by P. G. Forte
and stir up wars every day.
They make their tongues sharp as those of serpents;
the venom of asps is under their lips.
Save me, O Lord from the hands of the wicked;
preserve me from violent men.
Responsory Hymn
For Good Friday
The air in Adam’s private study was thick with incense tonight. It was an odd scent, and one which Chenoa was finding extremely distracting. She paused for a moment to fan a little of her own sage smoke over her face and head, in hopes that it would help her stay focused on what she was doing. It was the first time she’d ever attempted this kind of thing, and when Jasmine’s mother had shown up at the bakery earlier today to suggest it, she’d been tempted to say no. More than tempted.
In fact, the words “I’m sorry, Marsha. I’d like to help, but I just don’t think I can do that,” had actually left her lips.
Unfortunately, as seemed to be the case too often these days, Chay had been on hand to help complicate her life…
“Of course you can,” he’d said, straightening away from the doorway, where he’d been lounging, eavesdropping on her conversation, as if he’d any right to, and coming toward them. “This guy is bad, Chen, really bad. I’ve seen some of what he’s capable of.” He turned to Marsha. “We’ll both do whatever we can to help.”
“We will?” Chenoa stared at him in surprise. “Oh, like you know anything about how to reconfigure someone’s surface energy?” If he did, she’d love to hear it. Otherwise she was going to have to improvise, and hope for the best.
“Hey, I’m willing to try anything, if it’ll help put this guy away. You should be, too.”
And why’s that, Chenoa wondered. Since when had her brother become so civic minded? She studied him suspiciously. There was something odd about Chay’s demeanor, nothing she could quite point a finger at, but it bothered her. Just as it had all day yesterday, ever since he’d first shown up for work wearing the same clothes, much the worse for wear, that he’d been wearing the day before. What’s he been up to, she wondered once again. What does he know that he isn’t telling me?
“We don’t even know if he’s alive,” she pointed out. “If he’s dead, we’re just wasting our time.” And there it was again; that indefinable look in Chay’s eyes, as though there was something he very badly wanted to say to her, but couldn’t.
“Not necessarily,” Marsha said, sounding vaguely apologetic. “In fact, that’s partly why we came up with this plan in the first place. We’re hoping that this will flush him out – either way. Like your brother said, Chenoa, he’s a very bad guy; not someone we want to have hanging around as a ghost, either.”
“Just tell us where and when and we’ll be there,” Chay told Marsha, making Chenoa furious with his obvious assumption that she would just automatically fall in line with whatever stupid scheme he might cook up.
But, on the other hand, here she was, attempting to paint over Marsha’s aura – all on the advice of some dead girl, if she had understood Marsha correctly. So maybe Chay knew her better than she knew herself. She just wished she knew what else Chay thought he knew.
“Now, remember,” Marsha said, speaking up suddenly, “once you’re finished, you can go. You don’t have to stay for the whole thing. In fact, it’s probably better if you don’t.”
Marsha’s voice had a distinct drowsy, relaxed tone which Chenoa had always associated with successful energy work. So, maybe I do know what I’m doing. Maybe I haven’t completely lost my touch...
“I don’t mind hanging around,” Chenoa told her. “Besides, we don’t know how long this effect will last. I might have to touch you up, or something.”
Marsha sighed. “Well, it’s up to you. But, at least put all your tools away, maybe even pack them up in the car. Otherwise, you’ll have to re-dedicate everything and... I know how much some of these things mean to you, Chenoa. They’re precious. I wouldn’t want them to get damaged.”
“It’s okay. I’ll be careful,” Chenoa promised, biting her lip and trying to ignore the traitorous little voice in her head, the one telling her that losing all her medicine like this would be one way to get herself off the hook with Chay. It would also fix her dear, old brother, but good. There wouldn’t be a damn thing he could do or even say about it then, and it would all be his fault, too.
* * *
Sam sniffed cautiously at the heavy smoke that filled Adam’s study. He had nothing to do at the moment, but he was too anxious to be bored. He gazed at his surroundings curiously. It was a large room, more opulently furnished than he personally cared for, with hand woven silk carpets, a few, very nice antiques and an ornate marble fireplace; and it was obvious to him that it had been designed, at least in part, to be used as a temple. All the signs were there, if one knew what to look for, but they were subtle and likely to go unnoticed by the casual observer. Much like Adam’s interest in such matters, never explicitly denied, but not really advertised, either.
Sam had always assumed that Adam’s silence on the subject was no more than polite discretion, a facade he attempted in deference to Sinead’s views. However, following the recent revelations concerning Sinead’s past, he was no longer certain that was the case. It seemed to him that Adam and Sinead were both a little too fond of keeping secrets – with typically disastrous results.
“That’s not really fair, Sam,” Marsha had protested, when he’d said as much as they were on their way back from the bakery. “Neither of them are responsible for Gregg’s actions, after all. No one knew he was back in town. And, even if we had known – well, I’m just not sure the outcome would have been any different. Some things are just meant to be.”
Perhaps. But it seemed to Sam that a head’s up several months ago would have saved them all a lot of trouble now. Nick, for example, might have acted with a little more caution had he known with whom he was dealing. And as for the rest of them, well, it’s unlikely they would otherwise have found themselves in the position in which they were now, setting a trap to catch a killer. Or, possibly, the ghost of a killer – since the question of whether or not their intended target was still alive had yet to be answered to anyone’s satisfaction.
The smoke from the incense tickled Sam’s nose. It was a different set of fragrances than he was used to, which only added to his feeling of unease. If there was one thing he’d become very clear about with regard to these kinds of workings, it was that variations to the status quo seldom boded well.
He was pretty sure he wasn’t the only one who thought so, either. If the glum look on Lucy’s face when he questioned her about it was anything to go by, she shared his views. He knew that Lucy’s personal code of loyalty was such that she’d probably sooner bite her tongue in two than say anything critical once the decision to veer into the unknown had been made, but, just the same, she didn’t look happy.
However, given the current scenario, he supposed that happy was probably a little too much to ask for from any of them. Lucy looked glum, Scout looked worried and Adam appeared to be observing everything with a professional detachment that Sam was finding particularly irksome. But, then again, it wasn’t Adam’s wife who was setting herself up to be used as bait. Was it?
“Chenoa’s using sage,” Lucy said. “If that makes you feel any better.”
Sam frowned as his gaze followed hers across the room, to where Chenoa and Marsha were already hard at work. Since nothing that Chenoa was doing here today was liable to make him feel anything other than anxious and uncomfortable, he could only conclude that Lucy was being either sarcastic, facetious, or naive. Or maybe she was attempting to hide the fact that she was even more nervous about this exercise than he?
“Excuse me,” he murmured taking his leave of the women, “I need some fresh air.”
He cast one last look toward his wife and then carefully averted his gaze and slipped through the French doors and out onto the balcony.
The air was cool and unseasonab
ly foggy. He glanced down at the winery grounds, wondering where, and in what set of shadows, Ryan and Chay might be hiding. Sam wasn’t sure why they were waiting until almost dark to begin, or what, ideally, was supposed to occur. He only knew what he was supposed to do if things went bad.
If it turned out that Gregg really was alive, and if he somehow got past both Ryan and Chay, and then past Seth’s dogs, it would be up to Sam and Adam to stop him before he tried to attack the women. Or, to be more precise, before he tried to attack Marsha, who he was supposed to be mistaking for Sinead.
“That is a terrible idea,” he’d told Marsha when she’d first suggested it the previous evening when they were all gathered in Nick’s room. “In fact, I think it’s about the worst idea I’ve ever heard of.”
“It’s actually pretty good, you know,” she’d replied, blushing slightly. “It could work.”
“Exactly why it’s a bad idea!” By that point, they’d all heard about the kinds of thing that monster was capable of doing. “You’re talking about using yourself as bait. It’s suicide.”
Marsha smiled. “Only if can reach me. And I’m kind of counting on you all making sure that doesn’t happen.”
To give her friends and her sisters credit they’d all volunteered to take her place, but Marsha had managed to come up with sensible sounding reasons to veto each of them. Sinead was the first to be crossed off the list. And even though the whole plan was based on the hope that Gregg might be eager to contact her, Marsha’s argument that Sinead was too weak and too vulnerable at this stage to attempt it, was hard even for Sam to counter.
“Well, what about me?” Siobhan had asked. “No offense, Marsha, but I’m a better fighter than you. Plus, I have had a little experience passing myself off as Sinead, you know. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time I fooled someone into thinking I was she.”
“You’re just never gonna quit throwing that in my face, are you?” Ryan grumbled.
But Marsha just shook her head. “You have to think beyond the physical, Vonne. Looks aren’t what matters here. I’m talking about auras, about having my surface energy restructured – not dressing myself up to look like Sinead. If Gregg gets close enough to see you, or me, or any of us, then he’s too close. Besides, not even your martial arts training is going to help you withstand the kind of psychic onslaught I’m expecting. You don’t have the experience or the ability to deal with that. I do.”
“Well, actually,” Scout began, shooting an apologetic glance at her husband, “at the moment you don’t exactly have the abilities, either, Marsh. So, maybe I should be the one to, you know, pretend to be Sinead?”
Again, Marsha demurred. “You’re having a hard enough time dealing with the energy you’ve got now. If you get zapped with any more, on top of that, it’s just going to put you over the edge. But, I would like to do another chakra link. Just to be safe. If that’s okay?”
Sam was pretty sure that was not okay – not with Scout, and even less so with Nick – but Scout nodded anyway, nervously ducking her head and refusing to look at anyone.
“What about me?” Lucy asked. “Why can’t I do it? No bastard’s gonna murder children in my house and get away with it.”
Now that made sense, Sam thought, sparing a sympathetic glance for Lucy’s husband. Dan was scrubbing his hands over his face rather violently, and Sam couldn’t tell whether he was angry, appalled, or just plain resigned. Clearly, he didn’t want Lucy putting herself in so vulnerable a position any more than Sam wanted Marsha to.
But, someone has to do it, Sam thought; and Lucy has a damn sight better claim on this guy than Marsha does.
Typically, as he supposed he should have guessed, Marsha had an answer for that one, too. “Lucy, you couldn’t pass for anyone but yourself, no matter how hard you tried,” she said. She smiled at her friend, fondly. “You’re too direct. You don’t have the temperament for it.”
“Oh, and I suppose you do?” Lucy rejoined. “You’re just more perfectly suited for something like this than anyone else we can think of? That’s what you’re saying?”
And there you had it. Sam had sighed then, and he sighed again now, as he lifted his eyes now to stare out at the vineyard, and the hills and mountains that surrounded them. That had been the exact moment when he’d lost the battle to keep Marsha from harm’s way. Without even meaning to, Lucy had done a superb job of making Marsha’s argument for her. There hadn’t been a soul in the room who wasn’t in agreement with Marsha when she nodded and said, “Yes, Luce, that’s what I’m saying, all right. It’s gotta be me.”
“Sam? We’re ready to start,” Scout said from the doorway behind him. She looked bleak and unhappy when he turned to face her. “We’re about to close the circle, so if you want in, now’s the time.”
Sam nodded, trying hard to hide the anger he was feeling “All right. I’m coming.” He might not like what Marsha had planned for tonight, he might be furious that she hadn’t been able to think of some other alternative—something safer, saner, less risky. But, right now, that was beside the point. He didn’t have to like it. He didn’t have to agree with it, or even understand it. He did, however, have to be there – to look out for her, to support her, to love her. That was his plan, damn it, and he was sticking to it.
* * *
Sam’s anger was more than apparent to Scout as she stepped out onto the balcony to let him pass. And even though she knew it was not really directed at her, it was hard not to take it personally. She felt responsible for what was about to happen here this evening, and maybe she was. Maybe, if she’d just kept her mouth shut last night, this might all have been avoided.
But ever since learning that Gregg was back, she’d been tormented by guilt. She’d touched his energy during last Autumn’s trance, she knew its signature. Sinead wasn’t the only one who should have sensed Gregg’s return to Oberon, Scout knew she should have felt it, also. And she would have, too, if she had only taken the trouble to listen to what her senses were telling her.
“Well, it’s all over now,” Ryan had said the night before, in Nick’s room. “Apparently there’s been some kind of explosion out at that cult of his. They’re saying they’re all dead – no survivors.” And Scout had known right away that he was wrong.
“No. He’s not dead” she told them, refusing to meet Nick’s eyes. “He’s still out there, somewhere. I think... I think he’s looking for Sinead.”
Well, that’s got their attention, hasn’t it, she thought when dead silence met her pronouncement.
“What makes you think that?” Ryan asked cautiously.
“Because I can feel it,” she replied. “I know it. He’s still alive.”
“I see.” Nick exhaled slowly and Scout braced herself against his anger. But his next words surprised her. “Well, I guess maybe we’ll have to do something to rectify that, won’t we?
Now, just as Scout turned to follow Sam back inside the winery, a rush of motion snagged her eye. Something soared from the roof above her head to disappear into the nearby trees. Surely, it was too late for a hawk to be out? And it had seemed too big for a bat, an owl perhaps? Whatever it was, she felt happy for its presence, it gave her an odd sensation of being protected, watched over, cared for.
She wondered what that meant? Perhaps she’d ask Chenoa about that, or maybe Chay. But later, not now. Now, she had a job to do.
* * *
Nick glanced at the clock on the wall across from his bed. The hands seemed hardly to have moved since the last time he looked. Out at the winery, they’d be starting their ritual by now. He wondered what they were doing, how long it would take, when he would hear something. He wasn’t used to sitting on the sidelines like this, waiting for news. It gave him a new appreciation for what his family must have gone through all these years, worrying and wondering about him.
He was relieved when the door to his room was edged open. Any distraction would be good right now, even more tests. But his eyebrows rose in surprise whe
n he saw who his visitor was.
“Lauren.” Nick stared at his ex-wife, as shocked by her appearance as he was relieved to see her at all. She was dressed in a hospital gown and she looked like hell, but then again, he supposed he did, too.
For a moment, neither of them spoke and then, “How are you?” they asked in the same breath, both breaking off to smile at the silliness of the exchange.
“I’m okay,” Nick said. “Better, actually. Now that I can see you are... uh, too.” He faltered to a stop, shutting his mouth abruptly before he said too much. Now that I can see you aren’t dead, was what he was going to say, but, knowing Lauren, she’d probably take that the wrong way and accuse him of sarcasm, or something worse.
Sure enough, “Nick, stop,” she protested, shutting her eyes and looking pained. “Don’t!”
Nick sighed. Crap. Couldn’t they skip the drama – just this once?
“Don’t be so nice to me,” she pleaded, opening her eyes again. “I don’t... I don’t deserve it. It’s my fault you’re in here. I’m remembering things now, and I,I–”
Oh. Nick felt his eyebrows rise again. Is that what she meant? Well, hell, that was a first. It wasn’t often he underestimated Lauren like that, except... on the other hand, what did he know? Maybe it was.
“I’m sorry,” Lauren whispered.
“Forget it.” He shook his head. “If you’re looking for blame, you’ve come to the wrong place.” His gaze softened as he took note of the faint tremors that shook her slight frame. Christ, she looked wrecked.
He supposed there were some benefits, after all, to having someone like Adam for a brother in law. Nick had wanted to know what Lauren’s condition was, so Adam had set himself the task of finding out. The man had no compunction at all about getting what he wanted. Whatever it took, from ‘borrowing’ medical records to lying to nurses, he’d done it. No wonder Sinead had fallen for him.
But as a result, Nick probably knew more now about Lauren’s condition than she did. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know what you were doing.”