Color Weaver (4 page)

She remembered something and picked up the phone. On the second ring a secretary at the Grayson orphanage answered. Summer asked for Lena, a caseworker, and canceled the kids’ art lesson she had scheduled tomorrow. Lena was disappointed. She said the kids looked forward to getting out of the city and into the country and their lessons. Summer said she would miss them, too. Guilt stabbed her, but she couldn’t put them in danger by allowing them anywhere near her. And the yellow crime-scene tape was still outside the window. She knew they would ask questions that she couldn’t answer.

She hung up and sat at her easel. Meikoda’s words came back to her,
Since you are tied to the wendigo through your magic, only you can wipe it from your life for good
. An idea popped into Summer’s mind. It might just work, but could it be that simple? She braced herself, picked up the charcoal pencil and sketched a picture of herself ramming a sword through the wendigo’s heart.

She worked from her mind’s eye. She’d never seen the wendigo clearly, only those burning red eyes, but somehow her subconscious knew exactly what it looked like. With each fluid stroke of the charcoal, the violence of the image not only took shape on the paper but also inside her. The creative juices within her swirled with energy, and she let that power transfer to her fingers and the charcoal pencil.

In seconds the image took shape. The creature rearing back as she plunged the blade in. Right before she drew the final point of the sword, she heard…

Screeeeeech!

Fear froze her blood. She couldn’t breathe.

The wendigo stood at the window, red, flaming eyes gleaming, its clawed fleshless fingers scraping the glass.

Oh, God!

Sampson leaped to his feet. He yipped as if someone had kicked him, then he backed out of the studio, tail and ears tucked. The cats had already disappeared.

“Leave me alone!” She felt herself caught in a battle of wills. She couldn’t move the fingers holding the charcoal. Her hand began to burn.

The wendigo’s power fought her own will.

A crushing sensation, like her fingers were caught in a vice, made her cry out. Pain shot up her arm. Her hand trembled as she fought to break free. The pencil began to move. She physically could not control her movements; the wendigo had complete control. Below her drawing, two triangles emerged, one directly opposite the other, their apexes connected by one line in the center. The pencil kept going over and over the lines, the pressure almost crushing her hand. Finally, the charcoal tumbled from her fingers.

“Noooooo!” she cried.

The wendigo’s eyes glowed brighter as if it were annoyed, then it swept past the window.

Summer caught the profile of its body. Bones. Nothing but bones. Long flowing white hair. Jutting jaw and fangs.

When she could move again, she forced herself to breathe. Adrenaline made her feel as if she’d climbed to the top of Mount Everest. Her heart throbbed in her chest. She stretched her fingers. They weren’t broken, but they ached and were already turning blue from bruising.

So much for drawing the demise of the wendigo.

Tears stung her eyes and she banged her head against the easel Reese had made her. She’d never be rid of the wendigo. Never.

She held on to the easel to keep from falling off her stool. Then her gaze landed on what the wendigo had forced her to draw. It was the female symbol in her tribe. The image was on their sacred pottery and beaded into their ceremonial robes and headdresses. Why had the creature made her draw the symbol? Why? She heard Meikoda’s words again.
If you face your fear and communicate with it, you may discover why it has returned. I believe there is more involved than just evil intentions.
What did it want? The thought of getting close enough to communicate with the creature terrified her to the core.

Then the rest of what Meikoda had said came back to her.
You must find and destroy the sketch that we missed years ago…. It is the binding that ties you explicably to the wendigo.

She had to think. There must be another drawing that wasn’t destroyed the last time the wendigo appeared twelve years ago.

Summer ran her fingers over the smooth oak of the easel, something she liked to do while she composed a picture or thought. The wood felt solid, just like the man who had built it. She remembered how protected she used to feel when Reese held her, how safe she had felt around his father. Sheriff McMurray had liked her. He’d raised Reese alone. His mother had died when he was three. Summer remembered cooking their meals and bringing them cookies whenever she could. She had loved to see the smiles on their faces….

“Wait a minute.” Summer sat up, closing her eyes. She remembered now. When she was ten, her mother had asked her if she could copy her folklore poster and sell it at the silent charity auction, and she had agreed. So who bought it? Think! It had been so long ago. It seemed like three lifetimes had passed.

Summer thought back to that sticky August night, the speaker goading people to make bids. She’d been excited because it was the first time she had ever sold her artwork. She hadn’t thought the sketch was very good at all.…

She remembered now.

A sick, dizzy feeling whirled in her head. Sheriff McMurray had purchased it. She remembered that because even at ten years old, she’d had a crush on Reese. And he had come to the auction and all the girls had flirted with him, which had made her sad because she didn’t think he had even noticed her. And he hadn’t until they had gone to high school. What if that picture had caused the wendigo to stalk the sheriff? At the time of his death, she couldn’t figure out why the wendigo had attacked Reese’s father. His body had never been discovered, either.

Only his coat had been discovered near her house. Right after that the wendigo had left Jason Smith’s bloody shirt on the hood of her car and it had been found in her high school parking lot. No wonder Reese thought she was involved in the disappearances.

Summer felt her shoulders slump. So many deaths because of her power. She felt horribly responsible. Before the wendigo killed again, she had to find out if Reese still owned the poster, or if someone else had it now. But how?

Reese stepped out of the shower and toweled off his body. He’d been so tired that morning that he’d fallen into bed. He only wanted to sleep a couple of hours, wake and get back
over to Summer’s and stake out her place. But he’d slept all day and battled wendigos in one nightmare after the other. Summer was in every dream, and he was protecting her from the wendigo—when he wasn’t having sex with her.

No use denying there was still old chemistry between them. He felt it whenever he was in the same room with her. And he’d almost kissed her when he’d been forced to keep her from falling in his office. Good thing his senses had returned before it had been too late.

After grilling her, he was more certain than ever that she was connected to this wendigo, and she was the only shot he had at stopping this ghoul and finally getting revenge for his father’s death. He had always known she was somehow connected to his father’s killer, whether it was a monster or not. He might not have believed such an impossibility if he hadn’t seen the damn thing up close and personal himself. He just couldn’t forgive her for this power she had over the wendigo, even though his traitorous body still wanted her. Well, he was a professional and the only time he was going to get close to her was to put the handcuffs on her.

He finished drying and changed into jeans and a chambray blue shirt and tennis shoes. He was walking into the kitchen when a knock sounded at his door. His gut clenched. Had there been another murder? His deputies knew he preferred to have bad news reported in person. He peeked out the window. It wasn’t a deputy, but someone he hoped to never see on his doorstep again—Summer.

Summer held a basket in one hand and again rang the doorbell of the brick rancher with the other. The house hadn’t changed much over the years. The screen door still hung a little crooked. The edge of the porch steps were still cracking, holes in the cement where the railings had fallen off. Weeds hid the flower beds along the walk. The house looked in dire need of a woman’s touch.

Reese answered the door, wide shoulders filling the doorway. He was so handsome, so powerfully male, it froze the air in her lungs. He was a sensual banquet for the eyes. She was suddenly glad she had worn a red shift and a tunic sweater the same color and made sure her makeup was perfect.

His gaze raked her from head to toe.

“I, ah…” She heard herself stuttering like an idiot. The jolt she’d always felt when he admired her shivered through her.

“Here to ease your conscience?” He leaned a hard shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his massive chest. His razor-sharp eyes softened only by those heavy lids and long thick lashes.

She had always been a sucker for those eyes. “No,” Summer said adamantly. “I brought dinner.” She held up the basket as if it were a peace offering and noticed her hands were trembling.

“Dinner?” He eyed the basket, his voice tight. “This some kind of bribe?”

“More like a peace offering.”

He looked ready to send her away, but seemed uncertain. Finally, he sniffed the air, looked a little more amenable and asked, “Is that your roast beef and homemade rolls?”

“How did you know?”

“I remember the smell. Come in.”

Though he sounded cordial enough to make her feel welcome, his expression said otherwise. The awkwardness caused pressure to build in her throat as she stepped past him.

God, he smelled good, like soap, spicy aftershave and his own testosterone-laden scent. It brought back memories that caused her heart to shift into overdrive.

She stepped as far away from him as she could and paused in the living room. It looked the same, nothing really changed. The same leather sofa and chairs, the same beat-up coffee tables, a few empty beer bottles sitting on it. An old wool brown shag rug. The house held the faint smell of bacon grease, coffee, musty air and emptiness. The only change was a big flat-screen television filling most of one wall.

“Nice.” She motioned to the television.

“My one vice.” He pointedly eyed her and didn’t bother smiling again. “Bring it in here.”

He led the way and she followed, peeking down the hallway that she knew led to three bedrooms and a bath. Was the poster down there? It certainly wasn’t in the living room. Or the kitchen as she passed through it.

She carried the basket into the dining room. It held an antique oak table and chairs and a sideboard that she knew had belonged to Reese’s grandmother. The room hadn’t changed and she noticed that he’d kept the antiques polished, at least. No poster here, either, only two Rembrandt knockoffs depicting peasants at a market and on a farm.

She was about to set the basket down on the table, when Reese grabbed it and pinned her between the table and his body. “I know you didn’t go to all this trouble for nothing. Why are you here?”

“I need your help.” She touched his arm.

He flinched, his biceps turning rock hard. “Really.” He didn’t pull away, only gazed at her hand, his dark eyes taking her measure.

“I need something that I think you have.”

“What’s that?” He stepped toward her, so close their bodies almost touched.

“Do you still have the poster I drew in the sixth grade?” He looked lost and she explained, “The one your father bought at the Carver Elementary charity auction.”

“Even if I had it, why give it to you?”

“Because I need it.”

“You’ll have to be honest with me first and tell me why you want it.” He stared at her lips.

Summer felt heat melt through her. “Can’t you take my word for it?”

“Sorry, I’m fed up with your lies.”

“You have to trust me when I say I wish I could tell you everything. But it could ruin the lives of my people. You have to trust me. I need to destroy it.”

“You lied years ago, just like you’re lying now. How did you get rid of the wendigo in high school?” His eyes narrowed and blazed. When she only shook her head, he grabbed her arms and pulled her closer. His breath scorched her face. “Tell me, Summer. I’m the only person who can help you.”

“You didn’t help me before. Why should I believe you’ll help me now?”

“My father was murdered and you knew why and how, yet you told me nothing.”

“I tried to tell you once. I came here to talk to you after the funeral. You slammed the door in my face. You deserted me like all my other friends. I didn’t think you would.” She gazed into his eyes, so intense they bored through her.

“I’m listening now.” His eyes roamed hungrily over her face, neck, breasts, while his grip loosened on her arms.

“I need the poster, please,” she said, trying to draw away.

He captured her fingers against his bicep. His hand felt strong and hot and wide and she remembered how he had caressed every inch of her body. “How much do you need it?” he asked.

“Badly.” Was she talking about the poster or him? She didn’t know. Every nerve in her body came alive at his nearness, his touch, this innate need for him.

He took a deep ragged breath. A war raged in his eyes.

“I’ve missed you, Reese,” she said in a jagged whisper, unable to believe she’d spoken aloud what she’d been feeling.

He searched her eyes, as if he didn’t trust her. “Have you?”

“How can you doubt it?”

He cupped her chin and ran a rough fingertip along her jaw. “It’s been so long. So much has happened between us. I was sure you’d forgotten me.”

“Never,” she said, trembling all over. She stared deep into his eyes, baring her soul, hoping he’d see what was in her heart.

“I’ve tried so hard to get you out of my head, but I can’t,” he said in a gruff voice. “Damn it, woman, why are you so beautiful…” His words caused him to lose all self-control. His beefy arms locked around her, even as his mouth claimed her lips. His kiss was frantic at first, devouring her.

She clung to him, inflamed by his passion for her.