Except open eyes didn’t alleviate anything.
The vision refused to fade, hanging between her and reality, lingering like a curtain of shadow and fire.
Fire.
That’s what clung to her the most. The constant licks of flame crackling angrily over the screams of what sounded like a thousand agonized voices. All except for one.
One voice. Masculine. Wickedly seductive, rose above all the others.
Waking her. Saving her. Yet scaring her witless.
She could still hear him crying out, and though wide awake, his words rang clearly in her head as they couldn’t in her dream.
Find me. Find me. Find me.
That’s the last thing she’d ever want to do. Find her nightmare.
“Not real,” she chided herself firmly. “Not real. Not. Real.”
Methodically, she rocked back and forth, concentrating on the soft light penetrating the plain white window sheers.
Mom swore light overpowered darkness and destroyed evil. Universal rule observed by monsters everywhere.
Except the ones inside your head. Like the ones that stole her mother’s sanity. Like the one’s in Delphine’s nightmares.
The heavenly glow, courtesy of the sleepless Seventh Arrondissement, shone only bright enough to cast ghosts on the walls and wash the patterned carpet to silver filigree.
Sufficient if not comforting. The veil faded.
She rose and stood on shaky legs. A half dozen steps across the room and then she mashed her big toe on the floor switch to the standing lamp. Beams strong enough to make a lighthouse envious overwhelmed the small room and she squinted in pain. Talk about overkill. The lamp, a modern column of white plastic twisted like a strawberry licorice whip, stood almost seven feet tall. The statuesque fixture barely cleared the ceiling, but like everything else in the apartment, the lamp constituted art more than practicality.
Tonight, she was more than a little grateful for its monstrous power.
She considered sitting in the upholstered cherry-red chair angled beside it. With its high, curved back, she’d be shielded from the indoor beacon, and the deep cushions always invited hours of reading. One entire wall of her cramped room consisted of built-ins jam-packed with paperback novels, thick tomes on religion, and as expected, endless books about creating, appreciating, and collecting art.
Delphine resisted the allure of the chair and instead stepped toward the open window where the easel standing beside it gripped a nearly completed landscape.
Her latest project dazzled in vibrant color. Her best work to-date. She let her lips relax into a smile.
To Delphine, color possessed the same magical properties as light, chasing away unwanted demons. When the nightmares returned, she’d intentionally set out to create a talisman worthy of keeping them at bay.
Unfortunately, colors couldn’t be seen in the dark.
A breeze billowed the curtains, and the disturbed air wafted up the scent of linseed oil and paint across the room. Familiar scents. The scents of sanity.
But a hint of that voice still whispered at the edge of her consciousness.
She returned to her bedside table and flicked on the clock-radio. A French band slaughtered a cover of a two-year-old American pop hit. It didn’t matter that it was awful. Noise and familiarity would drown out the forlorn plea and occupy her thoughts.
So would occupying her hands.
With a little trepidation, she approached the pile of art supplies lying next to her easel. She’d made it a rule to never create in a state of anger or distress. The thought of tainting her one passion with ugliness wrung a shudder under her skin.
But busy hands meant a busy mind, and the more distance she could put between reality and the nightmare the better.
On the floor lay the sketchpad she’d used that morning.
When she’d met Cowboy.
Why hadn’t she been dreaming about him instead of the blasted nightmare? His brilliant smile, deep voice, and rockin’ body had lingered in the back of her mind like the reliable smell of paint on her hands. Much as she protested, even after he left, a part of her longed to be close to him again. To hear him say that foolish nickname low in that rich voice that ignited tingles in her center. To place her hands on his broad chest and feel the shape of the muscles beneath his shirt.
The nightmare melted away, much like her inhibitions against Zane.
She picked up the pad of paper and chose a simple, sharp pencil. Sitting with her feet under her in the cheerful red chair, she turned to a blank page and let her thoughts embrace her vivid recollection of Zane. A tremor of desire warmed her center. She’d have to get control of that. Better to consider him a subject than flesh and breath and charm. His strong-featured, All-American face, with the deepest dimples she’d ever seen, begged to be drawn. Better yet, painted in acrylic to capture those bluer-than-the-sky eyes. She’d give it a try some day.
When he was long gone.
All the years she lived in New York City, she’d met a lot of people from different parts of the country. Hell, different parts of the world. She even met a few cowboy-wannabes wearing hats bought on Fifth Avenue who walked with practiced swagger and stroked back their hair with moisturized fingers and manicured nails.
But never had she met a real-deal-horse-ridin’-ranch-workin’ cowboy before.
At least, not until today.
No doubt about it, with his authentic cowboy name, broad shoulders, sweat-stained hat, and beat up boots, Zane exuded the real deal, even if he’d been Philadelphia-bound for a while. His well-worn clothes weren’t an outfit designed to impress or attract, but an extension of his personality. The wistful glaze over his eyes confirmed that his quick description of his Montana home was the God’s honest truth, not a story designed to impress.
Damn fate. If they’d met in Central Park, or if he lived across town, or even over the river in another of NYC’s five boroughs, Delphine would have flirted back. Would have risked her heart for a chance with Cowboy.
But a man on a business trip didn’t start relationships, and she no longer settled for one-and-done. He may have manipulated a date, but he’d not get what he was after. Not even an innocent kiss.
Mamie wouldn’t agree. In the few weeks since moving to Paris, Delphine had been abruptly and inappropriately introduced to more than one bare-chested, knobby-kneed older gentleman standing in their kitchen wearing nothing more than droopy-assed boxers and a beaming grin. She shuddered, but then smiled. Mamie embraced life in all its joy and drama.
So far Delphine had only experienced drama and couldn’t accept joy until something broke in her mother’s favor.
There it was again. The blight on every day. Her heart bled nothing but sorrow for her mom, cooped up and alone in that dingy, Hell’s Kitchen institution. But being alone was Gabrielle Claudel’s choice. Not once in the years she’d taken up permanent residence in the NYC Home for the Emotionally Impaired had she allowed her daughter to visit. To give comfort. To offer—
“Delphine.”
She started at the sound of her grandmother’s voice.
“You don’t sleep enough, child.”
“Sorry I woke you, Mamie.”
“Nonsense. I’m old. I only sleep in spurts anyway.” She placed a glass of water on top of the waist-high seller’s bookcase beside the cushy chair. “Was it the nightmare again?”
She nodded.
“I thought they’d stop once you settled in here.” Her grandmother’s eyes exuded the motherly kindness her entire life had lacked.
“They’re not as bad,” she lied. In fact, the terrors intensified upon her arrival in Paris. “I’m sure it will go away again.” Lie number two, but she couldn’t tell her grandmother the truth.
“You’re not like your mother.” Mamie stroked the top of Delphine’s hair. “I know you’re afraid that you are. I also know you’re worried about her. But there’s nothing you can do. I’ve hired attorneys to help get her out and transport
her to a better facility. I know you’d rather be there—”
“No,” she said quickly with some guilt. “You need me too. Family takes care of family. At least, if they can.” Her thoughts roamed back to her mother. “Obviously, I can’t help her.”
Mamie perched on the edge of the bed and flicked off the radio. “Come. Tell me your nightmare. I can decipher what’s troubling you. I’m very intelligent, you know.”
“Nothing’s troubling me.” She lifted the sketch pad protectively to her chest.
That got her the long, slow gaze of a woman who seemed like she could read minds. As if she knew Delphine had read her mother’s diary a thousand times over. She averted her gaze to the easel, redirecting their conversation.
“I think the flowers growing in the shadows of the trees are off. The jewel tones are too deep compared to the ones in the bright sunlight. It’s not realistic. I need to soften them.”
“You analyze what doesn’t need analysis.” Mamie tried to catch her eye again. The delicate skin at the corners of her mouth creased into a web of tiny wrinkles. “Sometimes the most vibrant beauty thrives more fully in the shadows.” She stood and reached into the pocket of her robe. “Don’t touch that picture or make any other decisions without a good night’s sleep.”
She walked the short distance to Delphine without use of her cane and placed a small pill beside the glass. “And I mean sleep.” Using the same tone as she did giving orders at the museum, she pointed at the petite dose. “That is a mild sleeping pill that the doctor prescribed for me. I know you don’t like medicine—”
“Or doctors.” So many couldn’t help her mom.
“But sometimes you have to do what’s good for you, even if it goes against what you think you know. And sleep deprivation will catch up to you.” She leaned down and kissed Delphine’s forehead. “And no drawing. If you get in a creative mood, you’ll never doze off.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but her grandmother cut in again. “I understand an artist’s mind even if I’m not one.”
Mamie ran a long fingernail along the spines of the books on the top shelf before choosing a paperback. Her grandmother exchanged it for the sketch pad. “Here, clear your mind with a book.”
Delphine raised an eyebrow at the picture on the cover. A cowboy with his face shaded by his hat and a scantily clad woman, what little she wore on the verge of slipping off. Les Deux Côtes de Son Badge—Both Sides of His Badge.
“Channel that handsome Zane Gideon while you read. Maybe you’ll doze off and dream of intense sex? Better than the nightmare, oui?” Mamie grinned without a hint of shame.
Delphine doubted if the book would work, but gave her grandmother the most reassuring smile she could muster. “Thanks, Mamie. I’ll give it a try.”
Her grandmother yawned and placed the sketch pad on top of some books on the middle shelf.
“You need some sleep yourself.”
“Oui. I should get back before Henri claims my pillow. Take the pill and read. You’ll be out before you know it.” She turned and shuffled out of the room.
Delphine fanned the pages of the book. French, not English. She decided the effort of mentally translating would surely put her to sleep without use of the pill. A chapter in and a half an hour later, she’d not grown sleepy enough to doze. The story was getting good-ish. And yes, Zane lingered in the back of her mind while she read.
His large hands gripped Jenny’s shoulders, and she shuddered under his calloused palms. Instead of being intimidated by the solid set of his jaw, she thought of all the ways he could make better use of his hands on her body. But he was Sheriff Calhoun and her brother’s jailer. She’d never give in to his desires.
Brilliant. Not the passage.
His hands.
She tossed the book to the floor and retrieved her sketch pad and pencil. A first-year drawing exercise. Guaranteed to unstick a frozen mind. Creatively or otherwise.
Pencil positioned between two fingertips and her thumb, she wiggled in the chair until her back faced the bed, the pad resting on her thighs. Anchoring the pencil to the page, she turned her head until she could see the digital display on the clock. Five minutes. Why didn’t she think of this before? She’d had her students do it all the time.
With her left hand up, she proceeded to draw without looking at the page and resisted the urge to cheat. The drawing wouldn’t be good. The purpose was to connect your inner eye down your arm, into the hand holding the pencil.
The goal was a free mind. A meditation of sorts.
At just under five minutes she stopped. The muse started to twist inside her along with the memory of Zane’s dimpled smile. She had to capture him on paper.
She shouldn’t even bother to look at the mess of squiggles she’d drawn. But Delphine could never resist. Natural curiosity held hands with creativity.
Feet back on the floor, she flicked the edge of the page, prepared to turn it over.
The fleeting glance of what she’d drawn set her heart aflame. Horrified, she flung the tablet away from her.
But the picture had landed face up at her feet as if she hadn’t pitched it hard enough to shoot out the door. Frozen in place, she covered her mouth to stifle the scream that welled up from her toes.
Not her own hand.
A detailed rendering of a gnarled claw with protruding knuckles and rough skin stared up at her, defying all logic. Nails the size of an eagle’s talons curved long, and the index finger seemed to point at her. She couldn’t have drawn it any better if she’d been deliberate.
The nightmare flashed clearly as if she’d been transported to another place—the claw pierced the tender flesh of a woman’s bicep. Blood spurted as if from a fountain, and the victim begged pitifully for mercy.
She drew her legs up until her knees were pinned beneath her chin. She began to cry, heaving, silent wails that soaked her face.
Evil had breached the light, had tainted the good magic of color and reality. And there was nothing she could do about it.
Delphine was doomed.
Doomed to turn out just like her mother.
Chapter Seven
Vipond rapped the conference table with a gavel, but there was no need. Every eye faced the man who stood at the head. The room was dead silent and had been since Zane first sat down half an hour before.
If the grim set of Vipond’s lips were any indication, Hell Runners sat on the brink of collapse.
And abandoning Swift.
Unacceptable no matter how hard the Paris Council pushed back.
Zane tightened his grip on the handles of the nylon duffel bag dangling between his calves and mentally whipped through his sales pitch again. He’d prefer a united effort with the French and refused to consider an outcome other than unanimous approval.
Arms crossed over his chest so tight his shoulders threatened to rip the suit sleeves, Savard leaned back in his chair until it whined from the strain. Okay. Not unanimous, but ninety-nine percent would do.
The Paris chancellor smoothed his navy blue tie against his starched white shirt, a habit he performed every time before speaking and then addressed the home team, first in French, of course.
Zane shot a look at Prudence, the only one of them who understood any French. She shrugged one shoulder and gave her head a tight shake. Either his vocabulary extended beyond her capabilities, or it was nothing important. Then Vipond cleared his throat and stroked his tie once again.
“This is the saddest day I can recall in my long tenure.” No eye contact with anyone other than Jack. His pewter-gray hair gleamed with oil in the fluorescent light, every wrinkle in his face etched deep.
He inhaled a labored breath and continued, “As you already know, when the First Ring of Hell closed, the oracles’ visions became spotty at best. Nothing clear enough to decipher. I received reports from Philadelphia, Stanford, and Zurich last night and was updated on Tokyo, Seoul, and our office again this morning. Every single oracle has clouded over. N
ot a single vision between them. Not for a desperate soul in any of Hell’s Rings or even the slightest hint where Wilder Swift might be hiding or held captive.” He slumped down, sinking into his chair until his shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry.”
“Where does that leave us, Maurice?” Jack asked.
“Nowhere. It leaves us nowhere, my friend,” Vipond replied softly. “If there is no change soon, I fear our beloved Hell Runners will shut down permanently.”
“We can’t sit and wait for the visions to return.” Prudence slid to the edge of her seat, her cheeks flushed with emotion. “The oracles are being blocked by Baalberith. No doubt, it’s his doing.”
“You don’t know that,” her father replied.
“Sitting on our collective asses waiting for a miracle, doing nothing, isn’t the Hell Runners’ way.” Her light-blue eyes shone brightly in her flushed face.
“And what would you have us do?” Vipond frowned at her. “We can’t send our people into the field without direction, without preparation, Ms. Luckett.”
“Mrs. Thorne,” she corrected Vipond. “Send a reconnaissance team. Me, Jesse, Zane, and Boone. We could—”
“Haven’t you already caused enough trouble?” Savard interrupted. He uncrossed his arms and angled forward to stare down Prudence. Heavy brow furrowed and hands fisted on the table, he looked every bit a thug. “It’s because of your impetuous behavior that the First Ring closed, and that Wilder Swift is being held captive.”
She held her palms up. “We don’t know he’s a captive or even in Hell. The only way to find out—”
The chancellor knocked the table once with the little wooden hammer, ending her exasperated defense. “The council may have pardoned you based on circumstances, but I am not prepared to let you run roughshod.”
“Maurice,” Jack said in a soothing tone. “Calm down. We all know full well that mistakes were made, but from them, a lot of new information has been learned. Specifically, what was contained in the scrolls, and that both Prudence and Jesse possess unique powers to help us find the doors. We can’t ignore the good because it didn’t work out the way we wanted.”
Dream Breakers, Oath Takers Page 5
