by Anna Elias
AVANI
Avani materialized in a thicket of trees near the stable. Traveling by thought jumbled everything she’d learned about time, space, gravity, and human biology, but the Spirit made it feel surprisingly natural. With the grandmother’s journey over, including a few short trips to visit special places in Japan, Avani had been allowed to use these few remaining hours for herself before returning to the ship.
She’d chosen the ranch. Doing so surprised her, but at the same time it allowed closure with memories of her mother, the horses, the grounds, and the life here she once loved.
Crickets sang from the surrounding oaks, pines, and redwoods, and a light wind tousled her hair. Moonlight played across the distant, rambling farmhouse and dimmed the decorative coach lights that shone across the drive. Ranch owners, Dick and Dottie Stone, were asleep inside the house, along with the same three ranch hands Avani had known since she was nine.
The hair on her neck stood up. Sonny was in there, too. Sleeping. Dreaming. Unaware. Avani would face him again one day, and forgive him, but not tonight. She wasn’t ready.
The Spirit warmed her inside.
Avani’s cheeks reddened. This grandmother had forgiven an entire country that bombed her people, obliterated her family and laid waste to all she held dear. Avani had trouble forgiving her best friend. But Spirits were different. Forgiving was much harder in human form.
Wasn’t it?
The Spirit vibrated encouragement.
Moonlight coated the corral a waxy white, and the night air carried the comforting smell of hay. Avani’s heart skipped as she drew closer to the twenty-two horses inside an adjacent stable. Some had been born here, but most had been taken in as injured or neglected rescues. She had helped heal and train all of them, and she loved each and every one. They had been the best part about her life on this California dude ranch.
Especially Sampson.
Dick and Dottie had given her the brawny, glossy black Friesian soon after she’d arrived. They had loved Avani and her mother like family from the start, and had filled the empty void for her as best they could after Lani died, even offering to pay for vet school. But Avani knew they had really wanted her to stay on, marry Sonny, have his children, and continue the ranch with their family. She shuddered at the thought and hurried toward the stable.
Soft, black dirt shifted under her feet and kicked up memories of trail rides through the woods and overnight campouts with visiting guests. Sounds of squeaking leather saddles and horse hooves crunching gravel echoed in her mind, and the ghostly scent of bonfires and roasted marshmallows tickled her nose.
Another smell drifted past, an earthy aroma that reminded her of cumin and made her mouth water for the curries and chicken satays her father used to make. His laughter rang back through the years and whisked her to their Texas kitchen once more, where her five-year-old self stood on a chair to help him stir big pots of food and bake fresh naan. Years later, Lani had confided that he’d made her already wonderful chili turn prize-winning by introducing cumin, turmeric, sweet curry powder, and a trace of peanut sauce.
The whinny of horses broke her reverie, and Avani slipped inside the stable. A single strand of Christmas-style lights ran the length of one side and cast a soft glow just bright enough for nighttime checks. Avani prayed those checks were already over. Stalls lined both sides of the stable, with half doors on each so the horses could lift their heads and look over the top. Fresh hay sweetened the air as she worked her way down the stalls, crisscrossing from one side to the other to visit every horse. She stroked each muzzle, cooed every name, and admired the shimmer of healthy coats in the soft light.
One beautiful bay roan filly whinnied and nuzzled close. “Venus? Is that you?” She noted the black mane and long black legs. “Wow. Where is that gangly little colt I watched take her first steps?”
Venus’s birth was the first Avani had witnessed, and it had fueled her growing desire to become a vet. Well, former desire, before life had turned on its ear and Avani had become a Vessel. She had returned one afternoon from guiding a trail ride to find the ranch’s vet, Dr. Stevens, in a back stall, bent over a muscular, smoky-coated blue roan mare named Athena. The horse had lain on her side, kicking at the hay and wild-eyed with labor pain. The ground by her back end had been wet.
Avani had knelt at Athena’s side, talking softly and stroking the mare’s big head and neck. The more she’d soothed and petted, the more Athena had calmed. The kicking slowed, and the whites of her eyes had no longer showed.
“I don’t know how you do that,” Stevens had said, guiding the foal’s front legs and nose as they started to emerge, “but keep it up. Makes the job easier on both of them.”
Once born, Venus had scrambled her long, beautiful legs and tried to stand. She’d found her footing, then her place to nurse, but Athena’s big pink tongue had knocked her over for grooming and Venus had to start all over again.
Avani smiled, rubbing the filly’s black muzzle. “Life is such a miracle.”
A horse in back neighed and stomped.
“Say hi to your mom for me.”
Avani hurried off to an oversized stall, pushed open the door, and threw her arms around Sampson’s thick, muscled neck. “Hello, handsome.” Joyful tears rolled down her cheeks as he leaned in for their hug. He must have sensed the Spirit in her, too, because his muscles twitched and he pushed closer to connect. The grandmother’s joy swelled like a wave at their reunion and the three shared a long moment before Sampson lowered his head and snorted happily.
Avani’s tears moistened his shoulder. “I miss you so much.” She stroked his inky black muzzle and dug her fingers into the long, feathery mane that, along with his tail, almost brushed the ground. “I can’t wait to take you with me again, but—”
Sampson jerked up. His ears perked and his eyes darted to the door.
“What is it, boy?” Avani followed his gaze and froze. “Sonny?”
“Avani, I ...”
“Don’t. Please leave. I don’t want to see you.” She moved deeper into Sampson’s stall.
“Avani, wait. When did you get here? How ...”
“Go.”
“I won’t. I can’t stop thinking about you and about what I did in Reno. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, Avani. Please come out.”
The grandmother’s Spirit burned encouragement.
Sampson nuzzled Avani and returned to eating hay. Even he seemed to know these humans needed time together.
Avani breathed in and out before emerging from the stall. She closed Sampson’s door and turned toward Sonny.
He didn’t move. He barely breathed. “I never meant to hurt you. I swear. I don’t know what came over me.”
He appeared as helpless and weak as a child. Half of Avani wanted to hug him and the other half wanted to run. The Spirit stepped her closer, setting off a slight spark of green in her eyes.
He drew back. “You seem—different.”
Avani sensed his fear, but his remorse even more. The grandmother swelled with compassion and guided Avani to that razor’s edge between love and hate, happiness and fury, pardon and revenge. She squirmed under the gaze of Sonny’s penitent eyes, knowing which of those feelings she should pick. But anger and hate had felt so good after being hurt.
Avani’s mother had once told her that forgiveness held the key to rising above those who caused us the most pain. Her Navajo ancestors had forgiven the white settlers who had taken their land. Lani had forgiven the boys who had killed her husband. Now it was Avani’s turn to forgive the young man who’d hurt her and run away—a best friend who’d given her hope after her father’s murder and shepherded her through her mother’s death. One who had attacked her, yes, but also one who had stopped before defiling her. This moment was a gift, a doorway allowing both of them to heal and move on.
Avani stepped forward, drew a quick breath, and held Sonny’s trembling hands.
The Spirit filled her with hope and encouragement.
Avani opened her mouth to speak—but nothing came out. She tried again, forcing the anger down and remembering all the good Sonny had done. But even with the grandmother’s help, even after what she’d witnessed in Japan, even after reminding herself of Sonny’s goodness, the words were too bitter. Avani tried a third time and failed.
The Spirit ebbed, but her loving warmth remained.
Avani hated herself for being so weak. She also felt betrayed by her body and the strange and unnerving joy that sparked from Sonny’s touch. She dropped his hands and stepped back. “Do you have the blanket Mom made for me?”
The abrupt question startled him. “What? Um, yeah. I think it’s still in your room.”
“Would you get it for me? Please?”
Avani studied her hands in silence until Sonny walked off. She waited until he was halfway to the house, stroked her beloved horse one final time, and snuck out.
Sampson neighed after her. The other horses whinnied in chorus.
SONNY
When Sonny returned, the stable was empty. He looked around and checked Sampson’s stall. “Avani?” He ran back outside.
The crickets chirped. The air hung still. The trees stood like pallid soldiers in the moonlight.
“Avani? Are you there?”
His greatest love was gone again, but this time, things were different. A tiny smile turned his lips. He’d felt hope in her trembling hands and with it the sense that she still cared enough to one day forgive what he’d done.
Sonny held up the blanket and admired the brightly dyed, tightly woven pattern Lani had called, “The Tree of Life.” A long, thin, green trunk ran up the middle, and four narrow branches angled from it against a white background. Colorful woven birds filled the air around the tree, and a few perched on its branches. An inverted triangle at the base represented its roots into the Earth, and a three-pronged golden sprout “grew” from its top like sunrays. The gray border ran solid across the top and bottom but cut like jagged saw teeth down either side. A delicate, nearly invisible thread ran from the bottom center to the blanket’s left edge. The “Spirit Outlet,” she’d called it.
Sonny’s heart pumped oxygen like beads of steel around his body. Avani was standing on her own Spirit Outlet, somewhere between this home and whatever was drawing her away. Forcing his love would never work. He had to throw open that cage door and let her fly free.
At the same time, he’d felt her pulse quicken at his touch, her breath catch. He could never force her back, but he could keep a distant eye on where she flew. That way he would be prepared whenever she was ready to return.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE ROGUE
Aaron’s head pounded, and his ears rang like cymbals. When the pain eased enough to stand, he found himself on a steep hillside street overlooking a bay. A balmy breeze salted his face and arms.
San Francisco? Are you kidding me?
Last stop before home, Eric replied.
Yeah. So you keep saying.
This time, it’s true.
Every nerve went on edge. How many girls did you kill?
I didn’t kill this one. Just need to make things right.
“Make things right?” Aaron scoffed aloud. This murdering Spirit wouldn’t know right if it hit him in the face. So God forgives serial killers?
God forgives everyone. If they’re sincere.
Aaron laughed. Do you even know what that means?
Eric twisted Aaron’s stomach, dropping him once more to his knees.
The pain subsided, and Aaron stood again, burning with revulsion and contempt. He made his thoughts sound contrite as he reached for his pocket. At least let me call the shelter and check in. It’s been way too long and they’ll—
No. The Rogue pinned Aaron’s arms to his side. They’ll want you back, and I need your help to finish. He unwound Aaron’s nerves and forced him to breathe. This is the last one. I promise.
Aaron shivered at this once human Jack the Ripper who now spoke of making things right in soul. The evil in his former life had killed any goodness he might have brought to this one, and there was no “right” left in him. Aaron stilled his shaking hands. So, what did Eric really intend to do here? At least one promising thing had come to light—the discovery of a small core place to hide his thoughts, channeled away from Eric’s near omniscience. It was grueling to do, and nearly impossible to maintain, like a salmon swimming upstream in a waterfall, but something told him he’d need it.
Eric transported them to the driveway of a secluded, split-level wood, stone, and glass home built on a hill. Spirit and Vessel swirled back into Aaron’s human form outside an open garage where an attractive, middle-aged woman unloaded groceries from her SUV.
She screamed at the man’s startling arrival.
Aaron jumped, but the Spirit remained calm. Too calm, in fact, as if relishing her fear.
“Mary DePaul?” Eric asked, his voice sweet as syrup.
“I’m Mary Kendrick now. Wh-who are you?”
“I’m Jason Stevens.”
Mary dropped the bag. Her face drained.
Aaron staggered. How many people had this guy been?
Eric walked close enough to whisper in her ear. “I’ve come back, Mary,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Just like I promised.”
“That’s impossible,” Mary stammered.
“Nothing is impossible on the other side. I’ve been given the chance to come back and make amends. To ask forgiveness—or to grant it.”
Grant it? Aaron wondered, a siren of fear sounding in his head.
Eric ignored him. “But I won’t do either this time.” His voice turned hateful and cruel. “I’ve come back to make you pay.”
Before Aaron could form his next thought, Eric clamped one hand over Mary’s mouth and grabbed her throat with the other. He forced Aaron to drag her into the garage.
He closed the garage door, kicked open the main door leading inside the house, and hauled Mary to the kitchen. The place was dark, save one living room lamp that glowed from the next room, and the light cut ghastly shadows as Mary kicked and fought to break free.
Aaron struggled to pull free as well, but Eric had become a beast capable of snapping his neck, and Mary’s, like twigs.
“All I did for you and your lousy kid,” Eric seethed, “and you dumped me.” He whipped Aaron’s leather belt from around his waist, pulled the end through the buckle and cinched it around her feet, grinding her anklebones together. She yelped in pain.
Mary started to scream, but Eric slapped her into silence. He yanked the phone cord from the wall and tied it around her wrists until it cut into the soft skin.
Aaron tried to yell, to shout, to do anything that would make Eric stop, but he was as helpless in his body as Mary was in hers.
“I didn’t leave you, Jason,” Mary whimpered. “You became so angry, so volatile ... and the beatings. Especially Sophie. She was just a baby. You wouldn’t stop, so I left.”
“Not before you killed me.”
Nausea wrenched Aaron’s gut. Eric’s desire to “make things right” suddenly made horrifying sense.
“I didn’t mean to,” Mary cried out. “You were hurting her.”
“So you will pay.” Eric punched Mary hard enough to break her nose. Blood streamed from both nostrils, and one eye began to swell.
Aaron reeled, horrified at the fresh blood on his hand. He flashed to the coin Captain Hugh had given each Vessel before they left—the 911 for Spirit Guard. Eric must have known from the beginning he didn’t have one.
Aaron hated himself for being so vulnerable. If only Joe hadn’t shown up and pressured him. If only he hadn’t felt forced to save the dying man this Spirit possessed. If only—nothing. Aaron had had a choice and he’d made the wrong one. He hated Liam for finding him on the mountain and stopping his plans. He was furious that Sam had forced him into becoming a Vessel by threatening to erase his memories. And underneath it all burned
his rage over Shellie’s tragic, senseless death and the loss of their unborn child.
Aaron was a perfect storm of wrath, and the Rogue had used it.
Eric gave an evil laugh of confirmation before hitting Mary again. “A single, fatal blow to my head with a metal rod,” he snarled. “I still don’t know how you did it.”
A car pulled up and parked in the driveway. One door closed and the alarm beeped.
A wicked grin crossed Eric’s face.
Mary’s eyes flew open in panic. “Please,” she begged. “Sophie has nothing to do with this. Take me. I’m the one who killed you. Take me.”
Eric leaned in close. “Change of plans.”
“No!” she cried.
Mary’s fear battered Aaron from the outside as Eric’s excitement pounded him from within. He struggled to cry out, but the Rogue suffocated him into silence.
Sophie’s key opened the front door. “I’m back.” Her sweet teenage voice echoed in the hall as she closed and locked the door behind her.
Eric licked his lips.
Mary opened her mouth to scream, but he shoved in a dishtowel and stopped her cold.
Sophie’s footsteps sounded on the tile as she approached. Her shadow darkened the wall from the living room lamp, head tilted toward the phone in her hands, silhouette thumbs dancing across its screen. Eric let her round the corner before he attacked.
Sophie screamed but he punched her hard enough to knock her out, then lowered her to the floor. He yanked out her earbuds, twisted the wiry cord around her wrists and knotted it in place.
He hovered over her ripe young body, smelling Sophie’s strawberry-sweetened hair and sizing up the curves of her long, lean thighs, narrow waist, and firm breasts. “She has your best attributes,” he told Mary. “And I get to enjoy them all over again.”
Mary roared, but the dishtowel gagged her.
Bile lurched in Aaron’s throat. He kicked and railed, desperate to knock this beast off balance, but it was like beating against stone.
Eric shoved Aaron’s efforts aside and searched the neatly organized kitchen drawer. He discovered a roll of duct tape. “Ever the Girl Scout,” he chided, then spied a small container of prescription painkillers tucked behind a glass by the sink. He grabbed it, along with a bottle of merlot from a mounted wine rack.
