Dream Weaver (Dream Weaver #1) (2 page)

             
“Your rent-a-cop won’t catch me.” The lion’s throaty warning growl. His voice turned acerbic, his need to induce fear sparked electrically through the phone. “Nah. He’s not even a rent-a-cop. Not even a pathetic mall cop. Just some punk kid they hired to baby-sit the store.”

             
Baby-sit? Either this guy’s full of crap or he’s freakin’ huge.
I was betting on full of crap.

             
He chortled at my unease, and I heard something familiar but untouchable in his voice. Like I knew him from somewhere—and that pissed me off even more. “What the hell do you want?” I demanded.

             
“Just you,” he said slowly. He sniggered again with a ghoulish glee and the line went dead.

             
“Damn it!” I slammed the phone down and turned with a start. A customer, a woman with a little boy about five glared at me with righteous indignation. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I just…it was…there was this guy.”

             
She harrumphed and stormed away, towing the boy in her sanctimonious wake. No doubt to complain to my manager.

             
So. Let her.

             
Blake
shuffled up to the quad, what we associates at Cash’s Department Store called our customer service desks. “Sorry, Em. No luck.” He looked every bit the defeated athlete, his hands stuffed into his jeans pockets making his shoulders and arms bulge.

             
“It’s all good. He’ll get bored eventually and go away.”
I hope.

Chapter 2 Haunted

              I was prophetic, if not pathetic. The calls ceased and my stalker fell silent, not so much as a heavy breather. Perhaps he’d moved on to some other prey.
Poor girl.
Everyone around me breathed easier. But a specter of black ice lingered under the surface, chilled me to my core. Deep down I felt a dark and malevolent storm brewing. I wondered if I’d manage to survive it unscathed or if my entire world would shatter with the velocity of its fury.

*              *              *

              Thanksgiving came and went, as it does always. But this was my first one alone. Invitations piled up from friends wanting to keep the orphan from spending the holiday in a funk. In the end, it was Adrian and Celeste’s invitation I accepted. They were as close to family as I had left.

             
Celeste met me at the door of the Rovnikov’s grand, Tudor-style mansion on Spokane’s South Hill. Adrian, in his self-imposed humility would never have called it a mansion. But the rest of the world didn’t call it a house. Not one of the originals in Spokane history, with six bedrooms, four bathrooms, pool, Jacuzzi and sauna, four car garage transformed from horse stables, and servant and guest quarters.

             
Celeste, Adrian’s Barbie doll wife, was as sweet as she was beautiful. She held the classic beauty of long tumbling blonde hair, thin face, high cheekbones, perfected bod. Inside, I heard the kids arguing amiably in the living room. Emma, Adrian and Celeste’s twelve-year-old daughter, was lovely and compassionate; and Peter was their handsome, rambunctious ten-year-old son.

             
“Kids. Enough,” Celeste scolded despite the friendly tone of the disagreement. “Emari’s here.” And then I was mobbed. Emma and Peter pelted me with questions, and scrabbled for my attention. Each grabbed an arm and jerked me between them like the Thanksgiving wishbone. Finally, we decided on a game of Uno and sat in a tight circle on the living room floor, slapping our colored cards into a pile.

             
I had to give Adrian credit. At least he waited until after dinner to start in on me.

             
“So, how is school going?” he asked, nonchalant, as though he had no other agenda. More of his head-shrink coming out.

             
“I’m doing my classes online, Uncle Adrian,” I said, and struggled not to sound too snarky. “I take a PE class in town at Shadle with Ivy and I’m almost caught up from the classes I missed after…” I choked on the words—after Mom and Dad died. Everyone was silent for a few moments. No one really wanted to talk about the crash and how much we missed them. Adrian and Celeste both knew how I felt; that I cornered the market on the most profound grief.

             
“I know the courts have legally granted you an Emancipation of a Minor…” Adrian began.

             
“Then don’t go there,” I warned him. The least he could do was give me some credit; at least I wasn’t throwing wild parties in my home or sleeping with boys, taking every advantage of my freedom. At least, despite my depression, I wasn’t slipping into the world of drugs. I’d even flushed the ‘good’ drugs he brought me.

             
“With everything going on at work with you—and that house is so far out, so secluded…we worry, Emari.”

             
“‘That house,’” my words were low and clipped, “was willed to me. It was the last thing Mom and Dad gave me.”

             
“That doesn’t mean you have to live there now,” he protested. Celeste sighed, painfully aware of the outcome of this conversation. “Maybe in another year, six months,” he amended when the protest formed on my lips. “Once you’ve graduated and all of this stuff with this stalker has blown over…We’d just feel better if you were here with us. You’re so far away. We can’t keep you safe.”

             
“The truth is, Uncle Adrian, you can’t keep me safe anyway,” I rebutted. In my mind, that was almost true. My craftsman cottage, a half mile from my parents old home, was equipped with some of the best security alarms on the market. Not to mention the pastel pink stun gun/taser hidden beside my bed. I pushed off from the couch. “I’m tired. I have to drive ‘so far away.’ I’d better get going.” I’d lost my battle with the snark.

             
The Rovnikovs followed me to the door, biting back protests, knowing, legally, there was nothing they could do to stop me.

             
When my parent’s will was read, the Rovnikov’s were designated as my legal guardians, and I inherited all my parent’s assets to dispose of how I chose. All their worldly possessions; a significant bank account, valuable collections in their home and safety deposit box, a more-than-sufficient life insurance policy and investment properties that spanned the Eastern half of Washington state, were under my command. My cottage in Mead was the only thing specifically that wasn’t to be liquidated; they’d intended it to be a graduation present for me.

              But, Adrian had forced my hand, and insisted I return to school. I just couldn’t face a ‘normal’ life with mean cheerleaders and cookie cutter kids yet. Besides, I was close enough to eighteen that the few short months didn’t matter.

             
So, I filed the paperwork and gathered my proof that I could take care of myself financially, set up my residence, insurance and online schooling to finish my diploma.

             
Adrian argued against me in court, but, much to his dismay, Celeste testified on my behalf. The disagreement still hovered over our relationship but my father had trusted Adrian with his life. The least I could do was entrust him with my mental health.

             
I pushed up on my tiptoes and kissed Adrian’s cheek. His arms engulfed me. “I love you, Uncle Adrian.”

             
“Love you, too, Emari,” he said, his voice sank deep like a distant fog horn muffled by banks of fog.

             
I hugged Celeste and thanked her for dinner, and headed the ‘so far away’ eleven point two miles home.

*              *              *

              My stalker remained silent, but the biting chill of unfinished-ness ate at my stomach. Despite the silence, Jesse continued to meet me at my car in the parking garage every day and walk me out at the end of every shift. Ever a song in his mouth.

             
This year’s Black Friday was one of our busiest and shoppers had yet to slow down. The first week of December found us just as busy as our most profitable day. Check out lines backed up down the aisle, racks were rifled and associates buzzed and scrambled like bees in the hive of commerce.

             
Trips to the stockroom were customary in retail, especially during the Christmas season. So when a fussy mother insisted on a fussy dress for her fussy little daughter, I didn’t think twice about it. I’d made dozens and dozens of recon missions to the small room tucked in an obscure corner of the children’s department. Why should today be any different?

             
Tightness snaked its way up my spine as I gathered up the dress and turned to leave. My gaze fell on the LP observation nest and the heavy dark curtains that blocked it from the rest of the room. My heart jumped to my throat and that snaking feeling crawled up my spine once again. And I knew. Without doubt. He was there. Panicking, I lurched for the door but a shadow like the dark of night dropped in my path. Before I could scream, before I could raise a hand in defense he was on me. His hand crushed my lips to my teeth and he bulldozed me deeper into the room, then into the furnace room in the back. Tears welled in my eyes as I stood face to face with my nightmare. Dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes—and through those dark eyes, a dark and sinister heart.

             
His coarse finger scorched a trail down the soft skin of my arm. His arms, a vice around my own; arms full of rage and violence. My world became pain in his hands. Crushing me. Beating me. His cruel mouth whispered things my brain refused to translate as human. His breath, putrid with the stench of alcohol and cigarettes, curled into my nostrils as he forced his mouth upon mine.

             
And then, we heard her voice—the sound that brought me more terror than my worst nightmare, more than the man who ensnared me. “Sweets? You in here?”

             
“One sound, and I will become your worst nightmare and no angel will save you,” he hissed in my ear as I imagined his hard savage hands on my girl, my Ivy.

             
We became statues of ice tucked away in the darkness of the furnace room. “If you so much as breathe too loud, I will snap your neck. And your little amiga will be next. Understand?” His breath blazed hot and revolting against my face. Fresh tears of panic doused his hand and I prayed for him to please, please leave my Ivy alone.

             
The furnace room door rattled and my chest heaved in fear.

             
Locked.

             
Ivy’s footsteps retreated, replaced by the echo of silence as she pulled the door to the stockroom closed behind her. I slumped, grateful for the one prayer God chose to answer.

             
She was safe.

             
I was not.

             
No one remained to save me—no knights in shining armor, no fairytales with the happy endings so requisite in romance novels. Dreams don’t come true. Prayers rarely answered, with or without the precise formula of faith. At least not for me. My only paladin was dead, taken out by a fiery dragon, and there would be none to replace him.

             
Terror’s eyes flashed bright with ire, or obsession, fed on the misery he provoked as much as the violence itself. He laughed at the horror in my eyes, the seizures of fright and hatred that jolted my body like violent currents.

             
His fists crashed mercilessly into my face with a sickening crunch. His knuckles crushed my ribs and collarbones as he slammed me against the cold hard wall. The growl of a predator rumbled through his chest.

             
Shock migrated through my veins like a glacier. Resisting its pull, I let loose a final desperate salvo. I ripped at his arms and hands with my nails, felt his skin tear under the rake of my claws. Tears of anguish spilled down my face and seeped between his hot, sweaty hand and my panic-chilled cheeks. He crushed me to the wall, his body pressed hard against mine, as he absorbed my tremors—fuel for his fury.

             
My body wilted, a limp rag doll in his arms as I started to drift, my consciousness suffocated under the press of his hand.

             
It’s okay. Let the darkness come.

             
He released my mouth and spun me around to face him. It wouldn’t do to lose his conscious prey—yet. I sucked in air through my mouth and nose, ravenous for the gift of life—betrayed by an innate and inane instinct to survive. Unfortunately, oxygen brought cohesion back to my brain. Now my mind was conscious of the coming onslaught.

             
A resonant thud vibrated through my brain as he slammed me against the wall and darkness hovered over me again. The warm ooze of blood trickled down the back of my neck and between my shoulder blades. Its warmth chilled by my now-cold sweat. My consciousness drifted longingly toward the darkness, seeking its nebulous safety. Yes, darkness was coming. My welcomed friend.

             
My vision faded into shades of black. The haze of memories bled together. The crunch of his knuckles, thick saltiness as blood seeped down my throat, sonorous thunder echoed and rippled like rings in disturbed waters. The vibrations coursed through me, body and soul, launched by his final assault.

             
My mind groped for the darkness, prayed for its sanctuary. My body slid haltingly down the cold wall, my head dragged across the joints in the cinderblock like a washboard, as I crumpled to the floor. I heard him grunt with exertion as he backhanded me one last time. Shocks of pain radiated through my skull. Darkness hovered. Tiny stars burst before my eyes.

             
And then, the lights went out. Darkness vanquished me.

             
Yes, safety.

*              *              *

              My eclipse slowly receded, but several moments passed before I remembered where I was and why my body felt like a tank rolled over it. My mind slogged through the darkness, tried to grasp some shard of light and reality. Only once I found it, I wished for the darkness again. Numbing cold on my bare skin overwhelmed the immense pain over my entire body.