Chapter title is from song by Chris Cornell.

13

I am the Highway – Chris Cornell

Safe.

Arms wrapped around her, the strength in them like steel. The faintly calloused hand cradling her neck was exquisitely gentle, fingers stroking the sensitive skin beneath her ear. Lips on hers, desperately seeking.

Her breathing accelerated, spurred by the electric feel of the mouth on hers. Her limbs turned liquid against the heated muscular frame that held her securely against him, harsh rapid breathing in time with her own, heart thudding heavily against her.

Closer. Hands shifted her so she was against him shoulder to hip, the friction purely erotic even through layers of clothing. Her eyes closed to savor the addictive touch drifting along her skin, gossamer and pure heat. She let herself melt into the heat and certainty of the embrace, bonelessly pliant in his arms.

Loss. A cool kiss of air replaced the lips. She opened her eyes, unable to see beyond a bright whiteness, and she tensed, gripping tightly to the security in those arms. Holding on as long as she could before the spinning falling tearing started, falling into the light then darkness.

Falling without end.

She spun out of bed, dragging sheet and comforter with her, bare feet spaced and steady on the ice cold floor, her dagger swept up off the nightstand in the single move, held at ready in the half crouch.

Djinn.

Still breathing hard from the dream, both parts of it, she looked around wildly, trying to slow the panic into something resembling order. Something resembling control.

The room was familiar. Smooth wood floors, a plain bed, plain walls. Nothing had mutated into cottage chic or chi-chi minimalism. It was just bare and unadorned, except for her long sword on its rack and the TV. The weight and balance of the dagger in her hand was just as it had always been.

And the floor was freezing-ass cold.

Her breathing slowed, but did not quite steady. That dream was new. Tendrils of it still curled in whispers around her mind, the elusive promise of being held like those arms had held her.

Safe.

Her grip on the dagger tightened and she scanned the room again. You couldn't see a Djinn feeding on you unless...

She yanked open the nightstand drawer, the motion rougher than she had allowed herself in years. She put her hand flush against the cold silver blade sitting next to the Glock, and focused, clearing her mind ruthlessly of the sweetness of the dream, and looked.

The room remained the same. She could see the darkness around the curtains, the first shades of gray morning yet to come. Breathing easier, she closed the drawer with a soft click, and kicked free of the sheet around her ankle.

She tapped the clock to bring up the backlight.

4:30.

Ah hell. Close enough. She wasn't getting any more sleep after that anyway. She sheathed the dagger and left it on the nightstand, shedding her camisole on the way to the bathroom and launching it with a careless flick to land on the bed. In five minutes she was dressed in her work clothes: jeans, turtleneck, jacket, boots. She tucked the Glock in against the small of her back before kneeling for her sword. She felt better when she had it in her hand.

She stepped out into the darkness through the sliding glass doors and onto the large wooden deck. She did not turn on the light, letting her eyes adjust to the faint glow of the late moon. A hint of salt was on the incoming ocean breeze as she collected her thoughts and swept them from her head. She shed the dream with the long practice of shedding nightmares, accustomed to being dumped out of bed by panic.

The dreams didn't matter. They weren't real.

She crossed to the middle of the deck, and centered herself with a deep breath, letting all emotion drain away. She rested her right hand lightly on the pommel of the long sword at her side. The leather bindings were worn and smooth as she slid that hand down the length of the hilt. Her left hand remained on the smooth wood of the scabbard, poised without tension, position precise, balanced and waiting.

With a liquid flick she thumbed the sword from its sheath. Her right hand followed the motion of the left automatically, completing the draw and strike in a single movement.

There was no room for hesitation.

She completed the ritualistic movement, flicking non-existent blood, returning the sword to its sheath, awareness of its lethal cutting edge her only thought. Draw, strike, return; she would repeat this and other patterns until the sun had cleared the sea, the far mists risen, and bird calls filtered through the air. She would clear her mind of everything but her breathing and the honed steel blade in her hands, joining the two until they were one and indistinguishable.

The phone rang as she was toweling her hair dry. She checked the number on the caller ID. Huh. That was different.

"Yeah?" she didn't bother with a greeting. Garth knew whom he was calling.

Apparently he felt the need to confirm it anyway. "Zee. You have time to go to Dolgeville?"

Dolgeville. She ran through her most recent news searches in her head. Missing people—nothing specific. There was a rash of that happening all over of late. She wasn't sure why Dolgeville stood out, so she asked.

Garth hemmed and hawed, which was unlike him.

"Travis was up there."

Zee narrowed her eyes in distaste. Travis was a cowboy. The last job she'd worked with him underfoot he'd walked straight into a nest of vampires, his little brain distracted by a pert ass and saucy smile. She was honestly amazed he was still alive.

"Couldn't get anyone else to go?"

Garth coughed.

Zee rolled her eyes. "Right."

She didn't blame them. Cut and run on too many people, you developed a reputation. Hunters like that came and went. If they were lucky, they quit after a bad job shook them up. If not, well. There were other ways of going. "How long?"

"I haven't heard from him in a week." Garth cleared his throat uncomfortably. "And his phone hasn't moved."

Zee picked up pen and paper. "Coordinates."

She noted the location as Garth rattled off the numbers.

"Let me know?" Garth's question was tentative and apologetic.

"Yep." She disconnected as she replied, keeping the conversation to a minimum. She tossed the phone in the open duffel on the floor. Dolgeville was six hours away. She could be there by evening if she left now.