The Soother (29 page)

After a deep breath, she finally pulled her gaze away from the cards and met Carrine’s. So much wisdom shone in those dark green eyes, but an underlying current of sorrow shadowed their depths. Her dark hair and bright red lip stain seemed even more pronounced than usual against her pale skin. She’d always reminded Meera of a porcelain doll — although she highly doubted Carrine would break quite as easily — today even more so as her painted lips pursed in concentration. One day Meera would discover the truth about her new friend, but for now she’d answer the question.

“Another episode, yes. The strongest yet.”

Sighing, Carrine reached out with long, slim fingers, her rings gleaming in the beam of the overhead lights, and moved to put the tarot cards away. “You better tell me about it.”

Meera stopped her with a gentle and slightly shaky hand. “Leave them. I don’t think we’re quite finished.”

Nodding, Carrine smoothed her long black dress, scooted back on the couch and placed one pale hand over the other on her lap. “Very well. I’m all ears.”

A fact. Carrine was the best listener she had ever met, and, considering the way she kept her attention focused solely on Meera, this time would be no different. “I’ll get us some more wine first, and I need to stir the soup. Be right back.” Meera hurried out of the room, more to gather her thoughts than anything. She was rattled and didn’t work well that way. The only way to fix her current situation was to remain calm and talk it through. Thank goodness she’d met Carrine when she had, or these last several months would have really messed with her psyche.

Meera pulled the lid off the crockpot and stirred the contents, having whipped up a batch of chicken and noodles before she’d gone out for a run that morning. Her muscles were still tight. Probably because she didn’t exercise nearly enough. Her love of homemade comfort food had prompted her to get her butt in gear. That and the need to combat her mounting stress.

She snagged the open bottle of merlot from the counter and made her way back to the living room. Perhaps she should have kept said butt inside today. Maybe then she wouldn’t have been assaulted on the beach.

“How about some music?” she asked while topping off Carrine’s glass, the deep red wine sloshing precariously before settling.

Carrine laughed. “I don’t think you can really call what you listen to music.”

“Sure I can. It gets the blood pumping.” She poured wine into her own glass, lifted it to her mouth and sipped, her lips curling upon the glass at Carrine’s next words.

“And causes migraines.”

“Ha. If you turn it up loud enough you can’t even feel your head pounding. Shall we try it?” She placed her glass on the bright red coaster and lifted a brow in question.

“I’ll pass, and you’re stalling.”

True. But Meera walked to the entertainment console anyway and flicked on her state-of-the-art system. Opting for a compromise, she let the media player pick the tunes in the adult contemporary genre.

“Ah,” Carrine said. “This I can handle.”

Meera smiled. Celine she would deal with. Pavarotti she could not. “I think you’re showing your age.” Though to be honest, she had no idea just how old Carrine was. Her astuteness spoke of years that belied her appearance and constant energy. She’d learned so much and still so little about her friend since the day she’d bumped into her at the mystic market. Literally bumped into her like she’d been pushed from behind even though the crowd had been sparse at best. If she’d been able to discover the source of the shove that had catapulted her into the Carrine’s tent, she would have paid them her gratitude. That chance meeting had changed her life for the better, and thanks to Carrine the downward spiral of her life had been slowed.

Until recently.

Meera adjusted the volume to a comfortable setting before plopping down on the other end of the suede couch — the color, so soft and calming, reminded her of the creamiest butter. She pulled one leg under the other. Another lingering sip of wine, and she was finally ready to talk about the day’s events.

“Well, I was running on the beach and — ”

“You were exercising?” Carrine asked with wide eyes as though even the thought were an impossibility.

“Funny. I do exercise on occasion.”

“Like when?”

“Like when I want to eat three bowls of fattening soup for dinner. Speaking of, I think it’s ready. I’ll go get us a couple of bowls.”

Wide eyes changed to slits as Carrine’s red lips turned down. “Later. First I want to hear about what happened.”

Meera closed her eyes and blew out a long breath. “It started with that hum again.” The hum that grated on her already fragile nerves like a swarm of killer bees she could never escape no matter how freakin’ fast she ran. Now she knew how hamsters felt. Constantly spinning that damn wheel, but never getting anywhere.

“Go on.”

“Okay.” Meera blew out a breath and picked at the end of her braid. “So I was running and probably cussing … definitely cussing.”

Carrine smiled.

Her next words sucked the tentative, lighter tone out of the room. “Out of the corner of my eye I saw a shadow form. Then it was gone.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. I tripped and nearly ate the sand.” She tugged on the collar of her shirt, the room’s temperature seeming to rise with each staccato thump of her heart. “I knew what was coming, Carrine. It happens almost every day now. So I stopped, faced the lake, and prepared myself. The dark water churned and the wind … “ Meera’s heart nearly pounded out of her chest as she remembered how scared she’d been. Still was. “God, I can’t even explain how hard the wind blew.”

“It’s okay, child. What happened next?”

“My breath, it formed swirling patterns. Almost hypnotic, really. Like it was dancing in front of me. Seductive. Kind of like that air belonged to someone else, and I was just there to watch the show. I wasn’t even cold. I should have been, but I wasn’t. I didn’t feel anything except scared and angry and maybe a little determined to beat it this time.” A lot determined to kick some ass and take back control.

“Good for you.” Carrine squeezed her hand, her black eyebrows drawn together against snowy skin.

“That’s when the voices started, almost as if the wind was calling to me.”

“What did the voices say?”

She shrugged. “Same thing they always say. ‘Meera. It is time.’” She’d whispered the last four words when she’d really wanted to scream them. Scream until her throat was raw and ripped. Scream until the whispers and the hum went away.

“How does it make you feel?”

Squashing the anger that desperately wanted to grab hold, Meera cocked her head and gave a half grin. “Psych 101, huh?”

Carrine’s lips formed a thin line. “You can call it that. Or you could call it like it is. Two friends talking something out and maybe finding a solution.”

“You’re right. My sarcasm sneaks up on me sometimes.”

“Certainly does, but that’s part of what makes you
you
.”

“And that is the question of the hour, isn’t it? Who am I?” Meera watched as Carrine averted her gaze, something her friend did when she was troubled. “What’s wrong?”

“I think those voices may be right. Perhaps it is time.”

“Time for what?” Meera tamped down her frustration and lowered her voice. “I think something bad is about to happen, Carrine. Really bad.” She waved her hand, gesturing to the table. “Look at these cards. The Chariot … Venturing into the unknown. And the Tower. I … ”

“I know,” Carrine interrupted. “The Tower means ruin and upheaval. On paper this doesn’t look good.”

Moving to the edge of the couch, Meera said, “Clearly.”

“However, sometimes we can turn things around for ourselves.”

Meera harrumphed. “Not if we don’t understand what’s happening.”

“I think I can make some things a bit more clear.”

Did Meera dare get her hopes up? “How?” she asked, and then cleared the clog from her throat with another sip of wine.

“Do you trust me?”

Now Meera’s smile came easily. “You know I do.”

Carrine rose. “I need to contact some people. I’ll be back tomorrow, if that’s okay?”

“You don’t need an invitation. You’re always welcome.” She left it at that rather than begging Carrine to stay. Being alone tonight didn’t appeal to Meera in the least. She glanced at the large round clock hanging above the fireplace and then out the picture window. Only five o’clock and already pitch dark. She had a long night ahead of her. Hopefully she’d get through it without another
episode
, as she liked to call her moments of insanity.

After loading her up with some crockpot goodies, Meera walked Carrine to the door. Her friend, who looked so much like her with the long black hair, pale skin and troubled eyes, turned and hugged her. Meera squeezed her tight. The contact brought a semblance of calm to her tattered mind.

“I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll get started.” Carrine pulled the door closed behind her.

With loneliness already settling in, Meera went back to the couch and grabbed her journal.

• • •

“Hey, Gannon?”

Ghanem’s fingers stopped typing as he looked up at his boss. On the verge of correcting the man, yet again, he bit his tongue. It wasn’t worth it. The idiot would never pronounce his name right. Few did. But really? How hard could it be?

“Gan” rhymes with “can” and “ um” as in “um, you’re an idiot.”
Harold was both an idiot and an ass. The accurate stereotype of an insurance salesman never ceased to amaze Ghanem, and Harold was as cookie cutter as they came.

“Yes, Harold. What can I do for you?” What bothered Ghanem most was having to work for this brown-nosing, three-pack-a-day cigarette-smoking fucker. Out of all the jobs he’d had — and there had been many — this had been, by far, the worst. Stuck in a literal corner, day after day, typing up insurance forms. He couldn’t even call himself a salesman — no, nothing as glorified as that. Nothing more than a paper pusher. The monotony was killing him, but he had to work, and more importantly Ghanem needed to blend. As if that were a problem.

He scrubbed his head, looked up at his boss, and tried to ignore the stench of stale cigarettes. Harold would bend over backward for a potential customer, then do whatever he could to screw them out of their money. Ghanem had his number. The problem was, he couldn’t do anything about it. Not outwardly. But on the sly he’d slowly begun to give a handful of clients their due. His father took Ghanem’s birthright, but he could never take his fundamental core.

“Someone’s here to see you.” Idiot adjusted his pants, pulling them up another inch past his navel. The motion had Ghanem’s own nads aching at the potential assault. How did any man find that comfortable? “Now, you know how I feel about personal interruptions at work, but he claims it’s an emergency.” Harold lifted a bushy, salt and pepper eyebrow.

Ghanem glanced past Harold, all the while giving the perception of keeping eye contact. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see who waited for him, but now that he focused his attention, he could tell
what
waited beyond the short row of cubicles. Usually, he would have detected the being sooner. He was slipping. No surprise there. He practically choked on his next words. “I apologize, sir. I’ll make this brief.”

“Be sure that you do. Oh, and punch out first.” Harold nodded and stomped back to his office, a whole four feet from Ghanem’s cubicle.

Ghanem clenched his fists and waited for Harold to shut his office door. Better that than to jump over the desk and break his scrawny-ass neck. A flick of the wrist was all it would take. Ghanem’s six-five frame dwarfed Harold by about a foot. Weight was a whole other issue, but he didn’t have the time to beat the shit out of Harold. The visitor waited. Ghanem had another matter to deal with. Again.

He always hoped for the best, but braced for the worst. Hope was a bitch that had his balls in a noose, because even after all these years he’d never been given another chance.

After logging out of his computer but skipping the clock-out instructions — Harold owed him more than the few minutes this would take, and it was already past five — Ghanem walked past the piles of insurance claims, manila folders, and other crap paper, trying not to let the heaps get to him. He hated the mess. Hated the confinement. You’d think with so many pissed-off people waiting for insurance money, Harold would hire someone to come in and organize. But that wasn’t really the point, was it? You didn’t own an insurance company because you wanted to pay claims. Ghanem had pegged the insurance business as a scam from day one, but he had to do something, and this job currently paid the bills, and, more importantly, sucked up several hours of the endless days. Just like all the other jobs he’d had for the last two hundred years.

As Ghanem neared the door, his senses became more acute, more intense. If they knew he’d retained this fragment of his power, he could only imagine what they would do to strip him even more bare. But retain it he did, and because of that, Ghanem now had no doubt of who waited on the other side.
Well, well, well.
This should be interesting. He opened the door and came face to face with his father’s personal messenger.

“Dominic has summoned you.”

“Nice to see you too, Derek.”

The messenger narrowed his bright blue eyes. “My name is Drake.”

“Ah, yes. It’s been so long I must have forgotten.” Of course he hadn’t forgotten. He just enjoyed fucking with the lesser guardian. Ghanem eyed Drake’s long mane of blond hair, but managed to hide his envy. He’d shaved his own head moments after being shunned, the length no longer necessary.

“Dominic has summoned you.”

“What does my father want? Are Thane and Amella okay?” Forcing the panic out of his voice, he glared at Drake. What if something had happened to his brother or sister? His father hadn’t sent for him in years. Which had to mean something had happened. Guardians protected the innocent. No matter the cost. That he couldn’t protect his own any longer gnawed at his gut and sliced at his soul.

“Dominic has summoned you.”

“I fucking heard you the first time. I asked you a question.” Ghanem shoved Drake against the wall and yanked him off his feet by his lapels. “Answer me.”