Vengeance Borne (8 page)

Micah rolled over on his side with a groan. He felt only a little better than death warmed over. His throat and tongue were too dry, like they’d been covered with a layer of velvet. What a shitty way to start the day.

He noticed, as he stretched and rolled his tongue around his mouth, a tenderness in his face. After stumbling a few paces to the tiny bathroom mirror, Micah realized why. A bruise had bloomed high on his left cheekbone. Almost gone, but it looked like someone had popped him in the face. And stranger yet, it was in the exact same spot as the gash he’d touched on Jax’s cheek the previous day.

What the hell…?
Micah examined the bruise, the skin still a bit swollen and tender to the touch. He couldn’t recall falling, bumping into anything…had he rolled out of bed and not even realized it? No. The only explanation was the least logical one, and wasn’t that a crazy fucking thing to consider. When he traced his fingers along the butterflied gash on her cheek he’d felt…
something
. And now here he was, bruised as though he’d picked the injury right off her face and planted it on his own. Wow. Like the weirdness factor wasn’t already cranked up too high, this just added a new dimension to the crazy shit storm he called life.
Hit the road while you can,
reason shouted. No. Micah had felt alone his entire life. Floating and disconnected from everyone around him. But a simple touch with a complete stranger left him feeling anchored. He couldn’t run from that. Not until he got some answers.

Micah stepped under the spray of the shower and let the hot water sluice down his body, relaxing the tension in his muscles and clearing some of the fog from his drug-muddled brain. He stayed in the shower until he exhausted the RV’s small water heater, toweled off, and threw on some clean jeans and a t-shirt. After that, a strong pot of coffee brought him officially into the land of the living. As he sat at the table, watching the morning news on the flat screen hanging on the wall above the driver’s seat, Micah absently fiddled with the items in front of him. Nothing out of the ordinary: toothpicks, packets of sugar, and a few condiment containers he hadn’t put away from dinner the night before. When the station broke for commercial, he looked down at his handiwork and spilled his coffee in the process. In neatly grouped piles were items of three. Three toothpicks lined up like soldiers, sugar packets piled up in threes. The salt and pepper standing on either side of the steak sauce, in a grouping of three.

Too eerie to be a coincidence. The number three had been solid in his memory; not even the drugs could banish that image. It meant something—something important. He just wished he knew what.

For a brief and stupid moment, he considered calling his mother. But the lunacy of that act would be worse than anything the dreams told him. First she’d be thrilled at the prospect her son had finally accepted his “gift” and was putting it to good use. Then she’d scold him for leaving, cry, and lay a hell of a guilt trip on him. He’d feel bad, think about going home, and it would all start over again.

Jesus, you’re almost thirty years old dude, time to cut the cord
. Micah let out a weary sigh as he scattered the pieces of three across the table, making a nonsensical mess out of the careful groupings. Signs were just excuses. Omens, nothing more than nonsense. Dreams had no meaning.

But then, how did he explain Jax? He snatched up the drawing he’d tacked to the wall. If that dream hadn’t been a sign or some kind of omen, then what could it be? He’d driven through the town where
she
lived the day after the dream. And what about the gas station? Was it just chance that he’d stopped to buy fuel there? It couldn’t be a coincidence. He brought his hand to his bruised cheek. How in the hell did he explain that?

Without thinking, Micah threw on his shoes, locked up the RV and set out for the walk back into town. Three miles by his estimation. He’d hiked eight mountain miles last week, this walk would be nothing. But by the time he’d put the first mile behind him, his steps became heavier and his breathing more labored. The Ativan lingered in his system, obviously not helping. Sluggish, he dragged his feet as he continued toward town, his eyelids resisting as he blinked. His reflexes weren’t any better as he tried to dodge a car turning the corner toward him before he could cross the street, nearly bouncing off the hood of the car before jumping out of the way. He frowned at the guy who laid on the horn and flipped him off.

That should have been the end of it. Micah didn’t blame the driver, it had been his own stupid fault. But anger boiled inside him and the urge to physically hurt the driver of the car blinded him with its intensity. He took a deep breath, and just like someone had switched a light off in his brain, the feeling fled and he calmed.
I must be in the damned Twilight Zone
.

Over the tops of the buildings lining the street, Micah noticed the shimmer of sunlight as it bounced off the lake. Jesus, he’d been so preoccupied after fueling up yesterday, he’d totally missed the miles-wide lake that butted right up to the town proper. The water was as smooth as glass, not even a ripple of breeze disturbed the reflective surface. In fact, he’d missed a lot on his drive through town yesterday. This place was actually…nice. Quaint in a small town sort of way, with a charm that made him think he could wind up living in place just like this. Not here of course. Despite this mysterious Jax and his crazy dreams, he was still just passing through. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the sights while he was here.

As he closed in on the gas station he’d fueled up at the day before, a strange sensation of anticipation bloomed in Micah’s chest. He hoped to find her, standing behind the counter, though he had no idea what he’d say to her.
Hey, remember me? I’m the idiot who touched your face yesterday
.
So, funny thing… I have a bruise on my cheek this morning and I had a dream the other night that some sweet little teenager was trying to kill you.
Micah shook his head. She’d be putty is his hands for sure.

The electronic
ding-dong
of the door chime drew the attention of the woman behind the counter. Micah’s shoulders slumped. Not her.

“Hi!” The woman at the register greeted him.

Her gold and blonde hair curled in tight ringlets down her back and the bright smile on her face reached all the way to her turquoise-blue eyes. She looked eternally upbeat, and he didn’t think she faked her enthusiasm for the customer’s benefit. This was a genuine, friendly person.

“Hi.” He reached nervously to rub the back of his neck. “I’m looking for the girl who was working here yesterday. Her name is Jax—I think.”

If possible, the woman’s smile brightened and she snapped her fingers in recognition. “You’re Motor-Home-Guy, right?”

“Um, yeah, I guess so. I fueled my RV here yesterday.”

“And you’re looking for Jax…”

“Yes,” he said, slowly.

“She doesn’t work here.”

Micah glanced down at the woman’s nametag—Libby. “Was she fired or something?”

Libby laughed. “She mostly just loiters. She works at a coffee shop down the street,” she said, pointing to her left, “called Grind.”

“Thanks, Libby,” Micah called, rushing for the door.

“Anytime,” she replied, her amused laughter trailing out behind him.

Jacquelyn cleaned the steamer, the hiss of built up pressure disguising her own sigh. She had a feeling she wouldn’t have this job for much longer. The six-month mark was a couple of weeks away, and she
never
held a job longer than six months. It came with the territory. Always late, always tired, always rushing out for mysterious reasons, not to mention being terminally distracted. Normality had become such a non-thing in her life, how could a nine-to-five job have any place amongst the chaos?

She tossed the steamy, warm rag into the sink, drawing a glare of disapproval from Bree.
Screw it
, she thought.
I probably won’t be here much longer anyway
.

Leaning over the counter, she looked through the Statesman for any articles about missing children. Of course, the Changeling could have taken the body months ago, which made looking through today’s paper sort of a wasted effort. But Jacquelyn had to at least try to find out who the girl had been. She had to have a family somewhere, and they were no doubt worried sick and searching for their daughter, sister, niece, and/or granddaughter. Even if she did find out who the girl was, she’d have to sidestep Trish, because the Sentry forbade Waerds to make contact with any family members of victims who’d died at supernatural hands. And why wouldn’t they? The average human didn’t respond well to news like, “Sorry Mrs. Jones, but your husband was attacked by a Brimstone demon last night. We took care of it though, and smashed its body to ash.” But even so, Jacquelyn found ways around Trish and the Sentry’s rules. Every parent deserved to know what had happened to their missing child. And this girl was no exception.

“This seems to be a pattern, my interrupting your reading.”

For a moment, Jacquelyn didn’t look up. She recognized the energy that emanated from his Bearer’s body, pelting her like warm summer rain. Her eyes moved first, meeting his face. Her head followed and then she straightened. Glancing to his cheek, she noted the bruise he’d given himself by touching her wound. He didn’t even know what he’d done…

“Your face looks better,” he remarked.

Jacquelyn leveled her gaze with his. “I don’t suppose you know why that is, Micah, right?”

He smiled when she said his name. An open, friendly smile that showcased a row of straight teeth, dazzling white in contrast to his darker complexion. His soft brown eyes zeroed in on her face and an electric zing shot through her. Jacquelyn knew that if he focused, he’d sense exactly how she felt. Luckily, she had no intention of letting her guard down enough to give him a glimpse.

Micah opened his mouth to speak. Closed it. Jacquelyn focused, pulled a tight emotional shield around her. He continued to stare at her as though trying to deconstruct her.
Good luck with that, buddy
.
We’ll see how it works out for you.

“Are you being helped?” Bree interrupted in a contrived customer-service voice.

He turned toward Bree as though just now noticing they weren’t the only two people in Grind. “Vanilla breve,” he said, drumming his fingers on the counter.

“Size?” Jacquelyn asked, showing none of the cordiality Bree would want from her.

“You pick.” Micah plunked down a ten dollar bill. He pulled away from the counter and took a seat in the far corner of the coffee shop, giving Jacquelyn the space that she’d been praying for.

How could he not know what he was? His energy screamed at her; Jacquelyn had no problem identifying him as a Bearer. Stronger than Finn. Much stronger. Finn’s presence pulsed like a soft vibration against her, but this Micah—the minute he walked through the door, she’d felt a deep rumble travel the length of her body. He’d healed her quickly, almost instantaneously, whereas Finn’s touch healed her over the course of several hours.

This guy was like a Mack truck of power. And the calming effect he had on her was nothing short of bliss. She wondered, as she steamed the half and half for his breve, if Micah realized how hard it was for her to appear stand-offish. Most Bearers read emotion better through touch. But Micah exuded so much power; it wouldn’t be a far cry to imagine he could sense emotions from even a great distance without making contact.

Jacquelyn left her post—they weren’t busy—and set the cup and his change in front of him.

“When do you get off?” he asked.

For the first time since she’d met him, Jacquelyn smiled.

Chapter 7

THE THREE OF them whispered in his ear. Prodding him for weeks, urging him to take action against those who’d wronged him. At first, he was certain he’d gone crazy. His great uncle had been crazy, you know. Wandered around, muttering to himself, claiming to see things that weren’t there. His grandma called him “touched,” but that was just a polite way to say someone had lost their mind. As the voices became clearer, their presence more and more real, he knew that he wasn’t touched like his uncle. No, he was blessed. They spoke as one. Always as one. Which wasn’t nearly as strange as the fact that he couldn’t see them. But he felt their touch. A constant, sweet balm on his skin. Their hands never left him.

“We can give you pleasure,” they murmured. “We can make you the object of
her
obsession. We can give you anything you crave if you unleash us. All you have to do is ask.”

“No. You’ll hurt her.”

“Why would we do that?” they cajoled. “If she is not your enemy, she is safe from our wrath.”

“I—I don’t know.” They made him nervous. He didn’t know if he could trust something he wasn’t able to see. “I don’t think this is a very good idea.”

The hands pulled away, and their hissing voices raised the hairs on his neck. “You want what is just beyond your reach. You crave what we can give you. We are the vengeance borne.”