Dream Quest Read online

  Dream Quest

  Edited by

  J.C. Wilder & Linnea Sinclair

  ISBN 1-55316-036-3

  Published by LTDBooks

  www.ltdbooks.com

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

  Dream Quest: Nine Spellbinding Paranormal Romances

  ISBN 1-55316-036-3

  Published by LTDBooks in electronic and trade paperback formats.

  www.ltdbooks.com

  "Lady of Maragorn"copyright © 2003 J.C. Wilder

  "To Call the Moons"copyright © 2003 Linnea Sinclair Bernadino

  "Knight Moves"copyright © 2003 CB Scott

  "Smoke and Mirrors"copyright © 2003 Donna MacMeans

  "Through the Woods"copyright © 2003 Ellen Edgar

  "Interface"copyright © 2003 Isabo Kelly

  "The Girl in the Box"copyright © 2003 Janet Miller

  "The Beauty in the Beast"copyright © 2003 K.G. McAbee

  "Kallaayt's Tale"copyright © 2003 Rosemary Laurey

  Artwork copyright © 2003 Nathalie Moore

  Published in Canada by LTDBooks, 200 North Service Road West, Unit 1, Suite 301, Oakville, ON L6M 2Y1

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Dream quest [electronic resource] : nine spellbinding paranormal romances / edited by J.C. Wilder and Linnea Sinclair.

  Also available in print format.

  ISBN 1-55316-036-3

  I. American fiction--21st century. I. Wilder, J.C., 1965-

  II. Sinclair, Linnea, 1954-

  PS648.S5D74 2003a813'.608C2003-903976-5

  Foreword

  It lives in the soft sparkle of moonlight, in the quiet hush of the stellar wind through the velvet blackness of space. It lives in the first flare of heat as two hands touch...in the unchained burst of joy as two hearts soar. That is where love lives, waiting, seeking, yearning.

  Come join our quest, our Dream Quest, for love. Make the journey to other stars, other worlds, times filled with magicks and inexplicable happenings that only the heart, and love, can understand. But be forewarned. Love on this quest will face challenges unlike anything in our daily lives. More than just beliefs are threatened; lives will be put in danger. To survive, love may have to adapt in ways that, well, we've imagined only in our dreams.

  Dream Quest. Reach for the moonlight. Turn the page...

  Linnea Sinclair

  J.C. Wilder

  Editors

  The Beauty in the Beast

  by K.G. McAbee

  K.G. [Gail] McAbee has written seven novels and collaborated with the incredible Ann Aguirre on a non-fiction book for writers, Surviving the Novel Experience, which won the 2002 Independent E-Book Award for best reference book. In addition, her more than forty short stories have appeared in various print and ezines, and her books are available from LTDBooks, Echelon Press, Awe-Struck E-Books, and NovelBooks, Inc.

  Her short story "The Scent of Gardenias" won first prize in the Writers' Journal Fiction Contest, and her novel A Fine Impersonation was both an EPPIE and a Dream Realm fantasy finalist. Her short "End of the Beginning"was nominated for a Sapphire Award and her first novel Escape the Past won the Dorothy Parker Award of Excellence from Reviewers International Organization.

  Gail lives in a log cabin built in 1818 in the beautiful upstate of South Carolina with Jerry, her extraordinary sweetheart, and Geoff and Mali, her no less extraordinary dogs. Gail can be reached at [email protected]

  "Erik, my boy, I'm afraid that I'm in horrible trouble."

  My father stood before me on the dirt floor of our humble cottage, wringing his hands as though he were the erring son quaking before me, the fierce and condemning father. A log disintegrated in the hearth behind him, sending up a shower of sparks and a puff of angry blue-gray smoke. Simmering in a battered pot over the fire, the stew that I had made for supper sent out a pale but delicious odor that battled unsuccessfully with the smell of our two cows that lived on the other side of the wall.

  "What is it, sir?"I asked, my heart in my throat, for I knew all too well my dear father's long list of weaknesses.

  Were we to lose our tiny cottage this time, perhaps, as we had already lost our big house, most of our land and all our livestock save the two aforementioned cows? Were the bailiffs after him, ready to do as they had threatened so often, lock him up in our village jail or, worse yet, send him to the capital and the great debtors' prison that sprawled on its western side?

  "Erik, my dear boy..."

  I confess, I was finding his hand-wringing rather irritating. "Yes, Father?"I hoped I didn't sound as sharp as I was feeling.

  "Well, my boy, you know that I have this little weakness..."

  My poor father had a large and varied supply of them, as I've mentioned, none of which were cheap, all of which got him continually into trouble of one kind or another. He liked to drink, he liked to gamble, he liked to argue with little to back up his arguments, he liked to...but there, why go on? I loved him dearly but he was not a comfortable man with whom to live. I could hardly blame my two brothers for departing and leaving him in my hands--though oftentimes, in the dark reaches of the worrisome night, I did so.

  "I fear, my child, that I have been rash enough to make a promise that might be rather hard for us to keep..."

  I sighed. "Not money, Father, I hope? You know we only have enough to pay our taxes, and I'd really hate to sell anything else."

  Not that we had much left to sell. We had gotten rid of most of our old possessions when we'd sold our big house and moved to this hovel, save a few personal items and a dozen or so books. At the thought of them, a chill struck my heart.

  "Father, we're not going to have to sell our books, are we?"Though what those ragged old tomes would fetch in our tiny village, where few save myself could even read, I could not begin to imagine.

  "No, no, dearest boy, not at all! In fact, you may well find that you shall soon have all the books your heart desires!"

  Well, for all the delightful images those words called up, I could hardly believe it.

  "You'd best explain, Father,"I said, trying to resign myself to this newest catastrophe. "But wait, you're freezing. Sit down and warm yourself while I fix you some supper."

  I bundled him into our best armchair--indeed, our only armchair--and filled him a bowl of stew. He took a bite or two, but his tragic thoughts interfered with his meal. He set the bowl on the floor beside him and eyed me with a weak smile.

  "My dearest Erik, my loyal son!"

  I didn't like the sound of this at all. I sighed. "You'd best tell me, Father..."

  Well, the story was the same one that I'd been hearing for all of my twenty-some years--Father had played a "friendly"game that wasn't quite so friendly as he had imagined, and ended up owing a rather large sum of money. The same old story, but with one rather odd exception. This time Father had somehow managed to find someone to pay the sum for him. Of course, he was now indebted to this philanthropist--who turned out to be, to my surprise, the richest woman around. This woman, of whom I had never heard until now, lived in a huge old stone castle behind high forbidding walls, out in the forest that stretched threateningly between our village and the mountains. For a change, however, Father didn't owe this woman money or land or livestock in repayment of his debt.

&
nbsp; He owed her--me.

  "What do you mean, she wants me to come and live with her?"I asked, aghast.

  "Why, just that, my dear boy, but I assure you, I would never have agreed to her terms if I thought that it would be a bad thing for you. She--well, not her, exactly, as I've never actually spoken to her, but her major domo--anyway, this gentleman assures me that you will be treated like a member of the lady's own family, with good food and clothing and books and everything you might desire."

  "Everything, Father?"I asked, concerned by the stricken look on his face.

  "Well, she did just make one small request."My father sighed and shook his head, then wiped away a tear that trickled down his wrinkled cheek. "She doesn't want you to come back here and visit."

  Well, this was simply ridiculous! How could I possibly leave my poor father to fend for himself--fending, mind you, never having been one of his talents--and go gadding off to live in a castle?

  Although the thought was strangely alluring, I must admit...

  "Nonsense,"I said, resolutely banishing the images that danced through my head. "We'll just have to think of something else to offer her instead of me, that's all."

  But, regardless of intensive brain cudgeling on both our parts, we were unable to think of anything else at all to offer this woman in payment of my poor father's debt of honor. And so, some three days later, I had all my scanty supply of clothes packed in an old saddlebag, four books that I could not bear to leave banded together with a stout leather strap, and was awaiting a conveyance on the front step of our house. My poor father sat just inside the door, and I could hear the occasional sniff as we each thought of my fate.

  Since we lived on the outskirts of our village, we seldom had passersby. But this morning, most of the village had turned out. They clustered about our shabby cottage, trying to look as if they had some business there, though failing dismally.

  "So, Master Erik,"called one wag, "it's off to seek your fortune, is it?"

  "Aye, he'll be too good for us now,"replied another. "Won't speak a word to us when he passes us in the street."

  This weak sally called forth general mirth. And, since few of them had deigned to speak to me or my father since our reversals in fortune, I could not disagree. I had tried, when we'd first moved here after our estates had been sold to pay my father's debts, to make some friends in the village. I reasoned that I'd be there for some time and did not wish to be lonely. But no one felt comfortable with me, I fear, since I had descended from the status of "young master"to "neighbor."It had made my life a bit lonely, I'll admit. Books are a pleasure and a delight, but when one has read and reread and reread again all he possesses, he'd like to at least have someone to discuss them with, you know.

  The crowd grew larger, but there was no sign of anyone coming to fetch me. We'd had a letter the day before, stating--rather coldly, I thought--that we could expect a coach to appear at eight precisely, by the village clock. It was still some minutes before that time, but there was no sign of any conveyance in either direction of the dusty road.

  Perhaps it won't come after all, I hoped.

  An old, old woman dressed in dusty gray leggings and a brown tunic, one toe peeking though a slit in her boot, sidled up to me where I sat on the stoop. She leaned down to me, a gap- toothed smile illuminating her face. Laying a withered finger against my cheek, she stroked it once and whispered, "Have a care, young sir. You're a pretty boy, and that one in the forest eats pretty boys fer her breakfast. Aye, she's a fearsome ugly beast what's done that for a hunnerd years or more, as I heared from my old gran before me. Have a care."Then she gave me a pitying pat on the head and tottered away.

  The village clock began to strike as I digested this startling bit of information. I looked around for the mad old woman, but the crowd had swallowed her.

  "Well, no fine carriage for you, hey?"crowed our neighbor from across the way, a shabby man who worked in the livery stables. "I knowed it, mind you."

  I was wondering just how it was that everyone in town knew our business when the clock counted its last stroke. The sound, a rusty clang, still hung in the air when--

  A coach appeared in the dusty road before our cottage. There were a few cries of wonderment, an undercurrent of unease, and the entire group of villagers disappeared as quickly as they'd arrived.

  I gulped at the sight that rose above me. A coach--and not just a coach, mind you, but one pulled by a matched team of four elegant blacks, each with one white plume rising from its noble head. The coach itself was also black, with a silver crest on the door and a coachman dressed in black, with a tall hat of silvery fur.

  I peered up and down the road. No one. Nothing. And more uncomfortable still, no sign of any tracks in the dirt, in either direction.

  But there before our door was the coach, in all its glory, solid and material and unable to be denied.

  "My boy,"whispered my father from inside our doorway, "I have a bad feeling about this."

  Well, it matched my own, I will admit. I would have given anything to have called off this farce. But what could I do? Either I offered myself as payment for my father's debt...or my father would end up in jail.

  The coachman had not taken notice of our presence. He sat with regal hauteur, gazing over his team's heads.

  I cleared my throat, but was unable to think of anything to say, still being amazed at the coach's appearance. At that instant, and as if my throat clearing had been a signal, a footman who'd been hidden until now jumped down from his perch at the rear of the coach. He trod forward on booted legs, bowed and said, "Master Erik?"

  I nodded. I could not think of a thing to say.

  "I am Germain, at your service, sir. If you are quite ready to depart?"

  Things were moving at far too rapid a pace to suit me, but I had little choice in the matter. I managed to make a sort of strangled sound, which Germain seemed to take for assent. He seized my saddlebag and bundle of books in one hand, turned and flung open the door of the coach with the other.

  "Wait,"I succeeded in producing a decipherable word at last, "I wish assurance that my father will be cared for in my, er, absence."

  "Naturally, sir. It is only expected in one of your high character,"replied Germain smoothly. "I was told to give you this."

  He handed me a sheet of paper, folded and sealed with black wax. I noted that the seal was the same as the crest on the coach--a wolf, his head upraised at a sliver of moon--then tore it open.

  Sir,

  You may be quite sure that your father will have the utmost in comforts during your absence.

  Signed,

  Lady Arraine DuBois

  Well, she might almost have read my mind, I thought uneasily. But before I could say another word I was ushered with polite ceremony into the coach; the door slammed hard behind me. I heard Germain take his place and the coachman crack his whip.

  "Good-bye, my dearest boy!"shouted my father.

  I leaned toward the window, in the process knocking against my bundle of books. I grabbed at it, placed it securely beside me on the seat, then looked out the window to catch a final glimpse of my father and tell him to take care.

  Our cottage was not there.

  Now mind you, I had felt no sensation of movement, had not seen or experienced any sign that we had gone a step past our cottage. But no cottage was outside the window, nor village, nor dusty road.

  What was outside quite took my breath away.

  Stone walls stretched on either side as far as my eye could see. A cobbled road lay beneath the coach. Gates of rusted iron towered toward the clouds. Then, with a low growling snarl like an angry beast, those gates opened, though I could not see what opened them.

  This time, I felt the coach move as we proceeded down a tree-lined passage toward an invisible goal. I found myself clutching my bundle of books to my breast as if it were a lifeline. I looked at my hands, noted a tiny scar at the base of my right thumb--received at my first experience of chopping kindlin
g--and felt some tiny measure of reassurance. I was still me, it was apparent, but I was none too sure of the world around me.

  The coach pulled to a smooth stop and I dared a look out the window.

  A grand castellated manor house, far larger than the one I'd spent my earlier life in, with a tower at each corner, reared itself up four stories to glare down at me. I had the uneasy impression that it was just biding its time before it squashed me.

  Germain appeared at the door to the coach, flung it open, seized the bundle from my unresisting hands, gathered up the saddlebag and ushered me down.

  "Welcome, Master Erik, welcome indeed,"he murmured as he herded me toward the tall double doors, the right one of which was opening before us. "We are all right glad to have you here."

  The door opened with a tiny snarl, the baby brother to the one the gates had made. I mounted the five steps to the door, my heart bouncing about most distractingly within my chest. I stood staring at the age-blackened wood of the door, carved across its entire expanse, though I had neither the time nor the inclination to examine it more closely. Indeed, I had but an instant to recognize in the center of it the same crest that the coach bore, before the door swung fully open.

  A short squat woman, dressed in black and silver livery, stood within. This was not, I could see, my...hostess? Warder? Whatever I was to call her.

  "Welcome, Master Erik,"said the woman. There was no smile on her swarthy face, no welcoming look in her eyes to match her words. "I am Marta. Will you come inside, sir?"

  I stepped over the threshold. Germain followed me inside. As the woman was pushing the door to, I glanced outside.

  The coach and horses were no longer there.

  Then the latch of the door snicked to; it made a sound like a bitter laugh.

  * * *

  I looked around the room Marta had said was mine. Tall ceilings arched above me, painted a somber gray, picked out here and there with dark red. The walls were swathed with thick drapery, a matching red that reminded me, in my current state, of dried blood. A massive bed occupied the wall opposite a long bank of windows, a huge desk stood brooding in a corner, and two deep chairs sat before a crackling blaze in a fireplace that would have engulfed half our tiny cottage.