Vengeance Borne (4 page)

The pencil fell limp in Micah’s grasp as the scene in his mind faded to black. That’s when he’d woken and he still couldn’t banish the look of fear on the woman’s face at those sweetly spoken words.

Micah stared at the dream journal, one of many he’d kept since the age of fifteen. He had at least that many years’ worth of notebooks boxed away in a storage unit back home. Pages and pages of useless shit, a destiny he’d been running from since before his teenage years. Now, pushing thirty, he was still running.

For years, his mother urged him to embrace the dreams and strange emotions that accompanied them. Thanks, but no thanks. Micah fought against his instincts, tried to ignore his abnormality. Psychotherapy hadn’t helped. Alcohol had a tendency to enhance the visions. And his mother’s encouragement to embrace his so-called gifts only made matters worse. The only thing that had ever made a difference was the pills.

“Why you take those drugs?” Her voice rang clear in his imagination as if she were standing right beside him. “You’re not crazy. You have the sight!”

Micah massaged his temples in an attempt to erase the memory of his mother’s chiding words. He’d lived with her superstitious Romany crap all of his life. He pushed himself off the bed and shuffled down the narrow hall separating the bedroom from the rest of the RV, peering out the window above the kitchen sink. A three-quarter moon rose above the stand of trees in the distance. He should have known. The visions were always clearer when the moon was about to reach its zenith.

Micah took a step to his left and opened the small refrigerator door. The light bathed his body in a golden halo as he rifled through the narrow shelves for water. Pulling out a cold plastic bottle, he held it to his throbbing forehead for a moment before cracking the seal and taking a sip. A second glance out the window revealed a darkened landscape made more eerie as moonlight filtered down through the trees. The bushes looked more like goblins ready to pounce than simple foliage. And the trees, giants holding their arms aloft to the sky. He turned his back to the window, and the cursed moon that brought him nothing but misery. A distant cry reverberated through the trees and a familiar chill swept over him. Bringing the bottle again to his lips, he drained it in a couple of gulps, and tossed it in the sink, the hollow thud drowning out the faint cry that echoed in the distant woods.

Probably just coyotes
.

Damn, he was exhausted. Micah returned to the plush memory foam mattress but sleep wouldn’t come. The dream woman’s face loomed in his thoughts. His mind raced and his muscles ached, the effort it took to suppress the emotions swirling within him almost unbearable. Anxiety congealed into a tight knot in the pit of his stomach and he felt flushed and overwhelmed, unable to escape the one thing he needed to find peace: himself. He flung the constricting covers from his body and turned on every light in the RV. Checked the time on his cell, two o’clock in the morning.

He turned on the TV and said a silent thank you for satellite television. Twenty-four hour programming was an insomniac’s best friend. But channel surfing only added to Micah’s frustration and it didn’t take long before he abandoned his search for mind-numbing entertainment. A sketch pad and charcoal pencils were tucked in a cubby above the dining table and he brought the notebook down, flipping it open to a blank page. He picked a few of the pencils from a bundle bound with a rubber band and began to feather out the shape of the dream woman’s face. Within minutes he’d sketched her perfectly from her soft russet complexion and mysterious pale green eyes to her dark, curling hair. He even managed to capture the furrow of her brow and darker area on her chin where the bruise had been. The dream woman stared back at him from the paper, her expression no less haunting.

“Who are you?”

Micah waited, as if the black and white sketch would answer back. He traced a finger along the delicate lines of her face, pausing at the cut he’d drawn on her cheekbone. “Fucking dreams,” he muttered, tearing the page from the spiral and crumpling the paper into a tight ball. He tossed the paper somewhere toward the driver’s seat and stalked back to the bed, pausing at the dresser. Several prescription bottles peered up at him from the paper-lined drawer, and his hand hovered over them for a moment. He swore and snatched one of the amber plastic bottles from its resting place, popped the top and shook three white pills into his hand. He’d told himself he was done with the drugs. But if he’d really been done, he wouldn’t have brought them along, would he?
Fuck it.
He placed the quick dissolving pills under his tongue, flopped back on the pillows and threw the covers over his head.

Gift my sorry ass
.

Great thing about the quick-melts, they worked fast. Finally relaxed, Micah’s body took the lead and his mind followed, drifting into a state of non-awareness. He floated for a brief and wonderful moment. The anxiety was gone, the worry—gone. The emotions that settled in his chest without reason or rhyme fled like leaves blown by the wind. Peace held him in a warm embrace and he let out a sigh that turned into a soft and pleasant groan. The transition from wakefulness to sleep felt like slipping into a warm, deep pool of water. If he had a single dream the rest of the night, it wouldn’t matter, because thanks to the Ativan, he wouldn’t remember.

“I’m glad I dropped your ass,” Jacquelyn muttered to no one. “Couldn’t even give me a ride? Asshole.”

She had to rely on weak, shaky legs to get her home. Though she was better than fit, a three-mile walk in the middle of the night when she was already ass tired, not to mention still a little buzzed, seemed too much.

The sound of breaking branches drew her attention, and Jacquelyn stopped dead to allow her ears to fully absorb the sound. An uneasy feeling crept over her, like fingernails massaging her scalp. Or invisible eyes watching her.

She reached for the gun under her left arm and paused, her hand hovering just above the grip. Her heart skipped a beat as the brush rustled violently, and a doe jumped from the brambles, skittering off into the dark.

Jacquelyn sighed and turned around, then let out a frightened shriek as she made contact with a solid form.
Very
warriorish. “Shit! Finn, what in the hell are you doing here?”

Amusement flickered across his features for a brief moment before he tucked it away, replacing it with detachment. “I wanted to make sure you made it back all right.”

She looked over his broad shoulder toward her porch, lit up and welcoming. A hot shower and soft mattress waited. “I told you, I don’t need a babysitter. And if you were really concerned, you would have given me a ride home. Though I appreciate the effort it must have taken you to
drag
yourself over here, I’m fine.”

Finn’s indifferent façade fell away and he reached up a hand, placing a warm palm against her uninjured cheek. “Not quite fine.” His rich, soft voice touched every nerve on her body, providing a comfort that she missed. “But you will be.”

She tried to pull away but he held her fast. He was a Bearer after all, and besides being able to aid in her healing, he knew how she felt, sometimes without even touching her. Jacquelyn had had her fill of empaths.
That
was the real reason she’d broken it off with him. She couldn’t stand him using her own emotions against her every chance he got. Nothing was secret to a Bearer. They could climb right into your heart and mind—with or without your permission. And in her opinion, that was totally unfair.
Dirty pool, Finn, you big fat cheater
.

“I know dealing with Changelings is hard on you,” he said. “Just relax.”

Finn used his free hand to brush a few errant strands of hair from her forehead and closed his eyes. This was the only good thing, if any, about a Bearer. He could make all of her troubles go away if he wanted. Like a weight lifted from her shoulders, the pain of the innocent girl’s death at the hands of the Changeling and destruction of her left-over body lifted from her, absorbed by Finn. Just part of his job description: bearing her pain. And he’d done it often enough to know how much she truly appreciated it.

This was the side of Finn she’d fallen in love with. Compassionate. Tender. Understanding. Those personality traits were common in all Bearers, but their abilities often made them high-handed, judgmental, and erratic. Bearers experienced emotion with an intensity that Jacquelyn would never truly understand. That still didn’t give Finn the right to mess with hers and for that reason, she had to put distance between them no matter how painful.

Finn opened his eyes and stared down at her.
Too intimate
. It had clouded Jacquelyn’s judgment and prompted her to become involved with him in the first place. The way he could see into her soul without her permission, feel what she felt had become more of an intrusion than a deep connection. It was nothing more than false emotion, contrived by his calming effect on her. She couldn’t allow herself to be fooled tonight or any other night ever again. Not until she knew her feelings were hers and not an echo of something he wanted her to feel.

“Thanks.” She pulled away and wiped her clammy palms down the front of her jeans. “I’m going to bed. I can barely stay upright. ’Night.”

“Whatever,” Finn said, draping himself again in cruel apathy. He turned and headed for his truck. “Don’t go out without me again. Next time you might not be so lucky.”

Jacquelyn fought the urge to call him out on his own bullshit attitude, mouthing a couple of her favorite swear words at his back instead. Even though she blamed Finn for things that weren’t necessarily his fault, it didn’t change the way she felt. He’d always be too overprotective, and she’d always be too proud to let down her guard.

Finally inside, the thought of a shower didn’t seem as appealing as it once had. Instead, she flopped face first on her bed and breathed in the smell of fresh fabric softener on a clean comforter. A pang of regret shot through her as she realized she’d washed all traces of Finn from the bedding. It didn’t smell like him anymore. A lump formed deep in Jacquelyn’s throat, but she swallowed it down.

Hunters don’t cry.

Chapter 4

JACQUELYN WINCED AS she examined the butterfly-bandaged cut on her cheek. Her jaw hurt like hell, and she’d probably be limping for a day or two. Of course, Finn could give her already quick-healing body a boost, but no way in hell was she going to ask him for help. The waxing moon had a way of stirring up a hornet’s nest of supernatural trouble, and this month was no different. She longed for the dark, void sky of a new moon, a couple of weeks away. At least the cycle would be on the wane soon and things would slow down.

With a sigh, she pinned the plastic nametag to her polo shirt and wound the strings of her black apron around her waist twice before tying it in a bow just below her hips. Another glamorous day of lattés and cappuccinos awaited and she couldn’t afford to be late. She was holding on to this job by a thread and if she missed one more shift, she’d be back to collecting unemployment.

Job commitment was a concept Jacquelyn had yet to grasp. Then again, it was hard to get too excited about brewing coffee when she’d spent the previous night battling the supernatural. Everyday life lacked luster when you were anything but an everyday sort of girl. She wondered which punishment was worse, pouring lattés all day just to make ends meet, or losing precious sleep because she’d been out policing supernatural beings to keep the world safe for good, innocent people. She had to admit it, Jacquelyn liked protecting these people. This small Idaho town had become her home. The people here, her family.

Already late, she didn’t have time for more than a quick apprising look in the mirror.
I look like I ran into the business end of a lead pipe.
She frowned at her battered reflection once more before she headed out the door. The occasional broken face came with the territory. No big deal. Even without a Bearer’s help she healed quicker than the average person. At least there were a few perks to being a Waerd.

McCall was a small town nestled in the mountains of central Idaho about a million miles from anywhere in all directions. The area boasted a couple of ski hills and a few lakes, miles upon miles of parks and forests, and not a few old ranches and ranchers who’d been around long enough to tell you tales of boarding horses for local Native American tribes. There were two grocery stores, half a dozen coffee shops, and a handful of restaurants. With a population that exploded from a few thousand to ten or so thousand in the summer months when tourism was at its peak, it was the sort of place where if you didn’t know everyone, you at least
knew of
most of the people you came in contact with. The local economy was a strange mish-mosh of wealth and poverty, multi-million dollar vacation “cabins” and modest family dwellings. A place where most people’s mottos fell along the lines of sink or swim, feast or famine, or work your ass off while the weather’s nice, because you’ll be collecting unemployment once the snow starts falling.