by Jeanne Rose
The accusation set his teeth on edge. He wasn’t about to reveal his innermost feelings to her. “I’ll take your things into the house,” he told his grandmother. “Then I have to get to work on my paintings.”
His refuge and salvation at the moment. Toiling like a man possessed, he’d completed one piece the night before last and was close to finishing another. Executed in acrylic, rather than oil, they’d even dry fast enough to give to the gallery.
Mara would be surprised.
Mara. If Isabel thought she might be an ancient one, her mysterious stalker might be one, as well.
Concerned about that, he headed for the yard to collect some brushes he’d left to dry in the sun. One seemed to be missing from the weathered table on which he’d placed it, which annoyed the hell out of him. He was searching when he heard Rebecca approaching.
Her jaw was rigid and her eyes snapped. “I was serious when I reproached you about assuming your responsibilities, Luke.”
He tried to hide his irritation, realized the woman was troubled. She didn’t usually act like this.
“I’ve never chosen to take that path. You already know that. You also know I’d need years of training.” With an elder stormbringer, a tradition that had ended with Victor Martinez.
“We don’t have time but we’ll have to do our best. You need to do your best,” she admonished. “I’m setting aside some hours tomorrow. Come by my house in the morning. Six a.m.”
Her tone grated on him. “I don’t think so.”
“You will do this, Luke.”
“Sorry, no one tells me what to do.”
“I can tell you. I’m an elder.”
Even his own grandmother treated him with more respect. He could feel his aggravation growing and, intent on leaving, gathered what brushes were still there.
“Don’t walk away from me. How can you let Isabel assume all this pressure? If she dies an early death, it will be your fault.”
He halted, guilt twisting his gut, adding fuel to his anger. “That’s enough. Don’t ever speak to me like this again.” He glared at the woman. “I’m going to my studio before I say something we’ll both be sorry for.”
Even so, she prattled on as he strode away. But he wasn’t listening. He swore under his breath.
If he could do something to help his grandmother, if he didn’t fear he could do more harm than good, he would have taken action a long time ago.
LUKE TOSSED AND TURNED in bed that night, too tired to paint but unable to sleep. He imagined Mara in her bed, wearing some wisp of a nightgown. He’d love to be running his hands over her sweet flesh, their dream the night before having merely whet his appetite.
She’d better not be with another man.
Once again jealous, resentful, he sat up, gazed around the night-gray room, then finally rose to head for the window. A moon shone brightly, white and full. The same light would be flooding Santa Fe, glowing down on Mara seventy miles away.
Surely she felt their connection. He tried to concentrate, send his thoughts to her.
The question was, did the connection pose a danger?
But with the mood he was in, Luke couldn’t help but be reckless. His emotions and body ruled his head. If he slept tonight, would he meet her again? Would they make love yet another time?
Unfortunately, he had no answer. He could no more control his pleasant dreams than his horrific ones.
THE MOON RESEMBLED a huge, pock-marked, featureless face. And it seemed to be growing larger, as if it wanted to eat up the sky.
Hallucination.
He blinked and tried to get his wandering vision under control, swallowing against the bile rising in his throat. He still hadn’t gotten used to the peyote. At least it was everything the Yaqui had promised it would be. He was gaining power by miles, not inches.
Though the Yaqui could offer only limited help when it came to dreams. He’d had to turn to himself, had had to practice. Tonight he wanted to use his new skills to do more than float witch lights around the pueblo or call up a few coyotes.
He settled back for the exhausting task he’d set for himself, knowing he had to conserve energy. He lay back in the darkness, concentrating, focusing his mind on the images of the place he’d memorized as sacred . . .
Soon he was floating above the building, rising with the wind, higher and higher until he could see the entire pueblo, a cluster of dark, dismal houses in the moon-silvered hills.
It took some time, some careful listening to hear the dreams whispering through the night. Usually nonsense, a collection of disjointed images . . .
He stared down at Isabel Joshevama’s house as he passed over, aware that Luke stirred restlessly within. Uneasy, he felt anger, a thrill of fear. His unease had been growing ever since he’d realized there’d been dreamwalking the night before and that it had involved Luke and a stranger many miles away.
The white bitch. What power did she yield?
What powers did Luke possess?
Both dangerous unknowns.
He snarled, wishing he’d killed the woman when he had the chance, not played little tricks on her.
But this was no time for fury. He forced himself to steady, to maintain control. He would leave Luke Naha and the white woman for another time.
Better to go after the old ladies.
Isabel was going to be the more difficult so he’d start with the other one. As he stroked the dishrag he’d stolen from Rebecca’s clothesline, the token meant to help him get closer to her, he imagined his dream body floating downward, hovering over her home.
He could feel her sleeping. She wasn’t dreaming yet but he readied himself for the opening . . .
It came, barely minutes later. With glee, he slipped in as a shadow, then transformed himself into a sacred spirit complete with mask, slow dancing movements, and ritual weapons, including a long, sharp knife.
Rebecca was mesmerized. Her eyes were wide behind the glare of her glasses.
Then he slowly conjured up the image of the old woman’s pretty granddaughter, the girl lying asleep in her dormitory. The sacred spirit danced down the hallway outside and entered the room. The girl opened her eyes in time to see moonlight shining off his blade.
No! the dream-Rebecca yelled.
He laughed, snarled, roared, jabbed, sliced . . . chortled as he felt the desperation of the old woman’s heartbeat. She was tossing, turning, struggling as he continued his attack. Unlike Victor Martinez, she did not fear death for herself, but she was fiercely protective of her granddaughter.
She sought to manifest herself.
Go ahead. He was ready to pounce.
When Rebecca appeared, he came at her full force, shouting, “This is Ginnie, old woman. This is real.” Then he cut off the girl’s head and dangled it above her bed by her long black hair.
He laughed as Rebecca’s aging heart pounded, pounded . . . wavered . . . weakened . . .
Laughing in triumph, his thoughts turned to Luke Naha and the brush he’d stolen from the artist. If nothing else, if he had the strength, perhaps he could use the object to send the man a little replay.
CHAPTER NINE
THE SUN HAD RISEN and birds were chirping when Luke woke.
But he hardly noticed, remaining lost to the night. Mouth dry, heart hammering, he could still envision his nightmare. A woman had died, hacked to pieces by a masked spirit wielding a long, sharp knife. And he was almost certain the victim had been an Indian.
The very idea made him sweat, for, in the second dream he’d shared with Mara, she’d been dressed as an Indian. The night before he’d been jealous, angry. And now he felt sick as he held off pure terror. What if he had entered her dream only to kill her?
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Luke fought his fear, sought coherence, let his pulse decelerate . . . and slowly became aware of wailing.
Penetrating, poignant, a voice rose and fell in a drawn-out cry of grief.
A voice that was coming from his
own home.
Panicking – his first thought that something had happened to his aged grandmother – Luke jumped to his feet and pulled on his jeans. He ran out into the hall, then through the living room, following the awful sound straight into the kitchen where Onida wrapped a blanket around his nightgown-clad grandmother, then held her.
“What the hell is wrong?”
Onida’s eyes were wide and dark. Tear-tracks stained her cheeks. “Rebecca is dead.”
“Rebecca?” Not Mara. He hadn’t expected this, felt dazed, confused. “How?”
”He killed her, Luke.” Isabel spoke so fervently, her fragile body shook. “In the night, he came into her dreams and took her.”
“Who?”
“The evil one, the person who is stalking this pueblo. I woke thinking I’d felt his presence this morning. I ran to Rebecca’s side for help. But he’d been there before me. She was drawing her last breath.”
Horrified, mind spinning, Luke saw Rebecca in his mind’s eye, heard their argument the day before. He’d been angry with her as well as with Mara . . .
Had Rebecca been the victim in his dream?
“How could anyone kill an elder?” Onida asked.
“By being clever enough to frighten the life from her.” Isabel shivered, clutching at the blanket. “She was old and had no one to protect her.” Her face twisted in grief. “I should have known better. I should have realized he was growing stronger. I should have never let Rebecca leave my presence. Together, we could have fought him.”
Her regret pierced Luke to the heart. While his own sorrow twisted his guts. He’d cared about Rebecca, had grown up with her. She’d been like an aunt. She’d tried demanding his help and he’d turned on her. Now she was dead.
His fault.
Onida helped the elderly woman to the table. “Sit down. I’ll make you some toast and warm milk.”
“I cannot eat or drink.”
“You have to eat and drink, Grandmother,” Luke insisted. “You can’t afford not to.”
“He will take me next. What use is there?”
He’d never heard her say such things before. He met his mother’s worried glance.
“No one’s going to take you,” he swore fiercely. “I’ll kill them if they try.”
Including his damned self should he have been the one . . .
Though surely he wouldn’t harm his own grandmother. But if he found out he had the slightest murderous inclination, had been in the least way responsible for this tragedy, he would take a one way trip straight off a high cliff before he could hurt anyone else.
“She said ‘Ginnie . . .’” Isabel murmured. “That’s all. I don’t know what it means.”
Ginnie? Rebecca’s granddaughter, the girl who was going to college.
The name brought forth a host of images. In his dream, an Indian woman had been killed . . . a young one with long black hair and a pretty, innocent face. Startled, Luke suddenly knew he’d seen Ginnie die. The setting of the nightmare had been proof of that as well. Luke could still see the blood-spattered walls of the dormitory room, the girl’s head hanging by its hair and dripping onto the bed sheets . . .
He grimaced, feeling sick.
“Luke?” His grandmother obviously sensed his confusion, his agony.
He reached for her hand and held it too tightly. “I said I will take care of you.”
“I know your intentions are good.”
Were they? Or was she blind on more than one level, unable to sense the sins of her own blood?
Luke only wished he knew for certain that he was guilty. But if he weren’t, how had he come to know so many details?
Onida placed a plate of toast and a cup of warm milk in front of Isabel. “Come now. Eat.” She also told Luke. “You sit down, too. I’ll take care of phoning the rest of Rebecca’s relatives.” All of whom lived off the reservation. “I already talked to Ginnie and her parents.”
He seized on the name. “Ginnie?” She was alive.
“I felt she should know as soon as possible.” Again, his mother gestured for him to be seated and he sank numbly into a chair.
Where he took a deep breath. Ginnie was alive. At least he should be happy for that.
But the relief was only temporary.
Just as he’d known it had been Ginnie in his nightmare, he now knew what had killed Rebecca. She’d said Ginnie’s name before dying. She’d experienced the same macabre vision he’d glimpsed in his nightmare. A vivid illusion meant to frighten her to death.
But whose illusion? His own? Or someone else’s? A shadow had stalked him through the dream of fire. Someone had tried to terrorize Mara with a curse doll and marauding coyotes.
Mara. The woman he was falling in love with.
God help him, even in this hellish crisis, Luke wanted to reach out to her.
If nothing else, he needed to make absolutely certain she was all right . . . and to make sure she stayed that way.
MARA WOKE UP clear-headed but very depressed.
Something seemed terribly wrong.
When it shouldn’t. After reading for several hours the night before, she’d fallen into a peaceful, uninterrupted sleep.
So what was the matter?
Shadows seemed to be creeping about the borders of her consciousness. Once again, she remembered Luke telling her to trust her instincts. Because of that, when the phone shrilled beside her bed, she sprang straight up. Clutching the sheet, her hand unsteady, she reached for the receiver, dragging it to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Mara?”
“Luke?” Now what? Tension crackled through the phone. “Don’t hang up on me. Not again.”
“I’m not going to hang up. But I can’t talk long. I’m on the pay phone near the pueblo store. Things have taken a turn for the worse. I just wanted to tell you to be even more careful.”
“What has gotten worse?” She felt a surge of anxiety. “You’re not telling me everything. You haven’t from the beginning–”
He cut in, “Rebecca’s dead.”
Her stomach knotted.
Rebecca. The nice lady who’d crocheted and who’d been so proud of the granddaughter who was going to graduate from college.
Mara couldn’t believe it. “How? Where?”
“She passed away in bed.”
“Was she sick?”
He hesitated, then said, “The report will probably chalk it up as a heart attack.”
“Meaning you don’t think it was?”
“That isn’t your problem. I’m simply telling you to watch yourself.”
Why? Because he cared so much? Warmth crept through her. And again she thought about what had passed between them in their shared dream. About the real feeling that rose beyond lust.
“What more can I do to take care of myself?” she asked. “Bathe myself in turquoise powder? Buy an automatic weapon? And I do think Rebecca’s death is my problem. Since I found out about dreamwalking, I’ve realized I’m involved with all of you.” Suddenly she also knew why he sounded so uptight. “You think someone killed Rebecca, don’t you? Did she have medication that could have been tampered with?”
”Whatever killed her came from inside.”
Deep down, something within her wasn’t surprised. She swallowed. “You’re not talking about a dream surely?”
His silence told her that he was.
“Someone entered her dream? This witch person, the same one who was warning me?”
“Possibly. No one knows, including Grandmother.”
That Luke seemed unsure bothered her. That Isabel felt confused frightened her more than she could say.
Luke went on, “I’ve never seen my grandmother this upset in my life.”
An honest, anxious statement that exposed uncharacteristic vulnerability.
“Isabel is the only wise woman left,” Mara murmured. No wonder Luke was troubled enough to let his guard down. “Does she feel she’s in danger, too?”
Agai
n, Luke was silent, scaring Mara all the more. A nightmare monster was stalking Isabel? Horror stabbed at her like a knife.
She fought it with stubborn resolve. “I’m coming out there.”
“No one’s inviting you.”
“I don’t care. And don’t waste your time trying to make me feel unwelcome or uncomfortable. You said I should listen to my inner feelings and they’re screaming for me to go.” She was compelled to be by his side. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
He didn’t object again, she noticed, as she hung up. Then she was out of bed, flying to the shower, to the closet, scrambling out the door.
She drove over the speed limit all the way to the Kisi pueblo.
She pulled through the gate. A stream of sober-faced folk, some carrying dishes of food, were heading toward a little house up the hill from Luke’s. At least half a dozen vehicles were parked in the driveway. Assuming the place must be Rebecca’s, Mara pulled her own car over to the side of the road and approached.
The nearest door stood open, revealing knots of people standing around in the kitchen. Mara slipped inside, trying to ignore the way everyone suddenly stopped talking and stared.
“I was a friend of Rebecca’s,” she announced.
For whatever reason, the crowd parted before her. Beyond the kitchen, in the living room, more people had gathered. Many were talking to Isabel, who sat beside Onida on the blanket-covered couch. Both women wore stoic expressions but were obviously grieving. Isabel was so pale and drawn and tired-looking, her bones seemed visible through her parchment skin. Mara felt worried as she observed the last wise woman of the Kisi. If someone had been able to kill Rebecca, Isabel was also vulnerable.
Thinking about what to say, she felt a hand on her arm. A large, warm hand with strong fingers. “Luke.”
He stood so near, her body betrayed her. Her belly filled with heat, her breath caught in her throat.
“You can do nothing.”
She frowned. “Maybe, maybe not. I’ve been thinking a lot over the last two hours.” On issues she’d never considered before, hadn’t allowed herself to believe. An adulthood of psychological, science-based reality had fallen by the wayside. “We can’t allow this kind of thing to keep going on.”