Raging Spirits

by Angel Smits

  “Freeze!” The barked command echoed around the room and Clarissa slumped in relief. “Put the gun down. Now.”

  That wasn’t Mac’s voice. Turning quickly, Clarissa stared, shocked to see David standing a few feet away, a gun in his hand, aimed and ready. She saw the look of death in his eyes and the responding fright in the other man’s. No one could look into David’s eyes now and not fear for their very existence.

  “Do it.” David sounded so calm, but the edge of his voice gave away the intensity of his anger.

  “Both of you freeze and drop your weapons.” This time it was the officer’s voice which resounded through the night. Mac flashed his badge, and the thief hastily put his gun down, his eyes clearly showing his preference for the cop to the angry man before him. David relaxed, his arm falling to his side where the gun dangled between his fingers.

  “Lorde. On the floor and kick it over to me.”

  David’s gaze momentarily flickered to the big police officer, as if wondering at the recognition. The sound of the heavy metal pistol scraping across the linoleum filled the air.

  Relieved, Clarissa leaned against the counter.

  Mac quickly handcuffed the thief’s hands behind his back and checked him from head to toe for other weapons. He reached up and ripped the mask off his face. The two men glared at each other for a long minute. Mac broke the silence as he recited the Miranda rights.

  Finished, he shoved the punk into a corner booth. “Sit down. There. I’ll get someone to haul your lame butt in. You.” He pointed at David. “Stay where I can see you. You’ve got some questions to answer.” He glared at Clarissa for an instant and then pulled out his cell phone and punched in the numbers, never once taking his eyes off them except to look at Linda.

  “Your cook’s out in the back alley. He’s okay, but he’s got a nasty bump on his head.” Linda gasped and made a move to go outside. “He’ll be fine.” Mac’s voice softened. “Stay here. I told him we’d get the EMTs to check him over.” Obviously relieved, Linda leaned back against the counter.

  Clarissa had barely moved since she’d first heard David’s orders. She could only stare at him, at the whole scene.

  David moved first, grabbing Linda’s arm and guiding her to the seat next to Clarissa. He lifted the coffeepot sitting abandoned on the counter. He poured a full cup and handed it to Linda.

  “Drink it.” His voice was even and smooth, as if nothing had happened.

  Linda automatically did as she was instructed, though the pallor remained on her face.

  “You want some?” He lifted the pot toward Clarissa, but she shook her head.

  He looked like a totally different man. The anger was still in his eyes, but the mask was back in place. He turned to put the pot back on the burner, after filling his own cup. He took a deep swallow.

  And she saw the red stain on his shirt.

  “You’re hurt.” She hurried to his side. She hadn’t heard a gunshot. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” David pulled away. “I cut myself earlier. I must have bumped it.” His features twisted, as if the forgotten injury now hurt.

  He wasn’t as unfeeling or undisturbed as he wanted her to believe. The muscles in his throat moved convulsively, and she watched his eyelids slip down over his tormented eyes. When they opened again, he’d gained control once more.

  Mac pocketed his cell phone. “They’ll be here as soon as they can.” Turning, he rested his hands on his hips and glared at David.

  The two men sized each other up. Clarissa watched the male ritual with fascination. She wasn’t sure who would win if it came down to it. Mac was big, muscular and powerful, easily a head taller than David.

  But what David lacked in brawn, he more than compensated for in ferocity. The beast often outwitted the hunter. She felt David’s strength and sensed that some of it came from the well of anger he carried around with him. She shivered and rubbed her hands up and down her arms, trying to return some warmth to her fright-chilled limbs.

  “I’m Bryan McHenry. They call me Mac.” The officer extended his hand and David took it. Clarissa saw the tiny muscles in each man’s hand move as they gripped each other’s fingers. “I hope you got a permit for that.” Mac glanced at the gun on the counter.

  “David Lorde. Yeah, I do.” David continued to meet Mac’s gaze, daring him.

  “Good.” Mac picked up the gun, popped out the clip and then opened the gun and palmed a bullet from the chamber. He handed the empty weapon to David. “Put it away before there’s any more trouble.”

  David took it and slid it into a shoulder holster under his jacket. His fingers were long and tanned, and as he lifted the side of his coat, she saw the expanse of his T-shirt covered chest. The impression of a warm haven flitted into her mind. All at once, she wanted to snuggle into that haven.

  Mac saw the blood stain and pointed at David’s shirt. “Care to explain what happened?”

  “I fell earlier. On a fence.”

  Mac seemed to ponder his explanation, and then with a curt nod accepted it. Clarissa wasn’t as willing to believe him, but now wasn’t the time to question him. Mentally shaking herself, Clarissa tore her gaze away from David’s appealing and injured body, forcing herself to look into his anger-filled eyes, to remind herself of the evil that touched this man.

  No, warm haven was not a notion she dared associate with David Lorde, and trust was something she couldn’t afford to give.

  Bright red and blue light strobed through the windows, playing across the dingy walls of the diner and flashing off the metal. In only a few minutes uniformed police officers escorted the punk into the back of a cruiser and Mac prepared to head back to the station.

  Linda still sat where David had put her. Clarissa walked up to her and gave the still trembling waitress a hug. “Thank you for calling me.”

  Looking up, as if startled, Linda tried to smile. “I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  Linda nodded but didn’t say anything else. Clarissa followed Mac out of the diner and into the cool night.

  “Thanks, Mac.” She leaned over, placing a kiss on the big man’s cheek. He had the grace to blush beneath his late night beard.

  “No problem, just doing my job. Next time, which I certainly hope there isn’t, stay home.” He smiled at her as if he doubted she’d listen to him. She knew he’d be there the next time she needed him.

  The roar of his motorcycle broke the quiet of the empty street long after his taillight disappeared around the block.

  “So, why were you here tonight?”

  Clarissa stiffened at the sound of David’s voice. She hadn’t heard him come up behind her. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him.

  The moonlight illuminated his features, while the neon light flickered behind him. Neither light touched the darkness in his eyes. His hands were shoved into his back pockets, exposing the wide expanse of his chest that she had earlier thought of as safe and comforting. He looked casual, but the tightness in his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes told her he was holding back. But holding back what? On his emotions? On his anger?

  Whatever it was took strength; she saw it in the tight muscles of his shoulders and arms.

  “You know why.” Her chin lifted a notch as she met his stare despite her discomfort.

  “I called Linda’s boss. She’s closing up for the night. After I drop her off at home, can we talk?”

  Not only did the sudden shift in the conversation surprise her, but she couldn’t believe what she’d heard. Now, at nearly three thirty in the morning, he wanted to talk? He hadn’t had the time or the understanding to talk to her earlier in broad daylight. Sighing and knowing that tomorrow she’d regret this, she agreed.

  “EXPLAIN TO ME exactly what you
do. What are you?”

  Clarissa bristled at David’s bluntness. After he’d dropped Linda off at her house, Clarissa had met him at another all-night diner, in a better part of town. She didn’t want him near her home, and he didn’t invite her to his. She wasn’t sure she’d have gone if he had. The fact that a busy street ran nearby comforted her.

  Still, they were the only customers in the place, and the silence was disquieting. She stared at him over the rim of her cup. How could she explain to someone who didn’t believe? “I’m psychic. I receive images in my mind, usually in my sleep, or just before I fall asleep. Brain patterns are different then.”

  “What exactly do you see?” He gulped his coffee.

  She paused, sliding her finger around the rim of the cup as she tried to figure out how best to explain it. “It’s different each time, but usually it’s like I’m watching television or a movie. I see what’s happening, but the people don’t know I’m there. I’m seldom a part of what’s happening.”

  “But?”

  “But this time you knew I was there. You talked to me.”

  His gaze caught and held hers. She couldn’t break free from the powerful hold. She felt herself falling into the golden brown depths, saw her own image reflected there. Catching herself as she leaned toward him, she stood and reached for the water carafe the waitress had placed on the next table. Anything to stop the trembling in her hands and the ache in her chest. What was wrong with her? Why did this man affect her so?

  Something inside him touched her, filled her with longing, compassion, and fear so deep it chilled her soul. What was even more frightening was the realization that she might not be strong enough to help him.

  She turned to face him, pasting a smile on her lips. “All I can do is warn you of what I see. I can’t change the events.”

  “You changed tonight.”

  “No, you did.” The waitress delivered their order then, and the unnatural silence of the unfinished conversation stretched out between them.

  “How did I change things?” He dug into his pie.

  “You heeded my warning, didn’t you? That’s why you had the gun. You didn’t in the vision.” Hope hesitantly rose within her. As the moments stretched on and he didn’t answer, she let it fade. He stared past her and out the window, as if longing to escape.

  The night outside and the lights within bounced their images back at them. What did he see? The sleeping city? Was he watching his own reflection or hers? Clarissa saw herself as she sat at the table and his image beside her. The illusion of distance between them vanished.

  “Okay, you have visions. You see things. Can you control what and when you see it?”

  She shook her head, her hair tumbling about her shoulders. “I’ve never been able to, though my grandmother could.”

  “It’s hereditary?”

  His surprise made her laugh and the tension ebbed. He looked up, and with the faint traces of a smile trying to fit onto his lips, he took another bite.

  “Yes and no. My mother doesn’t have the sight. I’m not sure she even believes, and my father’s just an Irishman with a big imagination. He’s quite willing to believe in leprechauns and that witches really ride around on a broomstick.” But not in real magic power. Thinking of her parents twisted a knife in her chest, and she quickly pushed her memories away.

  “You’re very lucky,” he said.

  “Why?” She didn’t think he was talking about her powers. Recalling the vision she’d seen in his office earlier, she shuddered. His life hadn’t been an easy or safe one. She knew violence had somehow been a part of it for a very long time.

  Reaching out, she covered his hand with hers, wanting to comfort the grief from him. She wasn’t prepared for the warm shock shooting from his fingers to hers. Heat slid up her arm, past her shoulder, and snuggled in against her heart. Though she doubted he even knew it, he reached out to her. Past the darkness, past the pain, past the cold exterior, was a man. She sensed his loneliness as keenly as if it were her own.

  “Why do you say that?” she repeated her question, unsure if he’d even answer.

  “At least you know your parents.”

  His revelation shocked her, hurt her with its intensity. She looked into his face again and saw him pull away. A question that had lurked in her mind since that first vision reared its head. She might never get the chance to ask him again. “Who’s Rachel?”

  The violence with which his emotions snapped shocked her, and she pulled her hand back, clasping it over her chest. His eyes were more than shuttered—iron bars kept her out.

  “How do you know about her?”

  “You blamed her in the first vision. She wouldn’t let you stay home, that’s why you were in the diner. Who is she?” She repeated her question, knowing he would avoid answering it.

  His anger vibrated around the room, mingling with the pain she already sensed in him. She hesitated to reach out to him on any level, emotional or physical, afraid of the darkness emanating from him.

  Suddenly, he stood, his chair scraping against the tile. The echo of the sound slammed against her ears.

  “Rachel is—was—my wife.”

  Without another word, he pulled several bills out of his pocket and tossed them onto the table. He stalked to the door and shoved it open with a force she feared would break the heavy wood. She stood and moved to the windows to watch him walk down the sidewalk toward downtown. At the end of the block, he broke into a jog.

  The sun lifted its head, and the dim light in the east backlit his figure as he moved quickly. Like a caged animal finally released, he took off. She sensed he chased freedom, a freedom he wanted with a desperation she couldn’t begin to understand. A freedom she realized he might never find.

  Suddenly, he bent over. Was his injury bothering him? Worried, she moved a step and then realized he was gone. All she saw was a faint shadow moving into the fading darkness.

  She nearly went after him, her heart wanting to ease some of the anguish that gripped him so hard.

  Instead, she gathered up her purse and prepared to head home as her thoughts raced. His wife. Rachel had been his wife? Were they divorced?

  As she paid her bill, coolness slipped over her skin. A whisper of thought slid through her. Faint images of a woman with long dark hair and warm, friendly eyes wafted through her mind. Rachel. Clarissa knew it was her, knew the images were of his wife. A deep, soul shattering sadness clung to the image.

  She knew David felt that pain, that it tormented him.

  Was she the woman in the earlier vision?

  Had David killed her?

  Five

  OVER THE PAST hour, the sun had vanished and the air in the tiny closet Clarissa generously referred to as her office had grown warm and stale. Outside a soft rain fell, deterring any notion of opening the window or leaving her office and stepping out into the cool fresh air.

  The figures on the computer screen before her blurred, and she rubbed the bridge of her nose where a dull ache throbbed. Math had never been her strong suit, and last night’s lack of sleep only made the column of numbers look even more like Greek than usual. Bending closer to the neat rows of numbers, she started over. Again.

  Halfway through the list, she felt a finger of ice slide down the length of her spine. What the . . .

  Turning abruptly, she knocked over her coffee cup. The dark brown liquid soaked into the keyboard and across her papers.

  “Damn!” She reached for the box of tissues and hastily dabbed at the mess before it could spread any farther. She tossed the dripping lump toward the trash as a rap sounded at the door. Just what she needed, another interruption.

  “Come in.” Leaning back, Clarissa closed her eyes, resting them for a moment. She heard the sound of the door opening and waited an instant before opening her eyes.
The darkness invited her in. She could sleep right here in this hard chair.

  “Clarissa?” Lindsey’s face appeared around the door. “There’s a man out here who says he needs to talk to you. Says his name is David.” The look of pure feminine appreciation on Lindsey’s face would have been comical if Clarissa hadn’t felt that shiver seconds ago. That must have been the instant David Lorde walked through the front door.

  “I’ll be right there.” She wondered what he wanted, half afraid to ask.

  Clarissa sat for several long seconds, taking deep breaths. Her earlier exhaustion had vanished with the sudden adrenaline rush. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she tossed her pencil onto the soggy desk and stood. Might as well get this over with.

  David sat at a table near the front counter, sipping from a heavy mug. His eyes stared out the window, as if seeing another place and time. She took a second to watch him. He looked so different from the rumpled man in the diner. Today he wore clean, pressed jeans and a black turtleneck that hugged his muscled chest. He’d smoothed his long hair back from his face and secured it at the nape of his neck where a few stray drops from the rain clung. She took a breath and stepped forward.

  “Hi.” She stopped beside his table, feeling oddly out of place in her own coffee shop, a sensation she didn’t like.

  He turned and smiled up at her. Like a break in the clouds, his smile was sunshine on a bleak day. Warm reaction seeped through her veins, slowly toasting every nerve ending in her body. She could only stare.

  “Got a minute to join me?” He stood, walking around the small table to pull out the opposite chair. The radiance of his smile never wavered.

  Clarissa slid into the chair, staring at him when he resumed his seat. Was this the same man? The dark, angry man who’d taken off early this morning as if every demon in hell were at his heels?

  “Something wrong?” He lifted his cup, taking a deep drink while she continued to stare at him.