by Jeanne Rose
Her problems with nightmares hadn’t been solved, but that dreamwalking existed at all made her think there actually could be a solution.
As she thought about that, a weight seemed to lift from her heart, a burden she’d been carrying for a long time. The interview with Isabel had been frustrating and the Indian woman hadn’t even touched on her deepest questions, but she had learned some incredible things.
She stared out at the desert where dusk crept down from the foothills, gazing at the world through new eyes. Far more was possible than she’d ever believed.
Though there were possibilities for evil, as well as good, a little voice whispered inside her head.
Another, different worry now pressed her. “All Kisi can’t dreamwalk, right? Your grandmother said only the wise were trained. Charlie Mahooty doesn’t have any powers.”
“I hope not.”
But she noticed Luke hadn’t denied it.
“Mahooty talks about sorcery,” Luke went on. “But he uses the subject to intimidate other Indians. He’s been promising to protect the Kisi. That’s why they elected him.”
“Protect the Kisi from what?”
“Whatever.”
Obviously, he didn’t want to say. Uneasy, she gazed out the window again, the landscape now completely dark. “I’m sure no one in your family voted for Mahooty. And Rebecca certainly doesn’t like him.”
“He’s not respectful of elders.”
Mara remembered that Isabel had called Rebecca an elder. “Is Rebecca a wise woman like your grandmother?
“Uh, huh.”
“Meaning she can dreamwalk?”
“She was trained.”
Mara was surprised. “I would never guess – she appears to be a normal, comfortable sort of grandmother.” As opposed to Isabel, who radiated power. She probed, “Does your mother dreamwalk?”
“She didn’t have the calling, the concentration. Either you do or you don’t.”
Concentration. Now Luke had plenty of that. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to spend so many hours by himself painting. And he certainly had power. Mara swore she could feel it emanating from him as they drove along, two souls confined to the isolation of the vehicle, night hemming them in.
It was Luke’s power that made his anger so frightening. Of which Mahooty was surely aware. He’d looked plenty scared before he’d passed out.
Still. “Since Mahooty hates you and has no respect for Isabel, do you really feel safe staying out at the pueblo?”
“Grandmother can protect her family if she has to.”
“And what about you?”
“You saw me put Mahooty in his place.”
“With your physical strength.” She plunged right in, knowing she might offend him. “How come you won’t try to develop your other skills, your mental abilities?” Which his grandmother had implied he wasn’t making use of. “Surely Isabel can help you combat the nightmares.”
”You don’t know beans about my nightmares,” he snapped.
He was offended.
“And no one can help me,” he added bluntly, bitterly, effectively cutting her off.
Because she didn’t know what else to say. Either his dreams were more horrifying than any she’d ever experienced or he was more frightened than she was at some deep level. Further, he obviously had no hope for his situation ever getting any better. Mara was determined not to feel so hopeless herself. Especially now that she no longer feared she was going crazy, now that she realized she’d actually taken some sort of action in her dreams. After all, she’d refused Luke’s advances and had run away from Isabel. That was something.
She would simply trust that there would be more, that she could conquer her terrors, that she would be able to handle herself in bizarre, even threatening situations. She reassured herself of that over and over as they drove on silently, the final miles slipping by.
Meanwhile, the moon came up and the sky exploded with stars. Lights bloomed at ground level as the Jeep topped a hill overlooking Santa Fe.
As they approached town, Luke still made no effort to converse. But at least he’d responded when Mara had spoken to him, hadn’t snapped at her too badly during the ride. He’d been relatively personable on the trip out, as well.
Why? Was their relationship changing?
Reflecting on that, Mara realized she felt some sort of bond with Luke. It was strange, inexplicable, if similar to her connection with Lightning Over Red Mesa. The painting spooked her too much to hang it in the main room but she wanted it anyway. Lightning was a haunting painting, just as Luke was a haunting man.
A haunted man, she felt in her gut, glancing toward him, at his powerful hands on the steering wheel. She had seen those hands creating incredible art and had also seen them go for Charlie Mahooty’s throat.
What demons drove Luke Naha? Surely more than nightmares. Had something chilling happened in his past? His behavior and attitude bespoke mysteries that needed to be solved. Mysteries. Mara wondered where Luke had gone for an hour or so, while Onida had thought he’d been working on his murals. Whose footsteps had scrabbled on the gravel behind her? Who had been watching her? Luke had appeared in the community center not much later, and, suddenly, as if out of nowhere.
But what reason did he have to sneak about?
Dismissing her suspicions, she saw they’d reached the city limits. Streetlights flooded the road. Luke kept driving, didn’t bother to ask where her building was. But he obviously remembered the address, since he made the correct turns, pulling the jeep up in front of the condo complex some minutes later. For some reason, she felt hesitant to leave his company.
“Afraid of something? I can walk you to the door, if you want.”
She was only half joking when she said, “And ruin your mystique? That would be far too polite.”
He cut the engine and got out when she did. As they strolled down the cement walk, she felt his presence as palpable warmth. But who wouldn’t be aware of such a lean muscular body, such a graceful gliding walk?
The hands that created paintings and threatened Mahooty had also held her, stroked her nearly mad with passion. Just thinking about that made desire stir within her. Luke Naha was mysterious and powerful, with or without sorcery. He had cast his own sort of dark spell on her.
For why else did she turn to face him when they reached her door? Why else did she forget about searching for her keys? Why else did she lift her face up to him expectantly?
Their eyes met for a moment before he slid his arms about her possessively. Then he covered her mouth with warm, searching lips.
She wasn’t surprised. She wouldn’t object that he was reneging on his promise not to touch her. With the two of them, it always seemed to come down to this.
They kissed deeply, sweetly. He slipped a hand beneath her sweater and ran his fingers up the length of her spine. She arched, tingled, feeling every finger through the fabric of her blouse. Her arms slid about him of their own accord and she luxuriated in the play of muscles across his back.
Her nipples tightened as they nestled against his hard chest. He rubbed her against him, then took hold of her waist to walk her backward into the shadows near the building’s doorway. When she ran her fingers through his hair, she loosened the cord that held it tied in back. It felt much softer than she’d imagined.
He leaned her against the adobe wall, cupping a breast and brushing his thumb across the sensitive crest. She nearly cried out. It seemed only natural when he slid a knee between her legs and anchored himself against her. He tilted his pelvis so she could better feel the hard proof of his desire. Heat rising from her lower belly, she rocked her hips against him, moaning.
She wanted to protest when he suddenly lifted his head.
“Let’s head upstairs . . . to bed.”
His blunt words broke the spell. Mara opened her eyes, felt her blood singing through her veins, her heart beating jaggedly. Even so, she fought for her breath, her wits, fought to distance hersel
f from the man looming over her.
What was she doing? She didn’t know Luke Naha well enough to make love with him. Not to mention something much deeper bothered her . . . she wasn’t certain she could trust him.
“I don’t think going to bed is a good idea,” she said breathlessly.
He scowled. “It’s a perfect idea. You want me, I want you.”
“But that’s only lust.”
“What? Don’t want to mess up your pretty bedroom?” he asked huskily. “We can use my truck.”
How earthy, urgent. And in part, a turn on. She called on all her strength to deny her own desires.
“No, Luke.”
He made a sound of disgust, releasing her so suddenly, she stumbled and almost fell. “You’re driving me crazy, woman.” Then he stalked off.
Reminded of the way he’d left her in the dream, she stood there watching him start the Jeep and peel out. This time, she didn’t call him back. With a squeal of tires, he zoomed off. Red tail-lights winked like animal eyes, then were swallowed up by darkness.
So she was driving Luke crazy. Well, he drove her crazy, too . . . and, for once, that word had little to do with the state of her mental health.
THE BLACK OF MIDNIGHT mirrored his emotions as he cruised down the Fitzgerald woman’s street. He stopped his vehicle and stared up at the top floor of her building, noting the height of the balcony fronting her apartment. Behind the wrought-iron, the glass doors glowed with dim light.
Was the bitch afraid to sleep in the dark? He wished he could get inside her head and really make her scream.
But that would be difficult and time-consuming when he had so many other things to do. Not to mention that he wasn’t certain how his techniques would affect the mind of a non-Indian. He would have to settle for trying to frighten the woman on the physical plane.
He got out, taking the bag from behind his seat. The cool air hit him full in the face. He had to pause, feeling dizzy, swallowing nausea. He’d overindulged himself. He took a deep breath to combat his swirling vision, fighting to maintain control. When the ground stopped spinning, he crept carefully into the shadows of some low bushes.
He positioned himself beneath the balcony and the lit door, then took the bloody rawhide doll out of his bag.
Grasping the repulsive thing about its neck, he imagined he had hold of her. He hated the nose-in-the-air bitch, despised her so much it felt like he’d known her for a long, long time. The Yaqui had said she was bad medicine, had read it in the entrails of the chicken they’d slaughtered earlier.
She could examine the message for herself . . . if she knew entrails.
Sniggering, he tightened the cord around the doll, whose belly had been slit to hold the chicken’s stinking, bloody guts. Then he made sure that the bits of blue and brown yarn he’d collected from her sweater were firmly stuck in place with cactus spines.
“Pain,” he muttered, pushing a spine deeper into the doll’s head. “Fear.” He hoped she’d suffer double doses of both.
Though there’d be far worse to come if she wasn’t smart enough to stay away from the Kisi reservation, if not leave the state entirely.
Carefully aiming the doll at the balcony, he heard a set of dual thuds as it hit the glass and plopped down onto the balcony floor. He hoped the blood had splattered everywhere.
And that the noise had awakened her. Wanting to enjoy her terror, he waited a few minutes to see if she’d appear.
When she didn’t, he swore softly but turned away, heading back for the truck. The night wouldn’t last forever. He needed to focus all his energy, to conjure up an ancient and elemental power . . .
MARA WOKE so suddenly, she nearly jumped off the couch.
The logs in the kiva fireplace crackled.
Head pounding, feeling disoriented, she sat straight up and gazed about the living room. Down the hall, light spilled out from the bathroom. The hands of the clock sitting on her bookshelf stood at one o’clock.
Everything seemed quiet. Nothing was wrong.
Except for her headache.
She got up and stumbled across the living room. She simply hadn’t been able to crawl into her bed or immerse herself in complete darkness tonight. That would have been asking for dreams . . . from which she badly needed a rest.
Had she dreamed anyway? Was that what had startled her awake? Or had there been some sort of unusual noise?
She seemed to remember hearing something but perhaps it had only been the beat of her throbbing head.
Turning on the faucet in the kitchen, she filled a glass with water and took some aspirin. The familiar task made her feel a little more secure.
But she continued to glance about as she walked down the hall and turned on the overhead light in the bedroom.
Empty. Safe.
Though she wished she weren’t alone.
Luke coming to mind whether she bid him or no, she went back to the living room and heaped more wood on the fire.
For protection against the night?
She slid her eyes from the fire to the dark rectangle of the room’s double glass doors, wondering if she should check the lock. Even though she’d already done so, at least twice before going to sleep.
She decided she wouldn’t, didn’t want to look any farther than her own home and hearth.
She poked the wood in the fireplace until flames leaped and crackled. Gold-orange heat.
Fire.
Like the blaze that always seemed to be sizzling within Luke.
Unfortunately, an image so unsettling, it didn’t make her want to go back to sleep.
FIRE.
Smoke billowed around him, filled his nostrils, seared his eyes. Fighting pain, he tried to find a way out, only to be stopped dead by crashing vigas, disintegrating latillas. The whole place was being eaten alive.
Sparks flew, bright incendiaries that landed, flared and roared into dancing flames.
Flames that matched his burning anger.
His fury simmered, seethed . . . until he spotted the shadow slipping into the darkness beyond the fire. With shock, he realized it was mocking him, laughing at him, that it wished him to die . . .
Evil.
Malevolence far worse than any fire.
Swallowing his fear, he roared out a war cry, then swore, even as more burning beams came crashing down about his ears . . .
“Damn you! Damn . . . “ Luke woke with a start, his sheet, blankets and pillows all thrown to the floor.
Another nightmare.
He hadn’t had one for awhile. And he figured this dream must have been brought about by sexual frustration, combined with the beers and spicy tortilla chips he’d guzzled instead of eating supper. He rarely drank alcohol and now had an upset stomach.
Cursing a blue streak, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. That’s when he remembered the shadow in the dream, a new and sinister element . . . and heard the commotion outside.
Someone yelled and banged a door. Feet pounded past the house.
What the hell?
Leaping up, he grabbed for his jeans, then realized he was already wearing them. He bolted for the bedroom door, where he came face to face with Onida.
She clutched her robe, very upset. “There’s a fire, Luke!”
“Here?”
“No, but it may be someone else’s home. Oh, my God!”
Luke didn’t bother to speculate on the site. Patting his mother’s shoulder, he gently moved her aside. Then he rushed out the door.
Fire.
He could smell it on the wind, acrid, deadly. It seemed to be coming from the vicinity of Chalas’ store and the community center.
He ran, his bare feet slapping the cold hard ground. Paying no attention to sharp rocks, he kept his eyes on the knot of people gathering up ahead.
As he approached, he saw that the pueblo’s firefighting unit had a hose snaking into the community center. Black smoke billowed out.
At least it hadn’t been anyone�
��s house. No one’s life was in danger. Taking a breath of relief, he came to a stop beside a woman with two children clinging to her legs.
“What happened?”
The woman glanced up at Luke. “I don’t know. The building is burning inside.”
“Electrical short, I bet,” said someone else standing nearby.
“Short, my eye,” said yet another bystander, a middle-aged woman with her hair in braids. “It was witchcraft.”
Witchcraft?
His skin crawling, Luke stared at the woman.
Who needed no urging to go on, “There was this fiery ball and it floated right through the door . . . a witch light.”
“You saw it?” Luke asked.
“Mattie Stolla told me. She was standing at her kitchen window. There’s terrible evil about.”
Or misguided sorcery.
Ignoring the way the woman was staring at him, like he was responsible, Luke moved off.
Witch light . . . a fireball?
Feeling sick, he approached the firefighters, offering them a hand. Several worried that the water pressure from the pueblo’s main pump would run out.
But ten minutes later, Mahooty’s pal Delgado emerged from the building, his t-shirt black with smoke and grime. “We got it, boys.”
The man had slept off his drunk, Luke noted. “Fire’s out?” Delgado gazed at him speculatively. “Yeah, only ruined a couple of interior walls.” Then he smiled as he realized who he was talking to. “Your murals are gone, Naha. Nothing we could do.”
The murals.
Luke didn’t react. In truth, he didn’t feel that bad, though he’d put in a lot of work at the center, original paintings that could never quite be re-created.
At least no lives had been lost.
Luke could tell the other men were surprised when he went to work, helping them with the clean-up.
But his relief was short-lived. His mind roiled – a fireball had destroyed the murals? He hadn’t been angry about them for days and days.
He’d been angry with . . . Mara Fitzgerald.
Adrenaline zinging, he dropped what he was doing and took off, seeking the pay phone near Chalas’s store. It must be four o’clock in the morning, but he didn’t care. Obtaining Mara’s number from information, he punched in the digits. His concern grew as her phone rang and rang.