Disclaimers:  Jonathan Raven and Herman "Ski" Jablonski belong to Frank Lupo, his production company and whoever else brought us the delightful, short-lived series.  Hawaii is a relatively natural phenomenon and dragon is just borrowing the glorious scenery and the characters for an unnatural romp through time and space.

Rating:  PG-14
Time:  Between Now and Then.  (after Kissing Cousins and  Back from the Dead)
Place:  Hawaii and inside Jonathan's head -- maybe.
Spoilers:  If you haven't read the previous four stories in The Portrait arc, you may be a little lost, but this is so tangential (like, right angles) to the story arc, maybe it can stand alone.  Kesh is a HL style immortal who stayed with Jonathan for a while.  As far as the series canon goes, I suspect not.

"The Doll"

© 2001, dragon

"Jonathan -- Jonathan!" Ski wandered through the house and into the back yard where his young friend was blindfolded and working on his staff technique.

In quick succession, the black clad man put out a half dozen candles burning in tall rattan holders.  The end of his staff never touched one of them.  He froze and cocked his head sideways.  "Don't you ever remember to take off your shoes?" he asked.  It was almost a joke between them, Jonathan's oriental insistence on removing shoes before entering his home and Ski's chronic inability to remember to do so.

"Uh -- sometimes.  I got a letter."

"From?"

"Her."

"And?"

"She sent me an 800 number."

"Good."

"She says it's in case.  In case of what?"

Jonathan set the end of his staff on the ground and removed the blindfold.  He met Ski's open gaze.  "In case we ever need it," he told his friend.

"For what?".Jonathan grinned at that.  "For a bolt hole, a safe haven, a place to rest."

"In case of Dragons, huh?"

"Something like that.  She sent me something, too."

"What?"

Jonathan led the way inside.  On a side table stood a glass case containing a beautiful oriental doll.  The kimono was exquisite brocade, over underlying silk kimonos in the ancient style.  Unlike most dolls, it was not carefully coiffed in the elaborate styles still affected by the geishas of Japan.  Hair like silk fell to her feet, obscuring the doll's face as she seemed to be looking down over the edge of the bamboo platform on which she stood.  There was a small plaque attached to the base.  Li Shan.

"Why can't you see her face?"

"I don't know."

"You sure  she sent it to ya?"

Jonathan looked at his friend oddly, then walked over to the trash can and pulled the wrapping paper out of it.  He looked at the air bill on the wrapper.  He frowned.  Odd, he had been certain Kesh had sent this to him, yet there was no "sender" listed on the air bill, and it had been sent over night delivery from Kyoto.  He frowned at the doll.  He sensed nothing about the doll or the container.  He shrugged his shoulders and dropped the paper back into the trash.

"No.  But who else?"

Who else indeed.

Jonathan Raven watched the sunrise from the platform in his back yard.  The wooden deck over looked the ocean, sitting on the edge of a short cliff.  He inhaled the salt air and relaxed, sitting comfortably in the traditional cross legged position of most Eastern meditation postures.  He relaxed, let his thoughts drift off, empty, silent.

He became aware of a presence.  The soft hush of silk moving against silk.  He knew the sound.  He could picture the soft layers of kimono shifting against each other, the ombered colors from dark to light.  He could hear the heavier brocade outer kimono rubbing across the lighter silk beneath.  He smelled spice.  He heard the soft swish of long silken hair in movement against the brocade.

Someone stepped up onto the platform where he sat.  He became motionless.  He counted heartbeats, centuries apart, as he waited.  The rustle of silk stopped behind him.  He could smell his visitor, spice and sweet and musk.  A woman.  Not a child, not a young woman, one in the fullness of her time.  Soft, pale ivory hands touched his bare shoulders.  Delicate fingers gently massaged the tense muscles.  The hands worked down from his shoulders, working the heavier muscles of his back, tracing the outline of the dragon tattoo gracing one shoulder blade, and continuing downward to the small of his back.

The hands slid around his waist, to come to rest on the rippled muscles of his stomach.  Arms swathed in brocade and silk, tightened around him.  Soft black hair, the color of midnight with no moon, fell across his shoulder.  The spice scent was woven into it.  He reached up to touch the hair -- Nothing.

He lunged to his feet and whirled to look for his -- companion?  Nothing.  No one.  Just the sea and the sunrise and the platform.  He was alone.

He stalked back into the house, worrying at his memory of what had happened.  Wondering why his mind would be playing tricks on him and absently wiping sweat from his brow.  He walked past the display box with its exquisite doll without a sideways glance.

He took a shower, closing his eyes and letting the water run down his body, cooling him and cleansing his spirit.  The sound of the waterfall down the wall was soothing.  He centered down, felt his breathing, his heart beat, hands on his back.

His eyes were open and he was facing the door to the bathroom faster than he could think.  He looked around swiftly.  There was no where for anyone to hide in this room, nor the time to try.  Yet the feel of small, soft hands on his skin was still with him.  His mood shattered, he stepped out of the water and dried off.

He slipped into a pair of loose Japanese style pants, the kind he had worn for years while plotting his vengeance on the Black Dragons.  They were second nature to him within his own walls.  Here he could be whatever mix of Japan and America he wanted to be.

He opened the refrigerator to find something to eat and frowned.  The sushi he had prepared just yesterday was black and rotting.  He disposed of it, not understanding what had happened to it.  He checked the settings on the refrigerator.  They were fine.  Odd.  He poured himself a glass of juice, took a drink and spit it out.  The juice was somewhere between beginning to ferment and unfit for human consumption.  He sniffed the bottle.  Whew.  Not good.  Absently, he checked the expiration date as he poured the stuff down the drain.  He frowned.  It was dated for two weeks from now.  When had he purchased it?  Surely not that many days ago.

He tossed the bottle and rummaged though the rest of what little was there.  All of it seemed to have gone bad, one way or another.  It looked like a trip to the store was in order.  He got dressed and walked out to his car.  The little Jeep Renegade sat gleaming and black in his drive way.  He walked around to get into the driver's seat and discovered one very dead pigeon decomposing on the seat.  He stared at it for a few moments, finding it very hard to comprehend a dead pigeon in his jeep.  He gave a short laugh and set about disposing of the body.  It stank.  So did the seat.  He got a towel and set it on the seat.  He'd just have to get the car detailed and see if it got the smell out..  He stopped at Big Kahuna's bar and grill to grab a bite to eat before he went to the store for

groceries.  If the youthfully enthusiastic and sometimes overly inclined to gamble BK thought his request for a burger with everything was a little out of the usual line of food for his customer and friend, he didn't say anything.

Jonathan was about half way through the burger when his friend Herman Jablonski, Ski for short, came in for a drink and an ogle at the large number of Hawaiian hard bodies available for ogling.  He spotted Jonathan and grinned, grabbing his drink before heading over to the table.  He stopped and took a good look at the food.

"Ah, Jonathan --"

"Yes?" He could just hear this coming some how.

"Joined the human race with a vengeance?"

The younger man laughed and gestured for Ski to join him.  "Sometimes I do indulge in decadent, unhealthy eating practices."

"I knew that," Ski shot back in a voice that said  uh -- huh in a really disbelieving tone.  "Hey, BK, what'd you put on that thing?"

"Everything."

"Nothing unusual?"

"Nope."

"Lemme have one."

"Sure thing."

Jonathan smiled and shook his head, continuing to eat.  The burger was extremely satisfying.  He finished up about the time Ski's arrived.  Damn, that smelled good.  No, he was full.  A second one would be -- over fill.  He sat back and admired the scenery, which was also unusual.  Yet there was a faint touch of dissatisfaction to his regard, as though something, or someone, was missing.

The afternoon passed unremarkably, Jonathan went to the store for groceries and then home.  He entered his home and stopped.  Someone had been in his house.  His sanctum had been violated.  He set the bag of groceries down and moved silently through the house.  After a few minutes, he knew there was no one there, yet he also knew someone had been.

He checked his keepsake box.  Locked.  He opened it.  Everything was right where it should be.  He closed it again.  He turned on the lights and went to put the groceries away.  He walked past the doll in the display case and stopped.  Slowly, he turned and stared at the doll.  The pose had changed.  The angle of the head was slightly less focused on the unseen.  He still couldn't see the doll's face, but it was definitely no longer turned as far down as it had been..  Gently, he checked the glass and frowned.  The seal was perfect.  There was no way to get into the box without breaking the seal, or the glass.  Perhaps his memory was at fault.  He ran a hand across his forehead to wipe away the sweat accumulating there, then walked into the kitchen to put his purchases away.  He froze again.  On the counter was a carafe of juice, condensation beading the outside.  Next to it was a glass, and a small platter of fresh sushi.

He carefully set the bag of groceries on the counter and then took a look at the food.  Yellow tail, tuna, and what looked like crab.  He sniffed cautiously.  Fresh.  Very fresh.  And the seaweed looked more like what he could get in Japan than what he purchased here.

Logic told him to dump the juice and the sushi and start over.  He reached out, picked up the black lacquered chopsticks, garnished the sushi with the traditional wasabe and ginger, and popped the entire thing into his mouth.  He savored the spicy burn of the green horseradish based mustard and the tang of the ginger combined with the flavors of seaweed, rice and raw fish.  He swallowed and waited.  Nothing.  Except for his mouth watering and demanding more.  He put the groceries away, took the platter and juice to his dining table and enjoyed his dinner.  It was like a taste of home.  Home.  He closed his eyes and saw regal Mount Fujiama rising above Tokyo.  He saw the ancient walls of the Black Dragon compound.  He saw Japan as he had lived in it.  All the things that had shaped him.

The rustle of silk kimonos on special days.  The soft sound of tatami clad feet on wooden floors.  He drifted off on memories.  The sent of spice and musk filled his consciousness.  Small, soft hands massaged his shoulders.  He leaned back, eyes still closed.  A small, soft mouth nibbled at his.  He reached for the woman he knew was there.  Brocade and silk met his hands as he had known they would.  His pulse raced erratically, his breathing became ragged as he pulled her to him, smothering her mouth with his, inhaling her scent, taking her mouth and holding her with his hands, his mouth, his need.

Layers of cloth shed under his hands until only one thin, pale kimono layer kept his hands from the pale flesh beneath.  He opened his eyes.

Jonathan Raven watched the sunrise from the platform in his back yard.  The wooden deck over looked the ocean, sitting on the edge of a short cliff.  He inhaled the salt air and relaxed, sitting comfortably in the traditional cross legged position of most Eastern meditation postures.  He relaxed, let his thoughts drift off, empty, silent.  He became aware of a presence.  The soft hush of silk moving against silk.  He knew the sound.  He could picture the soft layers of kimono shifting against each other, the ombered colors from dark to light.  He could hear the heavier brocade outer kimono rubbing across the lighter silk beneath.  He smelled spice.  He heard the soft swish of long silken hair in movement against the brocade.

Someone stepped up onto the platform where he sat.  He became motionless.  He counted heartbeats, centuries apart, as he waited.  The rustle of silk stopped behind him.  He could smell his visitor, spice and sweet and musk.  A woman.  Not a child, not a young woman, one in the fullness of her time.  Soft, pale ivory hands touched his bare shoulders.  Delicate fingers gently massaged the tense muscles.  The hands worked down from his shoulders, working the heavier muscles of his back, tracing the outline of the dragon tattoo gracing one shoulder blade, and continuing downward to the small of his back.

The hands slid around his waist, to come to rest on the rippled muscles of his stomach.  Arms swathed in brocade and silk, tightened around him.  Soft black hair, the color of midnight with no moon, fell across his shoulder.  The spice scent was woven into it.  He reached up to touch the hair -Nothing.

He lunged to his feet and whirled to look for his -- companion?  Nothing.  No one.  Just the sea and the sunrise and the platform.  He was alone.

He stalked back into the house, worrying at his memory of what had happened.  Wondering why his mind would be playing tricks on him and absently wiping sweat from his brow.  He walked past the display box with its exquisite doll without a sideways glance.  He took a shower, closing his eyes and letting the water run down his body, cooling him and cleansing his spirit.  The sound of the waterfall down the wall was soothing.  He centered down, felt his breathing, his heart beat, hands on his back.

His eyes were open and he was facing the door to the bathroom faster than he could think.  He looked around swiftly.  There was no where for anyone to hide in this room, and to time to try.  Yet the feel of small, soft hands on his skin was still with him.  His mood shattered, he stepped out of the water and dried off.

He slipped into a pair of loose Japanese style pants, the kind he had worn for so many years while plotting his vengeance on the Black Dragons.  They were second nature to him within his own walls.  Here he could be whatever mix of his heritage he wanted to be.

He opened the refrigerator to find something to eat and frowned.  The sushi he had prepared just yesterday was black and rotting.  He disposed of it, not understanding what had happened to it.  He checked the settings on the refrigerator.  They were fine.  He poured himself a glass of juice, took a sniff just before drinking and nearly gagged.  The juice was somewhere between beginning to ferment and unfit for human consumption.  He sniffed the bottle.  Whew.  Not good.  Absently, he checked the expiration date as he poured the stuff down the drain.  It was dated for two weeks from now.  He frowned.  When had he purchased it?  Surely not that many days ago.

He tossed the bottle and rummaged though the rest of what little was there.  All of it seemed to have gone bad, one way or another.  It looked like a trip to the store was in order.

He got dressed and walked out to his car.  The little Jeep Renegade sat gleaming and black in his drive way.  He walked around to get into the driver's seat and discovered one very dead pigeon decomposing on the seat.  He stared at it for a few moments.  He found it very hard to comprehend another dead pigeon in his jeep.  With a shake of his head, he set about disposing of the carcass.  As he opened the trash can he felt an overwhelming sense of dÈj‡ vu and then vertigo.  He reached out to steady himself.

Thud.  He came awake with a jerk, shaking and cold with sweat, lying on the floor next to his bed.  He was tangled up in his sheets which were also soaked with sweat..  "I think I've caught a bug," he mumbled, untangled the sheets and dragged himself into the bathroom where he submerged himself in the hot tub in preference to the shower.

The hot water felt wonderful.  He leaned back and relaxed.  That was a mistake.  The scent of musk and spice was almost overwhelming.  He could feel the touch of small, strong hands on his shoulders, his chest, her mouth on his, taking his breath away.

"Jonathan!" Ski grabbed at Jonathan's arm and hauled him upright again in the tub, pulling his head out from under the water.  Jonathan choked, coughed up water and tried to breath.  Ski pulled the half conscious man out of the hot tub, glad that he had caught him before mouth to mouth was necessary, and decided enough was enough.  He called a doctor of his acquaintance.

By the time Dr.  Randal arrived, Jonathan's breathing was back to normal and he had allowed Ski to wrap him in a thick terry cloth robe before insisting that he go and sit on the couch with a cup of hot, sugared and lemoned tea.  Jonathan sipped the tea and tried to sort out his hazy memories while Ski let the doctor in.

If Jonathan thought he was fooling anyone by assuring his friend and the doctor that he felt fine, he was wrong.  Dr.  Martin Randall's first thought was that the man on the couch was bordering exhaustion and exposure.  There were dark circles under the overly bright looking dark eyes.  His cheeks were flushed and he looked like he had been sweating.  He looked his uncooperative patient over, asked a few questions and shook his head.

"Frankly, from how you look, I'd say stress, overwork, and exhaustion.  But from what Herman

tells me, that's not the case.  You have any ideas?"

"Flu?" Jonathan suggested helpfully.

"Then your friend has started things off right.  Rest.  Fluids, warm or cold as you prefer, rest.  Looks like you've been hit hard.  Nausea?"

"Not yet."

"That's good.  Fever?"

"I've been sweating, I suspect fever is a possibility."

The doctor shot him a concerned look.  Jonathan realized that the doctor was very perceptive about what he wasn't being told, as well as what he was.  "Aspirin, Tylenol or Ibuprofen for fever.  Not much else to be done.  You just have to live through it."

"That's what I thought," Jonathan agreed wryly.  That it was what he was afraid might be the answer, he wasn't going to admit.  Even to himself.  He figured worrying his friend any more than he already had wasn't a good idea.  He kept his concerns to himself.

His eyes strayed to the display case with the doll.  Time stopped.  The doll's head was more erect than before.  Almost he could see the outline of a face beneath the hair, the glimmer of one black, almond shaped eye.  He knew a stab of fear, cold, heart stopping, fear.Ski and Dr.  Randal both moved as Jonathan's face lost all its color.  Randal grabbed for the cup while Ski caught the man as he passed out.  He wasn't breathing.  Damn!  Looked like he was going to have to practice his life saving techniques after all.

Fortunately, just moving Jonathan stimulated his lungs to start working again.  He half roused with a mumble of Japanese that made no sense at all to the two men with him.  Randal called for an ambulance and they transported his patient to the hospital with a minimum of fuss and bother.

Continued

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