“Too bad this barn’s so far from the house,” she says.
“The dude spared no expense, but it’s not practical to use from our homestead.” Reynard dismounts. He offers his hand to assist Aundrea down. He holds her in the air for a second with both hands on her waist. He locks his eyes with hers. “Go to Winter Formal with me?”
Dangling her toes, she finds no ground. “I’m not some hay bale you can toss around.”
“You’re not a send-flowers-to-kind-of-girl, either.” Reynard places her feet gently back on Earth, but he keeps his hands firmly on her waist.
“Flowers are always welcome.” She bats her loving eyes.
He reaches into his saddlebag, slipping out a clear plastic clamshell containing a yellow rose.
“Yellow?” She pops her drying lips.
“Thought we’d start with friendship.”
“I would love to go with you.” She sniffs the rose.
Do it.
He leans in.
She locks her eyes with his before closing them—parting her lips.
They’ve kissed before. Pecks on cheeks, graze of lips, but never has he slid in his tongue. It glances off her top teeth, filling her mouth. She rubs hers on the bottom of his.
Reynard’s hand slides to the small of her back. He whispers to her, “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”
“You could have, you know,” she says before playfully biting his bottom lip and slipping her tongue back into his mouth.
With her advance he slips his hand under the back of her shirt, caressing a circle with his middle finger in the divot comprising the small of her back. Her soft skin weakens his knees.
She runs her hands over the backs of his hard arms. Arms not shapely, but muscular from tossing hay and chopping trees—driving fence posts. No calendar model, but a hardworking man. She breaks the embrace, guiding him by the hand into the barn.
He draws her back into his arms. She allows his strength to comfort her—surround and protect her.
“I have to tie up the horses.”
Aundrea nearly tells him he just ruined the romantic mood he created, but chasing down a horse would end the moment permanently.
Seconds pass, and he scoops her up into his arms and carries her to a bed of straw she covered in a blanket. Those seconds were needed.
His powerful kisses prevent her from protesting his hand following the curve of her spine to the three hooks of her bra. The pressure releases.
Too fast.
He breaks the kiss, keeping his eyes locked on hers—no protest.
Reynard should protest. As smooth as his unclasping maneuver was with just a thumb and forefinger, it was luck more than practice.
He pushes up Aundrea’s shirt. He admires her. “I’ve always wanted to see those.” He clamps his mouth on the coffee-colored areola. Her breathing quickens. The pressure in his own jeans forces him to roll her on top of him. He wants to undo the button fly.
Unleashing his discomfort might push her too fast. Reynard keeps his hands and lips on her breasts. In their groping, touching, caressing and biting, Aundrea unbuttons her own jeans and wriggles them down.
Reynard pushes himself off her. “Is this what you want?”
She nods.
He tugs at her tight pants. Hearts decorate the white cotton underneath. Somehow he expected something black and stringy, but no sensible girl would ride in a thong. She clamps her hand on his bulge. “I want to go slow. Go slow. Please. Promise me. I want you to be in me forever.”
“Aundrea…I’ve never.” He reaches down to caress her soft hair.
••••••
A THOUSAND YEARS frozen in cryosleep existed between his crush on Aundrea Johnson and now.
Reynard shakes free his thoughts of home. Sandmen—
The Sandman used pleasant thoughts to access memories. JC explained telepaths operate similarly.
He summons all his concentration to push the Sandman out.
Aundrea’s face twists into an ivory swirl of tortured faces, each frozen in silent screams of pain jutting from the ivory mask. He realizes he never left the river.
Reynard claws at the Sandman. He shoves his palm hard against the ivory.
The mask transports him back to when he was five.
••••••
A FIVE-YEAR-OLD boy living in his parent’s house sporting Lone Ranger Underoos with a plastic six-gun on his hip. He clutches his security blanket—a stuffed dragon. He stands at the top of the stairwell leading down into the basement. While other kids at preschool fear the dark closet or under the bed, he knows this is the one location in the house where monsters dwell. Nothing frightening about the stairs or the basement—it’s underneath—where it lives.
The behemoth stirs.
His tiny legs quiver.
The monster’s hunger shakes the house. Its long purplish-green limbs grow as they stretch out from underneath the stairs toward him.
••••••
EYMAXIN DRAGS REYNARD from his horse. She slaps him but fails to rouse him from his memories.
The horse’s ears spin around, hearing something behind it. Dozens of screaming green trolls dig fangs into Reynard’s horse. They move like famished wolves striking at a deer. The emaciated-framed troll-like monsters drag it down. They tear into the hide of the horse like soft, moist, spongy cake.
The second horse bolts from the attack.
Eymaxin splashes water over Reynard’s face.
The troll monsters complete their devouring.
Eymaxin contorts her finger. An azure glow emanates at the tips. She blasts a troll. The other trolls cannibalize the fallen one.
She raises her arm and blue bolts once again discharge from her fingertips. They bombard the trolls. While they’re distracted by fresh kills, Eymaxin draws the katana from the remains of Reynard’s saddle. Even with her magical powers blasting them, they overrun and drag her under the water. The biting and scratching forces Eymaxin to scream, filling her lungs with water.
A troll bites into her left wrist. It vaporizes instantly at the touch of the blue tattoos. The trolls hold her under, beating on her to force any air from her lungs.
A purple-green blob crawls up the stairs, limbs outstretched, reaching for Reynard.
Eymaxin’s arms fail in her attempt to escape. Desperate, the sword glows indigo in her hand. She uses one last burst of magic to blow the trolls off her. She brings her head
