Kincaid swallowed.
“Before she died, when I saw her for the first time, I thought, my God, she’s beautiful. How could someone so lovely be so evil? Then she looked at me as if she read every thought and I closed my eyes to the beauty I saw and focused only on the evil I felt. The evil the others around me witnessed. She scratched inside my head, trying to sway me. I felt her crawling in my mind like a worm in mud.”
He scooted closer.
“I suppose one could say that was the moment I grew up. That was when I put my childhood behind me.”
“You were too young.”
“We had no choice. It took all of us to defeat her. How old were you when you first went into battle?”
“That’s different?”
“Why? Because you’re a man?”
“That…and I was raised as a warrior.”
She tucked her free hand under her cheek and rolled onto her side. “You’re not unlike the men in my time. Eager for blood and battle at a young age.”
“I’ve never been bloodthirsty.”
“I would hope not. Avoid battle, but if you can’t…come out the victor.”
“Your father’s words again?”
“Aye.”
Amber seemed to forget she was in bed with a man and curled beside him with a smile on her face as they talked. When was the last time he chatted with a woman in his bed?
“He’s a legend you know.”
“My father?”
He nodded. “Ian…your brothers.”
She grinned. “My father would scoff at that. Duncan, too. Fin, however, would love the title.”
“Vain?”
She gave her head a small shake. “Proud.”
“What about Cian?”
Her smile fell. “He would say the cost was too dear for the title.” She paused, lost in her thoughts he couldn’t read. “What does history tell of the women?”
“Your mother is considered the matriarch. Your sister, Myra…she’s talked about often, and Tara and Lizzy are as well, but not like the men. My guess is men edited the books in time and didn’t give the women their due.”
“I would say not. Lizzy led all of us many times. She had little faith in her own abilities, but knew together we’d be stronger. My father and Fin wanted nothing to do with involving the women in battle.”
Kincaid couldn’t completely relate. Women had always been a part of the team in his time. He knew of some men wanting to keep their women safe, which was probably why Kincaid opted to avoid involving his heart in his affairs. However, the women were often stronger in their Druid abilities and sometimes more levelheaded. Their usefulness on the team was unprecedented. Yet the women didn’t accompany them on many missions located in Amber’s time for obvious reasons. They did try to go undetected. If a woman were brandishing a sword, she’d be a target or very memorable.
“I miss them,” Amber said pulling him from his thoughts. “I want to see them again…”
He heard her next thought in his head. Before I die.
Her words cut deep.
****
Selma walked barefoot, with a cup of steaming hot coffee in her hand, through her two-bedroom apartment that housed her small office. She’d left Jake close to midnight. He’d fallen asleep in his recliner with the remote on the arm of the chair. Though the stick didn’t completely wiggle free of his sphincter during their dinner, he did manage to crack a smile or two in her presence. For a reason she couldn’t even explain, she wanted to see the man let go of his tight grip of control. Every once in a while, when he was snarking at her, she’d notice a brief smile, a flicker of mirth behind his eyes.
Had he always been so rigid? Did he laugh with his children…with his ex-wife?
Selma fired up her computer and checked her inbox for orders. Her online business for all things Wiccan had been profitable for several years. It helped that the books she’d written still sold…well, the first one anyway. The second one edged too close to the truth about Druids and straddled the religious fence, which made many readers uneasy. Thankfully, when she’d written it she didn’t know she was Druid. She truly thought she was a witch. Still, between what she’d learned in her life, and what seemed to be inside her from her ancestors, Selma realized who she was.
She wouldn’t be writing any more books. The first one, Sixth Sense, hit all the bestseller lists and landed her a few talk show spots several years ago. She’d been famous for a short time and ate it up. Now the only people who recognized her would have to follow her website and check out her “about me” page.
She printed out a half dozen invoices, flagged a back-order, and noticed a repeat customer’s name toward the bottom of her inbox.
He called himself Norman Rockwell, which made her laugh the first time she’d seen it. He always ordered her love potion, and he did so every week. The mixture of herbs would only work if the recipient cared for the giver. Or so Selma believed. The last package she sent to Norman she added a small charm…asking the Ancients to give the man peace with whoever the potion was meant for. Based on how frequently he purchased her love potion, it seemed the woman he was attempting to snag wasn’t interested.
Selma opened the order, full on expecting to see another need for her love potion.
That’s not what she found.
The order form was blank. Looked like Norman Rockwell wasn’t in the buying mood. He was however in a ranting mood.
Under the “special instructions” box her customer filled the space with hate.
YOU FUCKING BITCH. THE POTION WAS FOR ME AND HER, NOT HER AND HER FUCKING EX. YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. I KNOW WHER…
The box didn’t leave more room for him to write, cutting him off.
Her hand trembled as it moved over the mouse to delete the email. She hesitated and decided to keep it in her inbox. Over the years, people had asked for refunds, said her “shit” didn’t work. This kind of hate mail didn’t happen…not to her anyway.
Probably because most, if not all, of her “shit” did work. That would be the by-product of being the real deal.
Obviously this love potion worked…just not for the man giving it.
She glanced at the address she’d been sending the package to. It was a P.O. Box in Bullhead City, Nevada. Not more than a six-hour drive.
The P.O. Box she shipped her orders from was several blocks from her apartment, giving her some space from disgruntled customers. The precaution had been an afterthought when she moved to California. Now, she was happy for it.
She shook Mr. Rockwell from her head and moved on to the next order. When her morning ritual was complete and the coffee in her cup hit bottom, she moved to her supply closet and hand-packed and mixed the herbs for her orders.
When she was finished, she filled her bags for the post office and started from her office. The monitor on her desk clicked onto a screen saver, reminding her she’d left it on.
With her hands full, she concentrated on the mechanics of her computer, willing it to power down.
Nearly as quickly as she thought of turning it off, it did.
The smile on her lips spread. Using her mind, her gift, to control the electronics around her never got old. She even managed to unlock simple mechanical structures…like the front door of a certain police officer’s house.
It was early, and the post office was quiet.
“Hey, Paul,” she greeted the postmaster behind the desk by name.
“Hi, Selma. Lots of orders today?”
“A few.” She hoisted the bags onto the counter and handed them over one at a time.
“Does any of this really work?”
“Of course it does,” she said with a grin.
Paul was in his mid-fifties, and his belly stuck out a little more than nature intended. Seemed like he enjoyed his job and always greeted her with a smile.
“My wife went on your website. Said you sell tea and crystals.”
She placed another box on the cou
nter and waited for him to weigh it and add the price to her list. “Crystals hold energy. And tea or, more precisely, herbs can ease the mind and soul into accepting the truth.”
“Sounds like mumbo-jumbo to me. No offence.”
“None taken.” She’d learned long ago to disregard the general disbelief from the public.
“I went to a palm reader once at the county fair. Do you read palms?”
“No.” She didn’t need to look at a palm to have a feeling of the people around her.
“The woman told me I needed to stop smoking or I’d get ill.” He paused with his hand on the package. “I didn’t tell her I smoked. Spooky how she knew.”
Selma stifled a laugh and placed her hand over his. “From the looks of the yellow around your fingers, I’d say you smoke two packs a day.” She released his hand. “Guess you didn’t believe her.”
He stared at his hand as if it were a foreign object. “You think that’s how she figured it out?”
She shrugged and folded up her now empty bag.
Paul gave her a total, which she paid with her credit card. “It’s hard to quit. Try damn near every year.”
When he handed her the receipt to sign, she brushed her finger over his and planted the seed for him to ignore his nicotine cravings. There were no guarantees, of course. But she liked Paul and didn’t want to see the man suffer with cancer.
“Every cigarette you don’t smoke is a victory,” she told him.
“That’s what my wife says.”
“Smart woman.”
She tucked her bag under her arm. “See you tomorrow, Paul.”
He waved and as she turned to leave, she smacked into the man standing behind her in line.
“Excuse me.”
“Sorry,” he said. His voice was small even though the hand he’d held out to keep her from falling gripped her elbow.
She looked up to see the man’s face, and he released her and stepped back. Her body shuddered as unease crawled over her skin. His dark eyes didn’t meet hers as he moved around her, dismissing her as quickly as he’d entered her space.
When she stepped out into the hot California sun, she shivered. The thought of her morning email had her looking over her shoulder.
“Paranoid much?” she asked herself.
Yet instead of driving home, she detoured toward Mrs. Dawson’s.
Safety in numbers and all that.
Chapter Thirteen
Helen met her at the door with a bottle of Tums in her hand.
“Oh, boy…that’s not a good sign.” Selma pushed her way inside and wrapped an arm around her new friend’s shoulders.
“I’m told it’s a sign of a full head of hair.” They walked down the hall and into Mrs. Dawson’s parlor, or living room as most people called it.
“Blonde like you or brown hair like Simon’s?”
“Has to take after his father. There’s no way a blonde would come out with a full head of hair.”
“It’s a boy? Are you sure?” Selma sat beside Helen with a huge smile on her face.
“Amber told us last week.”
Selma glanced at the ceiling, envisioning the room above where Amber usually hid. “How is she?”
Helen heaved a sigh. “So much better with Kincaid here.”
“Future-Boy?”
“Excuse me?”
“The guy who showed up at Jake’s? The guy from the future?”
Helen laughed now, getting the joke. “Right. Yeah…” Helen launched into an explanation of what had occurred since Kincaid had shown up.
“So let me get this right. Amber…little miss virginal and innocent has to hold Future-Boy’s hand twenty-four-seven to keep the voices out of her head?” Selma couldn’t imagine.
“Yeah.”
The thought sunk in. “How is that working out?”
“I-I don’t really know. It’s not like I can pull her aside and ask what she’s thinking... or how he’s behaving.”
“Is he being cool about it? I can’t imagine what he’s thinking.”
“He’s probably thinking he’s stuck. He let her go for a moment yesterday and she was instantly ill.” Helen lowered her voice and placed a hand over Selma’s. “Between you and me…I think he’s the guy Lora told her about.”
“The one who saves her?”
“Has to be. She’s different around him. She smiles. Can carry on a conversation.”
Selma couldn’t remember being in the woman’s presence for more than an hour in the past. “The emotional pull of others is gone?”
“Dormant, I think. Certainly tolerable. What her gift should be, if you ask me. Simon told me she was like this years ago. Before Grainna.”
“That’s wonderful.”
Helen’s sigh told Selma her friend wasn’t so sure. “What?”
“I’m worried. Something happened yesterday, right before Kincaid let her go that makes me think something awful is going to happen very soon.”
Her own forbearing of the day’s events sent shivers over her. “What happened?”
“Amber and Kincaid were outside walking. A crow watched them and freaked Amber out.”
“Crows are often mistaken as a bad omen. That doesn’t mean anything.”
Helen shook her head. “No. This crow wasn’t alone and was controlled by someone. A Druid. They were watching them. Kincaid told us that in the future this house is filled with Druids in order to fight off Others.”
“Others…what others?”
“Druids not leading noble lives. People who found out about us. Oh, I don’t know. It sounds like this house is a fortress for those inside. He suggested we start to build that stronghold now. This morning, he encouraged Simon to acquire the funds to buy out the neighbors’ properties.”
“Seriously?”
Helen nodded. “In his time, the fortress is four times as large. The property anyway. The house changes, but it’s the walls around the place that extend to damn near the interstate.”
“That’s five miles away.”
“I know.”
Selma sat back...paused. “Makes sense.”
“Does it?”
“Yeah…if Amber wasn’t surrounded by the neighbors maybe she wouldn’t be having such a hard time.”
Helen frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“None of us did. With the recession and the prices of houses dropping like crazy, now would be the perfect time to buy. Maybe the buffer will help in the future.”
Selma thought for a while then asked, “So who controlled the crows?”
“We have no idea,” Helen told her. “It seriously bugged Kincaid. And I don’t think that guy bugs easily.”
“He’s a big man with big weapons.”
“And a huge power. His shield is stronger than a vault in Fort Knox.”
“Really?” Selma asked.
“Yeah.”
They sat there for a few minutes, both staring away from each other and not speaking.
Helen snapped her head toward her and held her stomach at the same time. “Why are you here?”
“Do I need a reason?”
“No…but you’re not here by accident.”
The problem with having her world filled with Druids was the realization that secrets were impossible to keep. “I feel like someone is watching me. I’m being paranoid.” Selma told her about the email, about the post office. “Paranoid. The guy in the post office didn’t look at me twice.”
“Never disregard your sixth sense.”
Funny, the quote was one Selma has used in her book. “I know. Which is why I’m here I guess. I’d have bothered Jake, but he’s at work.”
Helen lifted her eyebrows a few times. “Jake, huh?”
They talked about him, his stoic disposition, and general “assholiness”.
“You can always stay here,” Helen told her. “I’m sure Mrs. Dawson wouldn’t mind.”
“I couldn’t.”
Helen shook her head. “Mayb
e when Amber was plagued with all our feelings you needed to stay away…but not anymore.”
“The guy in the email is just ticked his girl hooked up with someone else and I’m just being paranoid. I know it.”
“I don’t know, Selma. There’s a reason you’re here, and I don’t think it’s paranoia.”
Selma painted on a smile and pretended to blow off the feeling of being watched.
****
Hours later, after visiting with Amber, Future-Boy, and his friend, Giles, Selma returned home and worked her way into her evening routine. She popped her dinner into the microwave and tossed a salad while she watched the evening news.
“…the scene was out of a Hollywood macabre script,” the reporter said. “Although the police aren’t reporting details of the crime scene, it’s safe to say the blood-bath reported by the neighbor had ritual written all over it.”
Selma lowered the salad dressing in her hand and willed the volume of the TV to increase.
Police activity outside an apartment building filled the screen. The coroner pushed a gurney past the camera, and a second one followed.
Selma blinked and turned back to her dinner.
“This kind of horror hasn’t affected Bullhead City in years.”
Her gaze snapped back to the screen.
“The ties to Southern California stem from the male victim. Victor Morales was a veteran of the Army once based at Camp Pendleton. His friends say he’d recently re-united with his high school sweetheart, and the two planned to marry. Instead of their families celebrating their union, they will be planning their funerals.”
Liquid dripped down her arm, and Selma noticed the dressing emptying from the bottle.
Her sixth sense raced up her spine, edging toward terror. The news switched to the weather as if the people in the previous story meant nothing.
Selma dropped the empty blue cheese dressing bottle, snatched her purse from the counter, and ran out of her apartment.
Aware of everyone, everything around her, she managed to shove into the driver’s seat of her car and turn the key.
Without direction, she found herself in front of Jake’s home standing at the front door with salad dressing sticking to her fingers. She kept looking behind her as noise from inside Jake’s home caught her attention.
Highland Protector (MacCoinnich Time Travels Book Five) Page 11