Читать книгу The Empath - Bonnie Vanak - Страница 8

Maggie Sinclair forced herself to concentrate as she stared into the microscope for what seemed like the thousandth time.

Still there. The ugly reality met her weary eyes. Blink, and the cells did not change. A physical impossibility, yet, she could not deny it. The cell samples were black, misshapen like oblong ink blotches.

She had no idea what was killing her beloved Misha. All the academic research proved useless.

X-rays had revealed a large mass in Misha’s stomach. Blood samples showed cell mutation similar to cancer. Yet not cancer.

Maggie rubbed her reddened eyes, trying to contain the tears.

Misha had been her true companion for five years. The long bouts of loneliness she’d felt vanished when she’d adopted the dog from a shelter. Misha had been an abused puppy, and came to her snarling and suspicious. Maggie won her trust and now the dog offered unconditional love and trust. Misha curled up on her lap after a tough day at the office, and licked her face. She was more than a pet. She was a friend.

Twenty-four hours without sleep didn’t help. Last night Misha was restless. Maggie stayed up, stroking her whimpering pet. As with other animals she’d treated, her touch soothed.

She’d dozed off, then awakened to the feeling of someone pounding a rail spike into her body. The pain subsided then vanished. Always seemed to happen after a difficult case. Since real sleep proved impossible, Maggie resigned herself to downing a fresh pot of Blue Mountain, and went back to work.

Three weeks without answers. Three weeks of leaving her lucrative practice on the mainland to her partner, Mark Anderson, and holing up in the beach house on Estero Island like a sand hermit.

Three weeks of drawing blood, testing samples, consulting journals, articles, Internet Web sites. Nothing. Not a clue.

She didn’t dare show her findings to colleagues. This was too weird. Too … Witchy.

I don’t believe in witches. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.

She believed in science, pure and simple. Logic. Nothing else.

Late afternoon sunlight streamed into the improvised lab on the house’s second floor. Papers, charts and notes littered a long white table, along with beakers, syringes, test tubes and slides. On the cool tile floor, Misha slept fitfully.

Maggie stared out the window. Sun-worshippers strolled at the gulf’s edge. Coconut palms ringing her beachfront home rustled in the wind. The burning blue sky promised another balmy afternoon in southwest Florida.

Momentary envy filled her. Mindless of the air-conditioning, she slid open the window to inhale the brine. She longed to be as insouciant as the tourists, nothing more to worry about than ruining their Birkenstocks in the saltwater.

She couldn’t be insouciant. Whatever was killing Misha could kill other animals, maybe even humans. Maggie suspected she had discovered a new, dreadful disease. She couldn’t risk it spreading to others, or turning Misha over to become a lab experiment by others. So she had quarantined her pet in the beach house, determined to find answers for herself.

Enough daydreaming. Back to work.

She removed the slide from the microscope. Maggie took a drop of blood obtained from a healthy shih tzu at her practice. Using a Beral pipette, she added the blood to a fresh slide containing Misha’s infected cells. Maggie covered the slide, placed it under the microscope.

Maggie fumbled for a tape recorder, clicked the record button as she bent over to peer into the microscope again.

“The tumor lies in the submucosa, infiltrating the lamina propria. Cellular morphology not characteristic of known tumors. The nuclei are indistinguishable. No nestlike appearance as in the fibrovascular stroma.”

A clatter sounded as Maggie dropped the instrument onto the scarred tabletop. The tape whirled, silently continuing to record her next words.

“Oh my God!”

Misha lifted her head, whined at the loud outburst. Maggie stepped back. Rubbed her eyes again. Oh God. It couldn’t be … surely she was exhausted, seeing things.

Dread surfaced as she forced herself to examine the clump of cells. Bracing her hands on the table, she studied the sample.

Blackened cells that had been separate, like individual drops of ink, bonded together as if pulled by invisible magnets. They surrounded the single drop of healthy blood, corralling it. Then absorbed it, sucking it into their mass. And grew.

They spread, forming a giant singular cell. As her shocked gaze watched, the singular cell divided. And again.

Cloning itself.

Cells taken from Misha’s stomach tumor were growing exponentially and forming a new organism. Growing, spreading to the edges of the slide.

It couldn’t be. Not happening. Somatic cells, even those mutated by cancer, couldn’t do this. Yet here it was, dividing and multiplying and growing to form … living tissue.

With a cry of disgust, she grabbed the slide, dropped it into a beaker of alcohol. Maggie stared, watching the now clearly demarcated black mass sink down into the liquid.

A sharp buzz made her cry out in alarm. Get a grip, Mags. Maggie sucked down a trembling breath. She covered the beaker with a towel and pasted on a shaky smile. Her sneakers thumped on the staircase as she headed for the door.

It had better not be Mark. He had agreed to take over the whole caseload while she begged off six week’s leave. But he’d phoned, whining about the work piling up.

Mark must never know how ill Misha was or he would insist on taking her pet and quarantining Misha at the office. She had to find answers herself. Misha would not be turned into a living experiment, poked and prodded by fascinated colleagues.

Maggie looked out the door’s scope. A blond little girl in a pink shorts set clutched the handle of a small red wagon. The wagon held a steel cage containing a rabbit.

Tammy Whittaker, seven, from next door. Tammy’s mother was a fussy, carefully groomed woman who insisted on calling Maggie “Miss Sinclair” instead of “Doctor.” Vets weren’t real doctors, she had said, sniffing that she couldn’t understand why anyone with a medical inclination would choose to treat filthy animals.

Dropping the curtain, Maggie felt a flutter of alarm. She only wanted to be left alone to muse over this latest frightening find.

The trilling buzz sounded again. With a sigh, she opened the door. Tammy Whittaker looked up at Maggie. Hope flickered in her huge brown eyes. “Hi, Dr. Sinclair. This is Herman, my rabbit.”

“Honey, I’m awfully busy….”

Tammy’s face screwed up. Her mouth wobbled precariously. “Herman’s hurt. Please, Dr. Sinclair, can you fix him? I have ten dollars I saved from my allowance. My mother says she won’t waste money on a stupid rabbit.”

The little girl’s woeful expression twisted Maggie’s heart. She went outside and picked up the cage containing the chocolate-colored rabbit.

“Come on, Tammy. Let’s see what’s wrong with Herman.”

Inside the spacious living room, Maggie set down the cage. She removed the large French lop from the cage and set him on the tiled floor. Herman weakly hopped. His back left leg flopped. Broken, probably.

A terrible suspicion crested over Maggie. “Tammy, how did this happen?”

Her gaze flicked away. “I forget to lock the door sometimes. He got out. Mom said he got his leg caught.”

Maggie gnawed at her lower lip. Outside of her own dog, she hadn’t examined an animal in over two months. Doing so caused odd images to flash through her mind, as if she could envision the source of the animal’s injury. Feel its past and pain.

Just an overactive imagination. It was only her great desire to heal, causing her to envision the injury’s source.

Yet the fledgling ability had grown stronger over the past six months. Maggie had solved the problem by leaving the initial exams to Mark, in exchange for doing the clinic’s paperwork.

“I thought your mother didn’t like animals.”

Sniffling, Tammy explained her friend Bobby had given her Herman when his family moved away. “It was either me or Sally. Sally has a big yard with a fence, but she’s got a hamster. Mom didn’t want him, but Dad said I could keep him if Herman stayed in the cage. Please, can you make him better? He’s hurting.”

Maggie gently stroked the quivering rabbit. Images poured through her mind like movie screen captions: Fear. Pain. Cage door open. Freedom. Good smells. Food nearby. White grass. Urge to void. Tall human. Screams. Pointed shoe. Hurt. Fear. Hide.

Tammy’s mother had kicked it in a rage for the droppings on her immaculate white wool rug.

Biting back a startled cry, she jerked her hand away. Maggie turned, hiding her reaction from Tammy.

“Is Herman going to be okay?” Tammy asked.

“He’ll be fine. I need to get the medicine to fix him.”

Maggie pushed a weary hand through her hair as she went upstairs to her office. She headed for a locked white cabinet and combed through it for the necessary supplies.

The odd ability to envision the source of an animal’s pain hadn’t vanished. It was growing stronger.

No. She hadn’t felt the animal’s pain, nor seen what happened. Besides, Iona Whittaker was fastidious, but cruel …? Ridiculous. Herman probably broke his leg …

Falling down the stairs, a deep male voice asked.

Maggie gasped, nearly dropping a box of bandages. First hallucinations, now voices? Definitely, too little sleep.

Science, not speculation. Cell mitosis. She formed images of cells, dividing, new life growing. Her mind processed the information at hand. Rabbit, broken foot caused probably by angry woman with a ruined carpet. Yes, Iona Whittaker could be cruel. People were.

Businesslike, she stacked emergency medical supplies on a tray. Splint, bandages, tape, medicine, syringe, needle, medication, prescription pad.

Downstairs, she injected Herman with a mild sedative, asked Tammy questions about school to divert the girl’s worries. Very gently, she bound the rabbit’s broken leg. Maggie settled Herman back into his cage. She inhaled the scent of fresh cedar shavings and gave the bunny a reassuring pat.

“Such a pretty chocolate color,” Maggie murmured.

Tammy brightened. “Herman’s like an Easter bunny.”

Easter bunny. Delicious, biting into a chocolate bunny.

Rabbit. Fresh. Tasty. Raw, bloodied meat. Dinner. Energy.

Shocked, she analyzed her thoughts. Where did that come from? One minute, daydreaming about a sugar rush, the next, salivating over meat.

“I’ll give you some pills.” She scribbled instructions on the pad. Herman. Injured rabbit. Sweet little rabbit.

Prey. Thrill of the kill, snapping bones, sinking fangs into fresh, delicious meat …

Maggie shoved aside the hungry thoughts. Giving Tammy instructions on how to administer the medication, she smiled.

“Herman has been well cared for. He has good muscle tone,” she noted, trying not to think of meat. Good meat, not tough, just right. Laced with tasty fat …

Maggie hastily stood, grabbed the cage. Sweat beaded on her brow. I’m going insane. First feeling images and pain, then hearing voices, and now, thinking of pet rabbits as dinner?

At the door, Maggie gently pushed aside

Tammy’s offering of crumbled dollar bills. “Instead of paying me, I need a favor. Herman looks a little cramped in his cage. I bet he’d love a nice, big yard. Why don’t you give him to Sally? You can visit him, and it will make your mother happy.” And keep that bitch from hurting him again.

Tammy’s lips curled up, then she glanced down at Herman. “All right, Dr. Sinclair. I guess it’s only fair to share him.”

“Yes, it is.”

Placing the cage on her little red wagon, Tammy turned. Her brow wrinkled. “Are you okay, Dr. Sinclair? You look funny.”

I bet. “I’m fine. Go home, call Sally.”

Maggie waved, closed the door then fled upstairs to grab sleep before she imagined anything else.

She fell asleep upstairs on her king-sized bed, dreaming of warm breath against the nape of her neck, hard muscles holding her fast.

White teeth erotically scraping her flesh, followed by a long, slow lick. Wetness pooled between her legs. She stirred. Maggie moaned as two large hands, dark hair dusting the backs, slid over her trembling thighs. Sliding them open. Dark eyes staring at wet female flesh.

You want my tongue. There.

Her vagina clenched, aching. Empty. Needing. Hot. Please.

What do you want?

You. Inside me. Please. Fill me. Forever.

I’ll give you everything you want. And more. My Maggie.

She jerked awake with a start, clutching the sheet. Sweat dampened her lace panties, the ribbed lilac sleep shirt. He had been inside her, again. Her dream lover.

His presence lingered, like the slow stroke of a man’s hand upon a woman’s naked skin. Tender as a lover’s caress, edged with desire. Demanding. Hot. Broad shoulders, hard muscles, crisp stubble abrading the soft skin of her throat as he kissed his way down her body.

Maggie stood on wobbly legs. She ran a hand through her curls. Two hours’ sleep gave no rest. She’d been tormented with edgy, erotic dreams, leaving her restless and yearning.

Late afternoon sun streamed through the sliding glass windows as she went downstairs. Maggie headed for the adjoining kitchen. Misha lay on the cool tile. With a false smile and a cheeriness she did not feel, she stooped down to pet her dog.

“Hey there, Misha, babe. Feel like eating a little dinner?”

A brown tail thumped madly against the floor. Hope rose, fed by desperation. From the fridge, Maggie fished out chicken livers. She cooked them over the electric range, chattering the whole time, filling empty space with words the dog did not understand, but were soothing.

Maggie set the dish on the floor. Misha sniffed, licked a piece. Hope rose. It sank as Misha walked away.

No appetite. Maggie, acquainted with the dying process, could not deny what her heart, and her mind, knew. Misha looked at her with mournful brown eyes as if to apologize. Maggie shoved the liver into the fridge.

She patted her friend’s head. “It’s okay, baby, I never did like liver, either. Yuck.”

The long brown tail thumped weakly against the tile. Misha reached up, licked her face.

Fighting tears, Maggie washed the few dishes in the sink. Routine dulled the raw pain in her chest, allowed her to pretend everything was normal.

The sun began setting, turning the brilliant blue sky to flame-red and orange. Maggie pulled open the large glass slider. Warm currents of air drifted inside, scented with brine. She stared at the expanse of white sugary sand stretching before her, the blue gulf beyond.

Laughter rippled from the Tiki Bar down the beach. Tourists and natives gathered there for traditional sunset drinks, and to watch the spectacular vista of sunset sinking into the water. Maggie disliked crowds and socializing, preferring to remain alone. Besides, she couldn’t afford to waste Misha’s remaining time.

Being alone didn’t bother her these past weeks. She needed privacy. Yet lately, when the night stole over the sky, and the moon rose high, she itched. To run wild and free.

She stared out onto the sugar sands in utter desolation. A raging restlessness seized her. This time of night seemed hers, the darkness falling, the wind blowing.

Palm tree fronds rustled in secret communication with each other. Raucous laughter from the Tiki Bar drifted over the sands. It sounded like fun. I’m so damn alone.

You are not alone.

Maggie whipped her head around. Wind tossed her hair as she searched into the gathering twilight. Nothing but wind and distant laughter. But someone was here.

“Get a grip, Mags,” she whispered. Too much time alone, then the erotic dream, stirred her imagination.

But she could smell him? Pine, earth, a woodsy pleasing scent tugged her in a nostalgic way.

I’m here, the same, deep voice assured in her mind. Quiet, nonthreatening. Maggie wrapped her arms about herself. Maybe I’m insane.

Only those of us craving absolute power turn, losing their minds, what’s left of their souls.

A subtle note of warning threaded through it. She shivered.

Do you smell that? Be careful.

This was too weird. Maggie went to cut off her imaginary friend by thinking of cell mitosis. She stopped. The heels of the wind brought a faint but foul odor.

Like rotting seaweed at low tide mixed with raw sewage. Except this stench carried nothing natural about it. Maggie fingered the chunky turquoise bracelet on her wrist. Grappling with control, she decided to indulge this voice, a fragment left over from her dream. A strong male presence, wanting to protect her.

You’re wearing turquoise. Good.

Turquoise fends off evil seaweed?

No. But it fends off an evil werewolf. For a while.

Maybe I should wear silver as well. Fend off rotting seaweed and werewolves.

Silver? That doesn’t stop them. I’ve tried.

Fear spilled through her like ice water. Tiny hairs on the nape of her neck saluted the air.

You’ve nothing to fear. I’m here now. But don’t remove the bracelet.

The quiet, masculine voice settled her raging nerves. Maggie rubbed her arms, reasoning this internal monologue was a stress reliever.

Superman saves the day. And turquoise is the kryptonite to fend off the Big Bad …

Wolf.

Ridiculous. Wolves in Florida? Only in bars. Her imagination was running amok, result of being alone too long.

She needed company. The pull of human laughter from the Tiki Bar tugged at her like a siren song. Maggie glanced at the dog lying drowsily on the tile. “I’m going out for a bit, Misha. Just a drink and sunset. Stay here and guard the house. And if any burglars break in, try not to lick them to death, deal?”

The dog raised her brown head, then slumped back to the tile. A lump clogged Maggie’s throat. She locked the sliders, went to the bathroom and brushed her hair. Dark purple shadows lined deep hollows beneath her eyes. She thought about cosmetics, decided she wasn’t getting married today. Giving a cursory glance at the turquoise bracelet, she sniffed.

No more imaginary voices. Unhooking the clasp, she let it fall to the counter with a clatter. For a moment, a heavy sigh echoed in her mind.

Ridiculous.

After changing into white linen shorts, a turquoise sleeveless blouse and Birkenstocks, she set off down the beach.

Sand sank into her toes. Maggie slipped out of her sandals, wriggled her toes with delight. Sandals swinging from one hand, she ambled toward the trilling laughter and clinking glasses.

Minutes later, she stood before the thatched hut bar. Buxom women in tight shorts and tighter T-shirts clustered about the bar like bees around a honeycomb. Younger men in wild tropical prints and khaki shorts buzzed around them. Some grizzled salty types downed beer and roared at off-color jokes. She recognized only one person. John, a client, was engaged in serious conversation with a taller man.

Doubts assailed her. What was she doing here? She didn’t drink. But something propelled her forward. Reasoning too many solitary days and nights isolated in her grief caused this yearning, she opted for the company. Maggie shouldered her resolve, slipped into her sandals again and approached.

The bar was elbow to elbow, people sitting on the wood benches, smoking, talking, laughing. Maggie sauntered to the counter with more confidence than she felt. Had she been so alone all this time she’d forgotten how to order a drink?

Then he caught her eye. Maggie’s heart hammered out an erratic beat. She stared.

A black T-shirt stretched taut over broad, muscled shoulders. Faded denim jeans hugged lean hips, molded to muscular thighs the size of tree trunks. Dark bristles shadowed his taut jawline. He had arresting features, a strong nose, firm, sensual mouth and silky black brows. A hank of inky hair hung over his forehead, spilled down past his collar. But his eyes, oh, they commanded her attention. Expressive and dark brown, they were soulful and deep. They observed the bar scene a little sadly, and he held himself aloof.

As if he, too, did not truly belong here.

Biceps bulged as he lifted his beer and drank. Fascinated, she watched his throat muscles work. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.

His gaze swung around, captured hers. For a moment Maggie forgot to breathe. Her hand fled to her throat. Arousal, sharp and deep, flooded her. A deep throb began between her legs.

You’re pathetic. Getting all hot and bothered over a stranger at a bar.

Maggie jerked her gaze away, shouldered her way to the bar. Trying to squish between the bodies crowding the bar, she barely managed to push through. Why the hell was she here, anyway? Ready to flee for the safety of home and hearth, she started to turn when a deep male voice interjected.

“Room here.”

Tall, dark and gorgeous gestured to the empty seat beside him. She hesitated.

“Grab it before it, or the sunset, is gone.”

His mouth, chiseled and full, quirked in a charming half smile. Maggie mustered a smile and joined him. What the hell. She needed this.

“Drink?” he asked. His voice was deep, smooth, the burn of whiskey sliding down a parched throat.

She didn’t like strangers buying drinks for her. The man arched a silky black brow. “You buy. I get the bartender’s attention. Deal?”

Fair enough. “Pinot noir.”

“Good choice,” he murmured. The stranger signaled. A bartender floated over as if jerked by invisible strings and a minute later, a rounded glass of ruby liquid sat before Maggie.

The stranger lifted his glass. “Here’s to the beauty of nature,” he murmured.

They clinked, drank. Maggie savored the rich taste on her tongue. Awkwardness came over her. So long since she’d conversed with a total stranger other than clients. And such a gorgeous one. She struggled for conversational openers. Cell mitosis wouldn’t do.

“I usually don’t like crowds of strangers, but the scenery in my room was boring. How many times can you watch hurricane storm stories on the Weather Channel without wanting to drown yourself in the bathtub?” the man said.

Maggie gave a reluctant smile. “I tried drowning myself in the bathtub once after watching one, but I had just returned from the hairdresser and had a good hair day for once.”

He laughed. “Here’s to good hair days.”

Maggie clinked glasses. She took another brief swallow. Here we go again, what do you do, do you come here often …

“Baths are overrated. Too much water, unless you share.”

Maggie stole another glance at his firm chin and the delicious sprinkling of stubble. His mouth was full and sensual. Most striking were the eyes, dark brown with swirls of caramel. Enticing. Hypnotic.

He tipped his glass toward her. “Nicolas Keenan, here by way of New Mexico.”

Maggie smiled. “Maggie Sinclair, here by way of the beach.”

She stuck out a palm to shake. Businesslike, how’s it going? But he picked up her hand instead. His palm was warm, a little calloused and swallowed hers.

Electricity shot through her, pure current that sizzled. Never had she felt such deep, primitive emotion. Dark eyes met hers as Nicolas brought her hand to his mouth.

He brushed his lips against her knuckles. A brief, but intoxicating kiss. Maggie fought a wave of sudden lust. Her body tingled pleasantly. He let her hand rest in his, then released it. Wordlessly, she sipped more wine. For a long minute, she felt as if they were alone, two strangers sharing space and more.

“Are you here vacationing?”

Nicolas gave a slow smile. “Out to see a friend. She doesn’t know I’m coming.” White teeth flashed. “It’s a surprise.”

Lucky girl, Maggie thought with an odd pang of jealousy. “Just a friend?”

His steady gaze burned into hers. “And we will be more than friends before the night ends. I’m a very determined man.”

“Do you always get what you want?”

“Always,” he hinted softly.

Maggie wished someone would want her. She pushed back at her unruly curls. “I’m usually persistent at what I want, but some things are beyond my control.” She lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug. “But that’s life.”

“Sometimes what we think is beyond our control isn’t. We just need a little help,” he observed.

She had the oddest feeling they’d met before. Kismet. Maggie sipped more wine. “Lovely sunset.”

Nicolas nodded. “There is such power and energy on this earth. Only now are most people beginning to understand their world, and live in harmony with the elements.”

“You sound like one of those snotty hybrid drivers who has solar panels and cooks with his own methane emissions.”

Horrified, Maggie bit her lip. But Nicolas laughed. “I drive a truck,” he countered, warm brown eyes twinkling. “I have a ranch in northern New Mexico and hybrids can’t carry bales of hay. I do have solar panels on the roof, only because I hate paying for electricity. And I never fart. Ever.”

He winked. Maggie laughed her first real laugh in weeks.

“But I do host lovely candlelight dinners … when I meet a special lady.”

Tension eased, replaced with something more intense and far more sexual. Wine made her bold. “I bet you even seduce by candlelight. To save power and be romantic at the same time.”

“Not all women. But there’s one special one I would definitely seduce by candlelight,” he said softly.

Daringly, she set her wineglass down, met his smoldering gaze. “And how would you do it? Seduce her? What if she didn’t want to be seduced?” she challenged.

“It wouldn’t matter. Because when I set my eye on something I want, I can be quite ruthless. I would pursue her endlessly, until she surrendered to me.”

She saw in the swirling depths of his dark eyes his determination—the relentless energy of the hunter pursuing what he wanted. A little shiver snaked down her spine.

“And once you caught her? Why should she surrender?”

“I would tell her she’s the only woman in the world for me, someone special sent just for me. That I would die unless I made love to her, and how perfect she is, how absolutely lovely. I would coax a smile to her sad face, kiss away her fears and whisper to her that there was nothing to fear. I would take very, very good care of her,” he murmured.

This man, he sounded so familiar. Must be her alcohol-doused brain. Maggie moistened her mouth, tossed her hair. Flirting couldn’t hurt. When was the last time she’d flirted?

“How good?” Maggie challenged. “Because you’d have to be good. Very, very good.”

He leaned closer, until she could count the black bristles shadowing his jaw. His smoke-and-whiskey voice dropped to a husky murmur. “Trust me. I would be good. Very, very good.”

Heat coursed through her. Maggie sank into his liquid gaze, the dark vortex pulling her down. He looked at her as if she were that woman, and he wanted to love her all over until she sobbed for mercy.

She drained her wine, focused on the crimson-gold sun swallowed by the horizon. “It’s so beautiful. So right. I love this time of night. Dusk.”

“The edge of night filled with promise.” His hooded eyes regarded her. “There’s one sight in nature I find more stirring than a spectacular sunset.”

“That is?”

“A full moon.”

She nodded. “Yes, a full moon can be quite inspiring, can’t it?”

A soft laugh rumbled from his deep chest. “Yes,” he said, gazing at her intently. “Indeed, it can be quite … inspiring.”