Merkaba, a supernatural suspense series (Walk the Right Road, Book 3)

by Eckhart, Lorhainne

  “This is so cool. What does it do? I mean, what is it built for?”

  She hadn’t expected this, and she wondered if, in fact, she had blinked or done something odd with her expression, as he stepped closer to her, and his face brightened.

  “Really, I’m fascinated. I really want to know.”

  Alecia touched the medicine bag she had tied to her belt loop. It was the one filled with her four crystals, each to balance her, and she glanced away, wrestling with the impulse to blurt out all the knowledge she loved to share with those who were truly interested.

  She squinted as the bright sun rose a little higher just behind his head, setting off an unusual glow of light around him. He seemed so … nice.

  “This is a Native American medicine wheel. I built this in the tradition of my mother’s people, the Ojibwe, and I built it for a purpose, for truth, honesty, and healing.” She felt her face heat for a second. Vulnerability lurked just below the surface, and she had to struggle to shut it down. He watched her the whole time, as if he could read her every thought.

  “This must be something that means a lot to you. I mean, I’ve heard of these circles and the power behind them. I believe in them. But why would you build it here?”

  She looked up at him with clear eyes. “This is where my mother was sent when she was taken from her family, and this land was taken from the people,” she answered.

  Chapter 5

  He was still there. Still listening to her. In fact, instead of slipping away, he had stepped closer and studied the wide open meadow of the parkland, as if seeing something he hadn’t before, and then squinted as he gazed back at her, giving her all his attention.

  “Your mother was taken from her family, and this is the people’s land? Are you a little off, lady? This is parkland owned by the state of Washington.” He was walking around the circle in a way that had her heart thudding and drawn to him, mesmerized, but not in a fearful way. He was so charming. He wasn’t handsome, she realized—he was breathtaking. Something deep inside of him drew her, and she felt stuck, as if an elastic held her and she had to be near him.

  “My mother is Ojibwe and Cree, and when the government and church people came and separated families, taking all native children and tossing them in residential schools where they were brutalized, their mandate was to send the children as far away from their homes as possible, to obliterate all contact. My mother was one of them, and she was only five years old, ripped away from her own mother and stuck in a sterile jail. Her hair was cut off, and she was forced to dress in their clothes, the clothes of the white people, and to speak only English, not her native tongue. If she slipped up accidently, she was beaten. This was in the fifties, with residential schools and the churches still inflicting abuse.

  “Mom’s family, her tribe, was in Wisconsin. The Hoh were one of the tribes in this area, but the government had stolen their land and sent them away. To this day, the cycle of hate, anger, greed, betrayal … and everything they did to my mother, her people, to all the people, is… Well, let’s just say I believe the cycle was started in order to annihilate my mother’s people.” She was shaking as she stepped back.

  He didn’t say anything as he watched her with the most amazing hazel eyes. She blinked when he did and frowned as she wondered if his eyes had changed color from green to brown. But she shook her head. No, that was impossible.

  “I’ve never known anyone who suffered the abuse of residential schools, someone whose native land was stolen from them. These corrupt sons of bitches in the government,” he said, and he shook his head.

  Alecia wondered for a moment if his rant was for her benefit, but he stared at her in a way that tugged a little at her heart, as if he had his own hidden pain that he had buried someplace deep inside. She recognized it, for a split second, as something similar to what her mother carried. Maybe she had misjudged him. After all, when it came to men, she rarely read them right. That was where her father came in: Patrick had made a point of shielding his daughter, and shield her well he did. The last guy who had broken her heart had also broken her nose, and her father had stalked him, waiting for him outside his townhouse with a baseball bat and a warning. That was all she knew before Brian had suddenly packed up and left town.

  In a way, it was comforting to know her dad would willingly kill anyone who hurt her, but on the other hand, she knew all too well that he would interfere in any relationship she tried to have. She was dammed either way. But when it came to this guy, Dan, who lurked in front of her now, her dad wasn’t there to help her, to save her or protect her. Nor should he have been. Until she faced her demons and practiced what she had learned, she would continue to be a magnet, attracting the bad and the ones to be avoided. The fact was that she was on her own.

  “My mother is a survivor, and she’s my hero, but this wheel is about more. It’s about healing this land. It’s about setting wrongs right. It’s about healing hurts from the past, and our own personal hurts, because you can’t get past the hurt until you’ve been heard.”

  Dan nodded, his face hardening and flashing with this knowledge, as if he knew more than she did. “And the treaty talks are on the table now, as we speak,” he said.

  Chapter 6

  “Yes, you’re right. They are.” She turned away from Dan and all the charisma that was oozing off him. She walked around him to somehow break his hold, which had her wanting nothing more than to tell him everything. Doing so would only be foolish. She pulled out the amethyst she kept on the string around her neck and squeezed it. Then she reached into her pouch and sprinkled tobacco around the circle again. She stopped at the four odd-shaped rocks she’d piled by the eastern door, and she starting stacking them on the rocks that formed the line between the east and south.

  “What are you doing?” He was behind her again, close enough that she could feel his heat.

  She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to—she could smell his earthy fragrance. Who would have thought a plain bar of soap could make a man smell so good? “This is called a Manitou. They were constructed and set on the paths when warriors were taken, for protection from their captors.” She balanced the four rocks, with the largest on top.

  She could remember her mother practicing when Alecia was a teenager. One of the elders, Harriet’s sponsor while she was sobering up, had her practice and would tell her which stone was first, second, third, and fourth. It became a task of persistence, patience, to get them to balance and stay. Alecia had been told she was a natural. She just knew what went where, and why, and when she needed to build them. Her father never interfered, even though he was a devout Catholic. If she thought about it, her family was an odd mix. Her father had questioned, accepted, and respected her mother’s people’s ways. But then, that had only been after he allowed her mother to return after she’d left for five years when Alecia was eight.

  “Is someone going to be taken captive?”

  She stepped back, brushed her hands together, and stepped on Dan’s foot. “No, this is for protection. I built this between the east and south. The east is new beginning, a new journey; the south is adolescence, when we learn to behave, to be kind to our fellow man, to better listen to our moms and dads, to our elders. This Manitou is to protect this journey, this new beginning. I just get an idea to build one in a certain place, and I will without question. Sometimes I don’t know why, but I don’t question that feeling.” She shrugged, unable to explain any more. He must have thought she was nuts.

  “That’s cool. It makes total sense. You know, I get vibes all the time, and I’ve learned to listen, too. You sound really in tune.” He stepped closer, and this time Alecia heard the warning in her head to step back. She did, her hand shaking as she held up her medicine bag.

  “Don’t come any closer. I know exactly what you are.”

  Chapter 7

  She watched him with such fury—no, fear, as if she held a cross in front of her and was ready to take on the devil himself. But then, she was
looking at him the same way that shaman down in San Pedro had. He too had cast Dan out. He’d done something to Dan that had him scurrying—running away was more like it, though he’d never admit it. The shaman had shaken his feathers, his beads, and yelled, “That all he is will be no more.” Dan had run because that man had put the fear of God into him. For the first time, a man—that shaman—had known and seen what Dan really was.

  Ever since he was a little boy, he had known he was different. Growing up the way he did, in his family, he had pretended to be civilized. His mother had been alone with five children, and first his father and then grandfather had left. Everyone had only taken from him. He had starved as a little boy, eating out of garbage cans, and had sworn that he too would take from everyone so he’d never go without again. There was something about the power of taking from others. He couldn’t help himself. It was like a drug, so addictive. He couldn’t help hurting those he was supposed to care about. It just happened, and when they didn’t go away when he was through with them, well, that was when he’d really take them apart. Of course, not with his own hands, but by his puppets, the others who always acted for him. Women, especially, they could never resist helping him, and those that did especially loved hurting other women for him. What a sick bunch they were. But this dark beauty before him wasn’t buying any of it. He scrambled, trying to figure out where he’d slipped and where he’d given himself away.

  “So, what tipped me off?”

  She pulled something from her pouch, lit a match, and burned the leaf. Sage—he could smell the telltale scent. He stepped back. That was what the shaman had burned, too.

  “Oh, I heard the warning,” she answered. “I listened. You see, I’m protected, being watched, and there are many here now, watching and helping with this wheel. They are both here in this physical world and gone, and they are walking the wheel as we speak. You’re destructive. You feign an interest I haven’t experienced before. You really are good. Let me guess—you saw me, and there was something about me you just had to have: my power. You’ve done everything you could to touch me so you could connect to me, but I won’t let you. I will not shake your hand. Don’t come near me. I’ve cast a circle of protection, and I’m sending love out to you because nothing bad can survive in love. Love does conquer all. I knew I’d face opposition and an attack, and here you are.”

  That part threw him, because he hadn’t planned to stumble across her. But he had followed his instinct to come here that morning a week ago when he had first seen her, and he had listened to his instincts to hide, watch, and study her, to understand her and find her weaknesses, and she had many. Whether she knew it or not, she’d already exposed herself.

  Chapter 8

  When she opened her eyes, he was walking away. She glanced around, letting out a breath and mentally giving herself a pat on the back. She had done well; she was conquering that vacuum of dark energy that had tried to suck her down. That was exactly what he was. Any fool could see how desperately he had tried to connect with her, and he was a sly bugger, too. It was only through her power of will that she’d focused everything on being thankful. She had shut her eyes and run down the list: I’m thankful for my health, for the chance to be here to build this medicine wheel, for the shoes on my feet, for the food I could afford to buy and eat this morning, for my self-esteem, for my parents and their love for me. It was a mantra, but being grateful didn’t allow room for anything negative.

  She had been taught this, and she had followed and learned from doing, seeing, and experiencing. These lessons had come not only in this past year but out of those woeful days after her mother had left. For five years, Alecia had truly believed it was her fault, even though her father had made her mother leave and refused to allow Harriet any access to their child. For five years, Alecia had believed she wasn’t loveable, and she kept this locked inside her heart, holding on to that pain as it slowly ate away. She never doubted her father’s love, not once. The man could be a pain in the ass, but Alecia knew without a doubt that he’d walk through fire for her.

  No, it was her mother who had taught her these lessons, last year, and that was why she was here now. At the time, Alecia hadn’t understood why Harriet had dragged her to meet her sponsor, why she had started to open up about her own childhood. A little each day, she’d teach her, share with her, give her a gift of stones, tobacco, an eagle feather. She taught her with kind words and love, and she spoke of the elders she hadn’t met but who were part of the circle. And then she spoke of the truth: Harriet was a recovering alcoholic. She had always drunk, since she was a teen, to drown out the voices of hate and degradation that had been weaved through every part of her. A lost soul, she had fled to Boston in her late teens and moved around from job to job for ten years before being hired on in the family bar owned by Patrick’s father. Patrick was a ruggedly handsome young lad who’d spotted Harriet from the first day, with her take-no-crap attitude and the chip on her shoulder.

  He had dated and married her within the year, and along came Alecia six months later. Her mother had partied and drunk from the moment she stepped out of bed in the morning: a wine cooler, gin, vodka, whatever was available. Her father suspected a problem but ignored it until one day, when Alecia was eight, he came home from closing up the bar and found Harriet passed out, smoke billowing from the living room, the curtains ablaze from a candle she’d set too close to the dry cloth. Alecia had been asleep. Patrick carried his daughter and wife from the burning house, and the fire department arrived along with the fear of God. This had been his wakeup call. His wife, whom he loved dearly, had a very serious problem that had nearly killed their daughter, and up until then, he’d ignored it and become her enabler. So he tossed her out, and for five years Patrick had refused her drunken phone calls, her pleas to see her daughter, until she cleaned up and began her long road to recovery. Through those five years, Patrick had sheltered his daughter to the point that he hid the truth from her. Alecia knew her mother drank, but she had believed her mother didn’t love her enough to stop. Therefore, there had to have been something wrong with her.

  Alecia tossed tobacco around the wheel again in thanks. Then she picked up a pebble at her toe and placed it between the east and south. It would represent an eight-year-old girl, and it would heal the hurt and abandonment she still carried with her.

  She was done here for today, for this morning. She picked up her backpack and tossed it over her shoulder, but before she started to the path to hike back to her vehicle, she felt a worry niggle up her neck, and she had to shoo it away before she could take another step. Stupid, stupid. Keep walking. He’s gone. Of course he was gone, but she also knew that as fast as he left, he could return if she allowed fear back into her.

  As she hiked back through the woods, her heart thudding with each step, her back damp with sweat and her eyes wide, she was positive he was lurking. She pressed her hand to her medicine bag, her protection, and hurried her stride to the parking lot where she had left her Jeep. Then she breathed a sigh of relief.

  ***

  Alecia knew she had allowed her calm to drop when she ran into problem after problem. First she had gotten a flat tire when pulling onto the highway. Then the tow truck she called had charged her double what she expected, and, of course, to make it worse, she had reacted to it, ranting and screaming and calling the mechanic a thief. He was a short, overweight guy with tattoos covering both arms and small eyes that stared at her in a way that had a sick feeling squeezing her stomach. That was when she had stopped and stepped back, letting him change the tire. She had instantly reminded herself that she and she alone was the maker of her patterns. As she hopped back into her Jeep, she kept up her mantra as she drove away, back to her motel, where she could hide from everyone and pull herself together.

  Chapter 9

  Alecia parked in the near-empty lot of her motel. She clutched her keys and looped the backpack over her arm as she hopped out of the Jeep. As she rushed up the stairs, she did
n’t realize how distracted she was until she stopped in her doorway and blinked once, twice, until she realized she didn’t have to open her door. It was already ajar.

  Her heart thudded against the wire of her bra, which suddenly felt way too tight. Her hand was trembling when she touched the knob of the door, and she didn’t think as she pushed it open. Beads of sweat soaked her brow. She stepped inside and realized that her common sense had obviously taken a hike. But then, she’d always gone headfirst into trouble. She’d learned that from her dad, who was all too often tossing some drunken fool out of his bar. The bar in downtown Boston was a breeding ground for those who were really stupid, as they drowned their sorrows and civilized behavior until the darkness that lurked in each and every person’s shadow appeared, usually after the fourth or fifth shot of alcohol. That was why Alecia now stepped inside the room, gripping her backpack.

  The door jerked open from the inside, throwing her off balance, and she landed on the rough brown carpet, skidding on her knees. She stared at rich Italian loafers and neatly pressed pants, and a large hand grabbed her arm and hauled her up, slamming the door shut. She stared up into large blue eyes that narrowed. He had the square jaw of a man who hadn’t shaved in a few days. His dark, curly hair was cut close, and he loomed over her. He grabbed her jaw and dug his thumb and finger in to the point that she wanted to scream. But that wouldn’t be smart, not with Brian. How the hell had he found her? Her heart thudded, and she found it difficult to breathe, so she forced herself to relax and said, “Get your hands off me.”

  He tilted his head and grinned before releasing her. She didn’t run, though she was judging the distance to the door and whether she could make it. She licked her lips and didn’t take her eyes off him. He was still the same good-looking guy she’d met two years ago, loved and lived with until her father had chased him away.