by Cait London
Tonight, they slid into one picture—a small boy, maybe eight years old, with black compelling eyes, stared back at her. The picture began to move, slowly sliding into other images. The boy was holding someone else’s hand—an adult’s….
Unable to stop, Leona let herself circle the images as if caught in a gray, glittering whirlpool. She caught a single red thread and held it. She let it draw her deeper into the funnel….
Pain tore through her heart as she saw her father. Daniel Bartel looked down at the boy, and their stares locked. Daniel frowned slightly, but he didn’t look away. The next image was of that same boy, crossing that highway in front of Daniel’s car, then suddenly stopping. He stood and waited for the impact that never came, because Daniel had swerved, taking his life, instead of the boy’s…. It wasn’t Dad’s fault! That boy wasn’t actually there! He’d put that image into Dad’s mind!
With a gasp, Leona mentally gripped the sides of the funnel she was looking though to the past. Working her mind back to reality, she forced herself out of the vision. Shaken, she stood, bracing both hands on her desk and trying to catch her breath. That boy’s features mirrored the adult’s in Janice’s sketch, the same face that had come prowling through Leona’s nightmares.
Chilled, Leona wrapped her arms around herself. Did her mother know that Daniel had been deliberately imprinted with an image that would replay at a certain place on the highway, just as he was hurrying home?
Greer knew that face—she’d dreamed of it—the adult in the sketch. But did she know that the boy was instrumental in Daniel’s death?
“I’ve got to get control…Stop…think…focus,” Leona whispered. She turned up her meditation music and lay back down on her mat. Shaken by a journey she’d never taken before, her heart raced, and she tried to breathe slowly.
Stop…Think…Focus was the mantra her mother had taught the triplets, and now it sprang to Leona’s mind.
How had she known to slide into the stream of Janice’s mind, to follow the threads and latch on to that precious, clean warmth deep within the girl? How had she known to touch in a certain way, to soothe Janice’s frayed psyche?
Was she, in fact, potentially the strongest of her family? Perhaps even a match for her mother?
Did her mother know that Daniel’s death wasn’t an accident?
Leona opened her eyes to Greer’s and her sisters’ photographs just as a shadow passed by her living-room window. “If that creep is prowling around my house, I’m going to catch him.”
Easing out her back door, Leona opened the gate to her privacy fence and circled her house. Owen’s truck was in her driveway and he stood on her front porch. Suddenly, he placed a box on the front porch and sprinted toward the end of the block.
At the corner, he leaped over a row of shrubs and disappeared into the night. A tall man and evidently a runner, Owen had crossed the area quickly.
Puzzled, Leona picked up the box, which contained a new laptop, the manila envelope, and mixed bouquet next to it. She nuzzled the mixed bouquet of calla lilies and miniature red roses, then sat on a wooden Cape-Cod-style lawn chair to wait. And waiting wasn’t easy, not when she wanted to follow Owen. She smelled the bouquet, and whispered, “He can’t just drop off something like this, then run into the bushes. I’ll give Owen just one minute, then I’m going after him.”
Leona suddenly realized that she would follow Owen anywhere. The thought shocked her, her heart racing. She loved him. Not the gentle, tender kind alone, but with fierce layers of protection and need and excitement…. Owen was the other part of her. She’d been incomplete even in her marriage to Joel. Deep inside, she’d always known that a man like Owen would come one day, and now—
Owen suddenly reappeared on the sidewalk, his light short-sleeve shirt catching the streetlight. He spoke briefly to the Donaldsons, a young couple who were taking their German shepherd, Max, out for a walk. Owen crouched down to pet Max and Leona held her breath; Max wasn’t exactly a friendly dog. A “pound puppy,” Max had been mistreated and could react unexpectedly. Apparently, Owen was the exception, because the dog moved away from his owners and sat beside Owen.
When Owen stood, Max’s owners tugged on his leash, but the dog didn’t move. Fred Donaldson’s voice rose, the words indistinct, but the anger clear. He drew the leash taut, and Max barked, refusing to move. Owen crouched again and spoke to the dog. After a few moments, Max obediently returned to his owners, and the Donaldsons walked off into the night.
Owen stood and walked toward her home. As if alert to danger, he glanced warily at the night around him. As he came up her steps, he instantly found Leona sitting in the shadows. He reached for her, taking her to her feet. “Let’s go inside.”
“You’re lucky Max didn’t bite you. He’s nipped Fred. The Donaldsons are thinking about returning him to the pound. I’ll have to go around the back. Wait here.”
“He just needs a little one-on-one, and a lot more space. He’s confined all day in the house. He needs more running room in the backyard. In fact, he needs a lot of room to work off what happened to him.” Owen’s tone was grim as he took the laptop box. He looked at the crushed bouquet and grimaced. “I’ll come with you.”
Aware that he moved closely behind her, Leona turned to see Owen glancing out into the night again. “What’s going on?”
His open hand on her back pushed gently. “You tell me. You circled the house rather than coming to the front door.”
“I saw your shadow from the living-room window.”
“And you couldn’t wait for the doorbell? Don’t you know what could happen if you don’t ask who’s at the door?”
Apparently, the downside of having a protector around was the darned superior male attitude that came with him. At her back patio, Leona turned to face him. “Wait a minute. I don’t like being bossed around. You should have called. It’s ten o’clock—”
“It’s all about the attitude, isn’t it? Lady, you’ve got one.” Owen glanced at the moon, rather than at his wristwatch. His hand, riding low at her back, pushed her gently toward the door again. “It’s closer to eleven. I stopped at an electronics store. I wanted a laptop to work on tomorrow just to get some things done before we relax. I thought we could each do some work—and then relax.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said relax.” Leona caught an image of her naked and straddling Owen’s darker body, and knew exactly the source of that image. Owen’s body was already hard; her senses snagged something from his that concerned her breasts and calla lilies and rosebuds.
She studied him, and Owen looked slightly embarrassed. “Ah…relax, sleep in, have a late breakfast, whatever you want to do. I’m sorry I didn’t have time to call before I came. Then I saw someone suspicious circling around in a black SUV when I pulled into your driveway. I thought I might be able to cut through the woods and catch him off guard, but I lost him. Let’s get in the house.”
“I’m inviting you in, am I?” Of course, she was. If someone out there in the night, the driver of that black SUV, had harmed Owen…. She shivered, wanting to wrap her arms around Owen and hold him tight and safe. Instead she entered the back door with Owen close behind her. In her utility room, Leona watched him lock the door and shoot the dead bolt. “Do you have any idea who that might be in the SUV?”
“If I did, I’d already have had a little discussion with him.” Owen pushed his hand through his hair, glanced at the flowers, and grimaced. “Sorry about the flowers.”
“They’re lovely.” Leona tried to smooth the poor crushed and bruised petals, the broken stems. She noted the Denver florist’s label on the plastic and clutched the bouquet close to her. They were the most beautiful flowers she’d ever seen.
In the soft light of her utility room, Leona noted how tired Owen looked, lines deep around his mouth. She wanted to touch him, her need to comfort guiding her hands. But Owen had other things on his mind, placing the laptop box on her washing machine. The bouquet followed. The
n he closed the utility-room door to the kitchen and agilely moved to stand on the dryer. Unscrewing the overhead light fixture, he studied it for a moment and then reattached it.
“What’s going on, Owen?”
“Just checking for cameras, sound equipment….” He jumped down, then scooped her into his arms. “Now for you.”
As his lips fused to hers, igniting her senses, Leona’s hands gripped his hair. The poise she’d planned when seeing Owen again flew away as the hunger for him enveloped her.
“I promised myself that this time would be different,” he whispered roughly against her ear before gently biting it. His hands were already sliding beneath her T-shirt, stroking her body. She sighed as his hands cupped her breasts.
Leona turned her head quickly, found his lips and slid her tongue inside his mouth. She needed all of him, her body aching as she found him with her hand. He was hard and ready and—something else was in his jeans. She slid both hands into his pockets and withdrew several foil packages. When Leona looked at Owen, he seemed wary. “Had plans for these, did you?” she asked.
“Big plans.”
“Mm. Everything is big about you.” Leona unsnapped his jeans and eased the zipper down to hold him. “Did you miss me or not?”
Why had she asked that? Why was it so important to know that Owen needed her as much as she needed him? Why couldn’t she just take what she wanted and forget the rest? Because with Owen, “the rest” was important to her.
“Dammit, Leona,” Owen groaned as she slipped out of her pants and took him into her.
Inside her now, Owen trembled and paused, his eyes closing. “You just ruined my plans,” he stated roughly.
Leona suddenly felt lighter, happier. “I did? It doesn’t feel like it.”
“Flowers…telling you how pretty you are. All that good stuff, before…ah, this…”
She cradled his face in her hands and nibbled at his lips. The exhilarating sensation of being pure female, desirable, and flirtatious couldn’t be better. Add sensually playful into the mix, and she was truly enjoying this man. “Oh, that’s so sweet.”
Owen’s nostrils flared, his expression tightened, those gray eyes slitted down at her. “Yeah, sweet. That’s not how I’m feeling now.”
“You hurried to see me, didn’t you?” Leona studied Owen’s expression, intrigued suddenly by this side of him she didn’t know. Connected with him, she instantly understood everything: He’d hurried to her—because he’d wanted to see her, to hold her, to make love with her. It was sex and lovemaking and more. She knew now that she gave him a warmth and a home base he had not had before. Her senses tingled slightly with a happy glow of a woman whose man had come home to her—the age-old sense of a fulfillment wrapping warmly around her.
Known as a woman with “attitude” and as a self-reliant professional to some, Leona savored this moment. As she leaned her head on Owen’s shoulder, her lashes fluttered against his throat. He held very still, but his fingers pressed into her bottom, easing her closer.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’m not complaining. Yes, I did hurry—but I had a few things…” He groaned and eased deeper, his body hot against hers. “Ah…do we have to talk about this now?”
Leona brought his face to hers and rubbed his nose with hers. He looked so distracted, so hot and hungry. But something else emanated from his energy; it was uncertain and shy, almost boyish. Leona welcomed that energy tidbit, cherishing it, a small gift too precious to ignore. She couldn’t resist a flurry of tiny kisses across his hot cheeks. “You’re embarrassed, Owen Wolf Shaw.”
“Correction: If you don’t stop playing around, I’m going to embarrass myself pretty soon,” he stated grimly.
Leona smiled and moved her hands down to smooth his butt. Muscles contracted, sending a hard thrust into her. Owen watched her warily, his body trembling. “I thought we might shower together—later. Much later.”
His body locked with hers, pulsing within her. The suggestion seemed at odds with their lovemaking. “That would be nice.”
“I intended to clean up after the trip. But—It’s okay, then, if we shower together?” he asked almost formally with just that little thrust to keep her simmering.
“How nice. You want to conserve water,” Leona teased after she caught her breath. Strange, she thought distantly, even as her body moved into a rhythm to match Owen’s. Strange, that he would ask if they could shower together. And somehow very nice.
“I can’t play this game, if I don’t know all the pieces…and there are a lot missing. Fill me in.”
Owen leaned back against the kitchen counter. Placing Leona’s brooch onto the counter beside her, he crossed his arms, his narrowed gray eyes pinning her.
It was six in the morning and they’d slept little. Sunlight from the kitchen window stroked his broad bare chest, that six-pack stomach. The sagging waistband of his jeans did little to settle Leona’s simmering need of him. But she sensed Owen would wait all day for her answers. Sighing, she filled their glasses, her hand trembling on the pitcher of orange juice.
He glanced at the juice she had just spilled on the counter. “Why are you nervous around me?”
Leona took her time wiping away the spill. After making love to Owen several times during the night, she should be sated.
Uncomfortable with her own desire, and with having a man occupy her space, her bathroom, and her life, she said, “You’re very direct. I’m not used to that.”
“Get used to it.”
When Leona turned to Owen, prepared to tell him that he wasn’t giving her orders, he brushed her damp hair away from her temple, his fingertip tracing her eyebrow before he crossed his arms again. “Your eyes are that gold color. You’re mad.”
Leona tightened the belt on her cream robe, and Owen’s eyes immediately focused on her breasts. The reminder of his lips on her skin took away her breath. She lifted the drink to her lips and sipped slowly, watching him over the rim of the glass. “Stop that. You know what you’re doing.”
He watched her lick her lips. “So do you. Tell me about that brooch, Firstborn. Tell me what you dreamed last night and why you cried out, ‘I’m sorry.’ Sorry for what?”
Nine
“I’M SORRY FOR SO MANY THINGS.” LEONA STARED AT THE large glossy photograph of the original Viking brooch that Owen had placed on her kitchen counter next to her replica.
In the filtered morning light from the windows, the fragments of her life seemed to churn around her. She traced the photograph with her fingertip. “When we were ten, I should have told my sisters that the parapsychologists were coming. The night before, I dreamed they would. I should have told Joel that I’d seen him crushed in my dreams. But I didn’t want to be like—”
“Your mother, a psychic. Your grandmother, who drank and gradually went insane. I get that. But you couldn’t have helped any of that, Leona.”
“Maybe I could have. But I didn’t. I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. I’m sorry for not saving my sisters, my husband, and just maybe my father, Owen.” Leona rubbed her cold hands. To avoid Owen’s puzzled frown, she walked to the washer and collected the crushed bouquet. Leona ached for the bruised calla lilies, for the tiny rose petals that littered the floor.
In their hurry to make love, the bouquet had been forgotten. Now she hurried to place the wilted bouquet into an elegant crystal vase filled with water. The vase was tall and contemporary, and she traced the delicate flutes.
Her fingertip trailed across the kitchen counter to the photograph. “We’re dealing with a psychic vampire, Owen…one who wants to destroy us. I saw—in my mind, I saw an eight-year-old boy fixating upon my father. The boy had help, implanting a scene into my father’s mind that caused his accident.”
Owen cursed softly. “Eight years old and that strong?”
“He had help from his father, I think.”
Shaken by the facts she had just voiced, Leona moved into Owen’s arms. Held safe a
gainst him, her head on his shoulder, she whispered, “I’m starting to spin out of control, and it’s taking over, just like Grams.”
“You won’t let that happen.” Owen stroked her hair and nuzzled her cheek. “Go on.”
“At a certain point on the highway, Dad would have imagined he saw that boy run in front of his car. When I—saw him, the boy, he was holding someone’s hand. If someone else with that same hatred and drive and ability held his hand, and joined forces with him—it’s possible. If he’s the Borg-descendant I think he is, he’s been well tutored and has teethed on hatred. He’s already proven he can direct others to do his dirty work.”
Leona ignored the tears streaming down her cheeks and buried her face against Owen’s throat. His pulse was strong and good against her skin; his hand smoothed her hair, calming her. She shuddered, unaccustomed to releasing her thoughts and her life to others, without that family connection. “He wants that brooch. He believes that killing our bloodline and possessing the brooch will give him everything—the world. He believes he will have Aisling’s power, and she was very gifted.”
“He, as in Janice’s sketch,” Owen repeated darkly. He leaned back against the counter with Leona in his arms. “Go on.”
Within his arms, Leona sensed how powerful they could be together. “You terrify me.”
“So what? You terrify me. What does the brooch’s inscription mean?”
“The usual brag of a warrior: House of the Wolf, Thorgood the Great, whose mighty hand holds his people safe, who will kill those who defy him. His line will be long and powerful, reigning after him, for he who holds the wolf, holds the power.”