Black Aura
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
Macon GA 31201
Black Aura
Copyright © 2008 by Jaycee Clark
ISBN: 1-59998-504-7
Edited by Deborah Nemeth
Cover by Scott Carpenter
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: October 2008
Black Aura
Jaycee Clark
Dedication
This book is dedicated to dreamers who believe in themselves even when they question their sanity for doing so. Also, thanks to Kristie for reading through this and for listening to crazy ideas. And Deb, a wonderful editor who thankfully didn’t kill me, even though she probably wanted to.
Prologue
He hissed as the pain snaked through his system, dark and biting. The medication slithered in its wake, waiting, sneaking, swallowing the pain whole.
It wasn’t enough. Never enough.
He couldn’t feel it anymore, couldn’t feel the fast, humming energy that had always charged through him, that
sustained
him.
He needed another transfer. Transfers charged him. They did more than any medical treatments ever did. He knew that, felt it,
believed
it.
Death for all was only a matter of time. He was hardly stupid, he knew time was measured, limited. But he believed he could push back the inevitable given enough time, just a bit more. Perhaps one day he’d find the
one
, the right one who would take all the pain away, make all the sickness disappear.
Make him better.
Heal
him.
Not that he hadn’t been to see the local healer. He had. Hell, he’d tracked others down, known healers, and all said the same. Doctors were of no real use to him. They rarely believed, even if they claimed they did. The energy that had always coursed through him, gifted him, blessed him, now seemed to be his curse.
He
needed
the energy. To survive he’d have to have the transfers, must have them as beings needed air.
Just any transfer would not do. He needed special ones, and now he had to find who would be next. On a sigh, he thought of the young virgin, whose body he’d left out in the woods where no one would find it. She would be missed, it was inevitable. He wondered idly if her family had known how truly special she had been. Had she even been reported as missing yet? He’d taken her fast. Fast and furiously. The transfer had been there, yes, but it had lacked…something.
She had been so easy, giving off that air of vulnerability. He breathed deeply. How he loved the vulnerable. They were so easy to lead… Special ones, especially the younger, were so easily manipulated. She had had no idea what her visions and gifts truly were. Her parents had her medicated for whatever it was the latest doctor had assured them she’d been afflicted with. After two suicide attempts it was doubtful any would immediately think she was really missing, and if they did find her body, posed just so, would anyone ask any questions?
Probably. If she was found before the animals got to her, it would be hard to miss the marks on her neck. Strangling someone took more strength than most people thought. Either way, he’d helped her achieve what she wanted, hadn’t he? She hadn’t really wanted to live, so he’d helped her in a sense.
Helped her as she’d helped him. She’d given to him that which he’d needed.
Her energy.
The energy transfer hadn’t been the largest surge in power he’d ever experienced. But then she hadn’t wanted to live as others had. He had already learned that the more gifted usually wanted to live, thrived to live, had an intricate, primeval force to
live.
Those were the strongest transfers. Hers had been bright, yet shadowed at the same time, a charge quickly over with only a minor hum after her last breath, her being, her essence had been transferred to him.
They were all special. But he needed
more
, needed them and quickly. He needed a strong one. One who wanted to live. Maybe to find the stronger, he’d have to look at more mature women, not those who were so young. The young after all often believed themselves to be invincible, didn’t they? Often thought nothing bad could ever truly happen to them. To the young, it was always someone else who overdosed, who died in car accidents or was abducted, abused or killed. Even so, there was something very special about taking those younger ones, those conflicted and at a point where they could choose their own path—good or bad.
He breathed deeply and relished the memory of youth, of their scent, of their innocence.
He needed his gifted ones to be strong, not just slightly gifted, not just a little special.
Powerful.
Strong.
He looked in the mirror. His pale face, sunken eyes stared back at him.
He had to find the next one—and quickly.
Chapter One
She’d run away.
Which was completely unlike her. She hated, absolutely hated failure.
Lake Johnson shifted in the chilled early morning air, tinged with smoke and tickling pine. She could also smell snow on the air, as if the low-hanging clouds obscuring Taos Mountain were not enough of an indication.
Chicken.
She stood on the sidewalk, outside the art gallery across the street from the loft she was renting. The gallery’s rusted metal sign over the door,
Symbols,
made her wonder exactly what it meant to everyone. Symbols
was a popular gallery, judging by all the traffic it saw. She’d been inside it more than once, but not because she really liked everything in it. Some of the sculptures were weird, though she loved the sepia prints done of local landscapes, slightly skewed in some graphic design program, probably. Either way, some of the stuff called to her.
Or maybe someone.
Go in. Just go in and ask him.
No.
Taking a deep breath she looked around, tapping her nails on her thigh. Maybe she should have had another cup of coffee. But then the cup of coffee was a problem. The owner of the damned coffee shop was one of the reasons she stood here contemplating asking the sexy gallery owner, Maxamillan Gray, out on a date.
Once upon a time she wouldn’t have thought twice about asking a guy out. But that was before. Before her life had been tossed into chaos. Before she started to second-guess herself.
Which was why she’d spent the winter here in Taos, New Mexico. Why she was still hiding here when she owned her own new age shop and other property in Sedona, Arizona. At least she wasn’t hurting for money. Which was a good thing, considering she needed a reasonable excuse for coming into the gallery yet again. Maybe today she’d spend some of that money…on…something?
Guts and glory. Just open the door, look around and ask him out.
Lake scanned the crowd again. The locals, or who she thought of as locals, were out and about. She glanced across the street to see Mr. Howard, the owner of the coffee shop and her landlord. The coffee bar sat on a main street, lined with more galleries, stores, and restaurants than most passing-through travelers cared to appreciate. The old streets were lined with historical adobe buildings. The streets were also narrow, so traffic on any given weekend and most weekdays was a real bitch, she’d learned, but that was okay too. There were worse things in life than sitting on her little deck above the coffee shop and watching the tourists piss each other off as they tried to maneuver through the old town shadowed by mountains, pueblos and Native American history.
Mr. Howard waved to her. Wiley old matchmaking bastard. He knew she watched the gallery, must have sensed she liked the owner, because this morning with her cup of coffee he’d served her the idea that Maxamillan was interested in her. He’d
asked
about her.
So if he was interested, then why didn’t she wait for the guy to ask her out, and what the hell was she doing standing on the sidewalk arguing with herself? These days however, she second-guessed herself all the damned time.
She didn’t know if she could read people correctly anymore.
Once upon a time she’d read people, made a fine living running her shop focused around readings and tarot and auras. That had been before. Before she’d had the misfortune of thinking she fell for a guy who was not what he’d seemed. The bastard had almost killed her best friend, and she had not even seen it until it was almost too late.
Now, months later, she still second-guessed herself. She could still read people, could still read auras, but could she
trust
those readings?
As she watched, one person she knew she did read correctly strode down the sidewalk towards her. The young woman—Lake figured in her late teens or early twenties—was troubled. Her aura was damaged, dark and muted, but Lake could see where it had once been bright, shining and shifting, a rainbow dancing on water. Energies trailed behind her, like long tendrils, reaching across the street even. Anger, pain, hope, and…hope.
Lake wondered again who the young woman was. She’d seen her go into the shop before, though she’d never been in the gallery when Lake had visited.
Chicken.
Shut up.
The waiting isn’t getting easier.
“Fine.” She pulled her tote higher on her shoulder, one she’d knitted from fun yarn of various colors. It was bright, cheery and probably ugly to some. She loved it.
To hell with it. Just go in. Look around. Ask him. One. Two. Three.
Lake pushed into the gallery just after the young woman, who looked back twice before stepping into the shop as well. Up close, Lake noticed the girl had wise eyes.
The shop smelled as it had the other times she’d been in, a mixture of hardwood and turpentine. The pale terracotta-washed walls were a great backdrop for the black-framed prints. Two walls were covered in photographs, black and whites, sepias. The other held various sized canvasses, bold slashes of paints, sweeping landscapes, cool watercolors. Everything was showcased, from neoclassical to more modern, dark works. A bank of windows filtered in the light splashing onto pedestals and display cases with everything from sculptures to jewelry. She’d been in several times to look around, so maybe no one would think anything of her being in here now.
The girl glanced at the man, Maxamillan Gray, behind the counter and then at Lake. Lake saw then, the girl was an old soul.
Smiling, the young woman said in a soft voice, “You know you’re yellow?”
“Alyssa,” Maxamillan warned.
Lake studied him, as attracted to him as she always seemed to be. He was a bit taller, and she topped or stood even to most men at five foot eleven. On the occasion she managed to drag her ass out of bed for early morning Pilates, she’d seen the man cycling or jogging. Long and lithe, he was toned but not muscular. His forearms and biceps attested to all the sculpting he did. Some might think him soft, she supposed. After all, he wasn’t the rugged cowboy, nor was he the suave New York gallery owner. This was a man who lived and owned his own world and was very proud of that fact. He wore no ring, with no signs he’d worn one recently, which didn’t actually mean anything.
His gray eyes landed on her and raked her over quickly once, then narrowed slightly at the corners before slowly gazing down her body again. When his gaze met her eyes, she cocked a brow and gave him one of her half grins.
Maxamillan’s dark hair was dusted with gray at the temples. His chiseled face was neither too narrow, nor overly harsh. He reminded her of a David sculpture—perfection from his slightly curled hair to his lips, the bottom slightly plumper than the top.
And where the hell was her mind? The look, the gaze, those lips and the way he moved. She knew enough about men to know he’d be great in bed. Or maybe she just
knew.
A slight blush stole over his cheekbones before he turned back to the young girl. “Alyssa, you owe this woman an apology.”
Lake refocused on the young woman—dark hair, cut short and stylish, her eyes the same gray as Maxamillan’s—and realized they were related.
“Dad.”
Lake grinned, seeing the tattoo on the girl’s shoulder, a Celtic symbol. “Actually—Alyssa, is it?—I’ve always seen my aura as more orange than yellow. But then, granted I’ve been out of sorts for the last several months, so yellow is probably right. Come to think of it, I’m surprised it’s not blue or brown or something.” She studied the young woman and dropped her shields, barely tapping into the energies surrounding them. “You, on the other hand, used to be all colors.” The energy all but poured over her. “My God.”
Alyssa frowned. “Whatever.”
The power shooting off the girl started to tap and drain her own. The anger was spiked. Not anger—no—rage. Rage, dark and deadly in its repression, all but hissed in the air. It was held in check by the calming waters of hope, of blue, of greens, of…
Lake could only stare at the young troubled woman. “No. I-I saw before, the muted colors, but I had no idea…” She had to push the energy charging across her skin back, back behind the shields. She took a deep breath and looked square into Alyssa’s gray eyes. “You are an incredibly, incredibly gifted young woman. I hope you know that.” Then other words tumbled out of her mouth. “Be careful. Be very, very careful, Alyssa.”
Alyssa stared at her a moment more, shook her head and then turned without another word and walked to the back of the gallery.
Lake watched her, heard the boots thumping on the scarred wooden floor, even heard the faint jingle of the bling on the girl’s low-slung jeans.
A door in the back slammed.
Lake blinked and remembered where she was and what she’d done. “Oh my God. I’m sorry. I just…” She trailed off. “I shouldn’t have…”
Maxamillan cleared his throat, looking in the direction his daughter had gone. “Actually, it’s okay. She loves to shock people, thinks it’s great fun. Fact is, she’s not used to the tables being turned.” He pushed the sleeves of his long sleeved Henley up. The light gray brought out the color of his eyes. “She’s always thought…” Those eyes speared her. “Well, it doesn’t matter.”
Lake studied him and realized that perhaps he didn’t know. “You do realize your daughter is very gifted? I haven’t seen or felt energies like hers in years.”
One brow arched. “You believe in auras?”
Lake couldn’t help it. She laughed. Digging in her purse, she pulled out a card with her name and cell on it. Then she pointed across the way to the coffee shop. “Give this to your daughter. Tell her to come see me. I own—or did own, and probably will own again…well, actually, I do plan to reopen up when I move back…” She realized she was rambling. “I do own a shop in Sedona.”
He grinned at her. “Are you sure about that? You sound like you might not have it figured out yet.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“What type of shop?” He glanced at the card, then back at her. “A shop for all your needs?”
“A new age shop. That’s my slogan.” Shaking off the feeling she needed to explain herself to him, she continued, “Anyway, tell her I’m staying over there and to call me if she wants to…” Again she trailed off. “Talk.”
He frowned and scratched the side of his face, studying her card. “You’re staying over at the coffee shop?”
“Renting a room from the Howards.” She wished now she hadn’t worn the turtleneck sweater. It was warm. Or maybe it was just her. “It’s a nice place. The H-Howards are really nice.” She was rambling. Jeez.
“Oh-kay. Well, Lake.” His gaze rose back to hers. “Your name is really Lake?”
She rolled her eyes. “Is yours really Maxamillan?”
He laughed. “Touché. Though, please call me Max.”
“Max.” Lake smiled, turned and walked to the door.
Just as her hand touched the old rusted handle, he said, “Um, look. I’ve seen you over there, seen you come in a few times and I was wondering…”
Lake stopped and stared back at him. Waited. And waited some more. She hoped to hell he wasn’t in a relationship.
“And you were wondering…?”
“That is, well,” he muttered something and took a breath. “I was wondering if you’d like to go for drinks sometime.”
She smiled. “I’m really not into the bar scene, Max.”
He frowned. “Neither am I.”
“Good. Then how about the coffee shop?”
He smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled up. “I’d like that.”
She waited.
“This evening around…” He motioned with his hand. “Seven?”
“Sounds good. See you at seven across the street, Max.”
Just as she walked through the door she heard, “’Bout time. God, Dad, I thought you’d never actually spit it out.”