The Chrome Borne by Mercedes Lackey

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“Excuse me?” said a low, sexy, female voice.

Tannim jumped in startlement, and turned to face the barn door—and froze as he saw who was standing there. His mind lodged on a single thought, ­unable to get past it: It’s her—it’s her—it’s her—

And it was: the woman who had haunted and hunted him through his dreams for years. The woman he’d dreamed of this morning. Her. And she stood there, calmly taking in his look of utter shock.

There was absolutely no doubt of it; she matched his dreams in every detail. Gently curved raven-wing hair framed a face that he knew as well as he knew his own. Amused emerald-green eyes gazed at him from beneath strong brows that arched as delicately as a bit of Japanese brushwork.

“Excuse me,” she said again in that throaty contralto. “. . . but I understood that I could find ­someone here who works on Mustangs.”

He looked past her and spotted her black Mustang standing in the midst of the tall grass outside the barn door. “Not—for a long time,” he said dazedly.

“Ah,” she replied. Then her eyes widened as she looked past his shoulder, and she stepped back in alarm.

Fear lanced him. He whirled to look. There was nothing there.

He turned back, and she was already gone. And so was her car.

Only then did his mind click back into gear, as he sprinted to stood where the car had been. There was the imprint of four tires in the grass—but no track-marks leading up to them. There was no sign that the car had actually been driven through the grass to reach that spot, and there had been no sound of a motor.

She was haunting him still, it would seem. . . .

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