Book 14 in the Ben Kincaid series, 2006

In my dream, I’m alone in my bedroom. The window is open and there’s a breeze, gentle, but ominous; cool, but foreboding. I’m dressed in nothing but a sheer full-length nightgown, white-always white-with a dangerously provocative dŽcolletage, my neck entirely exposed. I feel shivers coursing down my spine and gooseflesh on my arms. At first I think it must be the wind, but then I realize there’s something more, something lurking just outside my window. All I can see is a billowing fog, insubstantial, shapeless shadows that cross my windowsill and enter of their own accord. I am terrified, but at the same time exhilarated by my intense desire to know what will happen next.

When he materializes, he is barely two feet away. He stares down at me with eyes that are piercing, relentless, but also calming and nurturing. They invade me, deep down into my soul and I feel violated, swept away, breathless. I already love this man, this creature, his jet-black hair, his tall gaunt frame, his pale translucent skin, even his thin lips, slightly distended on either side. I give myself to him willingly, heedlessly, aching for his touch. He takes a step toward me, then another, never once moving his eyes from mine. After what seems an eternity of wanting, he lays his hands upon my shoulders. I want to scream, not from terror but from pleasure, from the sheer overpowering rapture of the moment. My knees weaken but he holds me firm, one strong arm around my waist, as his mouth draws close to me, nearer and nearer still, and his mouth descends with an excruciatingly sweet slowness toward my neck…

When it finally happened, it was nothing like that, yet everything like that, everything in every way that mattered. I was not in my bedroom, but somehow our clandestine location, in these ornate surroundings he so appropriately calls a church, lent a sense of danger that magnified my yearning to crazed, almost unbearable proportions. I was dressed in a dark ceremonial robe, not a nightgown, but my seducer made short work of that, releasing each clasp with his pale, gelid fingertips, while never once releasing me from the hypnotic gaze of those unrelenting ebony eyes.

“I’m yours,” I whispered, more to myself than aloud.

“And I will have you,” my companion replied.

“I want you to know,” I said, my voice choking, my tongue thick with desire, “that this is my first time.”

A barely perceptible rise to the corner of my companion’s lips exposed a flicker of incandescent white teeth. “And your friends?”

“They’re different,” I answered. “I don’t know if they’re ready. But this is what I’ve always wanted, what I’ve dreamed about.” My hunger was so powerful I could barely think, barely breathe. “Please take me. Take me now.”

I watched as the object of my longing drew near to me. When I first felt teeth electrify my flesh, I could not help but let out a cry.

“You are not ready,” my companion said.

“I am,” I insisted, desperate to propitiate my master. “Please don’t go. Please. I just-it caught me by surprise, that’s all. I’ve never felt anything like that before. Never felt anything so… overwhelming.” I was gasping, begging, a cat in heat, consumed by this internal inferno that I could not quench. “Please give me another chance.”

“As you wish, my child.” This time, when he made contact, I winced, but did not flinch, did not gasp, did not pull away. As my companion slipped inside me, I felt so many sensations and emotions at once I could not identify them all: fear, pain, violation-but also an ecstasy, a mind-chilling bliss. The penetration went deeper, then deeper still, turning me inside out, bringing to life parts of me that had never been touched before. I was overcome by a rush of unbridled passion, and a sweetness I had never imagined possible. I had slipped the bonds of this mortal plane and found another place, a higher dimension of unspeakable pleasure.

I don’t know how long the sensation lasted: an hour, a minute, a moment. I had lost the ability to stand, to speak; I was in a place that transcended time. I was aware of some commotion, some attempt to interfere, but it was all so distant, so remote, and my master’s minions were strong enough to prevent any interruption. I was so far gone the spell could not be broken-not until I felt my own hot blood trickling down my breast.

“Was it all you dreamed it would be?” I heard him ask.

“Oh yes. Oh yes yes yes.”

“I’m glad. Farewell, sweet Colleen.”

“What?” I said, trying unsuccessfully to raise my head. “What’s happening?” I was slurring, listless; a numbing torpor enveloped my entire body. “I feel… weak.”

“Of course you do.” My companion swooped me up and laid me gently on the altar, cushioning my head. “You’re dying.”

“But-why?” I managed to murmur.

“So that you will live again,” was the reply. “So that we will become one.”

My consciousness faded. I heard footsteps, near and far, but the bleeding did not stop. I realized that I was covered with blood. How could anyone bleed so much and still live? This was not the way it was supposed to happen. This was not the way my dreams ended. But that is the problem with dreams, isn’t it? Somewhere between the conception and the execution is a vast abyss. And the name of that abyss is Death.

*

As Ben Kincaid peered at his client through the acrylic screen, he was startled by how appealing, how downright cute she still looked. Usually, the first few weeks behind bars took a terrible toll on first-time inmates. The lack of sunlight, the coarseness of the company, the absence of hair care and beauty products, the low-watt institutional lighting, the inevitable depression-all conspired to make the newly incarcerated appear as if they had emerged from the ninth circle of hell.

But not Candy Warren. Somehow Candy had managed to retain her fresh-faced charm. When her father first introduced her to Ben, he had compared his daughter to Lizzie McGuire-perky, effervescent, goofy but lovable. Two weeks in the slammer and a switch from Gap jeans to TCPD orange coveralls hadn’t changed any of that. She was still adorable. She even had her hair up in pigtails.

“So you’ve talked to my daddy?” she asked, speaking into the telephone receiver that allowed them to communicate.

“Yes,” Ben answered. “He’s worried about you, of course. But I assured him we would do everything we could. And I got him the present you wanted to send. The Hilary Duff poster.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” Ben loved the way her nose crinkled when she laughed. “Can you believe it? The man is in his sixties, and he’s crazy about this girl who’s barely a teenager. Isn’t that wild?”

Ben could think of a different word for it, but never mind that. Always refreshing to have a client who still cared about her parents. “I have some good news for you. To my utter surprise, DA Canelli has made an offer.”