Smoke on the Water (2 page)

“Yes.”

“Has she been ill?”

Though Willow was tall, she was also very thin, her skin so pale he could see a fine trace of veins at her temple. Her hair was so light a blond it seemed silver, and her eyes before they'd fluttered closed had been such a vivid blue they'd seemed feverish.

He set his palm on her forehead, but he couldn't tell if she had a fever that way. The only way he'd ever been able to discern one with his sister had been to press his lips to her forehead.

In this case … bad idea.

“Would you get…” Sebastian paused. “What's your name?”

“Mary McAllister,” the woman said, but her gaze remained on Willow and not on him.

“Would you get a nurse, Mary?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“First time she sees you and her eyes roll up, she goes down. You think I'm leaving you alone with her? I might be crazy, but I'm not crazy.”

“I'm Dr. Frasier, the new administrator.”

Mary eyed him up and down. “Sure you are.”

At six feet five, two-fifty, Sebastian was huge, and his hands, feet, biceps reflected that. People often backpedaled the first time they saw him. He didn't blame Mary for being leery, though she didn't appear scared, just protective. Considering the fey frailty of Willow, he could understand that. Even if he worked here, that didn't mean he wasn't a creep.

“You're right,” he said. “You stay with her; I'll get someone.”

“If you're a doctor, why do you need to get anyone?”

“I specialized in psychiatry.”

Mary gave him another once-over. Sebastian didn't look like a psychiatrist. Although, really, what did one look like? He'd never met any who looked quite like him.

He could have tried to fit in better. Wear a suit and tie rather than a leather jacket and motorcycle boots. But as he'd driven his late father's Harley from Missouri, wearing a suit and shiny shoes would have been awkward. He could have changed. Should have changed. But there'd been an accident near Platteville, then construction north of Wausau. He'd been lucky to get here on time.

He'd figured he could transform himself—as much as was possible considering his hair, his beard, and his dead sister's earring, which he would not take from his ear, ever—in his office. But he'd been distracted by Willow Black.

As a result he was still wearing a black leather jacket and black dusty boots. His overly long hair was matted from the helmet, and he hadn't shaved in several days. The guard at the front door hadn't wanted to let him inside until Sebastian had shown his license. Then the man had hesitated so long, frowning at the years-old photo of Sebastian sporting a nearly shaved head, a completely shaved face, and no earring that Sebastian had become concerned he'd never get inside.

“Head doctor's still a doctor,” Mary said.

Sebastian
did
have medical training. Not that he'd used it much.

He sat on the bed, then set his fingers to the girl's wrist. Her pulse fluttered too fast. Which could mean anything or nothing at all.

Now what? He had no stethoscope, no blood pressure cuff, no thermometer. He was out of options.

“You have any idea what happened?” he asked.

“She saw something that upset her.”

In the hall there'd been the two women and himself. Sebastian might seem big and tough and scary, but he'd never had anyone faint at the sight of him before.

Mary shook the half-empty bottle in her hand. “I dumped it on the floor.”

“Accidents happen.”

“Not an accident. I wanted her to stare into the water, to see.”

“Microbes?”

Mary wouldn't be the first psychiatric patient he'd met who was a germophobe. She was probably nearer the hundredth.

Mary cast him a disgusted glance. “The future.”

“You think Willow can see the future in the water?”

“I know she can.”

“And does Willow believe this too?”

“She's never said so.”

“Can't imagine why.” Sebastian returned his gaze to Willow's beautiful, still face. What was it about her that called to him? His ridiculous need to save everyone, which had gotten worse after he'd been unable to save his sister?

“Why do you think Willow can see the future?” Sebastian asked.

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

As the explanation probably involved headache-inducing kooky talk, not really. Sebastian was saved from answering when Willow began to come around.

Her eyes opened. He was struck again by how very blue they were. Sebastian had never seen eyes the shade of a tropical ocean. He'd never seen an ocean—tropical or otherwise—although he'd always wanted to. It was on his to-do list.

Willow smiled as if she knew him, as if she'd known him a long time, and just as she had before, she reached out to touch his face. He should have gotten to his feet. He should not have let her touch him, but he was captivated by the expression in her eyes. Her palm cupped his cheek, and his heart stuttered.

“You're here.”

Her voice made him shiver. Or maybe it was just her words, which also indicated that she thought she knew him. And that couldn't be true no matter how much he might want it to be.

“Miss Black, I'm not—”

Her fingers flexed, her nails scratched against his three-day beard. “You are. I'm touching you. You're real.”

“You have difficulty understanding what's real and what isn't?”

Her smile deepened. “Never.”

Sebastian lifted his eyebrows, and she laughed. This time his stomach twisted, and lower, in a place that had no business doing so anywhere near a patient, he leaped.

He stood so fast he bumped into Mary and had to grab her before she landed on her ass. “Sorry.”

She gave him a look like his mother always used to whenever he'd thought something he shouldn't. Mothers were like that. Then she took his place on the bed next to Willow.

“Run along, doc. She'll be fine now.”

“Doc?” Willow repeated.

“Sebastian Frasier,” he said. “I'm replacing Dr. Eversleigh.”

“Shiny new paper pusher,” Mary muttered.

“Among other things.” In a small place like this, the administrator also treated patients, just not as many as the rest of the doctors. It was one of the reasons he'd accepted this position over the others he'd been offered. Sebastian liked being a practicing psychiatrist. He also liked being the boss.

His superior, Dr. Janet Tronsted, was in charge of state health services. When she'd appointed him the administrator of this facility she'd said, “You're in charge. Unless there's a problem, you won't be seeing me.” Then she'd peered at him over the top of her vintage cat's-eye reading glasses. “You do
not
want to see me.”

As this Janet reminded him of another Janet—Janet Reno: same haircut, same biceps, same build—he had to agree. Her reputation preceded her. She was hands-off as long as you did your job. If you didn't, her hands would be around your throat—figuratively, he hoped—and they'd definitely be all over your record, and you'd be lucky to get another job anywhere. Ever.

Someone called his name in the hall. “Should I send a nurse to check you out?”

“No.” Willow sat up. She wasn't as pale. Her hands didn't shake. “I'm embarrassed more than anything. I—uh—didn't eat breakfast.”

“Mary thought you might have had a vision.”

“No,” Willow repeated, scowling at Mary, who scowled right back.

Did that mean she hadn't had one now or that she never had?

Sebastian's name was called again—louder, closer. Not the time to press the issue. Really not his issue but her doctor's. He made a mental note to find out who that was and have a chat.

“It's nearly lunchtime,” he said. “You should eat.”

“I will.”

As he had no more reason to stay beyond a strange desire to keep staring at her, Sebastian left. He headed back the way he'd come, just as the nurse who'd been calling for him barreled around a corner and bounced off his chest.

 

Chapter 2

The man I'd been dreaming of my entire life, the one who would save me from … Lord alone knew; the one who was
the one
was a psychiatrist.

My
psychiatrist most likely. He was replacing my former doctor, who'd told me the “new guy” would be my “new guy.”

There was no way that the visions I'd had of him, of me—the lingering looks, the touches, the kisses, the … anything—would come to pass. What psychiatrist falls in love with his patient? Especially a patient like me?

“What was it about him that made you swoon?” Mary asked.

“Wasn't him,” I lied.

She scooted closer on the bed. “What then?”

I didn't have the usual urge to get away, even though she had me trapped. There was something about Mary I trusted. As I hadn't met her before today—in reality or in dreams—I had no idea why. However, I'd had feelings like this before about people—both good feelings and bad—and I'd learned they were too accurate to ignore.

“Tell me about your vision.”

I considered denying that I had visions, but I figured if I did, Mary would just keep tossing water around until I stopped.

“We need to keep it between us. Telling the shiny new paper pusher that I have visions is a good way to get me locked someplace I can't have any.”

Another lie. I could have them anywhere, but all I needed was for Mary to tell anyone—everyone—that I could see the future. From what I'd observed of Mary so far, she talked a lot. Usually to the corner, but still. She'd been lucid enough today.

“Okay,” she agreed. “What did you see?”

“Our library.”

“What's so scary about that?”

“Who said it was scary?”

“You fainted. Or do you always faint after a vision?”

“One had nothing to do with the other. I really didn't have breakfast.”

“You never do,” she said, making me wonder how long she'd been watching me before she approached. “Let's go to the library.”

In my vision it had been night. There'd been a full moon shining through the skylight, and I'd been alone. Did that mean I was supposed to wait for the full moon and go alone or didn't it?

Couldn't hurt to check the place out in the light with a buddy. Why Mary was suddenly my friend I had no idea, any more than I did about a lot of things.

I let her help me up. In truth, I needed her to. When she continued to hold my hand as we walked down the hall I realized I needed that too. I couldn't remember the last time anyone had done so. Which might be all the explanation necessary for my new—my
only
—pal.

Mary appeared as starved for affection, as in need of a friend, as I was. If she thought I was a witch, if she thought she was too, so what? There were people in here who thought they were famous historical figures.

Why was it whenever folks went off the deep end they imagined themselves as Napoleon or Cleopatra? Same goes for reincarnation. Farmhands from the sixteenth century were never reincarnated. But Anne Boleyn got recycled a lot.

The library wasn't far away, unusual in this facility, which had so many wings I don't think I'd yet seen them all. A lot of them had been closed off from lack of use. Northern Wisconsin might be vast, but the number of lunatics wasn't. Or maybe lunatics hid in the woods and didn't come out. I should have.

Not that it was bad here. It was just … here. And I didn't want to be.

What I would do once I was released was a mystery. I'd finished high school—wasn't easy, but I'd done it. I'd gotten a job at a nursing home. I was good at taking care of people. I had been considering applying for aid so I could go to nursing school, and then it had happened.

I'd seen the vision of my own death—the man who would do it and what he would do. The stabbing, the branding, the burning. I'd felt the knife go in, smelled my own flesh sizzling, seen the mark he'd imprinted on my skin with his ring—the head of a snarling wolf. Then the scent of gasoline, the snick of a match, the blaze as my body caught fire.

When the man from my vision appeared in real time I didn't wait for him to pull the blade that would end my life. I'd pulled my own and tried to end his.

I'd explained to my court-appointed lawyer that just because the guy had no ring or knife that night didn't mean he wouldn't come on another night and kill me as I'd envisioned.

He'd lit on that word—
envisioned
—used it to get me placed in this facility and not prison. It wasn't as if I hadn't been labeled crazy before. There was a reason I craved companionship, affection, a friend, some hint of family. None of the foster families I'd been assigned to had ever wanted to keep me.

Even as a baby I'd been a problem. You'd think someone would want to adopt a pretty little white girl like me. They had, until I woke up shrieking in the dark. Baths freaked me out. So did streams, lakes, rivers, and water in cups, glasses, bottles, and puddles. When I started talking and told them why, things really got strange.

“Now what?” Mary asked when we reached the library.

“You wanted to come here.”

“What else did you see?”

“The
Book of Shadows,
” I blurted.

“All right.”

She hurried off in the direction of the
B
's.

The first time I'd told one of my foster moms that I'd dreamed her oldest would break his arm falling down the stairs, and then it had happened, she'd thought I pushed him. I ended up back at the group home. Counseling soon followed. It helped. I'd learned how to zip my lip.

Still, shit happened around me. Most of it bad. And when I tried to warn people that the bad was coming, I only got sent back even faster.