For Her Eyes Only

by Cait London

  Leona knew why Owen was reassured. Rain could mean mist. Owen understood how she could be affected; she would become too vulnerable to the psychic stalking her.

  She also knew exactly how Owen would react if he discovered she’d left the house with danger prowling around her. If he found out. Good thing Max wasn’t talking.

  She called Alex again from the car, and this time he answered. He didn’t object when Leona said she was coming. On the way to his house, Leona thought about how weary Alex’s voice had sounded; a weakened psyche was just what a predator needed.

  When she arrived, the handyman’s pickup was not in Alex’s driveway. Seated beside her, Max snarled at the old plantation-style home.

  “I know. He’s been here, and you know it, too, don’t you, boy? Stay here. I just want to warn Alex that Vernon may be dangerous.”

  Alex answered the door with a sheepish smile. As always, the light in his home was very dim. His gray hair seemed mussed, and he straightened his glasses as he spoke, “I’m sorry I didn’t return the call. I’ve been busy. Please come in, Leona.

  Over a slice of her coconut pie, Leona tentatively suggested that Alex should get another handyman.

  Alex seemed shaken and fearful. “I don’t know why. Vernon is very competent. You know how hard it is to get good handymen for these old houses—the antique molding, the difficult plumbing, the effort needed to preserve the old glass windows. All the things necessary to preserve the integrity of a house such as this take real skill and love. All the rest of the carpenters want that bright light when they work. You know how it bothers my eyes. Did he finish your closet?”

  “No, someone else did. Vernon isn’t answering my calls. I was wrong to recommend Vernon. I think…I think he may be dangerous.”

  “He’s lost his wife. I know how he feels, to lose a loved one. We talked about our grief, right here, at this kitchen table. He cried, Leona. So did I…. You’re wearing rather unusual jewelry for you, aren’t you? It looks Celtic, and there’s a lot of it. Any special reason?”

  Leona held up her wrist, the silver runes and cuff bracelet gleaming in the shadowy kitchen light. “My sister created these. I’ve been thinking of her lately.” She looked at Alex. “I know you miss your wife, like he does, but Vernon has disappeared. And he was very surly when I last spoke to him.”

  “He’s grieving, Leona. You know how that feels. It’s hard to let go, and more difficult to move on. His talks have meant so much to me.” Clearly, Vernon had established a sympathetic friend in Alex, a tie that could be used against Alex.

  “Alex, I really think Vernon is someone who might be dangerous now. Are you…are you finding anything unusual on your computer?”

  Startled by the question, Alex blinked owlishly behind his thick lenses. “Unusual? I have online retirement investments that need constant tending. I’ve been pricing renovation costs and furniture. I’ve been spending a lot of time on it but other than that, nothing unusual.”

  She touched his hand. Instantly, a shot of unease zigzagged up her arm, setting off alarms. Leona sensed that same evil as that day in the shop. But she was stronger now and more sensitive. She was certain that Alex had been affected by the predator stalking her family and friends. “Alex, has anything out of the ordinary appeared on your screen?”

  He shook his head and seemed puzzled. “No, but—Leona, where are you going?” he asked as she got up abruptly.

  She had to know if Alex’s computer had been infected. She hurried to the front room where Alex had set up his office. In the cozy shadowy area, lined with empty bookshelves, his laptop was closed. Leona placed her open hand on it. Closing her eyes, she focused on her senses, opening…

  Suddenly that sharp edgy face snarled at her. His hateful tone snaked around her: Leona didn’t love her husband or she wouldn’t be bedding another man now. She has to pay….

  Leona jerked her hand free and rubbed the psychic burn with her other hand. A fiery need for revenge had sizzled around her, laced with hatred, lust, and greed. Those piercing black eyes had locked directly on to her and she’d seen a red-haired woman with terrified green eyes looking at her—her grandmother. Stella Mornay had committed suicide, because she had to….

  Because she had been told to?

  The thought terrified Leona, but she couldn’t let her psychic barometer get out of control. She focused on her inner calm. She mentally draped a white protective sheet over her, and the images disappeared. Bracing herself, she turned to find Alex’s tall, gentle form hunched in the doorway. From the dark energy on the laptop, Alex had probably gotten the same image as she had moments ago. “I loved Joel,” she stated firmly.

  “Oh, really?” Alex challenged, his eyes hard and accusing behind his lenses.

  His crisp, bitter tone shocked Leona. “Alex, listen to me. It’s important that you call me if Vernon makes contact. And you really need to—”

  Alex was on her in that moment, clasping his arms around her. His lips pressed hard against hers, his tongue forced into her mouth.

  Stunned for just that heartbeat, Leona didn’t react. All her senses quivered, scarlet threads circling her, squeezing the breath from her….

  Fear caused her to react and her knee jerked into his groin. Alex staggered back, his hand catching her rune bracelet, taking it with him. Shaken, Leona struggled to push her breath back into her lungs. “Alex!”

  Doubled over in pain, Alex had tumbled back into an antique sofa. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…you’re my friend. I don’t know what made me do that…I don’t.”

  Leona shook her head, trying to clear it. Sue Ann’s husband had acted out of character, too. And Vernon was the link between them. The psychic loved to play games with people’s lives, tormenting them, and now Alex was infected. “I do know why.”

  She went to kneel beside him and focused on making him understand. “Alex, you’ve got to get out of here. You’ve got to get rid of that laptop.”

  “But all my information, my retirement funds, my inheritance from my mother—it’s all on there.” When Alex shook his head, his glasses glinted in the dim light. That hard, slightly crazed look remained.

  “You can replace it. You have to, Alex. Believe me.”

  His brown eyes widened behind his glasses. “Tell me why you would even suggest such a thing.”

  “Vernon may be a bad influence. Please believe me, Alex. You need to leave here as soon as possible.”

  “But I’ve just moved here.” Alex stared at her blankly. Then in his soft, gentle tones, he said, “Leona, I do apologize for wanting you so desperately. Perhaps I expressed myself in the wrong way, but you are a lovely, lovely woman. You seemed so desirable tonight. I’ve never seen you so…You’re flushed and warm and wearing so much jewelry that I thought you’d dressed for me. It’s been so long since I—”

  Had a woman? she finished silently. The concept that he thought of making love to her startled Leona. “Alex, we’re just good friends,” she stated gently.

  He stood and faced the street outside, his back to Leona. “I’m sorry for what must have seemed like an attack. But I really think that what you’ve just said about Vernon—and I know him well—may be a sign that you are paranoid and perhaps need psychiatric help. Sometimes these things travel in families. Perhaps you’d better research yours.”

  Alex turned to toss her bracelet to her. “I didn’t know you were involved in witchcraft. It seems I don’t know you at all.”

  Shaken, Leona made her way out of the house and back to her car. She tried to calm herself as she sat, gripping the steering wheel, and replaying the scene with Alex. Max huffed and tilted his head, his beautiful eyes questioning her.

  “Max, old boy, I think we have a definite problem. Alex has definitely been psyched, as we say in laymen’s terms,” Leona observed as she started the car. “Let’s go see what we can do about it.”

  Rubbing her wrist where she’d reattached the rune bracelet. She noticed a red mark burned into her pal
e skin. When she touched one of the runes, it seemed hot. She held her wrist out to Max and watched his response.

  Max sniffed her bracelet. Then he stared at the white pillars and spacious porch of the plantation-style house and let out a series of warning barks.

  “That’s what I thought, too. That bastard has definitely gotten to Alex.”

  Owen rubbed his hand across his bare chest. Crows perched in the lightning-struck tree near him. He’d been preparing himself, opening his mind to the past and nature around him. He’d gone into his heartbeat and become one with it, flowing along the river of his experiences. He’d come full circle from his boyhood to the man really inside him. He opened the door to forgotten memories and dreams.

  Two hours had skipped by as he’d stood or crouched, focusing on that triangle of water. Perched high on the stark branches, defined by moonlight, the crows seemed like a suitable audience for the uneasy, eerie task he faced now.

  “Let’s see if what the old ones say about gray eyes is true,” Owen murmured. In the dim light, he noted the pond’s surface, almost like a rippling, restless strip of silver. If he stood in that triangle of natural water, would he feel what Leona had felt? Would the fog come after him? “If you can sense me, you bastard, let’s play.”

  Owen wanted nothing to distract him. He’d removed all of his clothing except a pair of special moccasins he’d kept in his truck. The delicate beadwork designs reflected his Blackfoot heritage. His mother had meticulously created them with love; she’d given the moccasins to him on his twenty-fifth birthday. “Some day, you’ll need to walk a difficult path. Wear these and keep safe, Owen Wolf Shaw—Shaman,” she had corrected, and her eyes had filled with tears.

  At the time, he’d treasured the gift—because it was from his mother.

  “Now would be the time to try them out, Mother, to see what I really am.” He lifted one of the sweetgrass braids he’d tucked inside the moccasins and brought it to his nose. The scent reminded him of his boyhood in Montana, when he and a friend burned small, smoky fires. They’d wafted the aromatic smoke over them and dreamed of the warriors they would be. To burn sweetgrass now suited Owen’s mood.

  The oral history of “the gray eyes” in Owen’s family was unique: They fought differently, lived apart, fiercely protecting their loved ones. They carved images, angular sticks, then some woven designs, of strange longboats led by fierce beasts.

  The stories were old and no doubt embellished, but the connection to the Vikings could exist. Leona’s two brothers-in-law all came from Nordic stock. Perhaps they had light eyes. The Aisling women had chosen men of that bloodline…. Was that link true? Or was it an accident?

  Owen hadn’t understood his childhood dreams, the clashing of blades, the water that did not end. He hadn’t understood the large ships led by “dragons,” the bright red sails billowing with wind. He’d dreamed of a wolf and its mate, and tall warriors with metal shields. When he was eight, a wisewoman had called him aside, and whispered, “Gray eyes. They see things others can’t. They see in the night, through the rain and mist. Do you? Do they let you hunt like the wolf, when others cannot see?”

  As a boy, Owen hadn’t wanted to be different and had closed the door to the dreams, refusing them. Janice was sensitive in other ways. And someone had used her emotional wounds and their primitive bloodline against her.

  Owen lifted his face to the clean air and swore aloud, “I will dig this monster out and kill him.”

  Slowly he walked to the pond, studying the black water overlaid by shimmering moonlight. Then he circled the pond until he stood in that dangerous triangle of pond, stream, and river. As he slowly circled the pond three times, Owen visualized the water flowing over him. He gave himself to the stream and the river, and they became his. Their secrets flowed through him, though he didn’t seek to understand their meanings. Crouching beside the pond, he scooped its water into both hands, so it would know him and become his friend. “You’re not to blame, old friend. May you have the peace you need, the fresh air and the rain to purify you. May your waters feed the animals and let the birds swim upon you in peace.”

  When his small fire of sweetgrass died and turned to smoke, Owen used his open hands to wash the familiar smell against his face. As he inhaled it, he looked up at the crows. He listened with his instincts, letting his hunter’s blood open to the sounds of the night—the deer rustling in the brush, going down to the river. On the knoll behind him, Moon Shadow nickered softly. The bluegrass moved to the call of the slight wind hissing through it.

  But Owen focused inward, where the darkness was still and waiting, holding its secrets. The September night was damp and crisp on his body, smelling of leaves and grass and earth, light wind lifting his hair and playing around his nude body as made himself one with nature. The waiting stillness he’d once rejected began to waken, to bloom and envelop him. He accepted the earth, air, and water elements into his body and spirit, and he became one with them.

  Suddenly, a soft hiss sounded inside his mind. Piercing black eyes appeared and a mass of rippling black hair. Thin braids swung around a furious, malevolent face—the same face as in Janice’s sketch.

  Caught by surprise, Owen stepped back and braced himself to fight. When he opened his eyes, full night blanketed the field, a star or two in the sky. There was nothing around him, only the sounds of the night and of his quickened breath and pounding heartbeat. “Come back, you bastard. This time in the flesh.”

  Closing his eyes again, he let his senses stretch out into the night. In his mind, the image of a yard-long, slender blade appeared; it raised for a deathblow, and Owen went still. At the last moment, he moved aside. A sudden gust of cold wind brushed against his shoulder. Mist circled his nude body, chilling him; it was almost as if a man circled him. Big, powerful, furious, the man seemed to be gauging Owen’s strength.

  The image of the blade rose again, and Owen crouched to grip and raise a fallen branch to shield himself. The branch cracked as if struck. “She’s mine! The red-haired witch is mine” the man shrieked.

  “What kind of man preys on women?” Owen asked, his mind hazy from the blow, the sound of his voice echoing clearly in the night.

  A furious scream sounded again. “You can’t keep her from me. She’s mine, so is the brooch.”

  In Owen’s mind, the image of a brooch appeared, a wolf’s head in the center. Words flowed into his mind, and he repeated them softly, “House of the Wolf, Thorgood the Great, whose mighty hand holds his people safe, who will kill those who defy him. His line will be long and powerful, reigning after him, for he who holds the wolf, holds the power….”

  Owen Wolf…Wolf…a man of the gray-eyed people, the band of warriors surrounding the small red-haired seer, protecting her…. And her name was Aisling….

  The family name had been taken from clan of the Wolf, from Thorgood-the-Wolf’s men. His warriors had worn the wolf emblem upon their shields, upon their chests.

  Distracted by the vision within his mind, Owen wasn’t prepared for the swift blow to his head. Dazed, he sank to his knees and the earth seemed to shift beneath him. His hand tried to brush away the blood flowing from his wound, but it blinded him.

  Suddenly, the hot burn at his back caused him to arch in pain, and he struggled to his feet.

  He heard a gun go off, bracing herself for the hit, which never came.

  “Man of Borg,” Owen whispered fiercely, the name of his attacker flowing in his mind. He caught it and freed it from his lips again, “Borg. I smell your blood, and soon the air will smell of it, too. No matter where you go, I’ll follow, because I have your scent now. I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch.”

  When Owen opened his eyes again, the moon was rising and the evil presence was gone; he knew that the time to hunt would come again.

  The shadow-spirit had tested him, and now they knew the blood-scent of each other….

  Fourteen

  “DEAR MR. BORG. F.Y.I. YOU ARE NOT ALONE IN Y
OUR NEED for revenge. I want my share. My grandmother’s and Joel’s death weren’t accidents, but I have no absolute proof.”

  With Max at her feet, Leona traced the bracelet’s charms, as they lay spread on the kitchen table before her. She arranged the candles nearby. Candlelight suited the night; it flickered on the rectangular silver runes.

  At eleven o’clock, Owen had called to check on her. After seeing to Leona’s safety, he said he would be delayed. A leak in the kitchen plumbing had caused the floor to flood; the water could damage the flooring and had to be mopped up. Owen’s tone was rough, but then Leona suspected he wasn’t happy about water damage. In that area, the cell-phone reception wasn’t the best either, and Owen had cut the call short.

  Meanwhile, Leona had worked off her frustration with Alex’s behavior by furiously painting the closet’s wood shelving. Then she’d opened the windows in the bedroom. A fan hummed quietly and blew most of the fumes out into the night. A towel at the base of the bedroom door blocked the rest. Max had watched with interest as she’d struggled to put a dresser in front of the door. Otherwise, she wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving the window open in a room she couldn’t lock. The dresser wasn’t a lock, but could act as a brief deterrent.

  Confident that Max would alert her to any prowler, Leona had changed into a long, dark teal-and-turquoise lounging shift. Then she’d settled down to circle who she was—an Aisling with relatively untapped psychic powers but ones that were definitely growing.

  Today’s package from her mother lay opened on the table, the contents spread before Leona. Greer had created a duplicate set of her own index cards for Leona. Each individual in the Aisling family or dangerous incident that had happened to them was represented by a card.

  Leona ran her fingertip over a new card that she had written: Joel’s “accidental death.” Each card in her sisters’ lives listed an event harmful to them—Claire’s sensory overload when she’d miscarried. The doctor and nurse’s handling of Claire had been suspicious. Then both had died immediately after Claire left their care. Later, Claire had been attacked by a man who had committed suicide.