It Dreams in Me

Book 3: In Me Series

by Kathleen O'Neal Gear

Genres: American Romance; Ancient World Romance

Synopsis

Sora, the High Chieftess of the Black Falcon Nation, has been banished by her own people until she can find healing for her broken spirit. Her seductive, murderous rampages have led to war with nearby clans and caused dissension in her own, as well. If another body was to turn up, Sora will certainly be blamed--even her own clan will demand her death. Now facing her thirty-third winter, she and her husband Flint are wandering the land searching frantically for the means to cure her shattered soul.

In the wake of the Eagle Flute Village massacre, Red Raven witnessed a woman murder Chief Short Tail of the Loon people in an exotic ritual. As word spreads, more people want Sora found and killed, but there is still hope to heal her . . . she must find her reflection-soul. But Short Tail's shadow-soul managed to find a home in his last breath, and, hell-bent on revenge, he'll do anything to put an end to Sora's life.

At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

Release date: May 29, 2007

Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

Print pages: 256

Sample

It Dreams in Me

1
HE IS AFRAID.
I know because he trembles when I press my naked body against his and whisper, "You were a fool to come back here."
His wide eyes are sheathed with the amber glitter of sparks that suffuse the smoke. The only article of clothing he wears is a bright red sash wrapped around his throat. His beautiful cape, made from woven buffalo wool, rests two paces away with his other belongings: his bow and quiver, his gorgeous coral-inlaid war club, deer-bone stiletto, and copper jewelry.
"What do you want!" He strains against the ropes that bind his hands and ankles. "Why are you doing this?"
"You can't be that stupid. You must know who sent me."
The dark forest has gone deathly quiet. The only sounds are the falling rain and the occasional crackling of timbers that rise from the smoldering heaps of lodges in the distance.
He tries to speak. His mouth opens, but no words come out, just a strange hiss, like the last breath leaving a dying body.
Finally he says, "I did what she asked! Go back and tell her I obeyed her. I obeyed even though I knew it was the wrong thing to do!"
I smile.
His jaw trembles before he clenches his teeth.
I stare down into his eyes, and pure terror stares back. He is a powerful man, muscular, brown, with deep lines across his forehead; he is one of the great leaders of the Water Hickory Clan ... was one of the great leaders.
Ten paces away a little boy lying in a pool of rain-diluted blood kicks and goes limp, still clutching his make-believe bow in his hand.
"I don't believe you," he hisses. "She wouldn't do this. I am her loyal servant! She knows that!"
Against his lips, I murmur, "Don't be afraid."
He forces a hard swallow down his throat. "What are you going to do to me?"
I reach down to stroke his limp manhood, and his eyes change; disbelief vies with hope. I have a reputation for being a passionate woman, and it has occurred to him that perhaps this is an erotic game, that I ambushed him, clubbed him senseless, and tied him up to pleasure him at my will. Within moments he is rigid in my hand.
"Don't be afraid," I repeat as I slip his manhood inside me.
He can't stop himself; he tries to force himself deeper, but his bound hands and legs make his movements awkward.
I spread my legs to help him. As I lazily rock against him, his eyes gleam. Fear has excited him in a way he's never experienced before. He likes this game and drives himself into my soft sheath.
When he's panting and writhing, I lean forward, dragging my breasts across his bloody chest, and say, "I'm going to set your souls free."
In the midst of his euphoria, uncertainty clouds his gaze. But it is brief. He's close. He cares about nothing but finishing.
I grasp the sash around his throat and sit up. Every time he thrusts, I twist the sash, tightening it. I smile at him with my lips open, and he thinks he understands. As he nears completion, suffocation heightensthe sensations in a desperate fashion. He struggles for air and senselessly lunges against me. The smile on his face is sublime.
By the time his seed jets in a warm ancient rhythm, he's wheezing, gasping for air.
When he finally relaxes and dreamily stares up at me, he sees himself reflected in my eyes.
And he knows.
"No!" He slams his head into my chest, knocking me backward to the wet ground. I lose my grip on the sash, and hideous grunts escape his throat as he tries to crawl away, flopping and rolling, moving like the worm he is.
I stride forward, grab the trailing ends of the sash, and drag him toward the marsh, where the cattails have begun to gleam faintly blue in the dawn light penetrating the clouds. Deadfall cracks beneath his flailing feet.
While he twists and grunts, I study the dark dots of birds perched on the marsh reeds. The coppery scent of blood mixes with the fragrance of wet earth as though they were born together and have never been separate.
At the edge of the water, I stop. Chief Short Tail's face has turned purple, and his mouth opens and closes like a fish's.
I loosen the sash.
When he begins to gasp, I kneel down and stare into his disbelieving eyes. "This is going to take time, Chief. Get as much air as you can. Scream if you need to. Your warriors are out tracking down the survivors of the massacre. There's no one to hear you.
"No one but me."
Copyright © 2007 by Kathleen O'Neal Gear