Harlequin Nocturne March 2016 Box Set Read online

  * * *

  Sleep was impossible.

  Annie drank the tall glass of water she’d craved and collapsed on her bed, but an unease settled over her, a conviction that something bad had happened. She got up and went to the altar in the den, intent on lighting a candle to pray for Grandma Tia. A note from Miss Verbena had been propped on the mortar-and-pestle bowl, informing Annie that her grandmother had suffered a stroke.

  A punch in the gut.

  Sooner or later lack of sleep would catch up to her, but for now Annie was fueled with adrenaline and the need to check on her grandma. She showered, put on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and drove to the Bayou La Siryna hospital.

  To hell with that coerced promise to stay away.

  Annie’s resolution stayed strong until she walked down the long hallway of the critical-care unit. From every door she passed, she heard a funereal fugue with its long, melancholy strains, as gloomy as Baroque organ music. Worse were the open doors to rooms housing patients in intense pain. Their aural music was sharp as glass shards, slicing through her consciousness. Deep breaths. One step at a time. Only her love for Tia was worth suffering these symphonies of agony.

  Room 3182. She’d made it.

  Annie pushed the cool metal door open and entered. All was quiet. The sweet scent of violets triumphed over antiseptic’s odor. Which meant Miss Verbena had recently been here, had been in vigil by the bed when she should have been the one doing so.

  Tia’s eyes were closed and her breathing steady, as if in peaceful slumber. As if her physical agonies were in a state of suspension.

  Annie took her grandma’s right hand in her own. Tia’s fingers were cold and rough. Her grandma would hate that. She always said that if she were meant to tolerate the cold, she’d have been born a Yankee.

  She found some lotion in the hospital toiletry bin and rubbed the balm into her grandma’s cold flesh, pressing and kneading the rough skin, massaging in healing warmth. All Tia’s flashy rings were gone. She looked bare without them, oddly lonely and vulnerable.

  Tia’s hands should be active—mixing potions, dealing tarot cards, lighting candles. Even saddled with a bad heart, her grandma would sit on the sofa in the evenings and read through old magic books, an index finger gliding down the page like a third eye, absorbing words. Or she would shuffle the cards and lay out spreads, searching for messages from the beyond.

  Inside a metal locker was a blanket, and Annie tucked it over Tia’s unmoving body, remembering all the times her grandma had tucked her in bed as a child. She’d never felt so loved nor as safe as when Grandma Tia chanted and hummed, asking for the saints’ protection over “the young’un” while she slept. Tia would slide the sheets up to Annie’s neck and pat her large, warm hands on Annie’s slender shoulders, as if to seal in a prayer.

  “Rest well, Grandma. I’ll watch over you now.” Annie pressed her palms into Tia’s broad shoulders. “Saints be with us.”

  The air pressed down, and a humming rang in her ears, as if she’d been submerged in a cave. What was happening? The contact with Grandma Tia had set something in motion. Every sound magnified: the grind of tires on the distant highway, a clock ticking. Down the hall, a voice called for a nurse. The sounds were distinct yet muted and slowed down. Annie sank into the chair by the side of the bed and squeezed Tia’s hand.

  “Are you there, Grandma? It’s me, Annie.”

  Tia’s chilled, lifeless hand suddenly warmed, then burned into Annie’s palm and fingers. Instinctively, Annie started to pull back but stopped, afraid she’d lose this connection. Possibly the last she’d ever have with her grandma. She closed her eyes and concentrated. I’m here. Don’t be mad. I had to see you.

  A pinprick of light danced behind Annie’s closed eyelids. With each flicker, a tiny note pinged...sounding like the metal triangles of elementary school. No, wait, that wasn’t right. The notes were more like the Native American flute Tombi had played in the woods.

  She didn’t want to think about him. Yet, she couldn’t escape the feeling that he was calling her somehow, that he needed her. Why was Grandma Tia always pushing him toward her, even while unconscious? An image of a flute pressed into her thoughts. It was more decorated than the one Tombi had played, as if it were used in ceremonies and rituals.

  She’d never seen it before. But Tia had.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” Annie asked.

  The image, and the music, faded to a black void. Tia’s hand cooled to a normal temperature.

  The moment had passed.

  Annie’s eyes flew open, but Tia’s calm mask of sleep was undisturbed. Profound relief washed over her body, and with it came a great weariness. She sank into the chair and slept.

  * * *

  Violets...the scent tickled her nose. Miss Verbena’s lined face came into view.

  “Annie, are you okay, dear?”

  She jerked to an upright position and looked out the window. How long had she been asleep? The late-afternoon sun washed the air with bright power.

  My name means ray of light in Choctaw, Tombi had told her. We once revered the sun’s power. At the time, she’d laughed over his not-so-sunny personality, but his name fit. He was powerful and strong and important to his people, a central figure in a fight against shadow beings who wanted to block the light.

  Her anger melted like butter in the heat. If Tombi hadn’t ever returned to find her, he’d had a good reason. A chill settled in the pit of her stomach. What if he’d been injured last night?

  She had to find him at once.

  “You’re so pale,” Miss Verbena said. “I’ll fetch you a glass of water. Have you eaten today?”

  Her mouth tingled at the mention of food. “No. I guess I forgot.”

  “Lord a-mercy, I wish I’d forget to eat a meal.” Miss Verbena patted her ample belly and dug a pack of peanut-butter crackers out of her straw bag. “This should tide you over until dinner.”

  Annie scarfed them down greedily as she gathered her pocketbook and car keys. “I have to run,” she apologized. She hugged her grandma’s dear friend. “Thank you for staying with Grandma Tia. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “’Course you will. You’ve always been a good girl, unlike your...” She clamped her mouth shut in a tight line.

  “Unlike my mom,” Annie said. “Have you called her? I know I should but...”

  Miss Verbena shook her head. “That’s your business. Doubt she’d come, though. Always swore she never wanted to come back here again after they had that big blowout years ago.” The scowl on her face softened. “Don’t you worry, honey. I have a feeling ole Tia’s gonna pull through this just fine. You go on and do what you got to do.”

  She carefully hugged the old woman, throat constricted with tears. “Thanks for understanding.”

  Annie hurried out, knowing that she had to find Tombi.

  CHAPTER 7

  Tombi kicked at the campfire ashes, placed his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. He should be sleeping like the others in preparation for the last night of the hunt. Instead, his mind kept asking the same question over and over. Where is Annie? He’d checked her cottage, of course, but she wasn’t home. Neither was her car, which meant she could be anywhere. He’d called and left messages on her cell phone, but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer.

  The air’s vibration shifted, and the soles of his bare feet prickled from a subtle tremor. Someone was approaching. Tombi raised his head, and his eyes went immediately across the clearing to where a woman entered from a wooded path.

  Annie.

  Others might have mistaken her for a girl, but he knew better, had explored the rounded curves of her breasts and the slight swell of her hips. He rose slowly to his feet, his mind churning with passion, anger and relief. Mostly re