In My Wild Dream Page 2

  A night owl swiveled its head, looking down at the woman as a young weasel scampered along the limb of a Scots pine and sniffed her bright tresses.

  Kassandra twisted restlessly as sweat rolled down her delicate forehead. She gasped, her eyes closed, and flung her hand outward as if reaching for something.

  The weasel chattered and backed away, his intelligent eyes watching her with concern.

  “Who are you?” Kassandra moaned aloud while her eyes flickered beneath closed lids. Her breathing quickened and her legs twitched. The light blanket covering her body was tossed aside as her motions grew increasingly agitated. “Where did you go? Take care,” she cried. “Danger stalks close by!”

  Within the dream, she raced through the dark woods, tears streaming down her face. A flash of metal in moonlight drew her forward, but the ring of steel against steel made her hesitate. “Is that you?” she whispered, unable to see clearly through the dream mist.

  She stumbled against a tree and hugged it closely, feeling the scrape of bark against her soft skin. “What is happening? This is not my normal dream . . . Where is the sun? The flowers? My friend laughing in the meadow?”

  A man bellowed with pain as another shouted in victory. The sounds reverberated in Kassandra’s dream world, coming from every direction. She peered through the forest, desperate to locate the fighters. “I know you need me,” she whimpered. “I need you, too. We are wed. You are my mate, yet there is something so different about you this time. Something so—”

  Suddenly, the nimble weasel bent down from the dark branches and dangled in front of her, holding on to the branch with his hind feet. His tiny front paws waved in the air, exposing his white belly as his black eyes glimmered in the darkness.

  “I must find him soon,” she told the weasel, still asleep but communicating with him from her dream world.

  You’ve been dreaming of him for a long time, he answered her silently.

  “For the last ten years . . . Ever since I was six. But I want to see him. I want to feel his hand pressed against my cheek. I feel a longing that I have not felt before, as if I must find him in the flesh, for knowing him only in my dreams is no longer enough.”

  Mayhap he does not exist.

  “Don’t you hear him, hear the swords? He is in danger. As much as I want him, he needs me. We are meant to be together. I thought he would come to me, but mayhap I must go find him. He is calling for me.”

  The weasel blinked his huge rust-rimmed eyes and cocked his head to listen carefully. I hear only the wind in the trees.

  Kassandra flinched as swords clashed and sparks flickered in the shadows, and although the clash was in her dream, her sleeping form twitched in reaction.

  Mist swirled as she pushed away from the tree and began running once again. After tripping on her night rail, she gathered the front of it in her hands, but it was like smoke and slipped through her fingers. She struggled, her fear escalating as the smoke filled her throat and she began to choke. As she became faint, she fell first to her knees, then toppled forward, striking her head against a rock.

  You’re dreaming, the weasel reminded her as he leapt from the branches and scurried close.

  Her eyes flickered as the dream mellowed. The smoke was gone and the forest enclosed her with a sense of security. She stared at the weasel across the dream mist.

  “I am dreaming,” she repeated. “But I know this dream. My mate is in danger and I must find him. I must awaken and search for him.”

  The weasel tilted his head. You are not married to a real man. He is only in your dreams.

  “I will unite with him,” she insisted. “We are destined for each other. I know it. I have always known it.” She rose and the folds of her gown swirled around her form, molding to her lush body. The smoke drifted away. Boldly now, with sure and steady steps, she strode through the dream forest, nimbly stepping over logs and avoiding stones.

  She knew the weasel followed her through the woods; she felt his reassuring presence. He was always with her in these dreams. He understood her like others did not, but even he was becoming frustrated with her need to find her spiritual mate.

  She knew she was dreaming. She was familiar with the smoke, the different landscapes, the strange sounds that only she could hear, yet this particular dream frightened her. It was changing. It was stirring her in new ways and a sense of urgency rippled through her body.

  She paused and listened carefully as goose bumps rose along her bare arms . . .

  The dream used to be so lovely—set in a forest flooded with golden sunrays, leaves fluttering beneath the wind’s subtle breath. He had first appeared in her dream on her sixth birthday, and although she never saw his face, he became her dearest friend. They had danced through the dream mist and chased dragonflies together; he was forever her gentle playmate.

  But in recent dreams, he had matured into a man. The difference made her shiver with trepidation, afraid of her own aching need for something she could not define. His young muscles were hard and his hair was almost black. Odd vibrations drew her deeper into her dream as her blood began to pulse with recognition. He was no longer just a friend; he was her mate. She knew him. She wanted to find him.

  The clash of swords rang once more, but as she finally spied the combatants, she sensed another presence. Its malevolent spirit swept through the forest and blocked her path.

  Kassandra gasped. “What do you want?” she cried. “Are you the one who seeks to harm him?”

  Cold winds swirled around her feet and the weasel clambered upon her shoulders.

  Kassandra narrowed her eyes in anger. “Cease this!” she shouted. “You are not welcome here! Nothing shall rip us asunder!”

  The spirit shrank back and shadows folded around it like the fabric of a black velvet gown. Other faces flashed before her, some friend, some foe, but Kassandra strode boldly forward—ignoring them until the darkness gave way to a verdant, moonlit meadow.

  In the center knelt her dream man.

  Just beyond him lay another man who was unfamiliar to her. The fallen one’s blood soaked the ground and death hung over him in a seething cloud. The two were connected yet disjoined as if present in different times. Kassanda’s dream wavered and she could not make out what was real and what was symbolic.

  Her man rose and turned his back on both her and the dead man, seemingly unaware of their presence. He spread his arms wide. “God of all gods, father of mine,” he called out. “You gave me battle skills! I have become your warrior!”

  Kassandra approached slowly. “Dagda,” she said softly. “My Celtic battle king. See me. Hear me. ’Tis your Danu, mother of the gods. I know you even though you have changed. I sense your spirit.”

  Her man closed his eyes and turned in a full circle, his arms spread wide to the stars. Blood dripped down his left arm. He held a small, intricately engraved dirk. “My family gave you its blood and I will have my victory! My father lies buried in an unsanctified grave,” he shouted. “Killed with this blade!” A jagged wound ran from his wrist to his shoulder, then swept across his chest, appearing like a streak of lightning followed by his roar of thunder. “I will avenge him!”

  Kassandra covered her mouth to stifle her cry of distress. “What happened to you? You are bleeding so much! Your wounds are so deep!” She looked at the fallen man, at his lifeless eyes. His soul was reaching for a sweet spirit, but an ugly cloud oozed between them, thick and impenetrable.

  Her Dagda stumbled as blood loss made him weak, but he stubbornly remained standing. He shook his right fist at the moon. “Why did you take my father? They say he thrust this blade deep within his own heart. Did I send him to the underworld? Did I cause his death?”

  Kassandra reached for him, but her hands swept through empty air. “Dagda,” she whispered. “Let me help you.”

  He is in another dream world, the weasel cautioned her, finally seeing the man she had insisted existed. He scampered closer, his beady eyes flickering with concern.
Those who do not accept the dream world cannot hear you. He is no longer your playmate. He is a man, and men outside Loch Nidean do not follow their hearts. Let go of this dream. You have lost him.

  “You must hear me!” she cried to Dagda, ignoring the weasel. “We are meant to be together! We need each other. I yearn for you so much, I tremble inside.”

  Dagda fell to his knees. “Mother goddess,” he murmured. “Bless me. Give me victory against my enemies. I am ready to come home.”

  Kassandra knelt beside him, her white nightdress fluttering around them both. “I am here,” she said quietly.

  He lifted his blade. “My sword sings a sorrowful song. The beauty is gone. I will never be whole again.”

  Kassandra swept the air above his hand, comforting and healing him. “I will take care of you,” she promised. “I will make you whole.”

  His eyes snapped open and he gazed directly at her. “Who are you?” he demanded. His face shimmered in the mist, incomplete and partially obscured. He appeared confused and dazed.

  Her heart raced. “I am Danu, your dream friend. We have known each other for many years. We are life mates.”

  The forest melted, leaving them on the still surface of an endless blue lake. No land existed beneath their knees, yet they did not sink. Hazy mist drifted around them and faint moonlight illuminated the water as if from below.

  “Do I know you?” he asked. His gaze flickered over her visage and he cautiously touched her face. “Warm. Everything else is so cold, but you are warm.” He cupped her cheek and drew her forward.

  “I can feel you,” she murmured. “You can feel me.”

  He pulled her close. “Your eyes are like the ocean.” With his right hand, he touched the lake and wet his finger, then stroked the corner of her eyebrow. “Dark blue. Tumultuous. Passionate.” He dug his fingers into her hair and tilted her head back.

  She arched her neck and his rough lips brushed against the hollow of her throat. His hand wrapped around her back and held her as his other palm caressed her breast. “Not warm,” he corrected huskily. “Hot. Like fire. A fire faery.”

  She quivered beneath his caress.

  Suddenly, a wind vortex erupted between them, flinging them backward, and a hooded figure rose between them.

  “No!” Kassandra screamed. “I can’t lose you!” She pushed forward and gripped Dagda’s belt, but the power driving them apart was too great and her hands slipped. She stretched, trying to catch him, but her hands raked through the shadowed figure standing amid the wind tunnel and she was flung backward. Her hair whipped across her face, blinding her, but she flailed, trying to find him, to hold him, when her hands snagged on something sharp. A dirk. A beautiful, hand-engraved knife.

  As she fell backward with only the dirk in her hand, her man crashed through the water and immediately began sinking. “Danu!” he shouted at her.

  “Dagda! Reach for me! Take my hand!” She reached for him, but the distance between them grew too quickly.

  “I can’t hear you,” he shouted. “Where did you go? I want to feel your heat! My heart is cold, but you ignite me!”

  The wind tunnel broadened, its tentacles spreading through the mist, destroying the fragile water droplets and splintering the peace. Kassandra struggled against the forces. “I will not lose you again!”

  The man stared at her as the lake water enfolded him in its embrace. “Find me,” he commanded from a great distance. “Find me in my world. You have part of me. Use it to find me.” Then the water swept over his head and he disappeared.

  The wind died as suddenly as it had risen and Kassandra was left standing alone in the vast, watery expanse of her lonely dream world, holding only the glowing dirk in her hand.

  “No!” Kassandra screamed as she sat up. Sweat dripped down her face and her woodland clothing was plastered against her moist skin. She plucked the loose blouse away from her throat and pulled her skirt down over her bare knees. She blinked rapidly, startled by the bright sunshine streaming through the tree branches. Nearby, her friend the weasel peeked over a log and fixed his gaze upon her.

  Kassandra’s heart beat crazily and she fell back against the leaves. “It was him, but something is different.” She turned to her side and stared at the weasel. “Triu-cair, he’s changed. He is no longer a boy.” An intimate heat flooded her body and she wrapped her arms around her chest. Her flesh rubbed against the fabric, tingling with a new sensation. She swallowed and pulled the gown away from her body.

  The weasel leapt over the log, dove into a pile of leaves and then poked his head up through the debris.

  Kassandra smiled and stroked his nose. “He bade me to find him.” She glanced through the trees toward the east. A nervous shudder racked her body. She sighed as she rose gracefully to her feet and shook the leaves from her hair. Her face was delicately defined with high cheekbones and a sweetly curved chin, but unlike the others in her blond family, her hair was streaked with blazing red and burnished copper, and her nose was finely dusted with freckles.

  The other members of the village had teased her about her looks, but never cruelly, for her compassionate nature made her a loving friend and a kind companion. She was half sister to Princess Kalial, born of Kalial’s mother and an unknown father. It was the way of the royal family. They mated in the dark, producing children of mixed heritage, until one was pronounced the new princess. The others, like Kassandra, lived in freedom, unfettered by conventional rules or duties.

  As she rose, an engraved knife tumbled to the ground.

  She picked it up and scrutinized it. A delicate inscription was carved on the back, and the tip was stained with rust-colored dust. Closing her eyes, she recalled the moment in her dream when the shadowed figure had ripped Dagda from her arms. Her heart thundered and she opened her eyes and stared at the dirk once again.

  The dirk had followed her out of the dream and into this world. He had sent it to her. She knew it was his. She could feel his essence beating within it.

  She began to tremble.

  “His knife . . .” she whispered. “Elegant . . . Highlander design . . .” She stroked the surface with her thumb. “Wealthy . . . You are a gentleman. A gentleman of the court, with a connection to this knife that runs deep.” She caressed the blade and a shiver of excitement rippled through her. In a crossing of dream and reality, the knife had materialized from the mists of her mind and was now here, solid and true. He had insisted that she must find him, and this dirk would lead her to him.

  Kassandra started toward the village, smiling as she recalled her half sister. Kalial was mild in temperament and strong in heart. She communicated with animals and had a powerful McCat, a black jaguar that acted as her familiar. Her marriage to an outsider had ensured the safety of Loch Nidean, and due to her actions, the once-destroyed forest was growing back, becoming once again a verdant and peaceful home to the forest people.

  A butterfly fluttered past Kassandra and landed on her hair. She gently lifted it with her finger and blew on its brilliant blue wings until it fluttered away. “Mayhap Kalial will understand my dream. She knows the outsiders and their world. She will know if my sense of danger is misplaced.” She glanced down at the weasel scampering behind her as the creature wriggled his nose in agreement. Again she shivered. She had always listened to her dreams, feeling it was her duty to help those she saw in danger, but this time the danger involved her life mate.

  The weasel stopped, rose on his hind legs and narrowed his eyes. You cannot call him your mate when you have never met him in the flesh. He is only a figment in your imagination. I have never even seen him until now and you have never seen his face. He is not real.

  “No. I don’t believe that. He is real and we have a bond that goes as deep as the bond between Princess Kalial and her husband, Ronin McTaver.” She abruptly changed direction, avoiding the village in favor of a small clearing where several woodland ponies were grazing. She gripped the mane of one and swung astride, then patted the mare�
�s neck in fond affection.

  The pony nickered and began walking east as Kassandra guided the creature with her knees. “You don’t understand. The dream has changed. I have delayed too long. I must go to him. Immediately. My sister will help me. I know she will.”

  “No! Absolutely not!” Kalial declared. Her baby half sister had arrived at the McTaver castle in the middle of the night and insisted upon speaking with her immediately, but her proposal was beyond preposterous! “Do you have any idea how different the outside world is from your sheltered forest? The men live for war. They fight in huge battles and kill each other just to claim large castles and fly their colored flags from the ramparts. They treat women as chattel, not permitting them any of the freedoms you take for granted. The women sew and embroider and learn to manage servants. They ride sidesaddle and speak in lowered tones. They—”

  “I must go!” Kassandra argued fiercely. “He is my life mate and he told me to find him.” Triu-cair leapt on top of Kassandra’s head and burrowed underneath her tresses. “Augh!” she cried as she tried to extricate him. “Get down! You will tangle my hair and I will have to brush it out again. Blasted red mess that it is already . . .”

  “You see. That is another problem,” Kalial pointed out as patiently as she could. “Your hair. It is too uncommon. People will think you bewitched. And you cannot have animals like a polecat following you around like a pet. It just isn’t acceptable.”

  Kassandra dragged Triu-cair down and dropped him on the floor. She leaned forward and spoke earnestly. “It is not just that I wish to find him. He is in my dreams and I have been content with that. Until now. I did not need any physical contact, but now there is something new. It is as if I am being drawn to him in a strange way and my blood is pounding for want of his presence.”