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Shadowdancer

By Dracon

[Notice: The characters and events within are inspired by the "Gargoyles" TV Series and as such credit goes to the creators of said series. If any characters appear in the story from said series, those characters belong to their creators.

Should anyone wish to use the characters or events within in their own works, permission is hereby granted to do so. I just ask that you let me know if you are going to do so and provide credit in your work.

Underage viewers should not read this series, and all readers do so at their own risk.]

"A Voice From The Other World..."

----Chapter V----

First thought: Did anyone catch the number of that truck?

Second thought: Where am I?

A synaptic flash, and those last few seconds of consciousness flooded back into her mind. She tried to open her

eyes, but it hurt too much to do so. Still, she couldn't just lie there, she had to move!

Sightless, she rolled into a crouch, took a leap of faith to what she believed to be the other side of the deck.

She slowly opened her eyes, tracked the darkest spot in her vision, and her temples throbbed from the force of... what happened, anyway?

She looked around, and saw Trent kneeling on the ground, sword cast down upon the tile, out of his grasp, seemingly unaware that she had awakened, that she had moved.

A chill wind blew at his coat, the only movement apparent. Jamie grasped at her hip instinctively, but nothing was there.

The danger appeared to have passed, and her system tried to stand down. Since she couldn't fight, apparently, given the ease with which he laid her out, she tried another course of action.

She started to speak, but her voice rasped, making her cough. Trying again, she forced out, "Trent... what did you do?"

He looked to her, the first acknowledgement of her presence, and that look of damning guilt haunted his eyes once more. "That's what fighting is, Jamie. You only live because of your thick skull; had you been human, you'd be dead now. You're stronger than I am, do you honestly believe you could have pulled your punch enough?"

In an instant, she comprehended the lesson. Despite all she had seen, she still thought of herself as having the capabilities of a man, with all the frailty that implied. Just telling her to change her thinking wouldn't have helped. Trent thought an overwhelming demonstration would be the only option.

There was another lesson concealed within that one, though. The overt lesson taught her of her own nature.

The hidden lesson, though, taught her of his. She realized that this is no preacher of peace, no missionary of mercy. He may dislike fighting, killing, destruction, but something changed him, probably a long time ago, and left him barely in control of his own emotions. Violence could boil out from him like steam from a cauldron, at any moment, at any time.

And yet, she sensed that compassion could emerge just as easily. In his own way, he just performed an act of compassion, rather than trying to mislead her about the nature of this world.

She cradled her forehead with a hand, and walked cautiously towards him. Her hand began to feel warm, and she realized that there was a trickle of blood falling from her scalp. "Trent... what happened to you?"

A guarded look crossed his face, and he spoke with a precision born of weariness. "You don't want to be asking that question around here, Jamie. Remember where you are. Branson told you his story, didn't he?"

Jamie nodded, and Trent continued. "Right, then. Anyway, it's neither here nor there, now." He reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, handed it over to Jamie. "I'm sorry that I had to do that, but you have to know what you're getting into."

As she pressed the handkerchief to her forehead, Jamie asked, "So what did you do, anyway? I couldn't follow you, you were so fast!"

A faint smile crossed his face, and he reached for his sword. "I grabbed the pommel and punched you. Among humans, that'd prob'bly just stun, but you have to know the force our bodies can produce."

Jamie shook her head, and sighed. "Look, is there any way I you can teach me without beating me up every five seconds?"

Grinning, Trent responded, "You think an enemy'll hold back if you ask? But yeah, I'll go a little easier on you. Don't worry, though. Jessica could beat me down almost every time. When you've got more experience, I won't be able to knock you down near as easily."

He walked back toward the door, and picked up a fabric-wrapped bundle. He handed it to Jamie, motioned for her to open it. Inside rested the Keris sword, wrapped in its sheath, as well as a pair of leather half-gloves, sized for her hands.

She feels less startled than she might have earlier, having seen the way Trent's mind worked. If he considered knocking someone out to be a valuable lesson, it would follow that he would use real swords in practice.

Jamie vowed to herself to be exceptionally careful, for both of their sake.

She pulled on the gloves with quick, efficient tugs, and then strapped the sheath to her hip, figuring that the spot she instinctively reached for would be as good as any.

Trent, meanwhile, had shrugged out of his coat, tossing it to the ground with a flourish, and was stretching out his back and neck.

She took a good look at him, not having seen him without his coat before. Whereas Branson and Elayne were built quite lightly, like runners, Trent's body appeared more like a brawler's. Not anywhere near as heavily muscled as her own, she still understood far better how he had been able to toss her around. Something about his build, something about his stance, it should have reminded her of something, but she couldn't call it to mind.

He drew his sword, and held it in front of his chest in a guard position. Warily, Jamie drew her own sword, working the elaborate sheath more quickly than she would have expected.

She held it before her and attempted to recall all of the swashbuckler movies she'd seen, not to mention the tips Elayne had given her. She settles on holding it out before her, body turned away from Trent, feet spread wide.

He looked at her, considered her stance. "Hate to break it to yeh, but that's all wrong." Confused, Jamie returned to an erect posture. Trent motioned with his sword for emphasis. "Well, it wasn't a bad stance, but just not the one for you. Looked like a fencer's pose, and if you're a fencer, then I'm Margaret Thatcher. That's more like what Elayne would use, but she's not built like you. Try this."

He drew himself up as tall as he could, with the sword held near his waist, pointed upward, left arm drawn back as if to throw a punch. Jamie quickly moved into a similar posture, to even greater effect, due to her larger size and height.

He nodded, returning to his natural guard. "That's better. Now, come at me. Come on, come on. Haven't got all night, you know."

Jamie hesitated for a moment, having figured that he would give her some advice on how to swing, first. But he merely seemed content to wait for her attack. Rolling her shoulders, she ran towards him, and brought her sword up to swing in a wide arc.

Rather than parry her blow, however, Trent sidestepped out of the way, then delivered a kick to her back. More alert to his tricks, she retained her balance, though not without stumbling.

Snarling, she turned around, returning to the guard position he showed her, sidestepping cautiously around to look for an opening. An idea occurred to her, and she ran forward again, looking to repeat her first attack.

But instead, just as he sidestepped, she turned and drove her tail into his side with a whip-like crack, her long hair trailing out like a waterfall as she spun.

Jamie noted with a stray thought that the adrenaline reaction she'd felt before, when he knocked her out, has yet to manifest again. Perhaps she felt, subconsciously, that there was not a great enough danger, an interesting thought considering the two drawn blades involved.

Trent rolled with the force of the blow, gasping from the impact, but brought his head up and smiled at her. "Good feint; nice bit of improv there!"

She came at him a few more times, trying different strokes and angles to penetrate his defenses. She noted that he tried not to match her blade-on-blade, but instead tried to move out of the way of her blows or bat them aside.

Trent saw Jamie run towards him once more, and decided to teach her some defense. He leapt over her massive frame, wings spread wide for altitude, and landed in a crouch behind her, lashing out with a kick to her back.

Sensing the incoming blow, she turned enough to protect her spine, taking the blow on the thick glacis muscles and brought her sword down to strike again.

He threw up his sword in defense, holding his left palm against its naked blade, near the tip, but was still forced down to the ground by the power of her swing.

The two of them sparred for another hour, a furious whirlwind of steel and sound. Finally, Trent called a halt and sheathed his sword. Sweat poured down both of their bodies, and they both gulped great lungfuls of air.

Jamie sat down and caught her breath, asking, "Why does this feel so natural to me? I've never fought so much as a school bully in my life, but I'm getting a sense of déjà vu here."

Trent replied, "Part of it is who you are now, you're a gargoyle, and fighting's in the blood. Most of us are good with a sword or club, some bit of racial memory tucked away. And I think you're recalling some of Jessica's moves, too. Particularly the way you feint with the blade and lash out with your body. That's very much like her style."

That comment sobered Jamie, made her wonder. So far, she'd felt little in the way of her 'past life', beyond how to walk and put on clothes. At least, she thought she had, but there had been other niggling things, too. The way her navigational ability had improved, or the way she read the emotions of her companions so easily.

But, swordfighting seemed far more complex than any of those other bits of knowledge. Could it be that there had been some kind of memory leakage in the transfer?

Then the rational part of her mind kicked back in, and another possibility crossed her mind. It would be much more likely that she and Jessica would use similar maneuvers because they fit this body type best, after all.

He looks appraisingly at her, and asked, "So, tell me, what did you learn in this little endeavor?"

She replied, "Firstly, to balance my weight on my right foot in offence, and my left in defense. To hold the grip differently depending on whether I need more power or precision. To use my body as another weapon. And to do whatever I can to confuse my enemy as to my intentions."

He beamed, looking quite pleased, and nodded at each of her points. "That's very good for your first try, and better than all the stock moves I could show you. You have to adapt to win, you can't just trot out Cross 1/3 followed by Thrust 5, or any of that rubbish."

He clasped her shoulder. "You'll do just fine, I think. Why don't we do this again tomorrow? Don't want you pulling something you'll need later."

Jamie nodded, thinking that was a good idea.

Jamie asked him if he would teach her to fly, too, but he shook his head and smiled softly. "No, I think I'll let Branson do that. Might help get his mind off..." he trailed off, not needing to finish the statement.

He looked at her, pointedly looking at her pale-hued shirt. "Looks like you worked up a sweat. C'mon." He picked up his coat from the floor, and asked her to come with him.

As sprawling as the house was, there were several bathrooms scattered around, but the main one was located on the first floor. To Jamie's surprise, it had evidently been retrofitted quite recently (perhaps within the last ten years?), and had its own changing room.

Two stalls led off from the middle, with several footlockers along the left side. The right contained a large, institutional-style shower, much larger than she would have thought four people needed. As a nice touch, she noted that a few of the nozzles were mounted higher than the rest, and a few lower, too.

She turned around, and a startled gasp escaped her full lips as Trent pulled off his shirt, tossing it, the coat, and his sword harness into a locker. He asked, as he started unbuttoning his trousers, "What's the matter? I haven't grown an extra tail while I wasn't looking, yeah?"

Despite having seen the size of the shower, Jamie had expected they would use it in shifts, its size just a matter of future-proofing. Jamie asked, "Don't you, ah, shower in shifts?"

He motions to the numerous nozzles. "What's the point? It's nothing you haven't seen before, right?" With that, he chucks the trousers in the locker, and turned towards the shower, towel in hand.

Seeing the blush warming her cheeks, and the shocked look on her face, he laughed aloud. "You Yanks are prudes, y'know that? Loosen up a little. Come on, you used to be a guy, get with it!"

With a twinkle in his eyes, he spun the towel around for emphasis. "And you should always know where your towel is!"

Jamie was still frozen, the image of Trent turning towards her playing itself over and over again in her mind's eye. No wonder he was unembarrassed stripping in front of her!

The last time she'd seen a cock like that, she (a faint voice in the back of her mind protested "he!") had been watching the horses at her uncle's ranch. Trent could have measured up against any of the racing stallions, quite respectably.

That explained her elongated waist, she supposed, unless he was as overendowed as she appeared to be, but that seemed unlikely, given that Branson appeared to be similarly equipped.

Not surprisingly, his equipment seemed to be made in the canine style, like the rest of him, and the size of his testes promised an amount of fluid unknown to human anatomy.

He cleared his throat loudly, and laid a Scots-style brogue on thickly. "It's not the size of the hammer, it's how ye wield it!" Returning to his normal voice, he yelled, "Get with it, Galatea!"

Shaking her head, Jamie figured there was no sense fighting it, she opened one of the boxes, stripped down quickly, put the clothes away. She then grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her thickly muscled neck, determined to show no more discomfort at Trent's presence than he did to hers.

It took her a little longer than she was used to, simply due to how much surface she had to clean. Despite her better judgment, she allowed Trent to help wash her wings, their length making them unwieldy to scrub herself. She focused perhaps a little too much on her breasts and her womanhood, luxuriating in the sensations they produced.

She gasped suddenly, as she felt something hard press into her back, and spun around quickly, shouting, "Trent! What are you doing?"

He appeared almost drugged, his eyes slightly glazed over, his maleness almost fully erect. But a spark shone in his eye, and he stepped back, plunging his head into the falling water to try to clear it. His voice shook as he spoke. "Elayne is going to kill me for this! Jamie, I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me."

He rushed out of the shower, furiously drying himself off. Jamie called back, "Why would Elayne care? Is she your mate?"

He shouted over the rush of water and the rustle of fabric, "Yes! But that's not the reason, it's because I tried to take advantage of you like that."

Jamie heard the door slam as he ran out, leaving her alone with conflicted emotions. Taking advantage of her? He looked drugged!

She sniffed, scenting a faint acrid tone in addition to that of the soap. It took her a second to recall that it must be a pheromone tone, probably from her. That's why he looked like he was in a trance!

With a wry grin, she supposed that she had been enjoying herself rather more than she ought to have. And she was shocked by his behavior, shame on her! She figured to give him some time to himself, then find him and apologize.

Dressing quickly, she returned to her room, having decided to study the old tomes and try to give herself enough time to cool down after the encounter in the shower.

She attempted to continue with the book on theory, but just couldn't concentrate enough to focus on the words.

Growling softly, deep in her throat, she tossed the book to the floor. As the old saying went, if you want something done right, do it yourself!

She kept getting distracted by the images of Trent's naked body, of the remembered sensation of his maleness pressing up against her, and she knew she wouldn't be able to think straight until she got relief. That said, she figured that finding Trent and getting him to solve her problem would be tacky at best.

Locking the door to her room, she unfolds the futon and strips down once more. She started rubbing her breasts, teasing the delicate nipples with her hands, kneeding the firm, yet yielding flesh as her breath started to quicken. A low moan escaped her, underlaid by that bestial rumble, sounding like a tiger in heat.

She dropped her left hand down towards her swollen lips, rubbing the sensitive flesh with a single clawed digit before trusting it within her. This only heightened her arousal, though, and wasn't enough to satisfy her.

A faint, analytical part of her mind noted her breasts engorging with blood, swelling up several inches in her passion.

A brief flash of inspiration shot through her, and she brought her hand back to her breast, while bringing up her tail. It hovered above her for an instant, poised like a scorpion's stinger, then lanced into her nethers, making her cry out from the intense sensation.

The feelings this exquisitely erotic feminine form produced was unlike anything she had ever felt before in her life. She cried out as she felt the sensations burn their way through her entire body, spreading out across the surface of her body like ripples in a still pond.

Lashing her tail in and out of herself, she began to arch her back against her thrusts. With all of the tension she had built up in the last few days, she felt her climax approach like an oncoming freight train. The sensation built upon itself, pleasure multiplying upon pleasure.

With a leonine roar, she made one final thrust, and drove as deeply within herself as far as could manage. Her vision went red as she arched her back a final time, bellowing out a hoarse roar, and she collapsed against the futon, her mind wrapped in a haze of absolute pleasure.