Midnight Crusader

by Nancy Gideon

  "So what's her story?"

  "Whose?"

  "Charmaine."

  "I don't really know anything about her except her timing couldn't be better."

  "She's got some sweet kids, smart and not too sassy."

  Naomi's smile grew wistful. “She's lucky there."

  "Think she'd go out with a hulk like me?"

  Naomi quickly controlled her surprise and gave the bodyguard an accessing look. “Well, she could certainly do worse.” Gentle, loyal, honest, caring. Yes, a woman could do worse. “You won't know unless you ask."

  She was looking about the big empty auditorium and finally had to admit to herself that she was looking for Gabriel. She'd seen little of him since he'd saved her from the encounter with Jeannie. And they'd shared a kiss. Memory of that exchange warmed through her only to be followed by the coldly vacant reality that he'd made no attempt to contact her since then. Made no attempt to explore the sparks their flint on steel had made with that first enjoyable union. She could blame Marcus for his overzealousness in protecting her, but Gabriel McGraw didn't seem the type to be scared away from something he wanted.

  But something had spooked him, when their kiss should have progressed on to more pleasurable pursuits. She wanted to know what it was. Was it Charmaine? Was it her? Did the idea of starting something personal with a woman slightly skewed off her mental center scare him the way a bruiser with a gun couldn't? For the answer she could wait until he contacted her again. Or she could find him and ask him herself.

  She could if she had the slightest idea how to get hold of him.

  Would Charmaine know? She'd known to pick him up outside her house. She'd come to get a job with his blessing. Tamping down the quick blaze of jealousy with its wont to catch like a wildfire and race out of control, Naomi decided action rather than reaction was required.

  "Get the girls started on dress rehearsal, Marcus. I've got a couple of things to follow up on."

  "You got it, Miss Bright."

  "It's Naomi. You can call me Naomi."

  He seemed startled then pleased. “Naomi."

  * * * *

  The hall leading back to the dressing rooms was narrow and not as well lighted as she would have liked. Naomi made a mental note to speak to the electricians. Rehearsal would start in about an hour. If Charmaine wasn't already in the dressing room, she'd leave a note to be paged when the choreographer came in. She'd worry about what to say then.

  Just as she'd worry about what to say to Gabriel when confronted by the problem. Until then she'd focus on her new mantra: Action not reaction. She couldn't continue to live her life waiting for others to make the first move on her behalf.

  There were no lights on in the dressing room. When Naomi threw the switch by the door the mega-bright vanity bulbs at the makeup table blazed to momentarily blind her. A flutter of movement breezed past her, and she found herself catching at a long white veil.

  At first she thought the thin gossamer was a wedding veil, but upon closer examination, she saw that it was old, very old, like the long tails of fabric that fluttered from a medieval lady's horned headdress. What it was doing in with the Jane of the Jungle attire designed for the show?

  Then she heard the music.

  With the crash of a troubadour's tambourine, the laughter began, softly then with increasing volume. Conversation sprang up all about her, loud and boisterous. Almost clear enough for her to make out the words. Almost. Her ears told her she stood in the center of a large, animated gathering. Her eyes argued that she was alone. Which to believe, what she heard or what she didn't see? Someone called out her name, but when she looked about, she saw only the empty room.

  Not real. Not real.

  Putting her hands to her ears to shut out what she knew wasn't there, couldn't be there, Naomi turned in a tight circle, seeking, praying for any explanation for what could not be explained. Except as madness.

  The sound crowded in, intensifying until it thundered within her skull, beating against her brain, thudding against the backs of her eyelids. She slid to her knees with a whimper.

  Make it stop.

  The pain in her head grew agonizing. Blackness seeped up to steal away her awareness of the time and place and even of self. In a void of all but darkness and the insistent sounds, she drifted upon a sea of distress. Even as she struggled to stay afloat, she wondered how much easier it might be to just relax and go under.

  "Naomi?"

  She glanced up. For a moment, the light dazzled, then became the gleaming pale gold of Gabriel McGraw's head. Gabriel, yes, but not McGraw. He stood in an awkward hesitancy before her, clad in a hip-length linen tunic with brightly colored borders over snug-fitting breeches. A cloak hung negligently off his shoulders. And on him, the odd garment seemed strangely suited.

  She sat on a stool, hand folded upon a velvet draped lap. Her hair was down, spinning in loose waves about her, forming her own cloak as it trailed nearly to the floor. She'd been nervously twining several locks of it about her fingers while waiting. Waiting for ... him. For Gabriel.

  "Did you think I would leave on the morrow without bidding you fare-thee-well?"

  His image glistened against the torchlight. She'd been crying.

  "'Tis not words of parting I wish to hear. I have spent my years sending men off to war. Too many have not returned to hear my welcome home. ‘Tis not an occasion to celebrate."

  "You mourn me before I've gone."

  He said it lightly, making sport of her concern. His smile, usually so charming, mocked the heaviness in her heart. Yet when she tucked her head so he couldn't view her pain, his fingertips skimmed beneath her chin, lifting her teary gaze to meet his. The laughter was gone.

  "I will return to you. Then we shall have reason to celebrate, my love."

  My love...

  A hand touched her arm. She screamed, not because the contact frightened but because she wasn't sure the source of that contact was real.

  "Miss Bright? Naomi?"

  She opened her eyes, looking up through a glaze of tears into the alarmed face of Charmaine Johnson.

  "Do you hear it?” she whispered.

  "Hear what?"

  Naomi paused then laughed weakly. “It doesn't matter. It's gone now."

  "Lordy, girl, you're pale as a ghost. Sit yourself down, and I'll go fetch somebody."

  Naomi gripped her forearm and uttered a forceful, “No.” She couldn't let news of her instability spread. It couldn't get back to Zanlos. “I'll be all right. Just a little dizzy spell."

  "That was some sort of spell all right, but lightheadedness it wasn't. You were talking to folks who weren't there. And from what you were saying, they haven't been there for a lot of years."

  "W-what do you mean?"

  Charmaine lifted her to her feet and guided her back onto one of the vanity table stools. She kept Naomi's cold hands clutched in her own. “Honey, something's put a terrible fright into you. Maybe if you tell me what it is, I can help. I know all about being scared and alone, and it's an ugly place to be, believe me. You're not alone, baby. You can trust me. We have a mutual friend."

  And at that moment, what Naomi needed more than anything was someone to believe her. And to believe in her.

  "I think I'm losing my mind."

  "Oh, I doubt that. From all that I've heard tell of you, you're the sanest one of all of us. The girls call you the Rock. Did you know that?"

  She shook her head, provoking the dampness gathered on her lashes to track down her chalk-white face in gleaming rivulets. “No, I didn't.” The knowledge warmed through her like a smooth shot of bourbon. The tears kept coming. She tried to wipe them away with the back of one trembling hand, but they only came faster. “They don't know me very well, do they?"

  "I think they know you better than you think. They know you well enough to depend on you."

  "I would never let them down,” she sniffled.

  "I know that, honey."

  "But I am, Charmaine
. Look at me, hiding from things that aren't there. Seeing things that haven't existed since the Thirteenth Century. And recognizing them, Charmaine. I recognize them. I know the names of the songs. I know I've worn the clothing. I swear most of the voices are familiar to me. How is that possible?"

  "Maybe they are familiar to you, sugar. Maybe these are places you've been and people you've seen."

  "What? What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying what do you know about past lives?"

  "You mean like from the late show? Or from the Nut House where people claim to have been Napoleon?"

  "No, baby. Like Shirley McLaine and we have lived before. It sounds like one of the lives you've lived before doesn't want to let go."

  "The things I dream are terrible things,” Naomi confessed. “There's such pain and loss and confusion."

  "These are things you experienced as another person in another lifetime.” She made it sound so reasonable, so commonplace. So acceptable.

  "Charmaine, I think I—she—whoever—killed herself."

  Charmaine sat back on her heels and nodded. “Well, that would explain it. Violent events, especially that bring death, leave a soul restless."

  "Where did you hear that?"

  Charmaine smiled, but her expression was secretive and wreathed in caution. “The late show."

  Naomi returned the smile shakily. “How do I find out more? And how do I get it to stop?"

  "Find out what it wants and finish whatever it's left unresolved."

  "How do I do that?” She couldn't believe she was actually believing this.

  "I'll check around for you, honey. I know some folks who dabble in the spirit world, not those phonies who take the tourists for money, but folks with a real gift.” Charmaine stopped abruptly and turned toward the door. There, Rita stood just within a cloak of shadows. Listening.

  How long had she been there?

  "Don't let me interrupt your little girl talk."

  Charmaine stood and regarded the icy-demeanored Rita with an easy smile. “We were just talking about superstitions and silly stuff like that. Miss Bright got a little scare coming back here by herself after getting spooked by that temple. Have you seen it now that it's finished?"

  "It's magnificent,” Rita proclaimed. “You can almost hear the drums and the shrieks of the human sacrifices."

  "Sacrifices?"

  That squeak came from Grace, who'd just stepped in, followed by Molly and Candice. Rita turned to them with a razor-sharp smile.

  "Oh yes. Didn't you hear the story, since we're into storytelling this evening. That temple isn't something built by Nevada architects to look like the real thing. It is the real thing, moved stone by stone up from Peru. Legend has it that the people there worshiped some god called the Fanged Deity. They'd appease it with gold, but occasionally it would call for a sacrifice of blood. Preferably a virgin."

  A nervous giggle, then Candice said, “That let's us off the hook, girls."

  "That's what our routine will lead up to. Who wants to be the first victim?” Rita pinned Grace with a penetrating stare. “How about you, Grace?

  While the girl paled and retreated a few involuntary steps, Charmaine scowled at the instigator of her fear. It was Naomi who spoke up to quiet the agitated mood.

  "None of that's been worked out yet. From what Kitty Parsons left in her notes, it's going to be a revolving honor. But no one has to do it if it makes them uncomfortable.” And she smiled reassuringly at the anxious dancer.

  "That's right,” Rita purred. “Heaven forbid that we try something challenging when we can stay safe and unnoticed. Isn't that right, Naomi?"

  Naomi fought not to wince at the cruel barb. Her voice relayed a confidence she didn't feel. “Not always. Sometimes the risk makes it worth the while."

  Rita's smile twisted thinly. How had she ever thought this woman was her friend? “Spoken with experience. Dress rehearsal in a half hour. I've got a call to make. Ladies, get busy."

  After she'd gone, Candice grumbled, “She's getting almost as bad as the Kitty Bitch. And I thought she was one of us."

  Nods and mumbles of agreement from the other girls couldn't take the sting of truth from Rita's words. Safe and unnoticed. Yes, that was Naomi's motto, all right.

  But that could change.

  "Charmaine, we need to talk some more after rehearsal."

  "You got it, honey."

  But as the rehearsal got started without Rita, who never returned to the stage, Charmaine took control of the routine, turning it into a sultry seduction of the stone idol standing watch at the foot of the tomb. From the way Marcus's stare followed the willowy dancer, Naomi had to restrain her smile and a pang of regret. Something told her their stoic bouncer was going to find the courage to approach the lovely choreographer before the night was over.

  Seeking her past could wait a bit longer while Charmaine and Marcus explored a potential future.

  Charmaine's daughters arrived toward the end of rehearsal. Marcus lifted the little one high so she could see her mother perform from a more unrestricted view. When Charmaine saw them, her concentration faltered for just an instant, and in her expression Naomi saw the envied purity of a mother's love. Something she would never experience with the damaged womb she held inside herself.

  What man would desire a woman who could bear him no fruit of their union? A child gave a man his immortality, and that gift was one she couldn't offer. She was as barren as she was bewildered by its cause. The doctor she'd seen for her mood swings and depression had confirmed it, though he had no answer either. He'd suggested gently that it appeared to be damage done by a violent sexual assault.

  Was that the secret her memory was trying to hide? Had a vicious rape stolen her fertility as well as her past?

  Was that what delving into her psyche would awaken, memories so cruel and brutal that her mind had blocked them from surfacing? If that was all that was there, would she be wiser to leave that door locked and the pain safely inside?

  The girls rushed to their mother after she'd climbed down from the stage. Charmaine was moving slowly, limping as if suffering from some terrible physical pain. But her smile bloomed big enough to shadow the hurt, whatever its cause, and her shy yet speculative welcome of Marcus's advance submerged it further.

  Could emotions like blossoming attraction and possibly even love overcome the anguish her scarred memories concealed? Confront your pain then move on. Find your center. Find your strength. Rita had given her those truths. If they were to be believed, her only hope lay with Gabriel McGraw.

  But what could she give him in return for unlocking her past?

  As she watched Charmaine and Marcus together, an idea began to form.

  * * * *

  "So, our new friend thinks to interfere, does she? We can't let that happen."

  In the private room overlooking the stage a single figure stood staring down at the dancers as they warmed up. In the dark body of the room, a limp and dazed Rita lounged in one of the chairs. Her expression was euphoric even as blood dribbled down her throat to slowly slide down the curve of her bosom. She didn't answer. She wasn't able to. In his agitation over the news, her lover had been a tad too greedy, and now she lay chilled and nearly drained.

  "Meddlers,” he continued, growing worked up again and beginning to pace. “Why must we be beset by meddlers?” He whirled toward Rita. “The past must stay hidden, at least until that knowledge serves our purpose."

  Shivering now, Rita's sluggish brain processed the painfully obvious. “Our” was an empirical term, and it didn't include her. She was a pawn, a tool—and she'd betrayed those who'd trusted her. The reward he'd offered her, that of unlimited power and a freedom from pain and loneliness, seemed hollow. What good was an eternity when it was shared by regret and dishonor?

  She would tell Naomi. She would warn her of the plot against her and Gabriel.

  After several uncoordinated attempts, she managed to get her feet aligned and tried to orde
r her legs to support her. It didn't matter, though, for the moment she began to stand, his hand pressed down on her shoulder. Hard.

  "Stay, my dear. I insist. You need your rest. Don't complicate your mind with thoughts of morality. It doesn't apply in our case. We are beyond the needs and desires of these puny mortals, as you will understand soon. I will see to our little meddler, don't you fear. Until then, think of nothing."

  His warmed fingertips touched to her eyelids, drawing them down like shades over her soul. To darkness.

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  Chapter Nineteen

  Stars spread across the dark map of the heavens like precious dreams. To Naomi, they glittered with promise but remained tauntingly out of reach. Like her dreams of family and love and belonging.

  She sat out in her little oasis garden with the constellations for company. She had left the slider open to the house so strains of Mozart could trickle out. Something brushed beneath the calf of her leg but before she could react, the wind was nearly driven from her as Mel jumped up into her lap. The big cat plopped like a sack of cement and commenced a rattling purr. Hesitantly, expecting the unfriendly creature to run away, Naomi stroked the plush coat. The rumbling of pleasure intensified, until it felt like she had a belt sander across her knees.

  "What's the matter, big guy? You lonesome, too?” Abandonment made for strange bedfellows, she thought as she rumpled the thick fur. There was always food in the animal's bowl, but Rita was ever absent, forcing the arrogant feline to seek out second best for attention. Naomi was a little choosier, preferring to hold out for her first choice.

  Apparently, Mel agreed, for suddenly his throaty purrs turned into a menacing growl. He leapt from her lap and waddled into the house, leaving her to brush at the trail of residual hair left on her lap.

  "Beautiful evening."

  She gasped and jumped to her feet.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.” Gabriel separated from shadow. Suddenly, the stars were no longer the brightest thing upon her private heaven. “Charmaine said you wanted to talk to me."