SILK AND MAGIC, BOOK ONE

SILVER DARK, BLUE LIGHT
by
Rickey R. Mallory

excerpt    

       Eva turned the knob and stepped into the waiting room, nervously drumming her fingers against the front of the purse she held clasped at her waist. She was the only one there.
      She walked over to the white reception desk with its sliding frosted-glass window. No receptionist. Just an old, mud-colored clipboard with one sheet of lined paper. At the top, were the printed words NAME, APPOINTMENT TIME, ARRIVAL TIME. The sheet was blank.
      She wrote her name, Eva Quintana, but didn’t fill in the times. It seemed silly to bother when she was the only person there.
      She’d dressed carefully in her dark, sleek, conservative clothes. Nothing high fashion, nothing to make her stand out in a crowd. She’d chosen her favorite black tailored slacks and turtleneck. She never wore bracelets or rings or belts.
      She paced, ignoring the comfortable-looking chairs and the magazines. Twenty minutes after her scheduled appointment time, the door to the left of the receptionist’s desk opened.
      “Come in, Ms. Quintana.“
      The voice was low and masculine, with a hint of an accent. Was it British? Or German? It was so subtle.
      She stepped into the room and the door closed behind her. A dim blue glow highlighted an aquarium that covered the wall to her right, its filters sending a pleasant bubbling sound through the air. She felt herself relax. Anyone who liked blue water couldn’t be all bad. He was seated in a leather desk chair at the other end of the room, one ankle resting on his other knee.
      He wore faded jeans, classic penny loafers, and a ribbed pullover shirt that hugged his wide shoulders and the rangy muscles of his arms.
      “Dr. Jones?”
      He nodded toward the only other chair in the room.
      She walked toward it, aware of his eyes on her, wishing she could take more time to study his face. It was an interesting face. Not handsome but nicely shaped, with high cheekbones, a strong jaw, a wide straight mouth, and a true aquiline nose.
      “What can I do for you, Ms. Quintana?” he asked.
      Eva lifted her gaze and saw his eyes for the first time. They were a clear, crystal blue. His gaze was steady, unblinking. Somehow she had the idea he was struggling, with what she wasn’t sure, but she felt that she could trust him.
      To her dismay, tears burned the back of her throat.
      “I . . . need help.” She gripped her purse with both hands. Okay, that sounded stupid.
      Dr. Jones smiled. Just a small curve of his lips, but Eva felt the warmth of the gesture. She quickly swiped away a tear and smiled back.
      “I guess that was silly. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need help.”
      “Take your time.” He tented his fingers, resting his elbows on the chair arms. His hands were long and lean—strong, beautiful hands. The pushed-up sleeves of his shirt exposed sleek, elegantly muscled forearms dusted with golden hair.
      Eva stared at his arms. “My boyfriend left me.“ The tears spilled over, wetting her cheeks, falling too fast for her to catch them.
      “His loss.”
      She blinked. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be objective?”
      The blue eyes twinkled as he pushed his fingers through his bronze hair. “No. I’m here for you.“ He leaned back in his chair, and Eva remembered how much she loved a great looking guy in worn, faded jeans. Brad had always worn slacks. Always.
      “Why did he leave?”
      She swallowed and compressed her lips, then took a deep breath. “He called me a frigid bitch.”
      “Are you?”
      Eva shook her head once, twice, then stopped. “Yes.”
     “Tell me about it.”
      Eva sat stiffly on the edge of the seat, clutching her purse. “I can’t have sex,” she said tightly, her hot cheeks cooled by the tears that continued to fall.
      “It’s all right. You’re safe here. You can talk about anything.”
      Her fingers tightened on her purse.
      Dr. Jones reached over and took it from her hands. “Relax,” he said and set the purse beside her chair. “Sit back and just talk.”
      Eva leaned slightly against the chair and took a shaky breath. “I should quit trying and admit it’s never going to happen. But I get so lonely.”
      “Why can’t you have sex?”
      “Because I was—” Her throat closed on the words. She struggled to breathe, her chest spasming. No real air was getting in. She sobbed, gasped.
      Dark. Silver dark. Endless corridor. Pain and fear and horrible loneliness.
      In less than an instant, he was there, beside her, his warm, healing hands cradling her face. “Slow. Breathe slowly, easily. Think of something pleasant.  What soothes you?”
      With his body close to her as he sat on the arm of her chair, with his hands cradling her against the taut muscles of his chest and shoulder, it didn’t take Eva long to surrender to his calming voice.
      “Baths.”     
      “Good.“ His voice rumbled in her ear. “Think of your bath, of the warm, healing water.”
      Eva imagined his strong arms lowering her into her bath, his hands caressing her skin like hers had last night. Safe hands, gentle hands, with strong fingers that would slide across her breasts and down to press against her abdomen, hands that would look unmistakably masculine in the light from her blue candles.
      He would urge her down, pressing her, pushing her. . . . 
      The hands changed, turned gray with sticky sucking fingers. The creature was there, in her bathroom, invading her house.
      “No! No, no, no.”
      “Ms. Quintana.”
      Eva opened her eyes, gasping for breath. It wasn’t Them. She was in Dr. Jones’s office. He was sitting in his chair, and her arms were cold.
      “Our time is up.”
      “Has it been that long?”
      He shook his head, his eyes troubled. “I think you’ve had enough for today.”
      He leaned back in his chair. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. I want you to go home and take a warm bath. Remember, nothing can hurt you in your bath. Nothing. Your bath is your safe place.”
      Eva stood. Her limbs were shaky. She looked down at him. “I think you may have ruined that for me.”

* * * * *

       Eva didn’t take a bath. She couldn’t. She climbed into bed that night, hoping sleep would banish the renewed memories of Their hands on her.
       Still, the dreams came. She woke up gasping. At first she thought she was back there, strapped down, helpless, at the mercy of Them. But when she finally pulled herself out of sleep, she realized she was in her new apartment. Safe. Free. Or as close to free as she’d been since the age of ten.
      After getting a drink of water, she climbed back into bed, groaning at the time. She had to be up at four o’clock for the morning shift at the café.
      She sighed and turned over, closing her eyes tightly, but her arms and legs were cramped with tension. She couldn’t relax. The echoes of her nightmare were too close, too real.
      After a while she picked up the remote control and turned on the television, listlessly flipping channels. She scooted past a couple of late-night sci-fi thrillers and several infomercials. On a science channel, she found a documentary on whales.
      Settling into the pillows, she turned off the narrator’s voice and watched the graceful creatures cavorting in the wide, cool ocean and imagined that she was one of them. In the fantasy world between waking and sleeping, the soft songs of the whales turned into  the delicate sounds that had soothed her during the awful times.
      She slept better than she had in months.
      The next day at the café was exhausting. She worked from five a.m. until after two without a break. As soon as she could, she changed clothes and caught a bus to Dr. Jones’s office, the smell of rancid grease clinging to her. She had a three o’clock appointment.
      It surprised her that she even wanted to go back. All the last session had done was bring back terrible memories and ruin one of her few pleasurable experiences. She looked out the smeared bus window at the dull, unchanging streets. She’d never noticed how incredibly colorless the world was. She found herself comparing the bus seats, the passengers’ dull clothing, the gray, sad monotone of the streets, to the glowing colors of Dr. Jones’s office. The blue glow of the aquarium, the light that seemed to glint from his hair and eyes, the rich, dark wood, the jewel tones of the fabric on the upholstered furniture.
      Like yesterday, no receptionist sat at the desk, no names appeared on the patient list before she wrote hers on it, and no one else was waiting for the doctor.
      Eva paced, her black boots silent on the heather blue carpet, her fingers making a faint tapping sound as they beat unconsciously against her flat leather purse. She wished she had a cigarette, although she’d never smoked.
      “Come in.”
      Eva jumped. She hadn’t heard his office door open.
      Stepping into the room, she paused for a moment to look at the aquarium. Bright little fish darted here and there. Pink and white coral lined the bottom of the tank. Sea anemones waved their black arms. Bottom-dwelling creatures mouthed words at her that she couldn’t hear. Or perhaps they were just breathing.
      “Ms. Quintana, did you sleep well after your bath?”
      Eva turned. Dr. Jones was sitting in his chair, one arm resting on the mahogany desk. His long legs were encased in black denim, and he wore a loose knit fisherman’s sweater.
      He gave her that smile that barely quirked his wide, straight mouth. Had she noticed yesterday how utterly beautiful his features were?
      She sat down, clutching her purse on her lap, but he leaned over and pulled it gently from her grasp, setting it beside her.
      “Well?” he prompted.
      She frowned. “I didn’t take a bath. I had bad dreams.”
      His blue gaze turned soft. “I’m sorry.”
      “Well, you ought to be. It’s your damn fault.“ She waved a hand. “I know you’ll tell me I have to overcome the bad memories. It’s part of my healing. Go ahead. I’ve heard it all before.”
      “What can I do for you, Ms. Quintana?”
      She gestured impatiently at the repetition of yesterday’s question.
      Make me feel! The thought was there, in her head. She had no idea how or why it got there. That wasn’t why she was here. It was feeling too much that was the problem. Truthfully, she’d be happier if she felt nothing at all. Then, at least, she could simply lie there and pretend to enjoy sex.
      But that wasn’t why she’d come either. She was here because everyone in the world thought being abducted by aliens was a fantastic tale conjured by a disturbed mind, and she wanted someone to tell her she wasn’t crazy.
      “I want these memories out of my head.“ Her voice caught. She hadn’t meant to say that.
      She gathered all the energy she had left, after carrying trays and bussing tables all day, and flung it at the handsome, unflappable doctor in a huge fireball of impotent anger.
     “I don’t know what you can do for me. You’re the fucking shrink. You tell me.“ She fished in her pocket for the ripped-up card she’d taped back together. “Paranoia. Persecution complex. Abducted by aliens. Those are your specialties. Which do you recommend? Pick one. Personally, I’d go for paranoia. Alien abduction is way overrated.”
      She stood, too restless and nervous to sit still, but when she faced the aquarium, the blue water called to her. She couldn’t bear to look at it, so she turned toward the wall behind her chair.
      “Oh God!“ Her limbs threatened to collapse, and a wave of nausea engulfed her.
      A huge modern painting that she hadn’t noticed yesterday loomed over her like all her worst nightmares come true. Stark silver and black, a study in perspective, it depicted a long corridor that got smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the center of the canvas. It was the alien ship.
      Eva swayed, teetering on the brink. The silver dark called to her. She closed her eyes and fell into the painting.
      Warm strong hands saved her.
      Dr. Jones stood behind her, his low voice whispering in her ear. “Don’t be afraid, Eva. Look. Look into the painting, and tell me what I can do for you.”
      Eva stared at the layers of paint-on-canvas until they became the corridor she’d been forced to walk so many times. Until way down at the other end of that long corridor, she could see the huge heavy door.
      “Tell me what you see.”
      She shook her head. Her throat spasmed. Her mouth was dry. She was mesmerized by the corridor, paralyzed by the knowledge of what lay behind the door. She couldn’t have spoken if her life depended on it.
      “Tell me.”
      Seeping in through her terror, his voice compelled her, his hands promised her safety.
      “You’re not there. You’re just remembering. Remember out loud.”
      She swallowed, then managed to speak. “The door is massive, much bigger than a door should be.“ Her eyes burned, but she couldn’t blink, couldn’t tear her gaze away from the center of the painting. “It screeches, metal on metal. It hurts my ears. The white light hurts my eyes. My nose burns from the smells. The table is there, in the center of the room. I can’t get away. Their sticky, smelly fingers push me down. Silver straps—my arms and legs are restrained. Table is so cold. And then it all starts again. Like last time. Like every time.“ Every time.
      “What starts?“ His voice was lower than a whisper. It was almost a thought inside her head.
      “I . . . can’t—“ Her breath came in short, painful sobs. Her limbs quivered in anticipation of the pain to come. “Make . . . it go away,” she whispered. “Give me . . . something. A . . . pill, an injection . . . a frontal lobotomy. Something.”
      Dr. Jones’s hands slid up her shoulders to her neck. He pulled her hair back from her ears and placed his palms on both sides of her jaw, cradling her face. “What would make it go away? You know, don’t you Eva? You know what you need. Say it. Tell me what you want.”
      His body pressing closely against her from behind, his breath brushing her ear, his warm hands caressing her skin, sent sensations through her that she’d never felt in her life. His presence was more sensuous than eating chocolate, his voice more uplifting than Mozart, the heat from his hands more satisfying than a steaming hot bath.
     All those things it had taken her years to learn to enjoy. It had taken her so long to overlay the dreadful experiences of her abduction with mundane pleasant ones. But no matter how hard she’d tried, she’d never been able to overlay that worst, most awful intrusion, that most heinous betrayal. It lurked inside her, like a wound that wouldn’t heal. And she was terribly afraid it would stay there forever.
      “You can’t know what I went through. Their cold, sticky hands, their probes, the worst . . .”
      “I know,” he said gently. “I know. But talking about it will help.”
      She tried to shake her head, but his hands stilled her. “No. I can’t. I just want to stop the memories. I want to feel like a normal person. I want . . . to love.”
      A sigh so quiet she wasn’t sure she’d heard it breathed past her ear, and Dr. Jones’s fingers fisted briefly in her hair.
      “I’m here for you,” he said, his voice carrying that slight odd accent. “You’re in control. You tell me to stop.”
      He slid his hands inside the neck of her sweater, pushing the material down a couple of inches, and began massaging the sides of her neck in slow, small circles, until the knots that ached under her skin dissolved and relaxation began to spread downward from her shoulders across her back.
      Then he slid his hands upward, pressing soothing, delicate caresses along the sensitive skin of her throat, urging her head back against his shoulder.
      When she allowed herself to lean against him, his other arm slid around her waist, and his body pressed close and warm against hers.
      Her throat fluttered with a faint taste of panic, but his gentle voice came again.
      “Look at the painting,” he whispered. “From the outside. Stay above it, beyond its reach. It’s just a painting. Don’t let it conquer you.”
      Eva’s entire body trembled as she stared at the long straight corridor that filled her vision. His fingers brushed the underside of her chin. He traced her jaw line, her earlobe, her temple, where she felt her blood coursing beneath his touch. And all the while his other arm held her against him. Safe.
      The corridor beckoned to her, like the edge of a rocky cliff to a despondent lover. Come. Don’t be afraid. Just one step.
      Panic stole her breath, but he whispered “Shh,” into her ear as he gathered her hair in his hand and slid his fingers through it.
      The corridor became paint and canvas again as his caresses stirred her body into a new, heightened sense of awareness. Something deep and primal was born inside her.
      He bent his head and grazed his lips against the soft skin behind her ear. A frightening need pooled heavily between her legs.
      His hand at her waist opened, his fingers spreading across her abdomen, pressing her body back against him. He spread his legs, and she felt the heat and hardness of his thighs, his chest, his arms. She arched her neck and opened heavy-lidded eyes.
      The corridor.
      Her body went rigid with shock and fear. She was trapped between him and the looming corridor. She couldn’t move. It was as if the silver restraints held her in place. Panic choked her.
      Dr. Jones released her and stepped away. “Okay Eva,” he said gently. “It’s okay. Our time is up.“
      Eva took a deep breath, forcing her limbs to work. She looked at him, but he’d walked around his desk to the window, his back to her, his head slightly bent. The nape of his neck was exposed.
      Quivering, she reached down to pick up her purse and walked toward the aquarium. His reflection in the glass didn’t move. At the door she paused.
      “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr. Jones.”
      “Eva? Have a bath tonight. Touch yourself, enjoy your body. Use the things you love. They’ll help you.”