Dream Weaver (Dream Weaver #1) (24 page)

             
Choose this day—life or death.

             
Choose the life of a survivor, or the death of a victim.

             
Choose the life of now, or the pain and death of yesterday.

             
Choose this day.

             
Choose.

Chapter 20  Angel of Darkness

              I awoke the next morning with gloriously warm sun spilling onto my pillow. The corners of my mouth pulled up in a peaceful, contented smile; such a drastic contrast from the screams that served as my morning wakeup call for so long. Nick came back and stayed until I was asleep, but apparently, Sabre had called him away again. I slid out of the covers, shuffled over to the French doors, and pushed back the curtains. This time of year, my eyes anticipated the dazzling solar flares off the iridescent snow. But, there was no snow. The sun melted it away and a beautiful spring-like day blossomed outside my door. My smile broadened. Surely, if it could snow in June in the Inland Empire it could be spring in December. This
was
Spokane. So, with this development, there was only one thing for it; to take Eddyson on his inaugural walk to Dead Man’s Creek.

             
I dressed in a rush, threw on my raggedy jeans and a sweatshirt, ran my fingers through my hair and scrunched it into loose curls. Perched on the bed, Eddyson watched my every move, that curious puppy tilt to his head.

             
“Go for a walk?” I asked him excitedly. His ears twitched and his head cocked to one side. “Walk?” His tail drummed the bedspread. “You like that word? Walk?” His head shifted sides and his tail beat out a quicker rhythm. I donned a puffy jacket, found Eddyson’s leash and we headed out into the brilliant sunlit day.

             
Eddyson cased every bush and clump of grass. His forehead furrowed in rolling hills and his jowls flapped with every breath to capture every nuance of the scent. We strolled down the path that cut through my property and crossed Yale Road to the rock quarry between my land and the railroad tracks. Eddyson discovered the slack in the leash as it dragged through the dirt and grabbed it in his teeth. He tugged and shook it with mock fierceness and gave me a play bow. We played tug-of-war, until my foot hit a patch of pea gravel. It skittered across the ground and Eddy chased after it. He jumped and pounced at the rocks that scattered with his every paw step.

             
Despite my laughter, icy fingers strummed my nerves. My attention was lured from his antics to the railroad tracks in the distance, the direction of the cold breeze that pierced me. At the crest of the hill, at the railroad tracks, stood a man in a dark red coat. Tall, lean, and motionless, like the rusty steel statues in Riverfront Park, he stood there facing me. His face was a blur of features, yet something deep and instinctive inside me sensed that more than our gazes had touched. Fear rushed through me, a searing flash, and I reached down protectively to scoop up Eddyson. But when I stood, the trail was empty. An influx of calm reassurance drowned a fading sense of fear. I blinked and puzzled over why I’d felt so panicky only a moment ago.

              Eddy wriggled for his freedom. I placed him on the ground and continued walking toward the tracks. My soul and skin absorbed the sunshine; the warmth thawed my winter-chilled bones.

             
We traipsed south on the tracks toward the path down to the ravine and Dead Man’s Creek. The old lumber mill across from the quarry looked, as usual, like a ghost town. The ancient wooden buildings turned weathered-grey, and orange rust bled from all the metal fixtures.

             
Just beyond the mill, was a run-off pond from a small stream and wet lands across the highway. Its surface sparkled in the sunlight. Winter wasn’t the prettiest time of year around the barren pond. Summer heat lured the wild critters out to drink, gentle winds transformed trees into giant wind chimes. In the fall, bursts of autumnal color set the woods afire. The still, murky waters drew all kinds of birds; geese, ducks, sparrows, starlings and the occasional blue jay and redwing blackbird. When spring truly returned and the weather heated up, the amphibious wildlife would emerge from the muck of the pond’s bottom to the muddy, reedy banks.

             
Eddyson’s loud snuffling morphed into boisterous rooting intermixed with impassioned yips that verged on actual grownup hound dog bays. His voice pitched and his body trembled with anticipation. His bloodhound nose struck gold. He lunged forward, oblivious to me or anything else in the world. Even my laughter was lost on him; his world consisted of him and his newfound scent alone.

             
My little hunter skidded to a stop, his body went rigid, and quivered with excitement as he stared at a clump of grass a few feet away. Both of us froze in suspense. Then a streak of grey and frantic beating wings burst from the clump of grass. Eddyson and I ducked in shock, then he lurched at the fugitive fowl and a deep, chesty, full-grown beagle bay leapt from his throat. His eyes widen with awe. Laughing, I scooped him up, but he twisted and squirmed in my arms, eager for another glimpse at the prize he scared up. Unfortunately, the quail had already made their hasty get away, though Eddy was not daunted. Eager for the hunt, he resumed his frenetic tracking, and tugged with all his puppy might at the leash.

             
The path leading off the railroad tracks was pocked with deer hoof prints. Not a single human print in the soft, wet dirt. It was probably still too chilly out here for most people. The pup followed close at my heels down the steep path. At the bottom I lifted him over the downed wire fence. As I placed him on the ground, I heard the croaks and creaks of frogs from the pond. I loved that sound. It made me smile, reminded me of warm summer evenings and camp outs, but something about it baffled me. Wasn’t it still too cold and out of season for amphibious life? Shouldn’t they still be sleeping in the muddy bottom of the pond?

             
Distracted by Eddyson’s enthusiasm, I shrugged off the disjointed, addled sensation and hiked down the gently sloped path to the ravine. Our footsteps thudded softly, muffled by the mossy grass. Only the occasional snapping twig underfoot troubled the quiet sounds of nature. It was so serene here away from the traffic I could hear the wind humming through the ancient Ponderosas and birds happily chirruping in their branches.

             
The path bent to the right and narrowed, flanked by a steep embankment on the right and dense trees on the left. A larger deer path intersected the footpath, the dirt and grass gouged out by hooves scraping down the embankment. Farther on, an intersecting path disappeared into the underbrush forming a small tunnel, probably carved out by raccoon or beaver or other small creature. On the left, a dozen yards farther on, the long brown grass lay flattened to the ground, evidence that the deer had bedded down here recently. I smiled, reminded of Nick and the memory of the tiny fawn I’d once discovered in this spot.

              Eddyson made a beeline for the water when we pushed through the last stand of head-high brush and reached the banks of the creek. This was his first experience with running water. We investigated the squishy, brown mud, and grasses and brush flattened by snow pack.

             
The railroad tracks ran atop a high, steep hill, and Dead Man’s Creek ran through a tunnel carved through the hill. The creek then meandered down the middle of a bowl-like ravine that was high and heavily wooded on the south and east sides; lower, sloping and more sparsely wooded on the north and west sides. The dark green water flowed west then doubled back on itself in two sharp hairpins and continued its westerly course.

             
We scouted the north bank, Eddyson with his nose to the ground. I picked up rocks and sticks and surveyed the winter damage. As I poked around the bank, a strange rumbling splash reverberated from inside the tunnel. My heart launched into double-time. But nothing escaped the long dark hole, and no silhouettes blocked the daylight from the other side.
Not a little paranoid, today, are we?
I harangued myself. Maybe I should have brought Nick. In my zeal for the sun, I forgot about the prowler at my home a few days ago.
I shrugged away the thought, as a mellow contentment infiltrated my fear. The creek often carried my troubles away, and it wasn’t the first time noises down here made me jumpy, especially when I was alone. Besides, I had my trusty guard dog with me—he could lick someone to death in my defense.

             
Just as I composed my heartbeat, a branch broke from high up in a pine tree on the opposite bank. For such a large branch, it drifted silently to the ground, until it crashed into the brush below. An angry squirrel chattered at our intrusion. “Okay, okay, I can take a hint.” I tugged Eddyson out of the bushes he’d burrowed headlong into, and we tramped through the brush back to the path.

             
We’d only gone a short distance, when I caught a flash of deep red in the bushes a few yards away. My heart leapt into my throat.
Something red.
I thought I remembered something red that loomed as some ominous threat, but the most sinister thing there was a spunky red squirrel scurrying headlong down a dead tree trunk. He froze as he spied us; his big black eye ringed with white silently assessed us. Then he plunged into the grey-brown brush and disappeared. I’d never seen a red squirrel down here before. Normally, the squirrels wore coats of grey. Then again, I saw my first baby fawn up close in these woods, too.

             
I was panting by the time we reached the downed fence and stopped to catch my breath before making the last ascent up the steepest part of the trail to the train tracks. I lifted Eddyson over the fence and we trudged up the slope. I stopped again at the top to catch my breath.

             
A moment later, Eddyson scurried past me with his little tail tucked between his legs, ears flat; the noble hunter became the terrified hunted. My mind had not quite processed the reaction when a large shadow appeared on the ground to my right. Huge arms crushed around my chest, and pinned my arms to my body. A meaty hand nearly as big as my whole face clamped down over my mouth. I struggled furiously, to no avail.

             
Oh God! It’s Rico. He’s come to get me!
Hysterical thoughts raced out of control, terror of the impending beating, a repeat show of fury and savagery, of steely fists, and the brutality of hands clenched around my throat.

             
No,
I chided myself
. Rico is in jail. Nick made sure.
This was someone, maybe some ‘thing’ else.

             
The man lifted me off my feet and shook me once, hard. Once was enough. I hung in his hulking arms, a rag doll in the arms of a giant. My feet dangled limply a foot off the ground. The coppery saltiness of blood seeped across my tongue as my teeth shredded the insides of my cheeks under his massive hand.               “One word,” he hissed into my ear, “and I’ll snap your neck, and your mutt’s, too.”

             
I knew panic was prevailing when I imagined the Wicked Witch of the West cackling, “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too.” I might have joked at any other time, but I was slipping beyond petrified and teetering toward hysterical. A sob leapt unchecked from my throat as I nodded and he shook me again.

             
“Not a sound. You understand?” he hissed in my ear. It echoed around in my memory—another threat. So blatant. So familiar.
“One sound, and I will become your worst nightmare and no angel will save you…”

             
I nodded silently this time, despite my breath that whistled through my nose as I struggled to suck in enough air to remain conscious. My heart raced rabidly as I contemplated the similarities to the last time someone held me like this, threatened to snap my neck—and then go after Ivy. Darkness’ song sang in my ears, and as much as I longed to acquiesce to its melody, this was not just about me this time.

             
He removed his hand and I gulped in life. His arms like the coils of a giant snake constricted tighter around my body with each exhalation. His face remained hidden, but I could see the sleeves of his dark red jacket. It was him, the man in red at the hillcrest. The memory of him returned, along with the fear that flooded my veins like a wave on a beach washing back in the memory of him.

             
“I’m looking for someone. Understand?” His voice rumbled, deep and gravelly.

              I nodded, sure who that someone might be, and certain of whom and what he was. He was the Wraith who pillaged my drawers and searched my home, the Wraith who wasn’t looking for me, but for Nickolas and his mentor, Sabre James.

             
“I think maybe you know them. See, I need to get a message to them. Understand?”

             
Again, I nodded, and suppressed the sobs of anguish that rocked my heart.

             
“And you, my dear one, are going to be my pigeon.”

             
His constricting hold melted into an embrace, slimy, and nauseating. He held my body to his, still behind me, still faceless. His coarse, calloused thumb stroked my cheek, lasciviously traced my lips. He inhaled the scent of my hair, forced my head around so he could brush his bristled cheek against the tender flesh of my face. Like a fine wine, he was savoring everything about me. I felt his violent pilfering in my head, like trashing a room, violating my memories. His voice turned smooth as honey. Honey laced with arsenic. “If only I had more time to appreciate the sweetness of your terror,” he moaned. “Perhaps later.”