Crystal Dreams Read online

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  Zumaya Publications

  www.zumayapublications.com

  Copyright ©2002 Astrid Cooper

  First Published January 2002

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  His arms enfolded her in a tight embrace that he knew, from their mental rapport, made her heart beat frantically. Not from fear. From desire. Smiling, he lifted her against the taut expectancy of his fevered body. His lips brushed against hers, softly sliding, savoring, sampling her sweetness. Slowly, slowly, he increased the pressure of his kiss, parting her lips. His tongue plunged into her mouth, entwining sinuously, stroking...

  She twisted her head away. “This is wrong!” she shrieked. “I can't. Mustn't."

  He felt her wrestling against the dream. She pushed hard against his chest. The dream held them both captive.

  Swinging her up into his arms, he carried her through the mists to another dream-place, where he deposited her gently onto a pile of thick, soft rugs that lay before an open fire. With infinite care, patience, tenderness, he teasingly removed every item of her clothing, before he, too, was naked, his body pressed to hers.

  “No! Stop!” she demanded.

  “Too late for that, Mistress. You must finish what you start."

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Zumaya Publications, 2002

  Look for us online at: www.zumayapublications.com

  ISBN: 1-59109-065-2

  Copyright 2002 by Astrid Cooper

  Cover art and design by Martine Jardin

  The basis for the ‘Caledonian’ language can be found in Gaelic.For easier reading, in most instances I have used an English translation for the Gaelic word, but readers may like to see the ‘original’ Gaelic with pronunciation and English translation.Turn to the ‘glossary’ at the back of the book.

  In memory of my mother and father who taught me the value of dreams and the never-ending wonder contained in books.

  CHAPTER ONE

  League Station 12, Zeta-Iridani Quadrant

  “I know I am without an appointment, you rusty bag of bolts, but I havena’ come half way ‘cross the galaxy for nothing. I demand to see your Mistress!"

  Wondering if the infernal machine understood, Connal glared at the sensor box attached to the metal wall. Running a hand over the door, his fingers drummed against the lintel as the seconds passed in ominous silence. He doubted his ability to force entry to the apartment and it was much too dangerous to try. At all costs he had to avoid any League entanglements—save one.

  The purple crystal in the center of the box flickered.

  “This is Liandra Tavor.” An impassive female voice emanated from the glowing gem.

  “I must see you immediately."

  “My consultations have ended for the day. Please come back tomorrow, I..."

  “Tomorrow will be too late! ’Tis a matter of life and death, and not one for the discussing, unless we be face to face!"

  Her sigh, again coming from the crystal intercom, was laced with fatigue.

  “Very well. Please make yourself comfortable in my office. I'll be with you as soon as I can."

  The door slid open. Squaring his shoulders, Connal strode forward. With a soft hiss the door sealed behind him.

  He stared in shocked disbelief. Outside, the austere metal corridors of League Station, within—so beautiful. Like being inside an opalescent rainbow of lilac, silver and gold, the walls and ceiling were awash with tinted light. In the center of the room, pivoting on a base of gold, seven crystal stalagmites stretched to the ceiling. Their clear surfaces refracted every color.

  His boots almost sank to the ankles in the thick pile of carpet, mottled rose and green, like the heather fields of home. Home. Connal's gut churned. Would he ever see home again?

  He paced the confines of the room. No doors. Even the entrance was now hidden behind the swirling colors coalescing over the walls. With every circuit the chamber became smaller, claustrophobic. Obviously, the room had not been built to accommodate a person of his height. He had only to stretch up his hand to touch the ceiling.

  “How long am I to be kept waiting?” he demanded of the room.

  “I'm sorry. I had retired for the day, so if you wish to see me, you must wait until I'm ready.” Her reply came from another box-sensor on the wall.

  “Damn it! I will wait. But not forever!”

  Slowly, he unfurled his fists and took a long, steadying breath. He coughed, his lungs rebelling against the sharp, metallic tang of the artificial atmosphere. Arran's Mercy! I am going to choke to death. If this so-called air doesna’ kill me, this infairrnal suit will! Connal tugged at the collar of his overalls, only to find that once he had removed his hand, the fabric resumed its stranglehold.

  Out, he had to get out of this place before he suffocated.

  He dragged a hand through his hair. Leave with his business unfinished? He had come this far, risked so much to find this alien-witch. Besides how could he face more of Fianna's tears if he returned home without the answers they both sought? No, he must stay and do whatever it took...

  In four strides, Connal reached the end of the room, halting before the narrow glass cage. He had seen it before, yet paid it no mind. Now, as a distraction, he watched the eel-like creatures as they frolicked in the turquoise water. Poor beasties. What honor was there in keeping a species in captivity solely for decoration, or amusement?

  Reaching out, his fingers did not meet a hard surface. They plunged into the scene, disrupting it. Not a cage, an image...

  Scent wafted around him, a sweetness tinged with musk. His skin goose-pimpled. He was no longer alone.

  Whirling into a defensive crouch, he grabbed for his dagger. Damn it! Not part of his disguise, he had left his weapon behind. But even in the instant he reached for his knife, his gaze rested on a swirl of silver material, the fabric parting to reveal slender legs, a thigh. Undeniably female. Slowly, he straightened, his eyes raking upwards taking in the sight of her.

  Connal stared.

  The woman's hair was green. Oak-leaf green. Wide and wary, her sapphire eyes regarded him.

  He forced a smile. “I am sorry if I startled you. You should not sneak up on a man."

  “How may I help you, Maer?”

  Connal's body clenched. Her voice, like honey, flowed about him, through him, sweet and slow. “You are the Dream-weaver?” he asked hoarsely.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I am Counselor Tavor,” she said. The honey had gone; in its place was ice.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Connal began.

  Her smile didn't thaw the ice in her eyes. “You did say it was a matter of life and death.”

  The intensity of her gaze disturbed him. It was as if she was probing him, stripping off the layers of his disguise. Stripping him naked.

  “I do not like to be stared at,” he hissed.

  “I don't mean to offend. You're strange to me. Even y
our speech. My translator knows every League dialect, but it's having the Stars trouble translating your language into Standard."

  As if to emphasize her words, she held out her wrist. Connal's eyes flickered over the silver, gem-studded bracelet. Another alien contraption!

  “Aye, well. I must have picked up an alien accent. I have been out of League circulation a wee while.” Not exactly a lie.

  “Obviously for some time. Your suit is an old style."

  Connal quirked a brow at her, and her cheeks pinkened.

  “I'm sorry. It's my work to notice these things."

  His frown made her drop her gaze from his. He took the opportunity to study her. Younger than he had expected, her skin seemed unnaturally pale. Perhaps she never left her artificial world to experience real sunlight? A surprise that she looked so human, so obviously a woman. Her silver gown clung to her, subtly hugging, highlighting the slender—for his tastes, too slender—feminine curves beneath. Around her waist, which his two hands could span, she wore a woven gold belt. Her delicate beauty surprised him. Yet underlying her fragility, something else. A woman not to be trifled with, he read that in the firmness of her full pink mouth, and the determined set of her jaw.

  Connal swallowed against the tight dryness of his throat. He had not foreseen this, not in a million years. His temples throbbed in unison with the beat of his heart, and the more he gazed at her, the more the blood pounded in his veins.

  She be a witch, an alien witch. Remember that. Remember who you are! But looking at her, made him forget—Arran's Mercy. It suddenly felt hot in this room! Again, his fingers snaked into the collar of his overalls.

  “Are you ill, Maer?” She took a step towards him, hand held out.

  Connal waved aside her concern. Damned if he would allow her to touch him. Doubly damned.

  “I am well, Mistress."

  “You are certain? I can call the med-tec..."

  “No."

  She regarded him for long moments, the silence punctuated by the hammering in his chest.

  “Then, shall we begin the consultation?” she asked. “Please be seated."

  She motioned to a corner, empty save for a slim crevice in the wall. Without waiting for him, she went to the opposite corner and seated herself, reclining on nothing, as far as Connal could see.

  He followed her direction and tentatively sat in the opposite corner. Something soft molded itself to his buttocks. An invisible alien device touching the private extremities of his person—By Arran! He jumped up. “I—I prefer to stand.” Connal retreated to the far wall and leaning against it, he regarded her with his arms folded across his chest.

  She clasped her hands demurely in her lap, watching him. “How may I assist you?”

  He frowned at her. Once more her voice had assumed its silken texture, the professional's voice, geared to lull and cajole. “I need your help in locating my missing companach."

  Her delicate brows drew together as she stared at her wristlet translator. “I don't understand this word.”

  “Kinsman,” Connal interpreted.

  “It might be better if you were to see the Justiciary. A lost citizen is..."

  “Is he lost? I said missing. To my mind, there be a difference.”

  She presented her hands, palms up, in a gesture he did not know. His eyes narrowed as he saw the trembling of her fingers. All to the good, if she was uncertain of him.

  “The translator seems to be malfunctioning. I'm not being difficult, Maer.” She raised her gaze to his. “It's just that my last client was very demanding. I am feeling quite weak. It would be best if I see you tomorrow..."

  “No. By then, ‘twill be too late."

  “Do you think your friend is in danger?"

  “You tell me."

  “Very well, I'll try. Have you something that belonged to your friend? I need it to focus my search."

  Connal snapped open the fastener of his breast pocket and drew out the gold pin, shaped like a thistle. Frowning down at it, his memories rushed back. Boyhood; manhood memories. Bittersweet, the pain sliced through him as he remembered.

  “May I have it, please?"

  Reluctant to touch her, reluctant to have her touch something of his world, he hesitated.

  “I can be trusted, Maer. I am a fully registered counselor."

  His brows raised skeptically. Counselor? Is that what you call yourself? Slowly, he placed the brooch in her outstretched palm.

  “What is your friend's name?"

  “Garris."

  How well she played the game. No indication from her that she recognized Garris’ name. Almost he could believe in her innocence. Almost.

  Her fingers closed over the jewelry. Bowing her head, she concentrated on her hand. “Hear me, Garris,” she whispered.

  Connal grimaced. Her pronunciation, without the Caledonian burr, butchered the name of his kinsman.

  Minutes later, she drew in a shuddering breath and looked up at him. Her fatigue was evident in the tight line of her mouth.

  “I can't focus. Others have handled this so much that the auras are blurred. One is far stronger ... Connal ... a man named Connal, owned this brooch before."

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose, as a chill swept down his spine. “I gave this badge to Garris. That much you see clearly, Weaver. What more?"

  “Nothing."

  “I have not come this far to be thwarted by one such as you. Be you not a professional?"

  She sighed. “Even professionals can't do the impossible, Maer Connal."

  “I did not give you leave to use my name...” With difficulty, he bit back his anger. “Is there nothing you can do, counselor?” The word caught in his throat.

  “I can try a deeper search."

  “Then do so."

  “I'll need your assistance."

  He nodded, curtly. “What must I do?"

  “Come with me.” She stood up and walked towards the far wall.

  He stared in amazement as part of the wall dematerialized around her.

  “Maer?” She beckoned.

  Connal strode after her, the wall solidifying behind him. Like the room outside, this one also shimmered with color. At its center, a separate compartment had been formed by a canopy of swathes of lilac silks hanging from the ceiling. She drew aside one of the curtains.

  Connal suppressed a groan. By Arran! This was her bedchamber! He stared at the crystalline four-poster bed. It seemed too delicate to be anything more than a decorative piece, with its rainbow-tasseled cushions and matching coverlet. But one thing he had learned since arriving in League territory—nothing was as it seemed. Damn, that he had to deal with these aliens and their blasted machines! He wiped damp palms on the backs of his thighs.

  As she sat on the bed, the strands of crystals hanging between the posts oscillated, sending spirals of color coruscating across the walls. The lights seared, weaving inside his skull. Sickened, he drew in a determined breath.

  “What is it you be doing, Weaver?"

  “My name is Liandra."

  “That I know."

  “Then why don't you use it? It's almost as if..."

  “Aye? As if...?"

  “As if you have an aversion to calling me by name. You don't like me to use yours. Is this a trait of your race?"

  “Your questions have no bearing on our business. I ask again, Mistress. What do you do?"

  “Because I'm so depleted, I must use my bed to augment the dream-search. It's the only way I can find Garris, since you aren't prepared to wait until tomorrow."

  “Continue, then."

  “You must lie beside me. Together we'll enter the dreamscape. It's quite painless, quite safe. My computers will monitor us."

  “Computers! I have no faith in infernal machines. Such got me into this mess in the first place!"

  Her dark brows arched skyward. “Normally, I would try to accommodate your wishes..."

  “I am sure you can be very accommodating,” Connal said. “
There is no other way?”

  “No.”

  Slowly, Connal lowered himself onto the bed. Its surface encased him in softness and warmth. Like the body of a woman... Savagely, he quashed the thought. He watched as she drew out two caps of crystalline mesh that were attached to the bed by fine silver cords. Connal jerked his head away as she held out one of the caps.

  “What are you doing now?"

  “This is a dreamer's cap. We need them to join, to make the transference. Don't be afraid."

  “I am not."

  “No, of course not.” She smiled.

  “What will happen when we make this transference?"

  “Very little. You may see an image of Garris, perhaps even of yourself. You won't be a participant because I'm only going to do a first level dream-search. You'll only observe."

  “I do not understand."

  “When we enter the dream-dimension, your subconscious creates focal points, familiar images, drawn from your own life experiences. Just like your normal dreams. The only difference is that it is me, not you, who controls the dream we are to undertake."

  “Have I no say in what occurs?"

  “We'll be able to converse. Your input is vital to the success of our search. Now, may I affix the cap?"

  “Aye. Best get on with it, before I change my mind."

  Smooth fingers brushed aside tendrils of hair from his forehead. Leaning over him, she fastened the cap to his head. Connal gritted his teeth, as her fragrance washed over him, through him. Her woman's warmth whispered against his flesh. His body misted with perspiration. Her touch, soft, yet burning, ignited the knot in his stomach, so that it erupted, like fire to engulf his every cell. The witch was casting her spell over him. It would not work. Would not! Connal kept his eyes firmly on the ceiling as she lay down beside him.

  “Now, think of Garris. Clearly. Yes...” she whispered.

  Lights whirled around him, scents, voices singing, sweet and high. “I am going to be sick,” Connal muttered.

  “No, Maer,” she said. “It's a normal reaction. It'll pass quickly."

  He watched as slowly the ghostly image of a young man began to solidify... “Kinsman!” Connal shouted. His friend's face was gaunt, ashen, his brown hair disheveled and dirty. “Garris, what has happened?