Dark Peril by Christine Feehan Read Free Book Online Page A

to her dream man. And she needed him now, when the past was too close and everything had gone so wrong. When she’d failed and a woman had died.
    I need you. Come to me tonight. I’m so tired. I couldn’t save the woman before they got to her and she killed herself, threw herself into the river. I tracked them for four weeks and fought to get her back, but I was too late. Sometimes it feels like I’m always too late.
    She visualized him, building him inch by inch in her mind. The strong thighs, narrow waist and burning eyes, very green tonight. Lately, when she’d called him to her, he bore new scars, a strange thing in a dream where she was the conjurer and yet she couldn’t remember attributing new scars to him. A few burn marks on the left side of his face and neck, spreading down his shoulder, worsening along his arm. Maybe, because she’d sustained wounds, her dream lover did as well.
    She chose a limestone cave deep beneath the ground to meet him—a safe place where the jaguar-men wouldn’t be able to find them even if they were searching. She pulled the cozy cavern, a place she often chose in which to recuperate, from her memory, and added a warm fire and a few soft chairs. In her dream, she could afford to be feminine, although she wasn’t beautiful like Juliette or Jasmine; her body bore too many scars and she’d long ago forgotten how to smile—unless she was with him. Even though she wanted to see herself as beautiful in her dream world, it was impossible. She couldn’t imagine smooth, flawless skin or a willowy body.
    The nice part about her dream man was he didn’t mind that she wasn’t perfect or not feminine enough. He didn’t mind that she sometimes wept, or showed to him what she couldn’t show to the rest of the world. And he would never betray her, never disappoint her; she could whisper her deepest fears and worst secrets and he would still accept her. He knew things about her no one else did.
    She pictured the cavern, the Mayan artwork decorating the walls, stories of lives long gone, a world in the distant past where the moon and stars were close and jaguars walked the night upright—men to respect and revere, not shun and despise. A much happier time. She couldn’t imagine herself in a dress, a soft feminine outfit like Juliette often wore, but she made certain she appeared as nice as she could. Her favorite top, soft and clingy, which sometimes made her feel a bit of a fool. She never wore it in public, not even around her cousins, but when she wanted to feel feminine and maybe a little pretty, she put it on—just for a moment.
    Of course she wore jeans, never a full skirt, because he’d see the scars up and down her legs. She knew he wouldn’t care, but she wanted to appear her best for him. She’d considered trying earrings, and once, MaryAnn, a woman she knew and admired, had painted her nails, which for some strange reason made her feel more feminine, yet she was too embarrassed to try to conjure that detail up in her dreams as well.
    She sat by the fire, barefoot, looking as nice as she could, her heart pounding, waiting for him. It was silly really, that she had so much invested in a man who wasn’t real, but she had no one else. She ran a hand through her thick mane of hair. It was more the color of the dark rosettes in the jaguar’s fur than the golden tawny color of her pelt. Almost a sable, it was nearly unmanageable the way it grew.
    There wasn’t much time left. It was impossible to keep fighting and not end up dead. A few more inches and her latest wound would have killed her. And life in the jaguar camp was far worse than dying. If they succeeded in their attempts to capture her—and they knew her now and were actively seeking her—she would find a way to take her own life.
    Do not say that. Do not even think it. I would come to you. Sustain you. And I would find a way to free you.
    The jaguar closed her eyes tighter, as if that could keep him with her. She saw