Storm of Visions

by Christina Dodd

  The girl designated their first task. They found the poor village and the lonely, miserable woman who fourteen years before had given birth to twins, and they killed her most horribly.

  Then the Others used their powers to cut like a scythe through the countryside, bringing famine and fear, anguish and death.

  So through ages and eons, through low places and high, in the countryside and in the cities, through prophecies and revelations, the battle was joined between the Chosen Ones and the Others . . . and that battle was fought for the hearts and souls of the Abandoned Ones.

  That battle goes on today. . . .

  Chapter 1

  Napa Valley, California

  Jacqueline Vargha dug her corkscrew out of her jeans and, with an expert twist and pull, opened another bottle of Blue Oak wines. The tasting room hummed with the conversation of two dozen happy tourists—happy because everyone was engaged in sampling some of the best cabernet sauvignon in the valley.

  She poured generous glasses for the young couple before her. They had money, they thought they knew a lot about wines, and if she handled them right, she could sell a case, maybe more, of the high-end wines. “Blue Oak Winery grows our grapes exclusively in our own estate vineyards, one in Napa Valley and one in Alexander Valley.” She’d given this speech a thousand times, and it wasn’t always easy to make it sound fresh. Maybe if she’d gone to Juilliard and taken acting . . . “As you sip the pure cab, you’ll notice the rich cassis and berry flavors that form the base of the wine; then you’ll pick up the spicy, peppery flavor and a hint of cherry.”

  They sipped and nodded, their brows furrowed.

  At the other end of the long bar, Michelle explained to the newest arrivals, two recently returned marines, “It’s twenty dollars to taste the wine, but we refund that amount if you buy a bottle.” Leaning forward, she placed two glasses on the counter, and the Blue Oak logo on the crest of her right breast strained at her thin blue T-shirt.

  The guys’ eyes glazed over, and they dug out their wallets without a hint of protest.

  Jacqueline grinned. She swore the vintner hired his female help by the size of their chests and how well they used them. How Jacqueline, with her B-cups, had gotten the job, she did not know. Maybe because the vintner’s wife had wandered through during the interview and it had been politic to employ the woman with the little boobies. Probably because Jacqueline was twenty-two and levelheaded, the kind of worker who could keep the tasting room under control, and did. Certainly because she was tall and long-legged, and smiled like Miss America accepting the crown.

  It was a character flaw created by a mother who nagged at her to smile until it was easier to give in than fight.

  But she could never fill a Blue Oaks T-shirt the way Michelle did.

  A party of six finished their tasting and left, muttering about the heat.

  They were right. Spring had come with a vengeance, and the temperature had been unrelenting, like an upwelling of hell.

  Jacqueline lifted her shoulder-length hair off her neck and wished for a breeze.

  An upwelling of hell.

  Hell . . .

  The world took on a sepia tint, and the word echoed in her mind, a soft, foreboding whisper. . . .

  Hot. Explosively hot. Flames spurting . . .

  Hell.

  Hell.

  Jacqueline’s breath slowed. Her eyes narrowed. Her hands, clad in fingerless leather gloves, curled into her hair. She stood, frozen in place, caught by a vision that clawed its way up from deep inside her, overwhelming her, taking her somewhere she did not wish to go.

  Then she faintly heard the sound of water dripping, and a cold gust of air brushed the back of her neck.

  She snapped back to the moment, to the tasting room, to her job behind the counter serving wine to a dozen thirsty tourists, to Michelle’s voice whispering, “Dibs, Jacquie. He’s divine. Dibs. Dibs!”

  What could have pulled Michelle’s attention away from the buff young marines?

  Jacqueline glanced at the guy who stood in the doorway—and froze in wary appreciation.

  He was a dark silhouette against the bright sunlight: long and lean, narrow hips wrapped in fitted, faded denim, and a black silk T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders. He stood aggressively, with his arms held away from his body, like a bullfighter prepared to face the final challenge.

  No wonder Michelle was impressed. He was her kind of guy. He was trouble.

  Jacqueline had had enough trouble in her life. She dropped her hair, flexed her hands to rid them of the betraying stiffness, and in an undertone, said, “He’s all yours.”

  “That’s right, sweetheart. Because I called dibs, and don’t you forget it.” Raising her voice, Michelle called, “Come in, sir, and take your place at the counter. There’s always room for another connoisseur of fine wines.”

  Two of the older ladies glanced back, did a double take, and moved aside to let him in. Because they might be schoolteachers, and married, but when a guy walked like Mr. Aggressive, like a stalker on a mission, he commanded adulation.

  They were glad to give it to him.

  Michelle gave her speech about the tasting fee and the refund, and almost vibrated with excitement as Mr. Aggressive put his twenty on the counter. She poured a generous glass of the first cabernet sauvignon, and avidly watched as he swirled it, his gaze on the brilliant garnet in the glass. Without even trying, Mr. Aggressive demanded the notice of everyone in the tasting room. He was one of those guys, filling the space, taking the oxygen, putting his stamp on the place, the hour, the atmosphere.

  Unbidden, Jacqueline’s attention wandered his direction.

  He breathed in the bouquet, then lifted the glass to his lips—and with a swift, sideways glance, speared her with his gaze.

  The image of him seared into her brain. Dark hair, close cut. Olive skin. Sinful cheekbones. And blue eyes. Pale, brilliant, cold eyes like blue diamonds that held her prisoner in his gaze.

  She couldn’t look away. Not while he sipped, tasted, and approved with a slow, steady nod. Not when his gaze dropped to her leather-clad hands. Not when he lifted his glass in a salute to her. Not until he looked away, back to Michelle.

  Michelle spoke clearly, loud enough for Jacqueline to hear her, loud enough for everyone to hear her. “That’s Jacquie. She’s our resident nun. She doesn’t date; she doesn’t care for guys at all; she only works and hikes and reads.”

  Jacqueline flushed. Thank you, Michelle. That was something everybody here needed to know.

  “Really?” The guy had a great voice, warm and deep, vibrant in a way that made a girl strain to listen to him. Not that Jacqueline wanted to hear him, or even tried, but like Michelle, he pitched his tone loud enough for her to hear. “Is she gay?”

  “I guess.” Michelle glanced at Jacqueline, and something in Jacqueline’s face must have made her change her mind. “No, she’s just not interested in sex.”

  “Maybe she hasn’t met the right man,” he said.

  It sure isn’t you, you conceited bastard. But Jacqueline gave no indication that she heard.

  Yet a glance at his half smile proved he had plucked the thought from her mind.

  Oblivious to the undercurrents, Michelle stepped back to open a new bottle and murmured to Jacqueline, “Look at the quirk in his cheek. Look at that crooked smile. Give him a martini and a license to kill, and he’d be the new James Bond—you know, the rough one.”

  “Give him a sailor hat and a can of spinach, and he’d be Popeye.” Jacqueline returned Michelle’s shocked look with a cool one. “I’m just sayin’.”

  Middle-aged, well-dressed, two married couples stood a little apart, drinking their wine, chatting and laughing. The Fun Four might buy a bottle, no more, but they were good for the tasting room, giving it the warmth and ambiance of a sophisticated party, and Jacqueline was grateful when the gray-haired man caught her eye and changed the subject. “It’s warm in here. Can I turn on the ceiling fans?” he
asked.

  She sighed gustily. “I wish you could. You may have noticed that we’re remodeling”—she indicated the old counter pushed off to the side and the half-painted wall—“and the electrician isn’t done with the wiring.”

  She was determinedly not looking at Mr. Aggressive, yet she felt him frown. He exuded disapproval, and the others picked up on his displeasure.

  If she didn’t do something now, everyone would leave—everyone but him—and she’d lose the sale she’d cultivated so diligently. Lifting her voice, she called, “But if you’d like, I can top off your glasses and take you on a quick tour of the winery. It’s cool down in the cellars.” As she expected, the promise of more wine brought an enthusiastic response, and seven of the nineteen tasters followed her through the gift shop and into the working winery.

  Mr. Aggressive stayed behind.

  Yeah, Michelle’s easy. Put the moves on her. Never mind that the idea raised Jacqueline’s anger a notch.

  A quick survey of the group proved that only the lady visiting from Wisconsin was a wine-tour virgin, so Jacqueline gave her the basics about wine making while lauding the awards Blue Oak Winery had won in the past year. The awards impressed her wine-buying couple and made the Fun Four seriously discuss whether to buy a bottle to take to dinner that night. As they talked and laughed and lingered in the cellar—Jacqueline was in no hurry to return to the tasting room—that faint, cold and now-familiar breeze lifted goose bumps on her skin.

  Mr. Aggressive had found them.

  He joined the group with an easy swagger. He stood a little apart to listen as Jacqueline recommended Cole’s Chop House for steaks. The wine she dispensed so freely was working on the guests now, and the food discussion turned serious. She found out that two of the Fun Four, the gray-haired man and his blond, laughing wife, owned a cattle ranch in Texas. They knew their leather. “Those are fine gloves.” The wife took Jacqueline’s hand and examined the material and stitching. “Are they in style, or do they protect your hands when you open the bottles?”

  When the woman ran her fingertips over the palm, Jacqueline flinched and curled her hand into a fist. “A little of both.”

  “So you’re a slave to style?” Mr. Aggressive’s voice was as cool as his manner.

  The wife didn’t like his implied criticism, but nothing in her friendly, accented voice or vivacious manner changed. “Bless your heart, sir, but we silly women do love to follow trends and set the fashion.”

  Jacqueline glanced at him to see if he realized he’d been mocked and put down, and by an expert.

  He smiled crookedly, that half smile that made Michelle pant with desire. That smile clearly indicated he could withstand censure. That smile royally pissed Jacqueline off.

  The blond wife turned back to Jacqueline. “Now, where should we have dinner tonight?”

  Naturally, they knew their beef, too. Jacqueline was able to assure them that Cole’s was consistently one of the highest-rated steak houses in the country with a wine list that won accolades from the top wine magazines. She casually mentioned that at Cole’s, the Blue Oak eighty-dollar bottle of cabernet sold for one hundred and seventy-five. At that moment, she sold a bottle of cab to the Fun Four, a mixed case to her wine experts, and consoled the lady from Wisconsin about the high prices.

  Then she briskly returned the group to the tasting room, where a disgruntled Michelle had lost her marines, lost her schoolteachers, and gained three new guests to tend.

  Jacqueline noted with some satisfaction that none of them was likely to buy.

  Normally, she would have stepped up to the counter to help. But the afternoon was waning. The Fun Four bought their bottle and moved on to the next winery. The wine experts fought about whether they should purchase another case. The lady from Wisconsin started talking to a new guy, the sunburned man from New Jersey; she’d obviously read the study financed by the wineries that declared tasting rooms were great places to meet men.

  And Mr. Aggressive stood silently sipping his wine . . . and waiting.

  To hell with him. He could wait forever.

  Jacqueline slipped into the back room and picked up the house phone. When the vintner’s wife answered, she said, “Mrs. Marino, the tasting room is slow, it’s an hour until closing, and I’m feeling ill. Would it be possible for me to leave early?”

  “Of course, dear.” Mrs. Marino sounded surprised and kind—Jacqueline was never sick. “I’ll come over in case we get a late rush. Will you be all right driving yourself home?”

  “Yes. It’s the heat that’s bothering me.”

  “And you work too much. I suppose you’ll be wait ressing tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I may take the night off.” Although she needed the money. It wasn’t cheap to live in Napa Valley. Her tiny apartment near downtown San Michael, on the second floor of the early-twentieth-century Victorian, cost almost as much as her apartment in New York City, and that was saying something. She could have gone elsewhere—nothing held her in Napa Valley—but she loved the dry warmth, the long rows of grapes, the mountains that cupped the valley, the wineries, their rivalries and alliances, the food, the wine. . . .

  She didn’t love the weirdos who popped up occasionally. Guys like Mr. Aggressive, who acted as if he had rights she hadn’t granted him. Rights she would never grant him.

  Let Michelle have him. Jacqueline had had enough heartache in her life.

  Chapter 2

  Jacqueline pulled her backpack out of her locker and headed out the rear door to her car, parked under the broad branches of the two-hundred-year-old blue oak that had given the winery its name. The little Civic started right up, and she headed south on Highway 29, the windows wide and the wind ripping through her hair.

  The color was like the shimmer of moonlight . . . or so she’d been told. She realized now she should have cut it, and dyed it black, or brown, or purple, or any color besides this freakish platinum. The blond was too distinctive, too easy to spot. More than once she glanced behind her, watching for a strange vehicle with the strange guy in it, but everything seemed normal. All she saw were SUVs full of tourists and faded farm trucks packed with workers. Then, as she pulled into San Michael, she spotted a black Mercedes SL550 with dark-tinted windows, and that chill rippled through her.

  Was it him? Not necessarily. There was money here, and a lot of people who drove expensive cars.

  But if it was . . . she couldn’t outrun him. She had to outsmart him.

  Rather than going to her apartment, she drove until she found a parking spot beside the old-fashioned town square. It was crowded here, part of the downtown renaissance. Quaint shops faced out on the park filled with grand live oaks and benches where tourists lolled in the shade. Directly across the way stood an old redbrick courthouse complete with white trim and a cupola. Jacqueline loved the courthouse; she liked to look at it, to feel the tug of the past in its ornate styling. She liked to imagine what this town, this wine-producing valley had been like a hundred years ago. When she talked about her decision to live in San Michael, she said the courthouse architecture and the styling of the town were the main reasons she’d chosen to stay in San Michael.

  But of course, that wasn’t true. The main reason she’d chosen to stay in San Michael was because it was as far away from New York City in culture and distance as she could be and still be in the continental United States.

  Now she scanned the park, looking for Mr. Aggressive.

  She saw nothing.

  Plucking her cell out of her backpack, she called the winery.

  Michelle picked up on the first ring. “Blue Oak Winery, where the hell are you, Jacquie?”

  “I didn’t like that guy, and you did, so I left.”

  “Like I need you to leave before I have a chance with him?” Michelle was always crabby, and never more so than when she was offended.

  “You got a date with him?”

  “No. About the time I realized you hadn’t come back from the back room, he
put the glass down and walked out.”

  No wonder Michelle was offended.

  Michelle continued. “All he did was ask questions about you, and he didn’t even finish his tasting. Twenty dollars and he didn’t take his second glass. What a loser.”

  “Loser” was not the term Jacqueline would slap on that guy. “Okay. Thank you.” She hung up while Michelle was sputtering.

  She got out of the car. Locked the doors. Slung her backpack over her shoulder. And started walking.