Raging Spirits

by Angel Smits

  DAVID LEANED against the doorjamb watching Clarissa as she laid there, cuddled under the patchwork quilt. The moonlight stole through the front bay window, almost as if it couldn’t resist touching her either.

  The lamp beside the bed was turned down low. Clarissa had fallen into a deep, sated sleep. Her hair tumbled across the pillow, shimmering in the soft lamplight.

  The hardwood frame felt cool against his bare skin. The entire house, for that matter, was cool, but he didn’t move to put on his shirt.

  He’d slipped his jeans back on when he’d first decided it was time to leave her. But now, he couldn’t seem to continue dressing or leave.

  He simply stood there, watching the slow, even rise and fall of her bare shoulder as she breathed.

  So alive. And beautiful.

  She’d done so much for him. Warning him of her visions and staying with him, even when she realized what he became when the emotions overcame him.

  And what had he done for her? Exposed her to danger. Brought the evilness of Rachel into her mind.

  And worst of all, let her believe that he could love her.

  David had given up on being able to love too damn long ago. It was an illusion he’d let have too much control over his life. And that control had nearly killed him.

  No, he couldn’t really love her. He no longer had the capacity to love.

  But he did feel as if he owed her something. He owed her his life at least, not that it was worth much right now. But it was the one thing he possessed that he could call his own.

  With it, he could protect her from the world, from herself, and from harm. He could support her through this and then let her go back to the life she’d worked so hard to build. He’d give her the freedom she deserved by banishing the visions.

  Taking a long pull on the beer in his hand, he smiled. What had ever made him think he’d get sleep with her around? But this lack of sleep wasn’t nearly as disturbing. This was good old hormones—something he could deal with, not fearful thoughts and dreams.

  He continued to watch Clarissa sleep, so peaceful, so innocent in her belief that they were safe—that she was safe here alone with him.

  He felt the beast of desire race through his bloodstream. The “dream” they’d shared last night had been the flint to his steel. Ever since the embers had been sparked, he’d felt the consuming heat. But he’d held back. He’d leashed the animal fire. Tonight’s lovemaking had only fueled his desire.

  But he didn’t know how much longer he could hold the shift back. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be in total control of his life and of his soul.

  Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the wall. He abandoned the idea of easing back into the bed next to her, though his body screamed for him to do just that.

  He was exhausted and sleep nearly overtook him as he leaned against the wall’s solid support. But he fought it, fought the dreams that lulled him into safe havens only to turn into horrific nightmares.

  In the beginning, he’d dreamed Rachel was alive again, alive and living with him in the mansion. There were no shadows in his dreams then. But always it ended the same—him reliving the prolonged horror of her death. How many nights had he lain in the bed alone, weeping for the woman in his arms, the woman he’d never hold again, the woman who would never love him again? He’d lost count.

  He didn’t know when the dreams changed. When he’d begun to rebuild his life, he supposed. He’d started to date and every woman he went out with appeared in his dreams—and died in them. Just as Rachel had.

  Then Rachel returned to his dreams. Angry. Hurt. Vengeful. His guilt had nearly done him in. And then the shifting began.

  And after that he’d avoided sleep. Without sleep, without control, he felt the insanity breathing down his neck. When he knew he needed it, he’d drowned the dreams in a bottle of whiskey. Finally, even that hadn’t worked. So he tried to stay awake. Stupid, but when he operated with only half the needed sleep, logic took a hike.

  Shaking himself out of his reverie, he opened his eyes and once again found his gaze drawn to the form on the bed.

  Clarissa murmured in her sleep. A sound much like those she’d made earlier, when he’d held her close. She rolled over and slid her hand beneath the empty pillow where he’d been lying only a short time ago.

  A frown came and went on her brow as she settled back into the sleep of the exhausted.

  CLARISSA SAT BEHIND the hard wooden table. Her attorney, an older man her father had hired, didn’t care about her as much as he cared about his paycheck, sat beside her. His crisp shirt practically crackled with starch, and the red power tie he kept straightening made her want to grab it and strangle him with it.

  Not good thoughts, she admitted, and turned her gaze down to her clasped hands. She was, after all, on trial as an accomplice for murder—a crime she didn’t commit.

  Why was this happening to her? Why was she trapped in this nightmare? She longed to lay her head down on her arms and close her eyes. She didn’t remember even a single wink of sleep last night.

  She didn’t bend down, but she did close her eyes and forced her mind to clear, thinking instead of a bright sunlit garden. Anything to ease the tension. Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and focused on the witness now on the stand.

  Elizabeth Riley was eleven. Clarissa knew that from the documents her attorney had given her to review. So much time had been wasted before they found the bodies. The girl had been nine at the time Mike and Stevie had disappeared. Right now she looked like that frightened nine-year-old must have.

  The prosecutor paced, his polished shoes making loud clicking sounds as he walked in front of Clarissa.

  “Tell the jury, Elizabeth, what you saw that night.”

  “I . . . I saw someone on the corner by our apartment building.”

  “Do you know who that person was?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  The prosecutor turned and gazed over his shoulder, spearing Clarissa with an accusing stare. “What happened next?”

  “The boys came down the stairs. They were playing cops and robbers. Mike was chasing Stevie.”

  “What was the other person doing?”

  “Watching, leaning against the basketball hoop.”

  “Did the person do anything?”

  “He waved at the boys, and they laughed and all three of them disappeared down the street.”

  “Did the boys go with that person?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Your witness.” The prosecutor smirked and sat back down. Clarissa’s attorney sat silent for a long minute.

  “Mr. West,” the judge spoke from the bench. “Do you have any questions?”

  The attorney nodded slowly. “Just one.” He stood with much show and straightened his tie and coat. “You said something there that surprised me, Miss Riley.”

  “I did?”

  “You said, ‘he.’ Was the person by the basketball hoop a man or a woman?”

  The little girl stared at the prosecutor. Her eyes teared and her face flushed red. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “No further questions,” the attorney sat back down. This time he smirked.

  A smile that still sent chills up Clarissa’s spine. She looked up then, and watched in horror as the attorney’s face changed and she found herself staring into a familiar face.

  David’s face.

  Outside the courtroom, the sound of horse’s hooves broke the air. Suddenly she was in the dark, safe and away from the trial that had threatened to destroy her life.

  Clarissa opened her eyes. Where was she? Shadows from the fire danced on the walls, reminding her how they’d danced on David’s skin. She reached out and was surprised t
o find the other side of the bed empty. Relief washed over her as she realized the trial had been a dream. David hadn’t been there. Her old fears were returning to torment her, but nothing more.

  Where had David gone? She crawled out of bed. The nearest piece of clothing was his T-shirt and she pulled it on. The hem fell nearly to her knees and she smiled, feeling as if he somehow engulfed her.

  The house was silent. Looking out the window, she saw his car in the drive where they’d left it. He was still here somewhere. The fire was low. Had he gone out to get more wood? The basket was only half empty.

  The full moon hid its face behind a veil of clouds. Clarissa stared up at it, feeling its pull in her blood, knowing that the creatures of the night scurried just beyond the window. In her mind’s eyes, she saw yet another creature. One that caught her breath and teased her soul.

  The visions were distant, but those she’d already experienced were strong memories. She smiled when she recalled the last one. It hadn’t come true—not all of it anyway. David hadn’t changed into a beast after they’d made love.

  She still felt exhausted and wanted to give into it, but someone—or something—out there didn’t want her to rest. And she didn’t want to rest until David returned. Edgy, she opened the door, hoping to find him sitting on the front porch.

  The short rest she’d taken had cleared her mind, strengthened her. As she stepped outside, a flash of movement broke the darkness of the forest behind the house. What was that? She leaned closer to the railing. Her breath fogged in the air for an instant and then vanished.

  There it was again. Moving between the trees at the edge of the lawn. A feathery flutter followed and then it, too, vanished into the night.

  Slowly, quietly, she stepped out onto the lawn. Another flash appeared and then vanished. The curve of a shoulder barely visible.

  She walked across the grass. The dew dampened her toes and muffled her steps. She moved closer to the woods. Then at the edge of the yard, she rested her hand on a tree. Its rough pine bark felt reassuringly solid against her palm.

  She waited. Would it come again? What was it? Why did she want to see it so badly?

  She didn’t have time to answer her own questions before a thundering noise startled her. A great black horse cantered out of the shadows, stopping only a few feet away from her. He rose up on his hind legs, his front hooves pawing the air. A pained whinny cut the night air.

  His coat glistened in the moonlight with the sheen of perspiration. His sides heaved with deep breaths. How long had the animal been running, and how far?

  “Shh, boy,” she said softly, hoping to soothe the wildness in his eyes. He was a beautiful animal, and she hated seeing him distressed. “It’s okay.” She took a step closer.

  The horse landed hard on his hooves and paced back and forth across the edge of the lawn. White plumes of his breath rose in the air.

  “I won’t hurt you,” she crooned, reaching out to touch his slick dark coat.

  He stopped, staring down at her with big dark eyes. He blew out what sounded like a disgruntled sigh before stamping his foot. He shook his head, lowering it to the ground, and then turned quickly away. He trotted off, the cool air fingering through his mane and tail.

  The shadows devoured him quickly, and the black night and the dark horse soon became one.

  And then she looked down. Bright moonlight pooled on the trampled grass. Something dark glistened on the ground. She bent down, gingerly reaching out, only to pull her hand back.

  A similar wet darkness covered her hand.

  Blood. The horse’s blood.

  She swallowed her reactive scream.

  David had said the dreams couldn’t reach her here. This couldn’t be a dream. It didn’t feel like a dream. Swallowing hard, she fought the rising panic.

  She stared back at the dark woods. The horse was hurt, and badly. Was the horse David? Or was he the beast that had injured the animal? Frightened, she backed away from the bloodstain.

  “David,” she screamed into the night, hoping, praying he’d appear in the doorway of the house, or come strolling out of the woods like he had the night he’d transformed into the bird.

  The only response she received was the echo of her own voice.

  An echo the dark woods swallowed whole.

  Twelve

  SHE WASN’T FRIGHTENED. Okay. She stared at the front door where she’d wedged one of the wingback chairs. She was a little scared, but she realized some of that fear had turned into anger.

  She paced the living room rug. The fire had faded, but she no longer needed the heat. Her anger and the pacing kept her plenty warm.

  David had lied to her. He’d said they were safe here, that the dreams couldn’t reach her. While she admitted she hadn’t had any dreams or visions, and she’d gotten a decent sleep, he hadn’t.

  And now she was fairly sure he was out in the woods, possibly hurt. Making her worry. What should she do? Should she go looking for him? Should she wait for him to come back? What if he never came back? What if even now he was dead or dying, alone and out in the cold night?

  She couldn’t call the police. She wouldn’t even know what to tell them. Mac had accepted her explanations that fit into some semblance of reality. She wouldn’t even know what to tell him to look for—a horse or a man? Or something else?

  What if he’d simply gone over to Dove’s Place for a cup of coffee and her imagination was in overdrive?

  The hollow thud of footsteps startled her. She ran to the door and nearly yanked it open. She stopped herself just before she turned the doorknob. What if it wasn’t David?

  Who else would it be?

  The cold metal turned against her palm, and she squealed, pulling her hand back and shuffling behind the chair. Thankfully, she’d locked the deadbolt before shoving the chair in front of the door.

  Silence stretched tight, and then several sharp raps broke it. “Clarissa,” David called, his voice sounding strained.

  “David?” Was it really him? Or someone—something—else? She didn’t have a window or peephole to look out.

  “It’s me. Honest.”

  A loud thud rattled the door. She heard something scrape down the length of the wood, landing with a muffled thump on the floor.

  He was hurt. She thought for an instant that she felt his pain and she remembered the horse’s blood. What was happening to her? She hurried to the fireplace and grabbed the metal poker he’d used to stir the fire earlier. It slid in her damp palm and she wiped her hand down the cotton shirt before grabbing it again. She had to see if it really was him, but she was prepared to fight if he or anyone else meant to hurt her.

  She returned to the door and pushed the chair back far enough to open the door a crack. At first she didn’t see anything. But then she looked down and saw him sitting against the doorframe.

  His feet were bare and looked blue in the pale light. He wore only jeans, no shirt—obviously, she realized, since she wore it. His breath was shallow and rough. The long strands of his hair hung loose, almost to his shoulders. His eyes were closed, but he opened them slowly when she stepped into the doorway. “I—” He licked his dry lips. “Sorry.”

  She knelt beside him, looking at the pain masking his face. “What happened?”

  He laughed, a sound that abruptly changed into a groan. “Guess I shouldn’t have believed I was safe. I tried to stop it.” He tried to get up, groaning as he did. “Damned barbed wire.” He nearly pitched forward, but caught himself on the edge of the doorframe.

  “What happ—” Words failed her when he turned, exposing his back to the light. A bloody gash ran from his right shoulder to the top of his left hip. Blood smeared across his back and continued to trickle down his skin. The jeans were blood-soaked in back.

  He tried to go inside, but stumbled. T
he back of the chair caught him and though the air rushed out of his lungs, he didn’t fall.

  “You’re going to the hospital,” she ordered, her voice only shaking a little.

  “Not a chance. I was stupid to leave the grounds once. I’m not doing that again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Help me to the sink and I’ll explain. Grab the flashlight.”

  The struggle to get him into the tiny bathroom took longer than either of them expected. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and leaned on her. While she knew she wasn’t carrying his full weight, his height and weakness made it nearly impossible for them to walk. It took several tries before they figured out the rhythm. “I never was good at the three-legged race,” he admitted as he finally rested against the counter by the sink.

  Clarissa set the flashlight on the vanity, the light bouncing off the ceiling barely bright enough to see. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just clean it. The water’s ice cold but it will have to do.”

  “Shouldn’t we heat it?”

  “Probably, but I’m not up to waiting. It’ll do for now.”

  The old pipes moaned and groaned as he twisted the spigot. “There are some towels on those shelves over there.”

  She fumbled around in the semi-light. She found the towels and turned back to the sink. She soaked one, her fingers aching with the icy water. He leaned on the counter, his arms straight, his eyes closed.

  “This is gonna hurt,” she warned him.

  “It already does. Go ahead.” He swallowed hard.

  She felt him resist the urge to jerk away as she put the freezing towel on his skin. The cold seemed to help numb the pain and slow the bleeding. It made cleaning it harder, but she took her time, trying not to hurt him any more than necessary. Soon they were both shivering, but at least his breathing had returned to normal and his skin wasn’t as pale.

  “So when were you going to tell me all you had was cold water? That I would have to take an ice cold shower tomorrow?” she asked to break the tension.