts.

And damn the repercussions. She’d stolen the ring and…what? Brought it to these meddling mortals? How dare she betray him that way?

No, he would do whatever was necessary to get to the bottom of this, to find the ring and get it back. So he made himself comfortable in the darkness beyond the walls of the mansion, and he slid as carefully as he could into his woman’s mind.

3

Dinner was late at Athena House, but well worth the wait: a tender glazed pork loin with baby carrots and new potatoes. Enough side dishes to satisfy anyone, and the promise of dessert later on.

As she ate, Stormy tried to match the names she’d been given to the faces around her, but she determined she would never keep them all straight. There were three she knew for sure. Melina, of course. Then there was Melina’s apparent right-hand woman, Brooke, with sleek, shoulder length red hair parted on one side, as straight as if it were wet. She looked as if she’d stepped off the set of a Robert Palmer video and was so thin Stormy wondered if she ever ate anything at all. She wore a tweed skirt that hugged her from hips to knees, with a buttoned-up ivory silk blouse. And third was Lupe, a shapely Latina who reminded Stormy of Rosie Perez every time she opened her mouth. She was five-two, way shorter than her two cohorts, and curvy as hell. She had full, lush lips and copper-toned skin. Her hair was longer than Brooke’s, jet back, and curled as if it had been left out in a wind-storm, and her brown eyes were like melted milk chocolate. She wore designer jeans and a chenille sweater that had probably cost more than Stormy’s entire wardrobe.

Those three she remembered. And those three were the ones who went with her into the library when the meal had ended. And yes, Stormy thought, Brooke had eaten—about enough to feed a baby bird.

A fourth woman brought a china tray with matching coffee pot, cups, cream pitcher and sugar bowl into the room, set it down and left without a word.

“This place is…odd,” Stormy said.

“Is it?” Melina poured coffee into four cups, took one and sat down. She took it with cream, no sugar, Stormy noticed. Smooth but strong.

“It feels like a cross between an army barracks and a convent.”

“Because that’s what it is,” Lupe said with a grin and a combination Spanish-Brooklyn accent. She took her own cup, added four spoons full of sugar and sat back. Hot and sweet, but dark, Stormy thought.

She eyed the room. It was large, a towering ceiling and four walls lined with books and bound manuscripts, many of which seemed very old. The scents of old paper and leather permeated the place. At the farthest end of the room there was a table that stood about desk height. It might have been a desk, for all Stormy could tell, since it was hidden under a purple satin cloth. Antique pewter candle holders with glowing tapers stood on top, to either side of an aged leather book.

Stormy eyed the book, watching only from the corner of her eye as Brooke took her own cup of coffee, adding nothing to it at all. Dark and bitter.

She took her own with just enough cream to mask the bite, and just enough sugar to lull her into forgetting that caffeine could kick her ass. She smiled a little as she fixed it and thought that you could tell a lot about a person by the way they took their coffee.

Melina said, “We first learned of the ring in 1516, when a member of the Sisterhood acquired the journal of an alleged mage who’d lived a century earlier.”

“The Sisterhood of Athena is that old?” Stormy asked.

“Older.” Melina watched her staring at the book.

“So this is the one? The old journal?” Stormy asked, stepping toward the book on the table.

“Yes.”

She set her coffee cup down and moved closer, then reached for the book, only to pause when Brooke put a surprisingly chilly hand over hers. “It’s very delicate. Be careful.”

“Like she’s planning to rip off the cover?” Lupe asked with a toss of her head. “Give it a rest, Brookie.”

There was no question, the nickname was not a term of endearment.

Stormy looked from one woman to the other. They were opposites and maybe equals. There was tension there. But that wasn’t her problem. She steadied herself and touched the book with great care, opening its leather cover and staring down at the brittle, yellowed pages within.

Words flowed across the pages in some foreign script, where words were even visible. Many had faded to mere shadows. She wanted to turn the page, but didn’t dare, for fear it might disintegrate at her touch.

“It’s not in English.” After she said it, she realized she had stated the obvious.

“No,” Melina said. “Many pages are missing or only partly there. Many more cannot be read, but we’ve translated those that can. It’s written in a long-forgotten language, so some of the translations are piecemeal or educated guesses. But the journal does speak of ‘The Ring of the Impaler.’”

Stormy nodded. She didn’t bother trying to feign surprise. She’d never been a good actress. “Meaning Vlad the Impaler, aka Dracula.”

“That’s the conclusion we’ve reached, yes. The timing would have been right, and since it was found in Turkey, and the Turks were at war with the Romanians during Vlad’s reign, it makes sense.”

Stormy felt herself shiver. This was the ring Vlad had referred to sixteen years ago in the words that had so recently echoed in her head. If there had been any doubt, it was gone now. It was the ring he’d been seeking for more than five centuries. She forced herself to retrieve her coffee, to sip it slowly and not tremble visibly.

“And this journal…it says something about the ring?” she asked.

Melina moved past her to the aged book and opened it to a section marked with a blood red ribbon. “This is the reference,” she said. “If you prefer, you can copy it out and take it to your own translator. But I can assure you, you won’t find a more accurate interpretation than ours. We use only the best linguists for this sort of thing.”

“I believe you,” Stormy said. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to copy it. Or better yet…” She dipped into her backpack, which she’d slung over the back of her chair, and pulled out a state of the art digital camera, tiny and light and packing 8.5 megapixels. “May I?”

Melina nodded, but her face was pinched. Stormy snapped several shots of the book, including close ups of the page to show the text as clearly as possible. Then she put the camera away and turned to Melina. “So are you going to tell me what it says?”

“Of course.” The other woman moved behind the large table that held the book, and confirmed Stormy’s suspicion that it was actually a desk when she lifted the purple cloth and opened a drawer. She removed a notebook and an eyeglass case. Then she slid the glasses on—gold framed bifocals in their stereotypical rectangular shape. She opened the notebook and began to read.

“‘At the prince’s bidding, we imbued the ring with his bride’s essence and created a powerful rite, which we transcribed upon a scroll. These were given to him, along with our instructions. When he finds the woman, he must place the ring upon her finger and perform the rite we created. At once the essence of the one he lost will return. Her mind, her memories, her soul, will be restored. Certain physical traits—mysteries to us but known to the prince, or so said our divinations—will return, as well. This was perhaps the greatest work of magic I have ever performed. The power of all of us together, the most accomplished mages of our time, was an awe-inspiring experience. And yet my heart remains heavy, for the work we did has a shadow side. The soul of the lost, while a part of the whole, is not the whole. For it to return, it must also displace. It is unnatural, and I fear the repercussions upon the whole, upon the innocent, and upon my own soul for my part in creating what I fear is a dire wrong. We did, however, set a way for the gods to subvert our work. A time limit, in the tried and true method of occultists from time immemorial. When the Red Star of Destiny eclipses Venus, the time of this spell will expire. And all parts of the sleeping soul—both the woman she was and her spiritual descendant—will be set free to begin anew.’”

Melina closed the book and lifted her head. She removed her glasses and folded them with care.

Stormy looked at the other faces in the room and realized this was the first time either of the other women had heard these words aloud. Brooke looked excited and intrigued, while Lupe seemed puzzled and troubled.

“So the ring has the power to bring someone back from the dead?” Lupe asked.

“Not the body,” Melina told her. “Only the soul.”

“Creating what? A ghost?” Lupe asked.

Stormy set her cup down. “It’s a soul-transferal. The dead spirit comes into the body of a living person. It…takes over.” She got a chill when she said it. “Correct?”

Melina nodded. “That’s my best interpretation, yes.”

“And by spiritual descendant…some sort of reincarnation?” Stormy asked, though she thought she already knew the answer.

“But wouldn’t a reincarnation already be the dead woman’s soul?” Lupe asked.

Stormy shook her head. “Not necessarily. Some theorize that when we die, our soul returns to meld with a greater one. A higher self. All the experiences are shared, and the higher self spins a new soul from its parts. That’s the reincarnation. It’s part of the whole, but not the same whole that lived before. A new individual.”

Lupe nodded, as if that made sense to her. Stormy wondered how, when it had taken her sixteen years to wrap her mind around the notion. It had been explained to her by the hypnotist she’d seen in Salem, and she hadn’t believed it at first. Hadn’t wanted to believe that the enemy lurking within her was her spiritual ancestor. A part of her.

Now she had a whole new nightmare to wrap her mind around. Elisabeta was Vlad’s bride. His wife. His dead wife, and she was already hiding in Stormy’s body, waiting for the chance to take over. And the ring he had in all likelihood stolen last night could bring her back to raging life in Stormy’s own body. It could give her full control.

“So the question is,” she asked slowly, “what happens to the living person? The rightful owner of that body? Does she just get…booted out when Elisabeta takes over?”

Melina licked her lips. “How did you know her name was Elisabeta?”

Stormy’s eyes flicked to hers quickly, then just as quickly away. “Come on. You said you’ve been observing my company for years. You must know vampires are an area of expertise for me.”

Melina nodded but kept looking at Stormy for a beat too long. Then she sighed. “I don’t know what would happen to the rightful owner of the body. But the rite spoken of in this journal could very well be a recipe for metaphysical murder.”

“Not necessarily, though,” Brooke said. “Some people, myself included, believe that two souls could conceivably co-exist within the same body, providing both agreed to it.”

“It would be like having a split personality,” Stormy said softly. “Constant conflict, fighting for control.” She was speaking, of course, from personal experience. “It could never be over until one of them died.”

“I disagree,” Brooke said. “They could share. Perhaps even…meld, given time. Melina, does the rite say the person the soul resides in has to be a spiritual descendant?”

“No.”

“It’s obscene,” Lupe said softly. “A slap in the face of the supernatural order, no matter how it works.”

“Exactly,” Melina said. “A lifetime ends when its time is over. That’s the way things are supposed to be. You cannot interfere with that and think there won’t be serious repercussions. And now…” She closed her eyes. “Someone has the ring.”

“But what about the rite?” Stormy asked. “Is the actual rite given in the journal?”

“No,” Melina said softly. And as she said it, her eyes met Brooke’s very briefly, then slid away again. “We don’t even know if the rite exists anymore. It could easily have disintegrated, as so many pages in this journal have done.”

“Could it be recreated?” Stormy asked.

Melina tipped her head to one side, studying Stormy a little too closely again. “Perhaps. A talented witch or sorcerer might be able to create a spell that would work. They could certainly try, with God only knows what sort of results. And no doubt there are some stupid enough or power hungry enough to want to.” She shook her head in disgust. “Which is why we must get the ring out of circulation. It has to be secured. As long as it exists, there is the risk that an innocent life will be lost or altered beyond repair.”

Stormy agreed. Particularly since the innocent life in question was her own. “What did that last part mean,” she asked. “That part about the Red Star of whatever?”

“We don’t know. We have no way of knowing what modern astronomers have named whatever star those old ones were referring to. Or if it was a star at all.” Melina carried the notebook to the desk and put it into a drawer, then locked it. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s absolutely everything we know. Brooke and Lupe, because they are second in command to me, are the only two here who know all this. And now you know it, as well.” She moved across the room to Stormy. “Do you think you can find the ring and take it from whoever stole it?”

Licking her lips nervously, Stormy nodded. “I think I have to.”

It had been so long. Far, far too long.

Elisabeta lived still. He sensed her, alive and aware, deep inside Tempest’s consciousness. Waiting for him to rescue her.

And maybe the things he’d overheard while eavesdropping from deep within Tempest’s consciousness were things that required him to take action. To see her. To speak to her. Or maybe he was only allowing himself to believe they did, because he couldn’t be this close and not get a little closer. Close enough to touch.

The one called Melina—the leader of this little coven—suggested Tempest stay there at the mansion for the night, rather than driving all the way back to the city and her hotel. When Tempest agreed, he sagged in relief, because he couldn’t wait much longer. He needed to go to her.

But he would have to be careful. As angry as he was that she would betray him by agreeing to help the Sisterhood of Athena steal the ring, he didn’t want to traumatize her unnecessarily. He would, no doubt, be forced to do enough of that later. Soon, in fact.

He had no idea how she felt about him now. He didn’t how she would react to seeing him again for the first time in sixteen years. But he could not leave without seeing her. So be it.

The bedroom to which she was shown had a minuscule balcony. Vlad stood beneath it, watching her shadow play against the curtains as she moved around the room beyond them. He tried to be patient when her movements stopped, but he didn’t succeed. Instead, he leapt from the grassy lawn behind the Athena mansion, clearing the rail and landing softly on the balcony. And then he went still, listening and sensing for her in the room beyond.

The shower was running. The bedroom lights were turned off, but a sliver of illumination came from beneath the closed door of the adjoining bathroom. And so he waited there, aching, silent and bleeding inside.

Eventually the sound of flowing water stopped. He waited, still and alert, watching her as she stepped into the bedroom wearing only a towel. And then she dropped the towel to the floor, and he swore his body caught fire at the sight of her, nude and damp and beautiful still. So beautiful.

She crossed the room, tugged back the covers, settled into the bed and closed her eyes.

She was tired; he felt that in her. And then she sensed something, someone near, might even have known on some deep level that it was him, lurking in the night, hungering. But it didn’t trouble her enough to keep her from sleep. And he wondered briefly why she was so exhausted.

He had to know what she was doing. He had to know why she was involved with the Sisterhood of Athena, and what she planned to do with the ring if and when she found it. He’d overheard enough to be fully aware she intended to search for it on behalf of the Sisterhood. Did she honestly intend to hand it over to them? What could have instigated such an idiotic, not to mention disloyal, act?

He waited until he was certain she slept—it didn’t take long. Then he slid the glass door open and moved silently into the room, up beside her bed.

For a long moment he stood there, just experiencing her. The scent of her, familiar and arousing, filling him. The sounds of her breath, moving softly, deeply, in and out of her lungs. The sight of her. Her once purely platinum hair had new tones, honey and gold, woven through with paler highlights. It was slightly longer than before, softer. And there were lines, tiny ones, at the corners of her eyes. He wanted to touch her, taste her, and the knowledge that the blankets and sheets were the only things covering her burned in him.

But he wasn’t there for those things. He was there for information. And the ring.

He lowered himself into a chair, focused on her mind and crept inside, carefully. He didn’t want her aware of his intrusion, nor did he wish to rouse Elisabeta, who still lingered. His eyes fell closed as he felt her exhaustion, and then he sank into her dreams. She was on a sailboat, lying on the deck, bathed by the light of a full moon so big it lit the entire sky and the sea beneath it. It painted her in its milky light. She wore a stretch of sheer white fabric that draped from one shoulder all the way to her feet.

She was smiling up at someone. It was with a little rush of shock and pleasure that he realized it was him. He was in her dream. And he was moving closer to her, reaching out to her, telling her not to be afraid.

“I’m not afraid,” she told him. “Not of you.” And she tilted her head. “She can’t get to me in my dreams. Did you know that?”

The real Vlad was surprised, as he watched her dream image of him react with a knowing nod. “It’s the one place you’re safe from her. That’s why I come to you here.”

Was it true? Was it real? It almost seemed as if she had dreamed of him before. Could it be true?

He had to put it to the test. Had to. He stepped out of her consciousness, so that he was looking at her lying there in the bed, rather than looking out through her eyes within her own dream.

“You will not wake. You will stay safe in the haven of your dream,” he told her. “Do you understand?”

He felt her agreement, though she didn’t speak aloud. He also felt her longing for him, wanting him, craving his touch. It was almost too much to resist, and yet…

“I have questions for you, Tempest.”

“Yes.”

He was sitting on the edge of his chair now, leaning closer to her. He couldn’t stop himself from touching her, just a little. He commanded her not to wake with the power of his mind as he trailed his fingertips over her cheek.

She leaned into his touch, and she shivered a little with a rush of pure desire. So responsive to him still. Maybe even more so than she had been before.

“Tempest, why are you looking for the ring?”

“Have to find it. Said I would.” She spoke the words aloud, startling him. But she remained asleep, lost in the throes of her dream. When he started to move his hand away, her smaller hand closed over it to press it closer to her face. Then, slowly, she moved it downward, over her neck, her collarbone, underneath the blanket to her breast.

He released a shuddering breath as his palm rubbed over warm, soft skin and the stiff peak pressing into its center. Softer than before, not as firm or perky, but warm and full. He told himself to take his hand away. She arched her back, and he couldn’t do it. Instead he drew his fingers together on her nipple, pressing and rolling it to give her a taste of the pleasure she so craved.

“Why, Tempest?” he asked. “Tell me why?”

“Make love to me, Vlad.”

“Talk to me, first. Answer my questions,” he told her.

She twisted in the bed, pushing at the blanket until it slid and bunched up around her waist, leaving her upper body bare and fully exposed.

He shivered at the sight of her. Still so incredibly beautiful, with creamy skin almost begging to be touched. Hips a little wider than before, body a little fuller. It wasn’t the body of a twenty-three-year-old now. It was a woman’s body, and he burned with desire to bury his own inside it.

“Tell me why you have to find the ring.” He cupped her untouched breast with his other hand, and squeezed and lifted it, then pinched the nipple softly, because he loved the way she gasped and shivered every time his fingers closed tighter on the hard little bud.

“If you have it, you’ll kill me.”

“I would never hurt you, Tempest.” Another pinch. Harder this time. She sucked air through her teeth. Gods, he wanted her.

“Use your mouth,” she whispered.

“Tell me why you think I’ll kill you.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her breasts. He wanted to taste them. And he didn’t have the will to do otherwise. He bent his head, squeezing her breast in his hand, so the nipple thrust upward, and lapped its tip with his tongue.

She gasped. “More.”

He loved this part of her, this new part. The girl she’d been would have waited to see what he would do, how he would touch her, then reacted when he did. But the woman she had become told him exactly what she wanted. And it made him all too eager to comply.

“Tell me, Tempest, and I’ll give you what you want,” he whispered, his breath bathing her sensitive skin as he spoke.

“If you have the ring, you’ll put it on me. You’ll perform the rite.” She arched her back. “Please, Vlad.”

He closed his mouth around her nipple, suckled her deep and hard for a long moment. Her hands closed in his hair, and she held him to her. He bit down a little, and she arched against his mouth, silently begging for more.

He stopped. “Keep talking, Tempest. Tell me what I need to know.”

Breathless, she whispered, “If you perform the rite, I’ll die. My soul will go away. And she’ll take my body. Take you.” She pressed her breast to his lips, and he took it again, drawing on it, nipping and tugging.

She writhed beneath him, arching and moaning until the blanket fell to the floor at the foot of the bed, leaving her completely naked and exposed to him. Vulnerable to him.

Gods help him.

His hand slid over her body, across her belly, to the soft curls between her legs. She let her thighs fall open wide, arching her hips against his hand.

“What will you do with the ring when you find it?” he asked.

“I can’t tell you. You’ll stop me.”

He slid his fingers between her folds. She was wet. Dripping, and so hot. “Tell me, Tempest,” he whispered, and he thrust his fingers inside her.

She shuddered from her head to her toes, and pressed him deeper.

“Will you give the ring to the woman? Melina?”

“I don’t know her. Don’t trust her,” she said. Then, “Harder!”

He drove his fingers into her more deeply, withdrew and did it again. “Tell me what you’ll do with the ring.”

“I’ll…destroy it,” she whispered.

He went still. Shocked. Destroy it? By the gods, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

Her eyes fluttered.

He saw it, knew she was starting to lose her grip on sleep, and called up the full power of his mind. “Don’t you dare wake up, Tempest. Sleep. Dream. Enjoy.”

She relaxed a little, and he rewarded her by sliding his fingers into her again. In, and then out. Over and over. “Give yourself to the pleasure, my beautiful Tempest. Give yourself to me.”

“You’ll hurt me…destroy me.”

“If that’s my will, there is no point in fighting it. Surrender to me, Tempest. Let go.” He worked her body and her mind, bending to take her breast in his mouth again, in his teeth, using his thumb to torment her clitoris while his fingers drove deeper into her, until he felt her give way. She writhed and moaned as the orgasm gripped her, and he spoke to her mind, commanding her to remain asleep, to remember it all as no more than a pleasant dream. Her body jerked and shuddered with her release, and she whispered his name over and over as she came.