recognized the full moon pouring down on the familiar ring of standing stones.
“Son of a bitch.” He hadn’t gone anywhere, after all. He was still in the wolfyn realm. “Son of a sucking—”
A soft moan cut him off. A soft, very feminine moan.
His heart started to thud in his chest as he turned toward the sound, telling himself not to hope, but hoping nonetheless.
And there she was. After all this time, there she was.
She lay curled on the grass with her cheek pillowed on her hands, but he recognized the oval of her face, the stubborn dent in her chin and the strong yet subtly curved lines of her body. More, he knew without seeing it in the light of day that her wavy hair was red-shot, her eyes a clear blue, like the deepest part of the Elden sky after a rainstorm. Not that it mattered whether or not she was beautiful—she was his guide, and he had his priorities well in mind.
Her clothes said she was human, which surprised him. Of the three known realms, the human realm was the most technologically advanced and used the least magic, which put them the farthest away from the pure magic of the kingdoms. Given that, how was she supposed to guide him?
Have faith, he told himself. His father had promised a guide, and here she was.
Which also meant that the four-night countdown had begun, and they needed to get moving. But there was a problem with that: she was out cold, and the Scratch-Eye pack was gathering for their run, which would include an hour-long serenade at the stones. Although the wolfyn were largely civilized on a day-to-day basis—in their home realm, at least—the blood moon unleashed the other aspects of their personalities. And while Keely probably wouldn’t have a problem seeing him with another woman during the blood moon, others wouldn’t be so forgiving.
Making a snap decision, though he would have rather stayed and called a new vortex right away, Dayn gathered the woman in his arms. She was lighter boned and smaller than Keely, and seemed to fit naturally against him as he carried her from the circle, with her head tucked against his neck and her curly hair brushing his cheek.
Inside his cabin, he put her gently on the couch near the hearth, where the remains of the fire were still warm. Then he shucked out of his too-hot jacket and knelt beside her, part of him still unable to believe that he had dreamed of her, and here she was. His eyes lingered on the fullness of her lips, and the faint blush of color on her cheeks. He reached for her, intending to try again to wake her, but instead he found himself easing a few fallen strands of her hair away from where they had caught on her eyelashes. Her skin was soft and warm, and although he told himself he shouldn’t be touching her, not like this, he couldn’t make himself pull away.
She stirred beneath his touch, and let out a soft sigh. He caught his breath, then held it as her eyes opened and locked on his. The entire universe telescoped down to those blue, blue eyes and her look of shock … and then recognition.
The woodsman smiled down at her. “Thank the gods you’re finally here.”
Reda stared mutely up at him as her head spun and the world tilted a few degrees away from normal.
It was the same dream she’d been having all week, where she would wake in a log cabin to find this man crouched over her while a fire hiss-popped nearby. He looked like she had dreamed him: rumpled dark hair fell forward over his brow and curled below his ears, accenting his sharply defined features and emerald-green eyes. He had a rawboned yet powerful body, wide-shouldered and long-limbed, with lean, loose muscles that folded economically where he knelt beside her. His skin was smooth and bronze, with a light dusting of masculine hair visible where the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. And, as in her dreams, the air smelled of wood, smoke and cinnamon. Fluid warmth coursed through her body, concentrating at the point where his fingers rested softly on her cheek.
But as the spins settled, nerves took their place … because the overall picture was right, but the details were wrong.
The cabin was made of rough-hewn logs, yes, but she was lying on a plush sofa rather than a cot, and on a nearby end table, a mosaic lamp gave off muted amber light. And the man was wearing clothes straight out of the Bean catalog rather than homespun. More, even the details of the details were off. The couch she was lying on had the soft nap of velvet, but the fabric moved oddly, as did the stuffing beneath. And the lamp didn’t have a cord.
What the hell?
“I’m going to kill MacEvoy.” The idiot must’ve juiced the shop’s incense burner with something really funky and hallucinogenic.
Like, say, acid.
“Who is MacEvoy?” The woodsman’s voice was a smooth baritone with a raspy undertone that seemed to stroke her skin. But the question put another dose of nerves into the mix, as did the look in his eyes as he rocked back on his heels and stared down at her with a wary, confused air.
He’d never spoken before, never looked baffled before.
They were way off the script, and she didn’t like it.
“He’s … It doesn’t matter.” She pushed herself upright on the couch, waving him off when he made a move to help. “I’m good. I’m fine.” Only she wasn’t fine. This was all wrong, because whatever the hell was going on, the dream—hallucination?—seemed way too real.
“Fine enough to get moving?”
“Moving?”
He nodded. “We have four nights counting tonight, so we should get started as soon as possible.”
Reda breathed deeply and told herself not to panic. There was some logical explanation for this. There had to be. “I’m not having sex with you.” And oh, holy crap, she didn’t know why that had been the first thing out of her mouth. Or, rather, she did: it was because of the dreams.
His eyebrows rose. “Of course not. You’re my guide.”
She flushed, but pushed on. “Seriously. I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” And she also didn’t know why she was arguing with a figment of her over-stressed mind.
“Don’t even joke about that.”
“Who’s joking?” She wasn’t kidding around; she was confused as all hell. “Wait. Am I being punked?” Who would bother?
Expression suddenly clearing, he said, “Damnation. Vortex sickness.”
“Vor-what?”
He rose and started to pace. “Sometimes when travelers come through the vortices from one realm to another, they become confused or even forget pieces of their past.”
A low burn fisted beneath her heart. “I’m not crazy.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he said, which she guessed was true as far as it went. But then he continued, “Memory loss and insanity aren’t the same thing. I believe you call it ‘apples and limes,’ yes?”
“Oranges. Apples and oranges.” His speech pattern was an odd mix of formality and slang, which just added to the weirdness. “Who are you?”
He stopped pacing and looked slightly shamefaced. “Sorry. I’m Dayn. Well, Prince Dayn, Forestal
