Into the Dreaming is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Into the Dreaming by Karen Marie Moning copyright © 2002, 2006 by
Karen Marie Moning
Excerpt from Fever Moon by Karen Marie Moning, Pencils by Al Rio, Inks by Julia Pinto, Colors by Mae Hao copyright © 2012 by Karen Marie Moning, LLC Proposal for A Ghost of a Chance by Karen Marie Moning copyright © 2012
by Karen Marie Moning
Deleted scenes from Kiss of the Highlander by Karen Marie Moning copyright © 2012
by Karen Marie Moning
The Dark Highlander Lite by Karen Marie Moning copyright © 2012
by Karen Marie Moning
Excerpt from Darkfever by Karen Marie Moning copyright © 2006
by Karen Marie Moning
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
DELACORTE PRESS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Into the Dreaming was originally published in different form as part of Tapestry (New York: Jove Publications, 2002) and separately as a mass market paperback (New York: Jove Publications, 2006).
This work contains an excerpt from the forthcoming graphic novel Fever Moon by Karen Marie Moning, pencils by Al Rio, inks by Julia Pinto, colors by Mae Hao. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eISBN: 978-0-345-53523-8
www.bantamdell.com
Jacket design: © Eileen Carey
Jacket image: © Aleksandr Doodko/Shutterstock
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FOREWORD
IF YOU’VE PICKED UP THIS BOOK THAT MEANS YOU’RE ONE OF four things: a fan of my Highlander series, a fan of my Fever books, neither, or both.
If you’re one of my Highlander fans, this book is for you. Written between Kiss of the Highlander and The Dark Highlander, Into the Dreaming is pure romance, with the first, faint strains of a darker music: a glimpse into the world of the icy, inhuman Seelie and Unseelie courts that I eventually developed into my Fever series.
If you’re a Fever fan and haven’t read my Highlander books, this is where it all began, when I first knew there was another, much darker story waiting to be told. Many of you have written to ask me how the Faery World in Into the Dreaming fits chronologically into the Fever series and the answer is: not at all. What happens in Into the Dreaming didn’t happen in the Fever world. It’s completely separate, although obviously the outline of the Fae characters/court and the themes are the same. Think of this novella as the seeds of an idea I couldn’t write yet, so I made sketchy notes then went back to my day job, writing romance novels until the time was right. Or rather until I woke up one morning from a long and very detailed dream to find the story as unavoidable as a ten-car pileup in heavy fog on a one-lane road in a dark tunnel.
If you’re a fan of both series, good to see you again! There are extras from both worlds included in this compilation. You’ll find a book proposal for an unwritten story, Ghost of a Chance, deleted scenes from Kiss of the Highlander, and a good chunk of The Dark Highlander Lite, the version that didn’t get published, plus a bit about what was going on in my world at the time.
You’ll also find a sneak peek at my new graphic novel Fever Moon: The Fear Dorcha, a 150-plus-page, full-color hardcover, which features Mac & Barrons in an all-new original adventure that takes place during Shadowfever. For those of you who are new to my Fever series, we’ve included a preview of those books as well.
If you’ve never read either series and picked up this book solely on the cover and blurb, welcome! This collection will give you a look at the worlds I write about, and is a great way to dip your toe in and see if you like the water.
Special thanks to Random House for getting Into the Dreaming back out there in a wonderful package. It had gone out of print and many readers either couldn’t find it or told me they’d paid ridiculous amounts for a dog-eared paperback copy.
A tongue-in-cheek, sexy romp, Into the Dreaming was inspired by my sisters: Laura with her fabulous cooking, and Elizabeth with her infamous Silly Jane jokes. Jane Sillee (could I be more obvious?) thinks if you toss stellar sex into that mix, you’ve got all you need for a wonderful life. I’m inclined to agree.
Drop by my Facebook page or website message board after you’ve finished. I love to hear from readers!
Stay to the lights,
Karen
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Foreword
Into the Dreaming
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Afterword
Proposal for Ghost of a Chance
Deleted Scenes from Kiss of the Highlander
The Dark Highlander Lite
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Excerpt from Darkfever
Dedication
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
Photo Excerpt from Fever Moon
His hard, wet body glistened in the moonlight as he emerged from the ocean. Brilliant eyes of stormy aquamarine met hers, and her heart raced.
He stood naked before her, the look in his eyes offering everything, promising eternity.
When he cupped one strong hand at the nape of her neck and drew her closer to receive his kiss, her lips parted on a sigh of dreamy anticipation.
His kiss was at first gentle, then as stormy as the man himself, for he was a man of deep secrets, a man of deeper passion, her Highlander.
One hand became two buried in her hair, one kiss became a second of fierce and fiery desire, then he swept her into his arms, raced up the castle steps, and carried her to his bedchamber …
—From the unpublished manuscript
Highland Fire by Jane Sillee
One
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NOT QUITE SCOTLAND
IT WAS A LAND OF SHADOWS AND ICE.
Of gray. And grayer. And black.
Deep in the shadows lurked inhuman creatures, twisted of limb and hideous of countenance. Things one did well to avoid seeing.
Should the creatures enter the pale bars of what passed for light in the terrible place, they would die, painfully and slowly. As would he—the mortal Highlander imprisoned within columns of sickly light—should he succeed in breaking the chains that held him and seek escape through those terrifying shadows.
Jagged cliffs of ice towered above him. A frigid wind shrieked through dark labyrinthine canyons, bearing a susurrus of desolate voices and faint, hellish screams. No sun, no fair breeze of Scotland, no scent of heather penetrated his frozen, bleak hell.
He hated it. His very soul cringed at the horror of the place.
He ached for the warmth of the sun on his face and hunge
red for the sweet crush of grass beneath his boots. He would have given years of his life for the surety of his stallion between his thighs and the solid weight of his claymore in his grip.
He dreamed—when he managed to escape the agony of his surroundings by retreating deep into his mind—of the blaze of a peat fire, scattered with sheaves of heather. Of a woman’s warm, loving caresses. Of buttery, golden-crusted bread hot from the hearth. Simple things. Impossible things.
For the son of a Highland chieftain, who’d passed a score and ten in resplendent mountains and vales, five years was an intolerable sentence; an incarceration that would be withstood only by force of will, by careful nurturing of the light of hope within his heart.
But he was a strong man, with the royal blood of Scottish kings running hot and true in his veins. He would survive. He would return and reclaim his rightful place, woo and win a bonny lass with a tender heart and a tempestuous spirit like his mother, and fill the halls of Dun Haakon with the music of wee ones.
With such dreams, he withstood five years in the hellish wasteland.
Only to discover the dark king had deceived him.
His sentence had never been five years at all, but five faery years: five hundred years in the land of shadow and ice.
On that day when his heart turned to ice within his breast, on that day when a single tear froze upon his cheek, on that day when he was denied even the simple solace of dreaming, he came to find his prison a place of beauty.
“My queen, the Unseelie king holds a mortal captive.”
The Seelie queen’s face remained impassive, lest her court see how deeply disturbing she found the messenger’s news. Long had the Seelie Court of Light and the Unseelie Court of Dark battled. Long had the Unseelie king provoked her. “Who is this mortal?” she asked coolly.
“Aedan MacKinnon, son and heir of the Norse princess Saucy Mary and Findanus MacKinnon, from Dun Haakon on the Isle of Skye.”
“Descendent of the Scottish king, Kenneth McAlpin,” the queen mused aloud. “The Unseelie king grows greedy, his aim lofty, if he seeks to turn the seed of the McAlpin to his dark ways. What bargain did he strike with this mortal?”
“He sent his current Hand of Vengeance into the world to bring death to the mortal’s clansmen yet bartered that if the mortal willingly consented to spend five years in his kingdom, he would spare his kin.”
“And the MacKinnon agreed?”
“The king concealed from him that five years in Faery is five centuries. Still, as grandseed of the McAlpin, I suspect the MacKinnon would have accepted the full term to protect his clan.”
“What concession does the king make?” the queen asked shrewdly. Any bargain between faery and mortal must hold the possibility for the human to regain his freedom. Still, no mortal had ever bested a faery in such a bargain.
“At the end of his sentence, he will be granted one full cycle of the moon in the mortal world, at his home at Dun Haakon. If, by the end of that time, he is loved and loves in return, he will be free. If not, he serves as the king’s new Hand of Vengeance until the king chooses to replace him, at which time he dies.”
The queen made a sound curiously like a sigh. By such cruel methods had the Unseelie king long fashioned his deadly, prized assassin—his beloved Vengeance—by capturing a mortal, driving him past human limits into madness, indurating him to all emotion, then endowing him with special powers and arts.
Since the Unseelie king was barred entrance to the human world, he trained his Vengeance to carry out his orders, to hold no act too heinous. Mortals dared not even whisper the icy assassin’s name, lest they inadvertently draw his merciless attention. If a man angered the Unseelie king, Vengeance punished the mortal’s clan, sparing no innocents. If grumblings about the faery were heard, Vengeance silenced them in cruelly imaginative ways. If the royal house was not amenable to the faery world, Vengeance toppled kings as carelessly as one might sweep a chessboard.
Until now, it had been the Unseelie king’s wont to abduct an insignificant mortal, one without clan who would not be missed, to train as his Vengeance. He went too far this time, the Seelie queen brooded, abducting a blood grandson of one of fair Scotia’s greatest kings—a man of great honor, noble and true of heart.
She would win this mortal back.
The queen was silent for a time. Then, “Ah, what five hundred years in that place will do to him,” she breathed in a chilling voice. The Unseelie king had named the terms of his bargain well. Aedan MacKinnon would still be mortal at the end of his captivity but no longer remotely human when released. Once, long ago and never forgotten, she’d traversed that forbidden land herself, danced upon a pinnacle of black ice, slept within the dark king’s velvet embrace …
“Perhaps an enchanted tapestry,” she mused, “to bring the MacKinnon the one true mate to his heart.” She could not fight the Unseelie king directly, lest the clash of their magic too gravely damage the land. But she could and would do all in her power to ensure Aedan MacKinnon found love at the end of his imprisonment.
“My queen,” the messenger offered hesitantly, “they shall have but one bridge of the moon in the sky. Perhaps they should meet in the Dreaming.”
The queen pondered a moment. The Dreaming: that elusive, much-sought, everforgotten realm where mortals occasionally brushed pale shoulder to iridescent wing with the fairy. That place where mortals would be astonished to know battles were won and lost, universes born, and true love preordained, from Cleopatra and Mark Antony to Abelard and Heloise. The lovers could meet in the Dreaming and share a lifetime of loving before they ever met in the mortal realm. It would lay a grand foundation for success of her plan.
“Wisely spoken,” the queen agreed. Rising from her floral bower with fluid grace, she raised her arms and began to sing.
From her melody a tapestry was woven, of faery lore, of bits of blood and bone, of silken hair from the great, great-grandson of the McAlpin, of ancient rites known only to the True Race. As she sang, her court chanted:
Into the Dreaming lure them deep
where they shall love whilst they doth sleep
then in the waking both shall dwell
’til love’s fire doth melt his ice-borne hell.
And when the tapestry was complete, the queen marveled.
“Is this truly the likeness of Aedan MacKinnon?” she asked, eyeing the tapestry with unmistakable erotic interest.
“I have seen him, and it is so,” the messenger replied, wetting his lips, his gaze fixed upon the tapestry.
“Fortunate woman,” the queen said silkily.
The faery queen went to him in the Dreaming, well into his sentence, when he was quite mad. Tracing a curved nail against his icy jaw, she whispered in his ear, “Hold fast, MacKinnon, for I have found you the mate to your soul. She will warm you. She will love you above all others.”
The monster chained to the ice threw back his dark head and laughed.
It was not a human sound at all.
Two
PRESENT DAY OLDENBURG, INDIANA
JANE SILLEE HAD AN INTENSELY PASSIONATE RELATIONSHIP with her postman.
It was classic love-hate.
The moment she heard him whistling his way down her walk, her heart kicked into overtime, a sappy smile curved her lips, and her breathing quickened.
But the moment he failed to deliver the acceptance letter extolling the wonders of her manuscript, or worse, handed her a rejection letter, she hated him. Hated him. Knew it was his fault somehow. That maybe, just maybe, a publisher had written glowing things about her, he’d dropped the letter because he was careless, the wind had picked it up and carried it off, and even now her bright and shining future lay sodden and decomposing in a mud puddle somewhere.
Just how much could a federal employee be trusted, anyway? she brooded suspiciously. He could be part of some covert study designed to determine how much one tortured writer could endure before snapping and turning into a pen-wielding felon.
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“Purple prose, my ass,” she muttered, balling up the latest rejection letter. “I only used black ink. I can’t afford a color ink cartridge.” She kicked the door of her tiny apartment shut and slumped into her secondhand Naugahyde recliner.
Massaging her temples, she scowled. She simply had to get this story published. She’d become convinced it was the only way she was ever going to get him out of her mind.
Him. Her sexy, dark-haired Highlander. The one who came to her in dreams.
She was hopelessly and utterly in love with him.
And at twenty-four, she was really beginning to worry about herself.
Sighing, she unballed and smoothed the rejection letter. This one was the worst of the lot and got pretty darned personal, detailing numerous reasons why her work was incompetent, unacceptable, and downright idiotic. “But I do hear celestial music when he kisses me,” Jane protested. “At least in my dreams I do,” she muttered.
Crumpling it again, she flung it across the room and closed her eyes.
Last night she’d danced with him, her perfect lover.
They’d waltzed in a woodland clearing, caressed by a fragrant forest breeze, beneath a black velvet canopy of glittering stars. She’d worn a gown of shimmering lemon-colored silk. He’d worn a plaid of crimson and black atop a soft, laced, linen shirt. His gaze had been so tender, so passionate, his hands so strong and masterful, his tongue so hot and hungry and—
Jane opened her eyes, sighing gustily. How was she supposed to have a normal life when she’d been dreaming about the man since she was old enough to remember dreaming? As a child, she’d thought him her guardian angel. But as she’d ripened into a young woman, he’d become so much more.
In her dreams, they’d skipped the dance of the swords between twin fires at Beltane atop a majestic mountain while sipping honeyed mead from pewter tankards. How could a cheesy high-school prom replete with silver disco ball suspended from the ceiling accompanied by plastic cups of Hawaiian Punch compare to that?