Stone of Ascension

by Lynda Aicher

  What was she thinking about? Why did he care?

  His fingers tingled with the faint, lingering energy that had shot through him when he’d touched her. An innocent collision followed by a reflexive action meant to keep her from tumbling against him again. But the jarring rush of feeling that had flashed through him had been anything but innocent.

  Who was she?

  A person’s energy signature usually made it easy to tell if they belonged to the Energy races. But hers had been jumbled, a mixture of signals that, although predominantly human, had also hinted at something more.

  She was a mystery. One that only intrigued him more each time he saw her, even though it shouldn’t.

  “To further elaborate on the advantages of Nantucket Wind, I’d like to introduce the founder and CEO of Aeros Wind Turbines, Damian Aeros.” The mayor’s loud, booming voice broke into Damian’s thoughts and brought him back to the task at hand.

  Damian stepped up to the podium under a smattering of polite applause. His company, the one he’d started and built from the ground up, was in the middle of a never-ending project to erect wind turbines in Nantucket Sound. Although environmentally advantageous, they were touted as a visual eyesore by coastal purists.

  This was yet another in hundreds of such events organized in a lame attempt to garner support for the politically unpopular project. The company publicist insisted he attend these events. So once again he was freezing his nuts off on a Saturday morning, smiling politely to the crowd as they waited for one more preplanned speech.

  Only this morning, his pinpoint focus was distracted by her.

  For five years, he’d listened to the protests and offered nods of understanding and statements of acquiescence that eased minds and curdled his stomach. But ultimately it was worth it. The turbines were going up, and it was one small, positive thing he could still do to honor the balance of the energy and protect the very people who protested Nantucket Wind’s existence.

  Today, he was tired of pretending. Throwing off the planned, canned speech filled with platitudes and politically correct words, Damian let his real thoughts be heard.

  “Most of you here today are protesting the wind turbines simply because you can see them. That’s it. Even though the turbines will be over six miles away from the nearest island town and closer to ten miles away from the mainland, you don’t want to look at them. You would rather slowly kill the earth with the continual use of non-renewable resources than look at a few swinging blades on the distant horizon.”

  Short-sighted fools.

  With effort, he hid his impatience. He let the grumbling die down, although most of the crowd appeared too shocked or frozen to react.

  “And let me tell you why Nantucket Wind is vital to our local economy,” the mayor bellowed, interrupting him and subtly trying to brush Damian aside in a blatant attempt to smooth over the damage his brief speech might have caused.

  “But what about our rights?” a feminine voice called out from the crowd. “What about our views on what is sacred and our ability to practice our spiritual beliefs?” Damian’s gaze darted through the crowd, picking out the dark-haired woman who’d posed the question. “Why doesn’t anyone care about them?”

  The portly mayor stumbled to answer the question from the female. Damian recognized the questioner immediately. She’d been one of the most vocal in the Native American protest of the wind turbines and was just one of the many local tribe members there today.

  Damian spoke over the fumbling mayor, his clear voice cutting off the other man. “I understand that the local Native American tribes are upset because the wind turbines are going to hinder the unobstructed easterly view that you require for a spiritual ceremony. I appreciate the tribe’s needs and beliefs, but unfortunately, some things are bigger than any one group’s wants. This is one of them.”

  Usually, he wouldn’t come right out and say that, but today, he felt the change in the air. The time for patient pretense had passed.

  The mayor immediately jumped back in and tried to once again control the microphone. Damian didn’t fight him. He’d made his point.

  Another bite of wind gusted off the icy waters, blasting the frozen crowd with a punishing reminder that there were far better things to be doing that morning. Damian took a step back, curled his fingers tight and burrowed them deep into the pockets of his wool trench coat. The temptation to up the punishment and assist the wind in its unrelenting torture itched over his fingers. It practically begged for him to do it, whispering its seductive voice, urging him to give in.

  It would be so simple to use his powers, his affiliation with the air, to increase the wind’s strength. To pummel the crowd until they retreated. Tempting, but not possible. Going down the path of punishing the innocent would go against everything he’d been striving to prove for the last millennium.

  The sudden pull of being stared at in a deliberate, penetrating way simmered over his senses. His attention snapped back to the crowd to find a set of dark golden eyes boldly locked onto his. Like always, they were stunning in their clarity, and mysterious in their depth.

  They belonged to her. At that precise moment, with their eyes held—his attention solely on her—the air pummeled the crowd. It whipped around the beauty, swirling her hair in black, silk ribbons around her body. She blinked and looked away before pulling her gloved hand out of her pocket to clear the hair away from her face. He was captivated by the simplicity of her actions, the graceful movement of her arm as she tried to capture and tame the errant strands.

  Apparently frustrated at her lack of success, she yanked off a glove, baring her fingers to the bitter elements and furrowed her brow as she continued to swipe at the mass of black. The winter headband she wore did little to control the waist-long hair against the force of the wind.

  The flash of white amidst the sea of black grabbed his attention. His eyes narrowed in focus as his stomach tightened then churned in slow, dreaded anticipation.

  It could be nothing. Instinct, honed and cultivated along with his patience, told him it was more. She was more.

  Her hand flashed then held as she worked a piece of hair from the clutches of her lips, offering him a clear view of the mark on the back of her now gloveless hand.

  A white bird rising in flight.

  He inhaled sharply, his breath held, incapable of moving through his lungs. A millennium of pain and betrayal, of soul-wrenching longing pierced through his heart.

  The wind died a sudden, startling death, and the abrupt shift caused his senses to rise in warning. It was her. It explained so much. The Marked One had finally been found.

  By him.

  The sudden stillness that dropped over the crowd after the relentless pounding by the wind was far more chilling than the air itself. Amber got her hair under control and quickly put her glove back on. An unexplained need to leave urged her to hurry.

  The mayor was still slinging his propaganda to the gathered group, but she couldn’t care less. She stole a quick look out of the corner of her eye, but it only confirmed what she already felt.

  His focus was still on her.

  What had compelled her to stare so boldly at the handsome CEO? She’d been startled when he’d caught and held her gaze. Even more amazed when she’d brazenly met his challenge. For that’s what it’d felt like—a dare to look away.

  Of course, she’d lost. But for that brief moment when she had ventured to play, the intensity had been startling. It was as if he could see into the very heart of who she was…and he wanted to know more.

  Now he wouldn’t look away.

  She stifled a shiver as she remembered the last time a man had looked at her like that. It had been almost two months since Nate had attacked her, but the events were still fresh in her mind. She had been duped by a man she thought she knew. So naïve that she hadn’t heeded the danger signs until it was almost too late.

  Lesson learned. She might be naïve, but she wasn’t stupid.

  A
nd this man, with his hard, chiseled features and stoic mask of authority was stroking every warning instinct she had, despite the way her stomach fluttered when she looked at him.

  Maybe because of it.

  She leaned closer to Kayla. “I have to go.”

  Her friend shot her a look. “Why? You said you would be here to support us.”

  “I know,” she hedged. “I did, but I really need to go. I told Aunt Bev I would be back by noon to open the shop.” It wasn’t a straight lie. She had promised to open the shop, just not by noon.

  “Do you need help today?” Kayla raised her eyebrow in question, the look one of sleek sophistication.

  “No. Thanks. It’ll be slow with the weather like this.” Amber caught her hair in her grip as the wind started up again, the brief respite from its torment over. “I can handle it on my own. Aunt Bev will be back from the reservation by late afternoon anyway.” She’d made the day trip to Martha’s Vineyard for a tribal council meeting. Although the majority of the tribe members lived off the reservation, the council meetings were still held on the island.

  “Okay.” Kayla licked her lips and shook her own hair away from her face. “Thanks for coming today. I know it’s basically a lost cause, but it’s still worth fighting for our beliefs.”

  Amber looked away, unable to meet the fiery resolve that flashed in her friend’s eyes. It was hard to see her dedication and commitment to a community that had always regarded Amber with wary distance. She often wondered why Kayla was so kind to her when most tribe members were not. But then she didn’t want to question one of the few friends she had.

  And Kayla had never given her a reason to doubt the truth of her friendship.

  Amber stole another quick look at the stage and stiffened as she once again caught the hard-edged gaze of the CEO. He was still staring at her. Not Kayla. Her.

  Why? Because she ran into him earlier?

  His stare drilled into her like a slam to her chest. His firm, square jaw was tilted upward in a position that forced him to look down on her. It was nerve-wracking. Her stomach knotted as her body flushed with sudden warmth.

  But she didn’t look away. She straightened her spine and narrowed her eyes to meet his taunt with a dare of her own. She would not cower. Never again.

  “Are you okay?”

  The sudden question yanked Amber’s attention back to her friend. “Oh, sorry,” she mumbled, shaking her head to clear her thoughts but unable to resist another darting glance at Damian Aeros. “I’m fine.”

  Kayla, always perceptive, didn’t miss the action nor, apparently, the sharp focus of the man on stage. “What’s going on?” Her brow creased in concern as she leaned toward Amber. “Why is he staring at you?”

  “He’s not.” Her quick denial only confirmed that he was and that Amber knew what Kayla was talking about. Damn. “I don’t know. I’ve got to go anyway.”

  She pulled away and pushed through the small crowd before Kayla could question her further. She could feel his eyes on her as she weaved through the people and made her way to the edge of the gathering. How do you feel someone looking at you? But she could tell, without looking, that he watched her retreat.

  Her heart accelerated with each step closer to escape. Her breath quickened as the panic increased. The back of her hand itched and burned where the strange brand had appeared. That was how she thought of it. She felt branded. Forced to wear a symbol she didn’t want. Could not remove or escape. And she still had no idea what it meant. Why she had it. How she got it.

  Now it stung as if in warning.

  Tears burned in the corners of her eyes, the weight of the last two months pressing down on her. She blinked rapidly to clear the nuisance as she finally broke free of the bodies and rushed across the park to her car. Her hands shook and she fumbled the keys before she was safely encased in the confines of her car.

  Damn it. She swiped hastily at the tears, hating what they represented, cursing her own inability to control them. They were her bane, her body’s betrayal of every emotion she felt. Happy, sad, worried, scared, embarrassed—they all manifested as tears, much to her humiliation. To the world, tears were a blatant symbol of weakness. She hated that perception. Hated that they only reinforced what people already thought of her.

  She took a shaky breath in a failed attempt to calm herself and slow her racing heart. She started the car and prepared to bolt back to the safety of the antique shop. She looked out the side window to check for cars and stopped dead.

  He was there—watching her. A silent sentry on the far edge of the park. And behind him, Kayla stood calmly taking him in, assessing his actions and maybe even Amber’s.

  What in the hell was going on?

  He started to move toward her, his eyes never straying. Kayla flanked him, keeping her distance, but not losing ground. The game of cat and mouse ensued, leaving Amber to feel like the cheese bait.

  The unfamiliar urge to confront him boiled up and spiked her temper. He had no right to stalk her, to make her doubt herself and run.

  A quick tap of a horn jerked her attention back to the road. Behind her a car waited with its blinker on, eager for her spot. Jerking her car into drive, she pulled out, casting a quick glance across the park.

  Damian had halted his pursuit, but still watched as she drove away. Why? Even as she asked, she was certain it was a question she didn’t want answered.

  Chapter Six

  Amber closed her eyes, leaned her forehead on the cold wood of the door and inhaled the comforting scents of wood polish and age that assailed her upon entering the backdoor of the antique shop. The smells were a part of her life and brought with them simplicity and routine.

  But no matter how safe she felt at that moment, it was time she stopped ignoring events and looked at them for what they were. Related or not, there were too many things piling up for her to continue in her blissful haze of self-denial.

  Something was happening.

  She might have felt excluded from her tribe for most of her life, but that hadn’t stopped the Native American beliefs from becoming ingrained within her. There was more at play in this world than what could be seen. Joseph and his mystical knowledge of events was proof of that.

  Good or bad, it was time Amber prepared herself for whatever was to come. She needed all the facts to do that, and she was certain her aunt had them or at least knew who did.

  Acceptance was the first step in moving forward. So forward she would go—just as soon as she could move. A small, mirthless laugh puffed from her chest at the contradiction. Having the will did not bring with it the courage.

  Right. She licked her lips, straightened her back and exhaled. Despite the whacked-out events around her, she still needed to open the shop and take care of the responsibilities of the day.

  Never ask why, always ask what. Her aunt’s mantra echoed through her thoughts almost as if Aunt Bev stood behind her and whispered the words in her ear. A shudder snaked down Amber’s spine, enticing her to call out. “Aunt Bev, you here?”

  Silence. She was still alone.

  Amber pushed away from the door and moved down the short hallway to the small office, removing her winter outerwear and hanging her coat on the hooks lining the wall. Rubbing her hands together, she moved to the thermostat and nudged the heat up a tad. Her aunt would probably have a small cow at the extra two degrees of warmth, but to heck with it. Bravery came in small steps, and she would consider this her first one.

  She flicked on the light and turned toward the desk to grab the front door keys. Shock froze her in place, comprehension registering as her mind processed the state of the office. It was destroyed. The usually ordered space was now a jumbled mess of tossed papers, broken objects and emptied file drawers. Even the safe had been pried open, the contents emptied onto the floor. Clearly ransacked by someone in a hunt for what?

  Panic followed quickly on the heels of the numbed shock. Pinpricks of needles shimmered over her skin, igniting her heart ra
te and engulfing her in a cold, damp sweat. Her mouth was suddenly parched as her brain fuzzed to one, and only one, thought.

  The stone.

  Amber tore from the office, careening into the shop, heedless to any danger that might still remain. All thoughts of personal safety, of calling the cops or exiting the building were obliterated by the overriding need to get to the stone.

  To ensure its safety and hold it so no one else would ever get it.

  Some small part of her brain recognized the insanity of her actions and thoughts. But it wasn’t enough to stop her. Driven by a craze that defied explanation, Amber barreled through the disaster field of the shop. Heedless of the broken glass, blocked aisles or shattered objects that littered her path. Her only thought was to find the stone.

  Insane.

  She reached the back corner where the sewing trunk sat overturned and open, the top tray tossed to the side, the antique quilts tumbling from the depths. Dropping to her knees, she dove into the contents. Her fingernails scraped over the hard wood of the trunk, her knuckles banging against the sides in her frantic search for her hidden box.

  It had to be there.

  She couldn’t process the overriding need that assailed her. The bird mark burned, and sweat beaded on her forehead and raced in rivulets down her chest.

  The box wasn’t there. No. It had to be there. It couldn’t be gone. It was hers. She was unwilling to accept defeat. Not that fast.

  Amber clenched her teeth in determination and tore into the quilts, grabbing and patting madly at each one. Where was it? She would know if it was gone, wouldn’t she? Some unfounded intuition within her said she would. That she would feel the loss.

  It was that vital to her.

  Finally, her hand hit upon something solid within the folds of a quilt. She stilled, hoped, then dove blindly through the mass of painstakingly hand-stitched squares, careless of the fragility of the cloth, mindless to everything but reaching the object within.