by Tina Folsom
The timbre of his voice reverberated in her chest as if he’d used her ribs to make the sound. “Yes,” she murmured, feeling breathless all of a sudden.
She tried to shake off the feeling of lightheadedness. Why did she suddenly feel so dazed? She’d met good-looking men before and had never been so tongue-tied. Somehow she knew her reaction to him had nothing to do with his looks, but with the feeling of recognition.
He saved you in your dream.
It couldn’t be. She knew lots about dreams, about the fact that you couldn’t dream of a face you’d never seen before. That dreams were merely a way for your mind to work through the things you’d experienced during the day. But she also knew that her nightmares were different. That they showed her things that couldn’t possibly exist. But if he was the man from her nightmare, the man who’d slain the green-eyed monsters, then why was he standing in her shop now?
She wasn’t in the middle of one of her nightmares. She hadn’t felt the pain that preluded them. She knew she was lucid. She had to be wrong about him. He was just another customer. One who’d clearly not seen the sign in the door that said she was on her lunch break.
“Take a seat,” she blurted out, even though she’d planned to tell him to come back after her break.
“A seat?” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard her.
She pointed to the table and the two chairs. “Yes, for your tarot reading. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because you have questions. What’s your name?”
“Logan,” he said slowly, walking toward the table even slower, as if he was reconsidering his visit.
She’d seen that hesitation in first-time clients before. It had taken all their courage to come, and then, when they were inside the shop, they faltered and left. But Logan didn’t strike her as the kind of person whose courage suddenly left him. No, it was something else. As if somehow he didn’t really want to know the answer to his question.
Winter sat down and waited until Logan had taken the seat opposite her. “The reading is forty dollars. I hope that’s okay?”
He nodded. “No problem.”
She took the deck of cards and handed it to him. “Shuffle them.”
She watched his hands as he did so. Long fingers, clean nails, yet these were not the hands of a man who worked in an office. Too many scars, too many injuries, too many calluses. He worked with his hands, with his entire body. She could imagine how he must look when he worked, his upper body bare, his muscles flexing, sweat making his skin glisten. She imagined her hands sliding over the tanned ridges…
Oh God, what was wrong with her? She felt like a bitch in heat.
She coughed.
“When should I stop?” Logan asked.
His question made her wonder how long she’d been staring at him, objectifying him, imagining him half-naked. “Uh, now is good.”
He placed the deck on the purple velvet.
“Cut the deck,” Winter instructed.
He followed her command and waited. Winter took the cards and laid out a Horseshoe Spread between them, glad to have something to do with her hands.
“Tell me your question, Logan.” She looked up from the cards and found him staring at her.
~ ~ ~
He should have listened to Manus, who’d suggested approaching her invisibly, taking her out without her ever knowing what was happening to her. But Logan hadn’t listened, because eliminating an innocent wasn’t a task he took lightly. It was an irreversible step, and therefore he had to be sure that he was doing the right thing. It meant he had to confirm that she truly knew about the Stealth Guardians and presented a danger.
As sentinel, the leader of this mission, he’d overridden Manus’s protest and ordered him to stay outside in the car and watch for any demon activity. Grudgingly, Manus had agreed.
Logan had waited until Winter had locked up for lunch to make sure they would be alone. He’d used his supernatural skill of passing through solid objects to enter the shop. Considering the report on her had claimed she was mentally unstable, he knew he could tell her she’d forgotten to lock the door with such conviction that she’d doubt her own recollections. It hadn’t been necessary, because she hadn’t questioned him on that point.
Instead, she’d stared at him. Just like she was staring at him now.
“Your question,” she prompted.
“I have an important decision to make. I need to know if I’m making the right one,” he said, because he had to give her something so she wouldn’t get suspicious of him.
Winter nodded and turned over the first card. He didn’t even glance at it. Instead he looked back at the various drawings that hung on the walls. One was the same depiction of the Callanish Stones Barclay had shown him on his cell phone, another the drawing of a council member’s ceremonial dagger. There were a few more drawings, all black chalk on a white background.
“You’re both giving orders and taking orders,” Winter said and briefly looked up from the card.
He nodded.
She dropped her gaze back to the cards, and turned over another one, while Logan used the time to let his eyes wander to the wall behind her, where a door with the word Private led to the remainder of the small townhouse. He was about to look away, when he noticed the markings above the door frame: runes. The same kind of runes that adorned the Stealth Guardian compounds. The report hadn’t made any mention of them. But if Winter knew what runes looked like, she already knew too much.
“This time you’re not sure the order you’ve received should be followed.”
Logan snapped his head back to Winter and noticed a frown on her face. As if she saw something she couldn’t make sense of. As a true psychic, could she see what he was thinking, what he was planning? Because now that he’d seen the runes, seen for himself that just by her careless displaying of their secrets, she could harm their species, he knew his decision was made. He had to follow the order.
“You’re struggling within you,” Winter added.
No, she couldn’t see inside him, or she would see that his struggle was over, his decision made. What she was doing was the usual mumbo-jumbo any tarot card reader dished up for their clients. A few meaningless sentences that could be interpreted any way. But the things she’d drawn, the things she was displaying on the walls of her shop, those were her visions, those were the truth.
“Fighting, struggling…” she stammered and pressed one hand to her temple.
More dramatics. He had to hand it to her, she was a great salesperson.
Her lips quivered, and her breathing accelerated. “No, not again, no…” Her face distorted in pain and she lifted both her hands to her face, pressing them against her head as if trying to stop it from exploding.
Alarmed, Logan said, “What’s wrong?”
She shot up from the table, staggering, knocking her chair over in the process. “No! Please, no!”
Logan jumped up, just as Winter grabbed at the table for support, only managing to get hold of the purple velvet. Off balance, she fell backwards, sending the tarot cards flying. Logan lurched forward and caught her not a second too soon. They both crashed to the floor, but Winter landed on him and not the hard floor, where she could have injured herself.
“Winter, are you alright?”
She thrashed in his arms, but he knew that it wasn’t to escape. She was in the middle of what somebody else might have interpreted as an epileptic fit, though it wasn’t quite as violent. But he knew better: she was having one of her visions. The report had indicated that because she was unaware of what was happening to her, she was most likely fighting the visions physically, which manifested as a full-body spasm.
“You’ve gotta let go, Winter,” he said softly and brushed a few strands of her dark hair out of her face.
He knew now was the perfect time to slip her the poison he’d brought. It was painless and almost instantaneous. Within a few seconds she would be dead, and she wouldn’t even know. It was how he’d planned
it. But to take her life now, when she was at her most vulnerable, repulsed him, though he knew it was his duty.
Would he hesitate if she weren’t a beautiful woman? Would he hesitate if she weren’t so sensual, so fascinating? He knew he wouldn’t. But looking at her now as he cradled and comforted her, doubts rose in him. Doubts about his orders, his duty.
With Winter in his arms, he rose. She was still shaking, but less so now, as if the vision was fading. He carried her to the door, opened it and walked through, kicking it shut behind him. He passed the short hallway, which opened to a live-in kitchen. A table with four chairs stood in the middle of the large room, a ragged sofa against one wall. He lowered Winter onto the sofa just as she opened her eyes again.
Their deep blue color almost blinded him, and he froze in his movements, still holding her as if in a lover’s embrace. Which of course it wasn’t. This woman would never have another lover, because she would die today. For a moment, regret flooded him. But then he caught himself. He was here to do his duty to his kin, to protect his species from danger. He’d sworn it many decades ago, and he’d never broken that oath. He wouldn’t break it now. No matter how hard it would be to kill this woman.
Winter looked at him awkwardly.
“You collapsed,” he hastened to explain.
She swallowed visibly and nodded. Instinctively, Logan released her from his hold, and she quickly sat up.
“I’m sorry,” she said, avoiding his gaze.
What had she seen? Did it have something to do with him? Or his brethren? Could he perhaps get some more information from her before he had to execute his plan?
“What happened?” he asked. “Is it epilepsy?” He knew it wasn’t, but he wanted her to talk.
She shook her head. “No, no.” She made a dismissive hand movement. “Just an episode of…” She hesitated, then cleared her throat.
He could see the lie before it left her lips.
“... dizziness. I probably need to hydrate and eat something.”
She wasn’t going to share her secrets with a stranger. Logan couldn’t blame her. And she’d just given him the opening he needed.
“I’ll get you a glass of water.”
“You don’t have to. I can do that myself.” She made a motion to rise.
“I insist.” He turned to walk toward the sink. “Where do you keep your glasses?”
“In the cupboard over the sink.”
He opened the cupboard and took out a glass.
“But don’t use the water from the tap. It tastes like chlorine. There is filtered water in a pitcher in the fridge.”
He turned to the refrigerator, which was located on the other wall and realized that opening its door hid his actions from Winter entirely. He filled the glass with filtered water, then placed the pitcher back on the shelf, but before closing the door, he reached into his inside pocket and retrieved the small vial and emptied its contents into the glass. The poison was colorless and odorless. Winter wouldn’t notice it.
After placing the empty vial back in his pocket, Logan closed the refrigerator and turned back to Winter. She’d gotten up and was walking to the kitchen table, where papers, crayons, and other knickknacks were strewn about.
“I’m sorry it’s messy. I wasn’t expecting any visitors,” she apologized and grabbed some of the sheets of paper to put them in a pile.
More drawings like the ones in her shop. Yet different. On these she’d used colored chalk and crayons in addition to black.
“These your drawings?” he asked and moved closer to get a better look at them.
“Yes.” She shrugged. “I’m not really talented. But it helps me.”
“May I?” Logan reached past her to pick up one of the drawings.
“Do you draw too?”
He set down the glass of water. “A bit,” he lied and reached for the next drawing in the stack. “Expressionism? Realism? What are you drawing?”
Another shrug. “Just things that come into my head.”
She spread the stack, drawing Logan’s attention to one sheet with a black circle surrounded by a swirling mass of fog or smoke. Inside the circle were dots of green, neon green. He looked closer. Demon eyes. Winter had visions of the demons.
“This looks interesting. What is it?” he asked, though he knew it for what it was: a demon’s vortex. A portal a demon cast in order to travel from the Underworld to the mortal world.
“Just some lights in the fog,” Winter said casually, too casually. She was afraid of the image. Her hand shook as she shoved the picture underneath another one, bringing a different drawing into the foreground.
Logan’s eyes fell on it. He held his breath. It wasn’t another vortex, it was something much more important—that is, if he was interpreting it right. “What is this?”
“Oh, tunnels, underground tunnels. Like a maze,” she replied, her voice scratchy now. She reached for the glass.
He bent over the table. It was a map. A map of the Underworld. He knew it instinctively. Virginia and Wesley, the only two non-demons who’d ever entered the Underworld and escaped it alive, had reported that the demons’ lair was a maze of interconnected tunnels, but they’d only seen a small part of it and hadn’t been able to bring a permanent record of it back. But this, Winter’s drawing, seemed much more extensive, maybe even complete.
Winter didn’t just have visions of the Stealth Guardians and their fortifications, she also saw demons and was able to draw their lair. She was valuable beyond all comprehension. If her visions could be focused, the Stealth Guardians would have a powerful ace up their sleeve.
A movement in the corner of his eye made him snap his head to the side.
Winter was bringing the glass to her lips, about to drink the poisoned water.
Shit!
He shot his arm across the table in front of Winter as if trying to reach for something and stumbled on purpose so he crashed against her. The fake fall knocked the glass out of Winter’s hand. It fell to the floor and shattered there, the water spilling on the wood floor where the poison could do no harm.
Winter let out a gasp and braced herself against the edge of the table.
Relieved, he exhaled. Nobody would be drinking poison today.
“Oh, so sorry,” he apologized to Winter. “I’m such a klutz sometimes. But I got so excited about these drawings. I think you’re wrong about not being good.” He was babbling, but he had to make her think that he was a hapless idiot so she wouldn’t suspect what he’d been about to do: snuff out her life.
Change of plans. Winter needed to be protected. At all costs.
And in order to do that he needed to gain her confidence.
5
Logan insisted on cleaning up the mess that he’d made, and Winter let him, watching him as he carefully disposed of the glass shards and wiped the floor dry.
When he was done, he looked up at her, a hesitant smile on his face. “Sorry again.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s just a glass.” She rose from her chair, feeling much better now.
The nightmare had been a powerful one, yet she’d managed to force it back, taking strength from Logan. Odd, how his arms around her had helped her calm herself during the episode, making her ordeal shorter and less scary than normal. Maybe if she had somebody who cared about her, somebody who’d be by her side during the nightmares, she would finally be able to conquer them and banish them from her life.
“Are you alright?” Logan asked, concern in his voice and a warmth in his eyes that hadn’t been there earlier.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine, really. I can continue your tarot reading now. I’ll lay a new spread for—”
His hand on her forearm stopped her. “It’s not necessary.”
She tried to ignore the way his hand made her feel, how it calmed her. How she wanted him to never let go. “But you came here with a question.”
“It’s not important anymore.”
For the first time Logan smiled, and
it was as if her entire kitchen suddenly lit up. Not only was he handsome, he had the most disarming smile she’d ever seen. Like a light in the darkness. Again the image of the man who’d beheaded the green-eyed monster of her nightmare flashed across her inner eye, but this time she tried to concentrate on the face of her rescuer. But before she could focus on her savior, he’d turned his back to her. She couldn’t see his face. Only the back of his head and his short, dark hair.
“You still seem a little dazed,” Logan said.
His hand on her arm was gone. She blinked and smiled at him, trying to ease his concern. “I’m perfectly well. Thank you. May I offer you something to drink? Or to eat?” Just so he would stay a few minutes longer and let her enjoy his company.
When he hesitated, she quickly said, “It’s okay. I’m sure you’ve got somewhere to be. I shouldn’t keep you. You’ve done enough.”
“I don’t have anywhere to be. Not right now anyway,” he said. He shifted his weight as if he was uncomfortable—or nervous. “It’s just… there’s something I need to talk to you about.” He motioned to the table.
She looked over her shoulder, but saw nothing of concern. Only her drawings, still strewn about. When she looked back at Logan, she noticed that he’d stepped closer, his expression unreadable.
“Those drawings,” he started. “I know what they are.”
Her breath hitched. Logan knew that the drawings were part of her art therapy and were meant to help her deal with her nightmares? But how? Doctor-patient confidentiality should have prevented her psychiatrist from breathing a word to anybody. So how did this stranger know? Or was he guessing? Was Logan going through something similar? Was he trying to tell her that he was just as crazy as she? That he was afflicted with the same disease? Was that why he’d been comforting her, knowing what it was like when the nightmares struck?
“They’re nothing,” she insisted.
“Listen,” Logan said calmly, “I know it’s difficult for you to talk about this to a… well, to a stranger, but if you’d let me explain.”
Winter narrowed her eyes, suspicion creeping up her spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think it’s better if you leave now. As I said before, I’m on my lunch break, and you’re not interested in me continuing the reading.” She pointed to the door. “Please.”