Title: Enchantress: The Lighthouse 01/02 Author: Daydreamer Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com Rating: NC-17 Category: V PWP Spoilers: Keywords: Sk/O Archive: Yes, please. Feedback: Yes! Please! Disclaimer: Skinner is owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. He is wonderfully brought to life by Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am exceedingly poor and have nothing material they can profit from. Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den, brought to you by the talented Shirley Smiley, WebMistress Extraordinaire! http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113/ Summary: While taking some mandated leave time, Skinner meets a mysterious woman. Enchantress: The Lighthouse 01/02 Damn 'use or lose' rule. He hated it. He'd never been one for time off much beyond his regular schedule. He knew the need for recreation. Both body and mind demanded change from the day to day grind. And he met those needs. He ran. He hit the weights. He boxed. And he read. Damn it -- he was an adult; he didn't need Uncle Sam dictating his leisure time requirements. He sighed, then reached out a hand to steady himself on the deck as the ferry lurched when it left the dock. He took a moment and looked around. The sky was a peerless Carolina blue, pristine white laughing gulls dancing in the gentle breeze. A deep breath now, and he was drinking in the air's crisp saltwater tang so familiar to the coast, watching as a few smaller birds mixed in with the gulls -- all begging scraps from the ferry's passengers. He hadn't wanted to be here, but it was shaping up to be a nice couple of days. One thing he'd learned in his twenty some years in government service -- don't let them hold all the cards. He'd gotten caught by the damn 'use or lose' rule a few times in the past, always at the end of the year. Then he'd been stuck with mandated leave right at the holidays. Not the time a man like himself wanted free. Holidays were a bitch as it was; work helped make it a little better. He smiled grimly. He'd learned. Now he took two and three day 'breaks' throughout the year, making sure he used what he had to use to stay off Personnel's list. This little expedition to Ocracoke Island was one of his breaks. It was a place rich in history, full of fascinating stories and legends, yet far enough away that he might convince himself he'd really gotten away from it all. He had a reservation at a bed and breakfast and planned to spend the remaining time on the island hiking and exploring. Still a rather rustic fishing village, the island had acquired a good-sized tourist industry over the years. It made for a nice mix; he had the modern day conveniences and luxuries at the bed and breakfast, but the village itself, and the surrounding National Park areas were preserved almost as if from another era. The ferry reached the dock, and he went to collect his small bag. There was an open air trolley to take visitors back to the town center, and he boarded quickly, taking a seat at the rear and away from the other guests. When they reached the inn, he checked in and found his room. He was pleased to see he had a small balcony off the second story room, with a wooden rocker just waiting for someone to while away a lazy afternoon. He kicked off his shoes, and changed into jeans and a cotton polo shirt. He'd never quite shaken that inbred training that required him to travel in full business attire, even when traveling on personal time. Comfortable now, in short sleeves and bare feet, he dug through his bag and grabbed the small history of Ocracoke Island he had bought that had originally piqued his interest and caused him to make this trip. He padded out to the wooden balcony, plopped down in the rocker and gave a sigh of contentment. This was nice. As much as he fought this mandated leave time, when he planned it right, he invariably found himself enjoying these small breaks in routine that he sprinkled throughout the year. The still warm autumn air wrapped him in a comforting embrace, and he kicked back, propping his feet on the rail before him. From where he sat, he could see the ocean, waves lapping rhythmically at the shore. The town was to the left and behind him and on the far hill, to his right, the Ocracoke Lighthouse rose into the cloudless blue sky. He browsed the small book, reading of the initial settlement in the New World. History had always been a passion for him, but today, it was all the more interesting as he was able to look up from the book and see some of the landmarks mentioned in the stories he read. "Colonists traveled through the Ocracoke inlet, Trinity inlet, or perhaps even the Hatteras inlet, and made their first settlement on Roanoke Island in 1587." Skinner sighed, and closed the book, one finger holding his place. He closed his eyes, feeling himself drift off. The next thing he knew he was on the beach, the tang of salt filled his lungs and moist sand oozed between his toes. He looked down, shocked. He never left his house in bare feet. It was as ingrained in him as the need to travel in a suit. He had no memory of the walk over, but finally shook off the odd sense of disorientation, and shrugged. He must have been lost in thought. He stood looking out over the water, water tinged gold and orange in the light of the setting sun. It was beautiful, peaceful, almost magical. Like a place out of time. He scanned the shore again, surprised to find he was totally alone. It was well beyond the summer season, but he hadn't been alone on the ferry over. There were other tourists here. And even the locals must occasionally come to the beach. He drew a deep breath of the sharp, clean air. It was odd. He looked around again, a growing sense of unease surrounding him, but the tranquility of the place captured him. He felt something *shift* and he relaxed, content to enjoy this moment of quiet, this moment out of time. The word "enchanted" crossed his mind, and he felt a sudden sense of deja vu, and turned his head again, rapidly scanning the deserted beach. Shaking his head, he mentally berated himself for paranoia worthy of Mulder. He turned again, stepping back to dry sand and sat, facing the endless sea, eyes gradually being drawn to an object far out on the water. He stared, unable to make it out clearly, but watched with quiet contentment as it bobbed gently on the ocean surface, seemingly untouched by the surrounding waves. It carried a space of peace around it, and as Skinner watched, the object slowly began to resolve itself, coming more fully into his view. Mouth falling open, he jerked himself to his feet, squinting through the evening dusk. The object was a woman, and as he watched, she moved slowly toward him, born on the crest of the waves as Aphrodite herself, springing forth from the salty foam. Rooted in place, he watched in disbelief as she made her way through the water, seemingly untouched by waves crashing around her. As she left the water and moved toward him, it finally registered in his fogged brain that this woman was walking to him -- from out of the sea! The white of her clothing merged with the whitecaps of the waves and for a moment he thought she was nude. Her wet garments clung to her curves, a long skirt trailing behind her, jet black hair falling nearly to her waist. He shook off his immobility and moved swiftly forward, offering her his hand, which she took with a small smile. "H - how?" he stammered, as he helped her up the beach. She held his hand and allowed him to lead her away from the water-line, then looked down to his feet. "You've gotten your pants legs wet," she commented softly. Skinner shook his head impatiently, consumed with the need to know how she had arrived here, concerned she might be injured. "Are you all right?" he finally asked, looking down into her dark eyes. "Oh, yes," she answered dismissively. She waved one hand in a loose gesture back to the sea, "I'm fine." Skinner realized he had unconsciously put one arm around her as he walked her up the sand, and she had drawn next to him, chilled in the cooling night air. He tightened his grasp on her, and she made no move to pull away. "You're cold," he said, and she shrugged. "You need to get out of those wet clothes." She arched an eyebrow at him and teased, "Here? Now? But we've only just met, Sir," and Skinner felt himself blush red beneath her gaze, even as he felt the first stirrings of arousal that accompanied having a wet and wiggling woman pressed firmly against his side. "Not what I meant," he said gruffly. They stood there a moment, then she nodded and turned to look back out over the ocean. He was filled with conflicting emotion. He felt obligated to take her back to the town, help her get warm and dry -- how much help, Walt? his traitorous mind asked -- and he wanted very much to know what had led to her appearance out of nowhere. But she seemed reluctant to talk and he began to wonder if she was in shock. If so, he was certainly not helping matters by standing here, one arm wrapped around her. She moved then, stepping around to face him and his other arm came up, encircling her, and he was embracing her. "Better," she purred. "Now I'm not so cold." Skinner could feel the heat radiating from his groin, feel the flush that spread upward over his chest, crawled up his neck, and once more colored his face. "You should get inside. I should take you inside somewhere." "So now you want to go inside?" She laughed and he was captivated by her music. "I suppose you still want me to get out of these wet clothes, too, eh?" Though he hardly felt it possible, yet another surge of blood pooled below his waist, and he flushed more deeply. Who the hell was she? Where had she come from? Why was she here? The questions buzzed through his head, but he found himself incapable of putting voice to them. He continued to stare down at her, growing more lost in her eyes with each passing minute. Who was this woman? She tolerated his searching gaze for long moments, standing still and easy in the circle of his arms. "Tourist?" she asked finally, and he nodded. "From DC." He paused, considering his next words. "Where did you come from?" "You know the area?" She seemed to ignore his question. This was an odd conversation to be having with a mysterious woman, a woman who had *walked* out of the ocean and who was now clinging to him, her every breath evoking a most ungentlemanly response, her every movement arousing him more. This was not the first time he'd held a woman in his arms, and he berated himself for his lack of control. She smiled up at him, almost amused, and for a moment he wondered if she had read his mind. "You know the Lost Colony is near here?" He nodded cautiously. "A thriving colony, the first English baby born in the New World was born there." "Virginia Dare, yes, I know," he answered. "Then some of the men sailed home to England, and when they returned -- poof! -- nothing. No sign of the settlers or of where they had gone." She cocked her head up at him, smiling most beguilingly, and added, "People have been disappearing around here for centuries." "But you didn't disappear," he said, appalled to hear the flirtatious tone in his voice. "Perhaps I just appeared in the same way." He nodded again, wondering where this strange conversation was heading. She turned her head to stare out over the ocean and he turned as well. Her hands were locked in the small of his back and her head rested against his chest, just under his heart. "I can feel your life," she whispered, and he flushed again, wondering if she referred to his heart, hammering beneath his ribs, or to something else. "Where did you come from?" he demanded again, his own confusion and mounting frustration making him sound gruff and insistent. She laughed again, a high tinkling note that sang to his heart and he knew she was going to tease him again. "First you want to get me out of my clothes, then you want to take me inside somewhere. I had high hopes for you, Walter." She shook her head in mock disappointment. "Now you tell me you don't even know where people come from ..." Her voice trailed away, and when she looked up to see the mixture of bewilderment and disbelief on his face, she laughed again, tickling him under his ribs until she drew a deep, reluctant chuckle from him. She drew away slightly, then led him up to the dry sand and gently pushed him down to sit. He moved on autopilot, allowing her to position him, offering no resistance, and the last vestiges of his rationality questioned whether he'd forgotten his sanity when he had packed that morning. She settled down before him, between his legs, and leaned back against his chest. His arms once more wrapped around her and he felt his erection, which had faded to half-mast at the absence of her touch, leap back to readiness. He groaned softly when she wiggled and slid back against him more tightly. "Who are you?" he asked. "Shhh," she whispered. "Watch the water. It's very soothing, isn't it?" He nodded mutely, staring out at the waves, watching as they rolled methodically into the shore. Who was this woman? Why was she here? Hell, for that matter, why was he here, instead of insisting that she come to the town, the inn, the clinic, somewhere where she could be warm and dry, and tell her tale. Somewhere where she could explain how she just happened to *walk* out of the water. "Do you like the area?" she asked suddenly, rousing him from his reverie. He looked down at her, then murmured, "This area is very nice," as he tightened his grasp around her waist. The words had escaped him before he thought, and when she laughed once more, he again colored, relieved for once that she wasn't watching him to see his befuddlement. "Ahh, Walter," she murmured, "you think you know yourself, but your body betrays you." She rolled in his arms, coming up on her knees to face him, her face inches from his own. "*I* know you better than you know yourself." She leaned forward, her lips gently brushing his, a feather touch. She kissed his cheek then trailed kisses over to his ear and down his neck. His mind was insisting he end this, that he be sensible, that he be reasonable, but his body remained passive, allowing her touch, her taste, her temptation. He was breathless when she pulled back, and wishing very much that he had worn the fuller cut jeans. She turned in his arms again, sitting once more, and he rested his chin on the top of her head. The sun had finished its downward journey and the beach glittered in the silvery moonlight. Stars reflected off smooth patches of ocean and a gentle breeze perfumed the air with the scent of autumn flowers. He felt his eyes drift shut, wondering at his curious ease with this woman, his contentment to sit here with a relative unknown. Through his half-asleep stupor, he heard her ask, "Do you know where the lighthouse is?" and he nodded. Thinking back, he remembered seeing it from the balcony of his room. "There's a cemetery there," she continued. "A cemetery?" "Yes, a cemetery. A graveyard. Where dead people are buried." She laughed again, then tilted her head to look back over her shoulder at him. "Cemeteries are best visited at midnight, you know." "Oh," he answered, wondering how on earth he had suddenly become so inarticulate. It must have something to do with the fact that all the blood in his brain seemed to have drained to a southern location. He lifted his knees, bending forward slightly as the woman placed her arms around them and leaned slightly to one side. He was still holding her, her clothing still clung damply to her every swell and curve. Her head rested comfortably against his arm and he found himself stroking her hair. Rhythmic strokes, soothing, keeping time with the waves that flowed gently against the sand. His eyes were drifting shut again, when he felt her turn, felt her lips brush his, her hand touch his chest, then trail lower until her fingertips danced lightly over his straining erection. "Midnight, Walter, at the lighthouse." The words were whispered against his ear, her breath warm where it brushed his skin. He nodded mutely, unable to move, unable to open his eyes, unable to shake the lassitude that encompassed him now. He felt himself drifting, sliding away on a sense of comfort and ease, and was startled when there was a sudden thump - a sound of something heavy landing on wood. He listened a moment, trying to make sense of the sound. How could something strike wood? He was on the beach, right? With his mystery woman. He opened his eyes, and looked around. He was back in the rocker, on the wooden balcony, and the thud had been the sound of his book hitting the deck when it had slipped from his sleep-heavy fingers. He shook his head groggily. So it had all been a dream. Beneath his jeans, he could still feel his erection straining the fabric, and he had to smile. A *very* realistic dream, that much was sure. He shivered slightly in the cool, evening air, and stood, then immediately froze, his eyes growing wide with shock. Looking down, he stared in growing disbelief, at his sand covered feet, and the still damp hems of his jeans. End part 01/02 Enchantress: The Lighthouse 02/02 Dinner had been superb. Skinner had dressed for the meal, back into the suit he'd worn on the trip over. It wasn't a formal meal, and he could have worn his jeans, but he'd quickly become uncomfortable in them, unable to explain the sand and salt that clung to the bottoms. He'd remained on the small deck for a while, reliving the memory? vision? dream? again, and fighting the temptation to ease his arousal himself. Such solitary pleasures no longer held the same enjoyment they had when he was younger, and in the end he suffered through an icy shower before changing back into his suit and heading down the stairs. The small restaurant on the first floor of the inn lived up to its reputation. The meal was outstanding -- an array of local seafood, all fresh and prepared to perfection. He'd enjoyed the quiet, the good food, the opportunity to observe the inn and its guests as he relaxed over coffee. He'd long ago mastered the knack of eating alone comfortably, having decided early on in his career that he was *not* going to live on fast food meals and food that came in cardboard containers as some agents seemed to do. The restaurant was busy, apparently a favorite with locals as well as the tourists, and he found himself looking up expectantly each time the door opened. In his mind, he knew the woman from the beach, hell the whole beach itself, had just been his vivid imagination. But his heart pulled his head around, staring at each new person who walked through the French doors and was seated at a table. He was on his third cup of coffee when the owner walked over and spoke. "Is everything OK, Mr. Skinner?" Skinner blinked and looked up, drawn from an especially powerful recollection of the scene on the shore -- or his dream -- he still wasn't sure which. It had to be a dream, didn't it? "Mr. Skinner? Sir?" The man spoke again, and Skinner realized he had never responded. "Oh, yes, everything's fine. I'm sorry, I was lost in thought," Skinner managed to mumble. Beneath the table, he was very glad he'd left his napkin in his lap through coffee and dessert. It was hiding a rather remarkable expression of the realistic mind trip back to the beach this man had interrupted. And the effects of his earlier shower had all been erased. Damn his vivid imagination anyway. He managed to compose himself enough to compliment the man on the meal, and tell him how nice the room was. They chatted a bit longer, Skinner sharing his plans for a hike the next day and the innkeeper offering points of interest to visit. "It's behind the lighthouse," the man said in answer to his query about the graveyard. "The British cemetery. We had German subs off the coast for both of the Wars, and they sunk a fair share of ships. In the first War, some British sailors were rescued by boys from the Lifesaving Station, but the Brits in the second War weren't so lucky. The bodies were recovered and interred in the cemetery by the lighthouse." Skinner nodded. He'd read this tale in his book, but it was interesting to hear the islander tell it. Perhaps he would stop by and see the graveyard -- but certainly not tonight, and certainly not at midnight. ************************************ It was 11:30, and he'd been tossing in bed for almost an hour. He'd tried to read his guidebook to the island but it hadn't held his interest. He'd tried to read the new science fiction novel he'd brought, but had found himself staring at the words as if they'd lost their meaning. He'd turned the television on -- for all of five minutes, before shutting it off in disgust. He'd never been so jumpy and uneasy before, and all because of some damn dream. He could see the lighthouse through the balcony doors from where he lay on the queen-size bed. It winked steadily into the misty night, the oldest lighthouse still in operation on the Eastern coast. It had cost a ridiculously low amount by today's standards, about $11,000.00. But of course that had been a fortune when Noah Porter built the thing in 1823. At seventy-five feet, it was the shortest lighthouse on the North Carolina coast and could only be seen for 14 miles. Damn light. That had to be what was keeping him awake. He threw the covers off and rose, striding quickly to the dresser where his bag lay open. A walk. He needed a walk. Just to clear his head. Getting out in the night air would settle him, help him relax, make him sleep. He pulled a pair of sweat pants on, refusing to think about why he chose loose clothing, then a T-shirt emblazoned with FBI on the back and finally a hooded sweatshirt. It was going to be cool out there. He slipped bare feet into sneakers, grabbed his key and wallet, then hesitated as he looked at his gun. It was lying neatly in its holster, tucked securely into a pocket of the overnight bag. He stared at it indecisively, before finally reaching out and lifting it. He shed the sweatshirt, strapped the holster around his chest, and pulled the jacket back on. Then, with one last look at the lighthouse through the doors to the balcony, he headed out for his walk -- just to clear his head. He wandered aimlessly at first, but everywhere he turned the lighthouse was there. The light was a steady visual metronome, winking its warning to sailors and sea creatures alike, watching over the small island, seemingly protecting all who were within its sight. He tried to lose his mind in other thoughts, but the light was always there, beckoning him, calling him, weaving a spell around him and before long he found himself moving in that direction. The flash of the lighthouse cut the darkness with a regular beat, and he could hear the waves pounding the shore as the tide came in. The ocean meeting the beach, the sound of his feet marking out the steps toward the light, and the light itself, winking unceasingly into the void of the night, all cast their mesmerizing enchantment around him, and he realized he wanted to see the light, at night, when it was operating. He wanted to see the light *now.* It was a bit of a hike to the old light, but Skinner was in good shape and made good time. Once he'd decided to go to the light, the unsettled feeling that had dogged him all evening had evaporated, leaving only a sensation of excitement and anticipation. As he approached the imposing beacon, he felt it was staring down at him, watching his every step, measuring his worth as a man. He stared back up at the light, time ceasing to flow; how long had he been out here? He started to look at his watch, a habit long ingrained, but stopped as he realized that for this moment, this place, time didn't matter. He felt something *shift* around him, a familiar feeling that he couldn't place, but knew he had experienced before. It almost brought him back to alertness, almost chased the drowsy contentment away, but before he could fully process what was happening, there was a deep bong from a church in the town, and as he stared, half-hypnotized up into the single eye of the lighthouse, the clock marked out twelve, and midnight had arrived. There was a touch on his back, and he knew instinctively it was her. "I knew you'd come," she purred, her hands running possessively over his back and shoulders. "I know you better than you know yourself." His erection was back. It had leapt to life at her first touch, an electric spark that seemed to flow directly from her hands to the very center of his being. He fought for self-control; it had been years since he'd been governed by his libido, and he was damned if he'd allow it now. "Who are you?" he said, shocked at the hoarse whisper that escaped his throat. "I thought you decided I was a dream, Walter," she whispered back, her voice low and seductive. "How," he paused swallowing hard, then wetting suddenly dry lips, "how do you know my name?" She'd called him by name this afternoon, too, and he hadn't even realized it. What the hell was happening to him? "What's happening to you, Walter?" she murmured, echoing his thoughts to him. He struggled with himself for a moment. Her hands had never stopped moving, and her touch was warm, inviting. But this was crazy. This woman, this strange, unknown woman had walked out of the ocean this afternoon. That alone was enough to make the whole damned encounter an X-File, but then, she knew his name. More than that, she knew *him.* Her hands traveled around to his chest, her body pressed firmly up against his back. He could feel her nipples, firm and erect, where they pressed insistently against his back. Her hands moved slowly over his chest, an erotic massage that he seemed unable to stop. This was ridiculous. He could stop her if he wanted to. She was small, just over five feet tall, and couldn't weigh more than 110. He could stop her with a gesture, if he wanted to. But he seemed rooted in place, his eyes drawn back up to the light that watched this eerie seduction. "Do you want me to stop, Walter?" she asked as her hands dipped below his waist for the first time. She cupped him through his sweat pants, holding him gently in her hand, then slowly stroking the length of him. He groaned in the darkness, unable to speak, but shook his head, *no.* God help him, he'd lost his mind. At best this was public indecency; at worst, well, he couldn't think clearly enough to determine the 'at worst.' But no, he didn't want her to stop. "What do I call you?" he managed to ask. She laughed and pulled back from him, dancing lightly beyond his arms when he reached for her. "You don't need to call me," she teased, "I'm already here." He nodded soberly. In some weird way, that made sense. As much sense as anything else that had happened since he'd reached the island. She took his hand and led him around to the other side of the lighthouse, down a narrow path and into the cemetery. "I love the peace of this place at night," she said, coming into his arms again. "I'm at home with the spirits of warriors." At his quizzical look, she gestured at the graves. "British sailors, fighting in World War II. Warriors." She traced the outline of his holster, fingers resting lightly on the weapon itself. "You're a warrior, Walter. I think it was your warrior soul that called to me." "I thought I didn't have to call you," he teased, relieved that his brain seemed to be functioning at last. "Touche," she responded, tugging at the zipper to his sweatshirt. "But, my warrior Walter, this has to come off." He wasn't resisting, but he was curious. "Why?" "No guns in the lighthouse." "We can't go in the lighthouse." She had his sweatshirt off now, and was unbuckling the holster, pulling it off, and he found himself once more wondering when he had taken leave of his senses. That he would let this woman -- a woman he didn't even know -- remove his weapon. He must be insane. Or this was just another dream. He thought for a moment. That had to be it. Another incredibly realistic dream. She was placing his weapon on a gravestone, and moving back into his arms, her body rubbing firm against his own. Without his jacket, the night was cool, but he hardly felt it as the woman continued to move within the circle of his arms. Every cell in his body was alive, swarming with an inner energy he hadn't felt in years. He tightened his arms around the woman, snarling his fingers in her hair to tilt her head upward, then lowered his mouth to cover hers. He kissed her hungrily, feeling her open beneath his touch, accepting him, welcoming his gentle assault. When he could breathe no more, he pulled reluctantly away, drawing in a gasping breath of the salt-tinged air. "You're a thief," he accused. "A thief? Really, Walter, this is pirate country, not thieves." He smiled in the dark, the lighthouse above flashing its steady warning to those on the sea, as she moved against him, her head coming to rest over his heart. "Edward Teach," he said. "Blackbeard. He had a home here on the island you know." "So I've read." He stroked her back lightly. The garment she was wearing -- was it the same as this afternoon? -- was light, gauzy, and seemingly wrapped around her with no obvious means of removal. He continued what he hoped was a surreptitious exploration of her clothing, not seeing her predatory smile against his chest. "Are you telling me you're a pirate?" She ignored his query, offering instead, "It's how the island got its name. When Edward faced his final battle, he grew tired and longed for it to end. 'O crow, cock! O crow, cock!' he called, begging for the light of day." She sighed, a sad little noise he found most curious. "That wretch Maynard beheaded him and his headless body swam round the ship seven times before he gave up." She smiled up at him, seeming to shake off her temporary melancholy. "His treasure was never found. It's said no one even knows what it is ..." She stretched on tiptoe, her mouth coming to rest against his, and he jumped slightly at the electric touch of her tongue against his lips. She kissed him softly, then settled back on her feet, looking up at him. "Come," she said, taking his hand and stepping away. He followed docilely, half-convinced this was a dream and he would wake in the bed in the inn at any moment. But since he had denied himself his solitary pleasure earlier, he wasn't too sure he wanted to fight any wet dreams that might choose to visit him this night. "Where are you from?" he asked as she led him to the lighthouse door. "You ask a lot of questions," she answered. "I'm curious." "Curiosity killed the cat." "I'm not a cat." "No," she looked appraisingly at him, "but there's a sort of feline grace about you. An economy of motion, a studied intent in every movement. And the coiled strength of a big cat, just waiting to pounce on unsuspecting prey ..." Her voice trailed away to nothingness, and he found himself blushing under the scrutiny of her gaze. "Are you unsuspecting prey?" he finally asked. She laughed, smiling up at him as she pulled him into the lighthouse. "Oh, I hope so," she murmured, stretching up to kiss him again. The door closed behind him and there was a sudden feeling of time accelerating. There was a room, then a bedroom, and he idly wondered where the keeper was, or if the lighthouse even had one. He kicked his shoes off, and then hands were tugging at his shirt and he bent to allow the woman to remove it. His pants followed, and when he lifted his head again, she stood before him, glorious in her nudity. Her alabaster skin seemed to glow from within, and there was a gentle blush of excitement coloring her breasts and cheeks. Her nipples rose in taut little peaks, and she moved forward slowly, her hands coming to rest on his torso. She began to stroke him, light up and down motions, tiny little circles, a soft touch, then a deeper pressure. She kissed his chest, her tongue snaking out to tickle the hairs that grew there and he shivered as his arousal mounted. All thought of who she was, of why this was happening was gone. Flown as surely as the cock would crow at dawn. His ability to think was gone completely, and he was a sensualist creation, content to feel, to experience, to know only the pleasures of the flesh. She dropped to her knees and he felt himself engulfed in a warm, tight, wetness, and he staggered from the sensation. He reached out and touched her, fingers tracing her shoulders, playing with her hair, even as he fought for balance. He was climbing, moving higher and faster than he'd ever moved before, and he wondered if he was still on the ground. Before things could end, he gave a mighty roar and jerked the woman to her feet. He swept her up into his arms and moved the few steps to the bed, laying her down, then collapsing beside her. Her clever hands were on him again, and he groaned as he fought for control. His own hands were on her, covering her body, moving of their own accord over skin so soft it really did feel like silk, or maybe velvet. There was a moistness in her center, a wet heat, that beckoned him, and his hands moved there, feeling her arch beneath his touch. There was a flash of light, and he felt the woman stiffen, a strangled 'no,' escaping from quivering lips. Something was so odd, so strange here, and he found himself struggling to remember what it was that caused this sense of unease. His hands faltered in their exploration of her body, and she whimpered softly, then murmured, "He's mine." She was tugging at him now, pulling him over her, and he resisted, not at all sure of what her unseen conversation meant. "Come, Walter," she said encouragingly, and he looked into her eyes as she spoke. They were dark and black, the pupils huge, swirling with color and light. He stared, mesmerized, and felt that same, odd *shift* around him, and then he was relaxed, ready to enjoy this moment, in this place, with this woman. She pulled again, and he rolled onto her, and into her, and she moaned at the joining. He was aroused, excited beyond anything he'd felt in years, and he doubted he would have much control. She moaned again, her fingers digging into his back, urging him onward, harder, faster, deeper, and he did his best to meet her silent demands. He was climbing again, climbing the steps to the top of the lighthouse, each upward movement bringing him closer to the light that warned, the light that welcomed, the light that watched over them all. He moved up the stairs, faster, faster, the impact of each step crashing through his muscles, but he pushed on. He had to reach the top. It was harder, taking all of his concentration to stay the course, but he held on, hands gripping tightly to the sides as he continued to pull himself up, higher and higher, always reaching for the light. There was sound then, a deep blare of a foghorn, and he roared as he reached the light, exploding into tiny pieces, shattering into shards of self, swimming in the light, its warmth washing over him, as he merged into the brightness that could see so clearly for miles and miles and miles. The moment stretched on, an ecstasy of illumination, the epitome of pleasure -- he *was* the light -- and then it was over, his being reassembling, scattered bits of self reforming, and a sulky voice echoed in his consciousness: "But he was mine." And then he was collapsing at the base of the beacon, outside the lighthouse, struggling to stay awake, but being pulled into a sleep that could not be fought. ************************************* He woke in the inn as he had expected, though how he ended up nude was a mystery. The lighthouse was visible through the doors to the balcony, a friendly sentinel watching over the waters, over the island, over him. The sun hadn't risen yet, the night was not over, but the sky had that pre-dawn glow that heralded day's arrival. He rose and showered, humming contentedly in the warm spray. Wonderful dreams. Incredibly wonderful dreams. This really was a lovely little place. Perhaps he would come back. He finished his morning ablutions, and crossed to his bag for clothing. Opening it, he quickly pulled on boxers and dug out his other jeans and a pullover. He was ready to close the case again when he noticed the zipper compartment where he kept his gun was partway open. He slid the zipper the remainder of the way, then stared in dazed confusion at the empty space. Impatiently, he turned and searched the room quickly, but repeatedly came up empty-handed. Finishing at last, he straightened from his position on hands and knees by the bed, a look of disbelief and horror crossing his face. Rising, he threw on his clothes, slipped into sandals -- his sneakers seemed to be missing as well -- and made his way rapidly down the stairs of the inn. He moved swiftly out the door and headed straight for the lighthouse -- and the graveyard behind it. By the time he reached the path leading to the light, he was jogging, and he had burst into a full-fledged run when he reached the cemetery. He ignored the "Do Not Enter" sign and moved into the small graveyard, moving swiftly between the markers to the one that had immediately caught his eye. The gravestone that stood straight and tall, distinguished from all the others by the neat stack of clothing that sat upon it, his holstered gun resting neatly on top. He lifted the weapon gingerly, hefting it lightly as his mind ran back over the events of the night. The spell the woman seemed to weave. The feeling that the light was looking out for him. Her murmured words that seemed to speak to someone other than himself. He sighed and looked around. The lighthouse still blinked its warning, but the sun was ready to break across the horizon. Skinner stared out over the water, out into the sea, suddenly eager for this night to be over. "O crow, cock," he murmured, "O crow, cock." He watched as the sun appeared, almost in answer to his words, then glanced up once more at the lighthouse before he turned to make his way back to the inn. If he hurried, he could catch the morning ferry. Somehow, this small island didn't seem so idyllic anymore. End