Grizela’s then unrestrained scorn made the void left by Tercel’s death impossible to fill; Adara scavenged for rushes of power like an insatiable junkie. She lived desperate to see her father’s spirit return, searching everywhere for him. Men who possessed hints of her father’s suave demeanor, soft-spoken with resolute strength, became her weakness. She hated to admit, but Grizela was correct—Rowe McCoy had been Adara’s undoing—and so had Keir Sheridan.
During her recuperation, she’d worked hard to escape her obsession with power. That was behind her now. Only vengeance remained, a refreshingly simple goal. Or put in a more positive manner—part of her new outlook—clearing the air for a fresh start. Both men would suffer her counterblows, although she secretly wished the seer might enjoy it as he had before.
She stretched her legs long beneath the desk and began her message to him. Exact wording was critical, to be both specific and elusory: absolute in that Keir’s delay or refusal of her offer would result in his coyote’s ultimate death; explicit in that her terms dictated reconciliation of their past relations from when she and Keir shared office space in the Council building; yet ambiguous enough to be tempting.
She expressed the more precise objectives with ease, but the cryptic content gave her pause. Should she apply a spell to that portion in order to force Keir’s cooperation—or a step further—his acceptance? Would intimidation or force give her what she truly desired from him? On the other hand, could she chance having her heart shattered again? She tapped the pen against the desk’s raised lid, weighing the risk.
A car outside interrupted her decision-making, replaced it with dread. She’d spent the past weeks hiding out as a badger to remain undercover. Only when she’d abducted Waapake did she resume human shape and return to the Tabard house. She rose and peered through a crack in the brown velvet drapes. No one knew she was here.
Except for Sibeal, who wedged herself out of her Studebaker and wobbled toward the front sidewalk.
Adara loosed a held breath. She scurried to meet her friend at the door and pulled her inside by the arm. “Shouldn’t you park in the garage? I don’t want people to know I’m here, at least not yet.”
“Can’t see the point. I’ve been routinely checkin’ on your place, while you’ve been gone.”
“Oh, thank you for doing that. You’re a dear.” Adara linked elbows with Sibby and walked her to the parlor. “But maybe next time. I don’t want to raise suspicions.”
Sibby honked a laugh through her ski-slope nose, setting her belly jiggling. “Then you shouldn’t have been roamin’ ’round the coven like some daft badger who forgot to hibernate.”
“Well, by the looks of you, dressed in that pink-flowered dress, it’s no wonder I mistook the season.” Adara eyed her friend as they settled on a camel-hair settee. Rather than a tight bun, Sibby’s hair hung in salt-and-pepper curls past her shoulders like she’d worn in school. “I didn’t think you owned anything other than black.”
“Tyne likes me in pink. Says it makes my cheeks glow.” Sibby’s hallmark cackle rose an octave to an outright giggle, her complexion soon matching the camellias on her bodice.
Unsure how to reply to this odd change in her friend’s behavior, Adara kept quiet and concentrated on dampening the shock frozen on her face.
“Tyne is wonderful.” Sibeal’s saccharin drawl nauseated Adara; the prongs of the love spell set at Yule hadn’t loosened.
“Sibby, you’re under someone’s magic. This isn’t—”
“Yes, Tyne’s. I never thought I’d find someone.”
Adara bit her lip. Frumpy and plain, though with a good heart, her friend had never known romance. She’d stood by, not receiving a single glance, while men fell over Adara. Sibby had tried to comfort Adara when Grizela ended her one true love and forced them apart with threats of fierce magic. Maybe Sibby had been the lucky one: never having her heart broken, never having her hopes trampled, never knowing the disappointment when lust never turned into love. Adara reconsidered. “Tyne seems like a nice man and is certainly talented in his profession. No one comes close to his knowledge of magical tools. But is he treating you well?”
“Oh, yes. We’re havin’ so much fun. We go out to dinner in Bentbone and even Bloomington. And to shows. We’re goin’ ice skatin’ next weekend.”
Adara nodded though only managed a concerned smile. “How’s your business going? Do clients say anything about Tyne?”
“The strangest thing—my regular patrons haven’t been around much since Yule, but I’ve picked up some new ones, friends of Tyne’s.”
“Oh? What are they like?”
“Nice mostly. They ask lots of questions about me but don’t seem to believe I can’t foresee my own future.” Sibby slapped her knee and giggled. “Goddess knows, I want to know if Tyne intends to propose.”
“You said most are nice. What about the others?”
“A few want me to have the Summer Fae King remove the spell he placed on me and Tyne. Think I’m doin’ him harm.”
“And what do you say to them?” Adara leaned in, then drew back when Sibby beamed.
“If it’s a spell, then fae magic is grand.”
“How’s your income lately? Are those new customers requesting full readings?”
“Not so much. But Tyne’s seen a boom in business, and he takes me to dinner most nights.”
Adara picked at a snagged fingernail. “Aren’t you worried about not being able to pay your bills?”
“Nah. Love is enough. You should try it.”
Adara pursed her lips. “Wish I could.”
Sibby placed a hand over Adara’s. “I know. Your mom took Dwayne Sadler from you. That was over twenty-five years ago, and there’s been no one since.”
The sudden shift in their conversation struck a nerve—Adara pulled her hand away. Sensing the claustrophobic shell beginning to encase her, she shrugged it off, rose, and moved to the writing desk. “Could you please deliver a letter to Keir for me?”
“Glad to.” Sibeal’s sickening, ever-present smile widened beyond what Adara could endure. “Does the messenger get any hints about what devious magic the mysterious Ms. Tabard might be up to?”
“Just settling some unfinished business from my term as priestess.” Adara whisked the letter from the desk, and hurriedly reread the last lines she’d pondered earlier. Not allowing time for second-guessing, she folded the page, stuffed it in the addressed envelope, and handed it to Sibby, who raised a bushy brow.
“And what else? I know you too well. What’re you up to?”
“Nothing. Really.” Adara escorted her friend out the door and hoped the love spell would block her from consulting her tea leaves to discover more—or that bliss would make her forget altogether. “I’m glad you’re happy but be careful.” Hands shaking, Adara closed the door and turned the latch. Her friend’s dilemma, the question of perceived reality, twisted her own thinking about her note to Keir—was she thankful she didn’t apply a spell to it?
Chapter Six: Your Life as a Dream
A rasping cough dragged Keir to the edge of waking. Hot air seared his throat; despite cool night air in his bedroom reassuring him of his whereabouts, the nightmare’s fiery assault within would not abate. Even when his lungs rattled against ribs and his palm slid across a sweat-slickened cheek. He mentally reached for lucidity. However, the shadowy dream held him fast at the threshold of consciousness.
Unable to get free, he gripped the pillow and braced himself for what the illusion might reveal. Perhaps that was where truer clarity lay; dreams often provided insightful shamanic journeys. He would not run from the force cloaked in darkness. Between sputterings, he mustered a confident grin and voiced a mental greeting, “Game on. If I win, you reveal who stole my coyote.”
In response, fever rose from Keir’s injured knee and spread across his torso, flames licking at his neck.
Desperate to keep the fire from commandeering his mind, he flailed arms and legs against endle
ss layers of blankets and sheets.
The more he battled, the tighter the bedding stuck to his damp skin, as if the challenge pleased the nightmare’s spirit.
With eyes welded shut by the internal blaze, Keir opened his mouth and panted, gulping cool air to calm himself. Surprised that he possessed a means to stand his ground, he took a breath in gratitude—the next in stealth, waiting for the nightmare’s move.
Keir’s vision scanned every detail of his mental vista. An apparent wind sent gray shadows into rhythmic motion amidst a shroud of blackness—or was that merely a façade? Did the shadows conceal who had stolen his coyote? He studied edges of the billowing vapors.
The oscillations lured him into the tranquility that promotes deep sleep: an obvious tactical deterrent of his adversary.
With hands clamped to wadded bedding, Keir resisted and roared, “Show yourself.”
As if his breath moved the shadows, a blue-black shine gleamed along one edge. A wisp of hair? Or fur—the guard hairs of Waapake’s tail? Keir’s pulse raced. He lunged forward into the dreamscape, hand poised to yank away the filmy curtain. Upon contact, the shadow dissipated like water through his fingers. In its place stood the familiar backyard apple tree, its trunk encircled with his mother’s favorite bench of chipped white wrought-iron—the safe spot from which he routinely began meditative journeys. Yet now, he felt anything but safe. He stalked around one side of the tree, desperate to know the hidden spirit’s identity.
Keir jumped back. Behind the tree lay an open coffin, the ashen face of his mother contorted by decay on display. Her once golden hair was now gray and matted with maggots. Clutching his stomach, he folded double. Limited by a half-sleep state, his fortitude was no match for the nightmare; it fed on his secrets, his weaknesses. It knew he couldn’t turn away and was bound to restoke his guilt for her death. Keir gazed upon her grotesque features, searching for but not finding a shred of her original beauty or a flicker of her living soul—the price of his failure.
Only when her vermin crawled up his legs did he beg for mercy, call to the dark spirit to end their game. While he scratched and rolled to and fro across his bed to rid his body of the assault, a thud jolted his eyes open. His thoughts cleared, and he was back in the reality of his room, the hardness of the wooden floor pressing against his hip.
He pushed to a sitting position, back against the bed, and checked the clock. He’d been in bed four hours, but it felt like he hadn’t slept at all. That might’ve been worthwhile if the nightmare had provided useful information. Or had it? He’d remained largely in control of his senses so the journey should’ve been instructive. Did he learn anything about the identity of Waapake’s thief? The clump of black hair at the shadow’s edge proved mysterious. When his hand neared the shadow curtain, he’d detected the presence of a spirit somehow connected to Waapake and wanted to interact.
But Keir’s guilt had cost him that valuable connection, creating a formidable wall. To the blame he already shouldered for three deaths, another impenetrable component of stone, cement, rock, or razor wire added to the growing barricade. Years ago, he’d accepted the limitation as his fate. He couldn’t bring back his loved ones from the dead. Shouldering the guilt was his penance. Sometimes he’d found ways to cope with the inadequacy. Other times he charged into the void of regret, allowing pain to pummel his soul, like what his parents and girlfriend must have experienced before they passed. Only then did Keir feel justified in being alive, while they were gone.
Rather than learn from his mistakes, he seemed destined to tread the same worn path, failing to protect Waapake and, therefore, deserving to endure more guilt.
Keir ran a hand over his sweaty forehead. Permitting grief to burn him as atonement for his shortcomings was weak: the easy way out—I’ve not lost Waapake. He’s alive, has to be alive. Don’t give up hope. How can I reveal who’s behind that shadow?
He pushed onto his knees. To his surprise, the swelling in the knee had lessened, and it supported his full weight, though muscle cramping radiated pain up the thigh. Ignoring the discomfort, he crawled to the rug where Waapake usually slept. A mix of silvery and dark fur covered the fabric. He grabbed a handful and bundled it together with a length of twine to make a new dream-gathering tool. That should guide his sleep to where he needed to go, the Middle Spirit World. There, he could return to the exact time of Waapake’s abduction and watch as an observer.
With the device hanging from his headboard, Keir resettled into bed and invited sleep.
Hours later, his six-thirty alarm freed him from a restless night. In dreams, he’d glimpsed the apple tree’s bench. Nothing else. He rubbed sleep from the corners of his eyes. Neither well-rested nor enlightened, he scowled at the wasted night.
His seven-fifteen Monday appointment would arrive soon. He pushed out of bed with a groan and held his aching head. Rather than waste effort to attempt opening a talking channel with the shadow spirit, why hadn’t he set a curse on it? That would be simple enough and easier. From the bathroom mirror, a hollow-eyed, whiskery face leered—a visage from the dark side who sought to do harm.
Years ago, on mornings after long nights of study, his teacher Chuquilatague often advised Keir that sleep and good health were essential: mind, body, and soul must be in balance to remain on the right side of shamanism.
With a splash of bracing, cold water onto his face, Keir renewed his commitment. He must only perform acts of goodness and see with his heart rather than his eyes or, worse yet, his afflicted ego. Only what the heart sees is truth.
With an unguarded heart and coffee mug in hand, he flung open the door to greet one of his regular clients. “Good morning, Mrs. McGivern. How are you today?”
Rosalie glanced his way long enough to utter a clipped “humph,” which indicated she expected whatever malady afflicted her to be relieved and fast. “Wish I could do that.” Before he could ask for an explanation, she moved forward, head downturned toward her feet. Only when the composition soles of her oxfords were anchored to the surety of hardwood past the rug did she lift her gaze.
In his office parlor, she took her usual perch on the stiff horsehair settee. He’d given up offering the more supportive leather club chair that would ease her arthritic discomfort. Instead, as her spine creaked against the firm, tufted upholstery and vertical lines wrinkled her upper lip, she set an equally rigid eye on him. “I’m needin’ help with my rheumatism today.” She rubbed the knobby knuckles of one hand, then the other, and gestured toward him with her pointed chin, its hairy fuzz capturing the side table’s lamp light like an aura. “So darned swollen, I can’t hardly grip the handle of my coffee cup. Have to hold it with both hands. Pleases my lil’ granddaughter when I act like her, but don’t do anything for me. Can only put off my quiltin’ so long, you hear.”
Under threat of the iron-gray glare that echoed the steely tint of her hair, Keir stumbled into the club chair nearest his desk. He truly perceived her affliction, accepted it as real, however not with his heart, which was necessary for true shamanic seeing and healing. His head ached from lack of sleep. His thoughts flashed along a chaotic circuit. Overfilled with his own worries, his heart went numb. Failing to remove the barricade, he stuffed the awkward empty space between them with the expected response, “Yes, I can understand.” The words rang empty, devoid of heartfelt empathy. In order to help his client, he needed to first reestablish his own balance. But how while Waapake was missing?
“Well, get on with it. Find a spirit that will help me. What you usually do.”
Keir blinked against sandpapery, tired eyes. He tried again, this time employing his sense of hearing, latching onto the tenuous strain in her voice, but couldn’t internalize that emotion. Struggling to grasp what steps he should take, even his logical and egoic mind abandoned him.
He needed his familiar. Animals, by nature, were attuned to altered realities. Before, whenever Keir had been recuperating from an infection, Waapake would aid his journeying. A quiet dr
umbeat or gentle humming created a bridge from coyote to seer; the animal’s spirit allies would gladly cross over and assist Keir—one of many reasons he missed his familiar. He let out a sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m having a difficult time—”
“Everyone knows your coyote’s gone missin’. I’m sure it’s hard and hope he’s back with you right quick.” Rosalie’s gnarled fingers scrubbed her afflicted knuckles. “I was just hopin’ my request wouldn’t be too much. You’ve done these healin’s so many times. Seems like it’d be routine since you can see in the dark.”
Keir shrugged and gave her a lopsided grin. “I wish it were that simple. The best I can do is advise you to try the carving of the jay we used previously to treat your indigestion. Address the bird’s spirit as before but specify your new request.” As lines formed between Rosalie’s brows, he added, “And there’s no cost for today’s appointment.”
“I’d ’spect not. I can’t sees’ how a cure for indigestion’s gonna do my rheumatism any good.” She scooted to the edge of her seat, then rose. “I ’preciate your takin’ time to meet with me. And I sure do hope you find Waapake.”
Keir showed her to the door with leaden feet. He racked his mind for something of value to leave with her. Hand on the knob, he paused and made an attempt to bless her. “As winter snows turn to spring rains, may the pain of your rheumatism ease. As without, so within.” Though the words met his aesthetic, the tone of his voice sounded hollow, failing to impart anything from the spirit world. He opened the door and asked, “I’ll see you in two weeks?”
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