Enslave Me Sweetly (Alien Huntress #2)(22)
Author: Gena Showalter

Moonlight drizzled through the curtains, and the sounds of the night seeped from wall speakers, offering a lazy, almost sultry tune. Crickets hummed, and cars zoomed. I closed my eyes against the programmed noise.

I was going spirit-walking.

Chapter 8

Keeping my eyes closed, I internalized my focus to the deepest part of myself, gathering my energy there. Warmth soon churned inside my stomach, leaving the rest of my body cold. Determinedly I began to push that energy forward with mental hands, the weight of flesh separating from the etherealness of soul.

A cracking sound filled my ears. Slowly, so slowly, my spirit rose out of my body. Though the feat had become easier over the years, such a disconnection—for that was exactly what it was—required intense concentration and strength.

I’d wanted to visit Lucius so many times this past week, but had resisted. He’d called every night to give me a progress report, and every night I’d waited in anticipation of that call. Too much anticipation. By resisting seeing him, I had proved to myself that I didn’tneed to see him. He wasn’t a necessity. I had myself under control, and my defenses against him were well fortified. So what that I’d thought about him constantly today.

I took immense delight in the fact that he’d never know I had visited him.

We were located in different states, but that didn’t matter. I’d find him. Usually I had to be within a mile or so of my target because I had to walk the actual distance to reach him. That had never been the case with Michael, who I could reach anywhere, anytime. After my kiss with Lucius, I knew it would not be the case with him either.

With my spirit freed completely, I became suspended in a place between reality and death, experiencing only an ephemeral lightness. I stood at the edge of the bed and stared down at my physical body. Even though I’d done this countless times before, I always experienced shock when I saw myself lying on the bed—there, but not really there.

The first time my spirit exited my body had been an accident. I’d been a little girl, only four years old, and had just discovered my parents’ lifeless bodies sprawled in blood. In my bedroom. I’d run from them, run outside screaming for help. Michael had scooped me up and carried me back inside, to the nearest room. My parents’ room. He’d placed me in their bed, said, “Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll take care of them,” then raced away to do just that.

While I’d lain there, sobbing violently, I’d heard a cracking noise, like something breaking apart. At the time, I’d figured it was my heart. But the next thing I knew, I looked down and saw myself. I barely had time to rationalize what had happened before I floated to another room, to Michael.

He’d never known I was there, never known I watched him. He’d been in my bedroom, the bodies and blood gone—as if they’d never been there. Michael drank himself into oblivion that night, his hands shaking, what he’d seen almost too much for him to bear. Later, he told me the killer had been a man who’d intended to rob the house.

He also told me he’d killed the bastard for me.

I’d spirit-walked many times after that, each time beginning and ending of its own accord. My Rakan tutor had vaguely mentioned that some of our kind had this ability, but he himself hadn’t, so he hadn’t known how to teach me. Over the years, however, I’d honed the skill. I now controlled every aspect: when, where, how long.

I’d never told anyone. Not even Michael, though I loved him more than anyone else in the world. I wanted him to see me as human as possible, I guess, like a real daughter. I’d almost told him once, after he’d gifted me with the car I’d begged him to buy me. In the end, I hadn’t wanted to spoil the moment.

Others, well, if people learned I left my body unprotected, unguarded, and vulnerable to attack, I’d fall prey to my enemies. The huntress would become the hunted.

With a sigh, I brought myself back to the task at hand. Right now my physical body was splayed out like the fairy-tale Sleeping Beauty. Utterly still, golden hair spilling around my shoulders and arms. If not for my shimmering gold skin, I could have easily passed for a human.

I closed my eyes and pictured Lucius. Pictured the hard planes and angles of his face, pictured the silkiness of his lips. The width and sinew of his chest. Soon a ghostly wind ruffled my hair. I lost the foundation under my feet. Tugged by an invisible cord, my spirit began to move. Faster. Faster. Lights whizzed past me, twinkling in and out of focus. Soon a mixture of voices—one a rough but cultured timbre, the other a smooth baritone—gained in volume.

I stopped suddenly, abruptly, and gasped.

I stood in a study very much like Michael’s. I knew beyond a doubt, however, that this was not my father’s. The wood paneling was lighter, the furniture different, more modern. A purple and red Lucite column towered over the desk. Bookshelves of fuchsia and yellow lined one wall. Silver-plated side tables and a faux-fur ottoman occupied a corner. Blood red carpet covered the oak floors, and a large portrait of a nude redhead—obviously a natural redhead and Jonathan’s third wife—hung over the unlit fireplace.

My attention slid to the center of the room. Lucius lounged atop a lime green couch, a brandy in one hand and a cigar in the other. He’d colored his hair again, this time a rich walnut brown. A scar slashed down his right temple. He wore contacts, darkening his ice-blue eyes to the same shade as his hair. As I’d predicted, the piercings and tattoos were gone. He’d fit his muscled body into an expensive silk suit.

I almost didn’t recognize him. His lips gave him away, though. He couldn’t change the lush, rosy softness of them. I licked my own as a picture flashed through my mind, a picture of him kissing me, devouring me. Setting my body aflame.

Was I destined to always respond to this man?

Another man sat across from him. Jonathan Parker. The self-indulgent, wife-killing playboy. His picture failed to reveal the aura of depravity that encompassed him, a depravity he couldn’t mask in person. Cigar smoke drifted around him as he chuckled devilishly over something Lucius had said.

“So you met an other-worlder who fires your blood, did you?” Jonathan said. He sipped amber liquid from a glass, his feet propped on top of an expensive coffee table. His grin widened, revealing too-white, too-perfect teeth. “And she’s a Raka, at that.” He sighed wistfully. “I’ll be honest. I’ve always wanted to f**k a Raka. All that gold…”

“This one’s mine,” Lucius cut in sharply. His gaze narrowed, leaving no hint of humor. Only deadly menace. “She’s the only reason I came back here. I want her. She’s mine,” he repeated.