Fire Pearl (Beyond Ontariese 5) (2 page)

I will find you, my love.

Aria sobbed. Despite the endearment, she
couldn’t tell if the statement was a promise or a threat.

Silence descended on the theater as the house
lights dimmed and the audience stilled. Lord Drakkin watched from
his vantage point in the second row of the balcony, fascinated by
the palpable excitement rippling through the crowd. A spotlight
illuminated center stage and the narrator recited the prologue from
William Shakespeare’s
Romeo and Juliet
. From this point on,
each performance took on a life of its own.

The narrator finished his introduction and
the massive black curtain behind him rose, revealing a bustling
market scene. Colorful lights and inventive shapes lent an “alien”
air to the set. Drakkin smiled. At least some human’s idea of how
an alien world might look.

Two mouthy servants from the planet Capulet
wended their way through the market. They exchanged sexual
innuendos and thinly veiled threats mostly regarding the obscene
things they’d like to do with the women of planet Montague. Drakkin
shifted in his seat, anxious for the first two scenes to conclude.
He wanted to see
her
again.

Aria, the show’s vibrant star.

Aria, the reason Drakkin had come to
Earth.

This was the third time he’d watched
Star-Crossed
. Interaction with less-developed races held
inherent risks. He needed to be sure of his information before he
contacted her directly. Still, these voyeuristic encounters were
frustrating at best. He needed to speak with her.

He crossed his legs and followed the action
onstage, mildly amused by the lively performance. The dialogue had
been updated. The elegance of the original script exchanged for
conversational prose and revealing costumes. At five points during
the play the audience voted, determining which course the story
would take. Three options were offered each time the audience
voted, so conceivably a person could watch
Star-Crossed
one
hundred and twenty-five times and not see the same show twice.

Amid a burst of iridescent bubbles and
flashing lights, the queen of planet Capulet glided onto the stage.
Finally. The queen called for her daughter and a light appeared,
revealing Aria standing on a platform elevated at stage right.

A noticeable hush fell over the audience.
Drakkin thought himself prepared for her appearance—after all, this
was his third time—still his heartbeat paused for a moment then
raced until blood roared through his ears. Heat washed over his
body in slow, tingling waves. He shook his head and narrowed his
gaze, amplifying his vision so he could see every detail.

What was it about this woman that so
completely captivated him? He wasn’t the only one affected by her
mystique. Tension built and movement ceased as every eye absorbed
the beauty of “Juliet”.

Shimmering silver-blonde hair flowed to her
waist, a scattering of mauve tendrils offering contrast to the pale
mass. She grasped the pole in front of her and spiraled to the
stage in a graceful swirl of silver hair and shapely legs. Her
costume hugged every contour of her tall, curvaceous form.
Drakkin’s cock hardened with male appreciation while a dark,
protective impulse urged him to snatch her from the stage and
spirit her away.

He had only seen images of a
jumanna
in the massive archives known as the Wisdom of the Ages. How Aria
had ended up with the distinctive coloring of a fire pearl he had
no idea. It would account for her sensual grace and mesmerizing
presence, but he would have to touch her before he could determine
if she possessed the rare gift or just the coloring.

She moved across the stage, her hips gently
swaying. Didn’t she realize how dangerous it was to display herself
so openly? Even if she wasn’t a
jumanna
, the Rodytes had to
be searching for her. It didn’t make sense that she would be so
reckless. So much of this didn’t make sense. He had lurked in the
shadows long enough. It was time for them to meet.

Expelling a long, ragged sigh, Aria closed
her dressing room door and rubbed her stinging eyes. Another VIP
party. She groaned. Preston Carmichael, the director-producer of
Star-Crossed
, had warned her he intended to promote the hell
out of the show. She’d agreed to smile for the camera and shake
hands with whomever he ushered her way so long as she could do it
in character. In public, she would always appear as Juliet,
ill-fated alien from the planet Capulet.

Aria claimed to have an extreme skin allergy
that required her to employ a personal makeup artist. Preston
shrugged off her odd routine as long as she arrived on time each
day ready to take the stage. The other cast members were friendly,
if a bit put off by her eccentricities.

She wiggled out of her damp costume and
slipped on a silk dressing gown. Glancing in the vanity mirror to
her left, she spotted a tall, dark-haired man behind her. She cried
out and spun around.

No one was there.

With her hand pressed over her thundering
heart, she looked back into the mirror. Her wide-eyed reflection
stared back, but she was alone in the dressing room. “You’re losing
it, Juliet,” she whispered to her reflection.

A firm rap sounded at the door. Aria started
then chuckled as she turned toward the door.

“Is everything okay?” Stephanie’s familiar
voice came through the panel.

“I’m fine,
Mom
. I just saw a mouse.”
Not very imaginative, but Steph took her onstage role as her mother
very seriously.

“Are you decent? Can I come in?”

Aria pulled open the door and smiled at
Steph. “Those are two different questions.” Steph slipped into the
dressing room and Aria closed the door.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You seemed a
little off tonight.”

Steph was the closest thing to a friend Aria
had found since arriving on Earth ten months before. The other
performer was far more experienced and her protectiveness was
endearing. Confiding in Steph had seemed easy and comfortable, at
least to the point Aria was able to confide in any human.

“The dreams are getting longer and more
vivid.” She tightened her belt and averted her gaze. After her
erotic encounter with the stranger the day she’d teleported to
Earth, she hadn’t been surprised to find him in her dreams. But the
dreams were completely different from the vision. She couldn’t
explain the distinction to Steph, so she’d only told her friend
about the dreams. “I just need some sleep.”

“He still hasn’t spoken to you or
acknowledged that you’re there?”

She shook her head, glancing back at the
mirror. Had her recurring dream turned into a hallucination? “I
feel like I’m spying on him. Seeing the same man every night would
be a lot more fun if we interacted.”

“Did you call Dr. Neaman? She’s
wonderful.”

The idea was utterly impossible. If Aria
showed up at a psychiatrist’s office “in costume” her strange
dreams would be the least of her concerns. “What would I tell her?
I see random segments of a man’s life playing out in my dreams. He
never speaks to me or tries to touch me—”

“But I damn sure wish he would?” Steph shook
her head, a sad little smile curving her lips. “Even in your dreams
you have no life. Why do you do this to yourself?” Wrapping her arm
around Aria’s shoulders, Steph gave her a firm squeeze. “Several of
us are going clubbing tomorrow night and you’re coming with us. I
won’t take no for an answer.”

“I can’t—”

“You’re going. That’s final. Now get a move
on it. The VIPs are gathering.” Before Aria could say anything
more, Steph left the dressing room.

“Perfect.” Now she would have to disappear
after the show tomorrow night and that was easier said than done.
Reaching across her vanity, she picked up a wide-toothed comb.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” A deep,
masculine voice intruded on the quiet, gradually fading in as if
some unseen hand operated a mixing board. “I didn’t realize you
could see me.”

She licked her lips and shifted her gaze to
the spot where the dark-haired man had been. The surface of the
mirror distorted, rolling in silvery ripples as his image came back
into focus. Her hand tightened around the comb and she glanced
toward the door. Would Steph hear her if she screamed again?

“You don’t need to be afraid. I only want to
speak with you.”

This couldn’t be real. She looked over her
shoulder. The space behind her was still unoccupied, but his image
remained in the mirror. “Who…? What are you?”

“A mouse, remember.” A smile parted his lips
and drew her attention to his wavering features. She couldn’t see
him clearly, but she knew it was
him
, the man who visited
her every night—no, it was more like she visited him.

The longer she stared at the image, the more
detailed it became. Gleaming black hair just brushed the man’s
shoulders while three thin braids disappeared into the surrounding
distortion. His features were arranged in dramatic angles and
rugged planes. Her gaze lingered on his mouth, noting the full
lower lip and the perfect bow of the upper. Could a man’s lips be
beautiful?

If his mouth didn’t earn the distinction, his
eyes certainly did. The outer mass was tinged blue while a red ring
divided his black irises from his pupils. Her mouth went dry as she
remembered their first and most disconcerting encounter. Only once
had the images been erotic and once wasn’t nearly enough.

Mine.
The word echoed in her mind and
resonated through her body.

“Who—are you?” She met his gaze, forcing calm
into her tone. Was she imagining him now? That was the most
rational explanation. She craved the sort of wild abandon she’d
glimpsed in her vision, the consuming passion and elemental
connection. Even her imagination couldn’t create an image this
detailed.

“My name is Drakkin.” He inclined his head
and the red ring in his eyes gleamed. “If I solidify behind you,
will you promise not to scream?”

Get the hell out of here.
The
practical side of her nature urged.
Surround yourself with
people then go get some sleep!

Unable to force words past her dry throat,
she nodded and slowly turned around.
He can’t be real.
But
she wanted him to be real, ached for him with every beat of her
lonely heart. The argument twisted through her mind as the man took
shape in front of her. His skin-tight black shirt outlined a
well-defined chest and rippling abdomen. Though toned and
proportionate, his body emanated strength without the bulging
muscles that fascinated so many humans. The thick material of his
pants was unlike anything she’d seen before. Intricately tooled yet
supple, likely some sort of leather, the garment flexed with his
slightest movement.

He crossed one arm over his chest and bowed
from the waist. His three thin braids swung forward, brushing
against her thigh. “I’m Lord Drakkin of Hautell, the central
mountain region of Bilarri.” He straightened as his gaze returned
to hers. “Bilarri is the planet on which I reside. Your father sent
me to find you.”

I will find you, my love.

Her muddled brain scrambled for explanations
as she felt the faint brush of his braids. Reaching out one
trembling hand, she gave his shoulder a little push. He caught her
wrist, guided her hand to his chest and pressed her palm to his
warm flesh.

“I’m real, Aria.” He covered her hand with
his, staring deep into her eyes. “We need to talk.”

Someone knocked on the door and she jumped
back with a guilty start. “I’m almost ready,” she called out. “Just
give me another minute.”

“The lounge is packed and the autograph
hounds are yapping.” It was Preston Carmichael this time. “Don’t
make them wait too long.”

“I hear and obey.” She did her best to sound
playful. Had Preston noticed the tension in her voice? She couldn’t
drag her gaze away from Drakkin. She’d been taught to mistrust
sorcerers, to expect deceit and betrayal from anyone capable of
manipulating magic. Had he sent the dreams as a sort of
warning?

“I’m sorry to disappoint your adoring fans,
but the autograph hounds will have to wait.” The autocratic edge in
his tone was more in keeping with the images twisting through her
brain. She’d watched his life for the past ten months, all the
while wishing he’d notice her, talk to her, touch her.

Sweeping her into his arms, he pressed her
tight against his body. Her face tingled as the red rings in his
eyes began to glow. She shoved against his chest and cried out. He
turned and the dressing room followed. Twisting, bending in an ever
tightening skew, her surroundings contorted into a blur of color
and sound.

Drakkin cradled Aria against his chest as he
sank to the mound of furs. They had been halfway to Bilarri when
she went limp against him. Her warmth and intoxicating scent had
been so distracting he’d nearly lost control of the conduit.
Interdimensional travel was always tricky, but he’d also created a
temporal shift. They would remain slightly out of sync with his
dimension until he released the shift. Even if the Rodytes figured
out where Aria had been, the temporal adjustment would make her all
but impossible to track.

He glanced around the
nenalte
with a
lazy smile. Despite its generous size and numerous amenities, the
clever structure could be disassembled in a matter of minutes. The
people of the San Adrin deserts had been nomadic for centuries.
Most had since settled in permanent encampments, but they were
fiercely proud of their heritage. The
nenalte
had been
designed by necessity and refined by the inherent love of luxury
all Bilarrians shared. The outer shell was densely woven for
protection against the elements, while remaining durable. Brightly
colored fabric and rich cloth of gold lined the interior walls.