Dream Weaver (Dream Weaver #1) (11 page)

             
That phrase reminded of Princess Buttercup and her beloved Westley in the classic movie,
Princess Bride
. Westley answered the princess’s every whim with his only response, ‘as you wish’. Eventually, Buttercup discovered what he really meant was, ‘I love you.’

              I shot a quick glance up at Nick out of the corner of my eye and found a contented smile curving his mouth. At that moment, it dawned on me that Nick was reading my memories. He’d read that memory of the movie as if I’d spoken it aloud.

             
“You’re in my head, aren’t you?”

             
He smiled sheepishly and nodded.

             
I pressed my temples with my fingertips, shook my head in disbelief. Was all of this real?

             
“Where did that come from, me or you?”

             
“It was your memory.” He paused looking every bit the naughty schoolboy. “I just reminded you.”

             
I crooked an eyebrow at him, and contemplated. It was all so disorienting; chaos, confusion—but somehow grounding. Because the memories were mine just a chord plucked on an unfamiliar instrument.

             
“Um, I have another question.” His smile slackened and he groaned softly, but I ignored his pout. “There was a tea…”

             
“Solidago.” He brightened; perhaps relieved he wasn’t giving away classified Dream Weaver secrets. “It's a healing tea. We believe it mends the soul as well as the body. Some Native Americans claimed the plants could make one whole. Many Caphar believe in and still practice the use of medicinal and spiritual herbs. Did you notice how quickly you healed?”

             
“I did. That was amazing, but where did it go? I couldn’t find it.”

             
“It has done all it can do for you. I can bring others to you. If you like.”

             
“I would.” I wasn’t ready for him to leave. His presence chased away the dark place in my heart. Trust was earned, and he’d so willingly shared his heart I felt a pull to protect it. “Um, speaking of healing, I’ve got to go into town and get these stupid sutures out today. Could you, would you come with me? You won’t disappear in public will you? Like I’m the only loony who can see you?”

             
“No,” he laughed. “I can go with you. Remember, not a vampire.” He flashed me a dazzling smile deficient of fangs. “Besides, I know you don’t much like doctors.”

             
“What? How…” I shook my jumbled thoughts, crunched my brows together. “Of course, it's a memory.”

Chapter 11 Coffee in a Cardboard Cup

              The doctor’s waiting room was warm and welcoming, but I shivered like it was the Arctic. “Nervous?” Nick asked me softly.

             
“Not exactly.” I forced a smile that I’m sure looked more like a grimace. It wasn’t any sort of phobia that sent jitters racing through my body. It was the reason I had to be there that caused the tremors.

              Nick took my hand and appraised the violent memories that cavorted their macabre dance through my head. An encouraging smile curled one corner of his mouth and he blinked his understanding. He leaned toward me, his face so close I could feel the warmth of his skin next to mine. Cupping his hand behind my head, he whispered, “Close your eyes.”

             
I started to protest, that closing my eyes would only make the images more vivid, but I submitted to his request. His warm cheek pressed to my cool, panic-stricken face. “Relax,” he breathed hypnotically in my ear, and gently traced my cheekbone with his thumb. The dark images faded, replaced by light-hearted images of Eddyson bounding through the snow in the yard, stalking and pouncing on the evil icicles so rampant this time of year. I giggled and my tensions ebbed by the time the nurse called my name.

             
Nick held both of my hands, flooded my mind with soothing memories when he felt my tension rise, while the physician’s assistant snipped and tugged each suture from my skin. He continued to hold one of my hands until we got back out to my car. In all honesty, I really didn’t want him to let me go. I felt something magnetic and undeniable binding me with him.

             
After the doctor’s office, Nick and I ran a few more errands; one to the pet store, of course, to buy Eddyson some treats and toys. The streets in Spokane had been plowed, leaving ugly grey hills speckled with gravel piled up on either side. Grimy slush sprayed up from under tires and spattered across the urban orange of my CX9 turning it tundra brown, and grew in filthy chunky stalactites behind my tires. The temperature would drop in the evening and freeze all the slush into a loud, crunchy mess.

             
We made our way to The Maple Street Bistro for a coffee, even though it was a few blocks out of our way. The Bistro was one of those rare places that actually still served coffee in a ceramic cup if you sat down in their trendy cafe. The pungent scent of coffees mixed with today’s soup and sandwich specials and the sweetness of tomorrow’s treats being baked in the back room. It filled the shop up to the high vaulted ceiling. The ceiling blended down into the walls treated with an apricot faux Venetian plaster treatment. Black pendant lighting fixtures hung from the ceiling, and cast a cozy intimate aura around each of the small brown and beige tables scattered around the bistro. A low chrome coffee bar and refrigerator cases separated the seating from the workspace. Above the door, giant twenty-four-inch black letters, ‘MSB’, proclaimed the initials of the place. It was casual, comfortable, and warm, just the way a coffee shop should be.

             
Nick and I sat at a corner table side by side, his arm around the back of my chair, his thigh pressed against mine. I gazed out the windows at the graying sky and glistening streets. The parking lot at the church kitty corner from the Bistro was still vacant except for a couple of cars; pastors probably, at church early to prepare their sermons or lessons. The lot would fill up soon enough and the Bistro would fill with parishioners.

             
In the meantime, endless questions buzzed through my mind about Nickolas Benedetti, the Dream Weaver. I swatted a few away and finally settled on one question that might lead to more than one answer. “Can you tell me more about the history of Dream Weavers?”

             
Nick remained silent as the baristas delivered our giant, bowl-sized cups frothing with amoretto breve. A small frown touched the corners of his mouth and his obsidian eyes narrowed as he surveyed the Bistro. Another couple sat on the other side of the room in what looked like a heated discussion. A dubious groan exposed his reluctance to divulge too much information. “Such as?”

             
“You know,” I glance at him from under my lashes, hid my mouth with my coffee cup, “You could always erase the memories of what you tell me.”

             
“Yes, I suppose I could.” But his eyes grew dark, his brow creased.

             
Panic slashed through me. “You wouldn’t though—right?”

             
“No, I’m not sure I could do that to you, anymore.” Finally, he smiled and took my hand in his. “What do you want to know?”

             
“Well, how long do Dream Weavers live?”

             
“We are long-lived, though, not necessarily immortal. Quasi-immortal I suppose you could say. Some documentation indicates many Caphar have lived well over seven hundred years.”

             
“So, who was the first, um, Caphar?” This word felt strange, foreign in my mouth.

             
He smiled. “A story you may be familiar with from Sunday school. Joseph, son of Jacob, son of Abraham, from Biblical times, was the first documented Caphar in our known history, though speculations exist regarding abilities in the forefathers as well.”

             
“Where did they come from?”

             
“It is the belief of all of the Caphar community that we are descendants of the antediluvian Nephilim, created when angels came to Earth and had relations with human women. Though many of the Nephilim were said to be giants, like King Og and Goliath of Gath, both over ten feet tall, some less
large
angelic traits were passed down to their progeny. These ‘Onar Caphar’ are a rarity, born to human parents who
both
carry the gene or genetic mutation that causes—for lack of better designation—the disorder. Capharism is much like rare diseases caused by missing, extra or damaged chromosomes. However, in comparison, little research exists—for obvious reasons.”

             
“How can you tell someone is Caphar?” I pressed.

             
“A child may begin to manifest pre-Caphar abilities between the ages of twelve and eighteen, but most families that are willing to acknowledge a gift of some kind, classify it as paranormal or extra normal abilities, as the general population is unaware of our race or our powers.

             
“Some manifesting pre-Caphar children will experience a dramatic slowdown in their aging processes upon reaching young adulthood—between eighteen and twenty-five—and they fully manifest as a Caphar, having both spiritual and corporeal existence. Yet some, even manifesting pre-Caphar abilities, will continue to grow and age as any other human being. Eventually, they die within a normal, average human lifespan. We aren’t certain of the reason for this anomaly, despite Sabre’s exhaustive research.”

             
I stared out the window in contemplation. “Offspring of angels,” I whispered, not so much to Nick as to myself. I searched his face, its gorgeous perfection, and gazed into the deep echoing wells of his eyes. “Angels?”

             
The corners of Nick’s mouth twitched with a discomfited smile. “So they say.”

             
“Wow. I thought there was something special about you.”

             
“Oh? You mean aside from the ability to get inside your head and mess around in there?” he teased.

             
I giggled. “Yeah, aside from that.” Yet somewhere in my most arcane memories, buried deep and choked beneath the detritus of grief and pain, there was a faint resonance, like the final report as an echo dies,
“and no angel will save you.”

*              *              *

              The sun sank beneath the horizon, and pitched Spokane into night. The side streets were starting to get crunchy when we headed back toward the house. We chatted aimlessly, sang along to songs we knew—AC/DC, Journey, and Bon Jovi—o n the 1980’s classic rock file on my MP3 player. I flipped the blinker to turn onto Mt. Spokane Road and scanned the road ahead, when I saw flashing emergency lights slice the darkness from the direction of my home.

             
Oh God!
“
Eddyson!” His name caught in my throat, choked off my voice, suffocated me with fear.

             
Nick followed my line of sight and saw three State Troopers parked in front of my cottage with their lights pulsing through the dark like red and blue fog lights. I skidded to a stop, yanked the key from the ignition and ran to the first trooper I saw.

             
“What’s going on?” I demanded.

             
“Is this your home?” the trooper asked stoically, looking far too young to be a trooper—or stoic.

             
“Yes. I’m Emari Sweet. What’s going on? Where’s my dog?” Trooper Stoic stood with his hands on his hips like it was in the statewide training manual how police-type people were supposed to stand when questioning someone. I didn’t have the patience to wait for his training or his answer, so I turned from him and bolted toward the house. I caught a glimpse of Nick behind me as he shrugged at the young trooper and followed me up the steps. I lurched to a halt as a smiling and obviously more mature trooper strolled out the front door with Eddyson in his arms. The pup’s tail wagged furiously as he licked the trooper’s face. When he spotted me, he squirmed like a small child trying to reach his long-absent mother.

             
“Is this what you’re looking for?” the trooper chuckled, and handed Eddyson to me.

             
“Thank you!” I said, and nuzzled into the soft fur. The presence of State Troopers at my house again reignited a panic within me. Nick caressed the small of my back, a warm buzz of peace washed over me.

             
“So, what’s going on?” Nick asked.

             
“It seems your alarm system was triggered by someone. Or something.” The trooper looked pointedly at Eddy.

             
“Eddyson was crated,” I told him defensively.

             
“Not when we got here.”

             
The trooper’s shiny name badge flashed with the reflection of emergency lights. Dutton. I wondered if he was one of the troopers that had visited me just a few months ago. He didn’t look familiar, but I honestly wasn’t paying much attention at the time.

              “You’ve got a bit of a mess to clean up in there. We’ve cleared the house. There’s definitely no one else inside. No wet footprints. Probably the dog got out and triggered the alarm.” He smirked and put on his hat. “Careful it doesn’t happen again. The security company sounded pretty unhappy. Have a nice night.”

             
“Wait. How did you get in?” Dread rose in my throat like hot acid.

             
“Back door was unlocked,” Dutton nodded toward the carport. He strolled away as Nick and I went in to survey the damage.

             
I wandered around the house surveying each room. I clutched my dog close to my chest, my lips cathartically brushed the top of his head in an attempt to calm myself. My heart pounded against him and his tail, now tucked between his legs, ceased its pendulum swinging as he absorbed my anxiety.

             
In the living and dining rooms, my mail lay scattered on the floor, but not a single piece had a tooth mark on it. It didn’t make sense; Eddy had sharp little teeth—sharp enough to pierce this stuff. Silently, I walked to my bedroom, and switched on my light. Within the room that I regarded as my safest haven, I found my drawers partially open like someone had hurriedly rifled them in search of something. A whimper escaped my throat before I could control it and Nick was behind me in a heartbeat.

             
“What?” he asked and placed his hands on my shoulders to steady me.

             
“He was here. In my home.” My heart skittered and bounded like a fleeing hare. I struggled to control the spasmatic gasps that heaved in my chest. Nick’s hands slid off my shoulders and held my arms. Gently but firmly, he braced me against the tremors already launching their assault on my body.

             
“He who, Em?” His voice was soft and reassuring, his breath warm at my ear.

             
“Him. The one from the store. The guy who…” I was quickly plummeting toward irrational now, even with the reassuring presence of Nick.

             
“No, Em.” Nick turned me around to face him. “It wasn’t him.” His eyes were piercing, pleaded with me to believe him. But, how could I? He hadn’t been here to see who it was.