Disclaimers: all things Raven are not mine. Not for profit, just for some good angsty fun.
time: c. 1996
place: hawaii
spoilers: not this time.
rating: PG; Romance.
"Intrusion"
© 2000, dragon
Jonathan Raven awoke from the usual set of nasty dreams in his usual manner. One moment he was reliving the slaying of Black Dragon Clan, the next he was awake. Wide awake. Something had intruded on his slumber. A sound? A waft of air movement? What was that?
He came to his feet in one smooth movement, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword even as he padded silently out of his bedroom and into the hallway. He paused, alert. Movement. He moved toward the living/dining/kitchen area of the house. A door scraped open and closed, very quietly, but not too quietly for him to hear. He frowned.
He moved swiftly and silently across the dining area to the door leading out onto the patio area. The door was not quite closed, although it was locked. He pushed it open, following his instincts to find the cause of the disturbance in his house. His eyes searched the lush foliage that surrounded his back yard. He could hear the crash of the surf from the beach below the house, but nothing else.
Movement. The large leaves of a domestic banana tree had shifted slightly. There wasn't enough air movement to account for it. He slid through the darkness, glad of the moonless night, and into the trees. He anticipated the rush of the attack, though not swiftly enough to keep from getting hit. Fists and feet lashed out at him. No weapon, no gunfire, no blade. Foolish.
He recovered swiftly as his attacker faded back into the foliage. Did the fool really think he'd give up just because someone else had landed the first blows? Sound. Raven frowned. It sounded for all the world as though someone had stopped for a snack. Recognition. The sound he had heard was his refrigerator opening and closing. He set the sword aside. Now he was curious.
He oriented on the sound and moved toward it. A short inventory of what he had in the refrigerator rolled through his mind. Not a lot. Fresh sushi. His foot touched something. He reached down and ran his fingers over a container. Yep. Sushi. He restrained a desire to laugh. All this for a midnight snack? A second sound caught his ear.
His sushi shouldn't have brought that on. He heard the sound of someone being ill. He stepped up behind the dark figure, a shadow within a shadow, hunched in the age old stance of a human voiding its stomach contents. He reached out a hand to touch the other, whether to offer comfort or to catch, he never really knew.
The other reacted before he could make up his mind. Again he was under attack, but in this one he sensed desperation. The movements were not as fluid, as fast or as hard. He moved to subdue his opponent, grabbing for arms and torso holds and blocking most of the strikes. He found his opening and nearly lost it as he realized it was a woman he fought. He shut down his Western reactions and sought to put her out. After a few tense moments, he succeeded in getting the hold he needed, finding the nerve bundle at the side of the neck that controlled the flow of blood to the brain.
The body in his arms strained against him, fought to stay conscious, and lost the fight. From bow string taut, she went completely limp. With ease, he put her over his shoulder, retrieved his sword and walked back to the house. Inside, he eased her down onto the floor before putting his sword away. He turned on the light as he walked back into the room.
He stopped in surprise. Her eyes had snapped open with the light. She scrambled into a crouch, squinting in the light. Either her pupils were completely dilated, or her eyes were very black. He could hear a shuddering intake of breath. She finally caught sight of him. Her face was pale under the dirt that streaked it. It got paler. He knew the old saw about turning white as a sheet, this was the first time he had witnessed the effect. Her eyes got darker. Pure terror contorted her face for a moment. She sank back to the floor, unconscious.
With every nerve alert, he approached the limp body. He prodded her gently with his foot. Nothing. He wasn't even certain she was breathing. He squatted down beside her, pulling her over onto her back. She was middle height, slender -- too slender, he could feel her ribs plainly as he ran his hands over her to determine if anything obvious was broken. Her cheek bones, under the dirt, were knife sharp. A little more flesh and she might be beautiful.
Her clothes were ragged in places, but of good quality. He pulled the shirt up and off to see if she had more damage than the obvious abrasions on her hands and bare feet. There were a surprising number of scars, some fairly new, but no holes, gouges or slashes. He stripped her out of the black jeans, discovering that underwear had not been of importance to her, and then carried her into the bedroom.
He frowned down at the frail looking figure as he pulled the sheets up over her. Why didn't he just call the police? Or someone? Because to call someone else was to never find out what was going on. He retreated to the doorway, sat down in a meditative posture and waited.
An hour passed in silence. Then she moaned as though she was in distress. He looked over at the bed. She was beginning to shift under the covers. She muttered softly to herself, negatives in a dozen languages. She kicked off the sheets, raising her arms as though to ward off blows. Her denials continued. He caught her wrists, holding her.
Her eyelids flew up revealing that her eyes were an improbable green. Contact lenses, why hadn't he -- that didn't make any sense. Who would have left her contact lenses with her while they held her captive. She stared at him in silence, all movement frozen.
"You're safe," he said softly, hoping the calm of his voice would penetrate.
Her lips stretched back from her teeth in a mirthless laugh. "Yeah, right," she agreed sarcastically. "Tell me another one."
"Why don't I ask you one? Who are you?"
The eyes flickered slightly. That was not the question she had been expecting. She opened her mouth to answer, probably sarcastically, and then shut it again. She regarded him steadily, but there was a touch of uncertainty in her regard. Silence. She took a shaky breath and shook her head slightly. "I don't think I have an answer to that," she finally told him. "Could I have my hands back, please?"
He stared into her eyes for a long moment, then nodded as if satisfied with what he found there, and let her go. She rubbed her wrists where he had left finger prints. She yawned, her eyelids drooping in spite of her desire to stay awake. She relaxed back into sleep as he watched.
He sighed as he realized he had once again take in a stray. He wondered who she was. He wondered what he was going to tell Ski. He decided to let the day take care of the answers as he settled down to wait for her to sleep herself out.
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