Awen Rising Read online

  “Thank you for not attacking me. I’ll bring you some food, but you are not coming in. This isn’t my house.”

  The cat moved to let her retrieve the key from its hiding place. “Thank you,” Emily cooed and opened the door. The cat shot through.

  “What the hell?” she shrieked, chasing it down the hall to the kitchen. The cat buried its wide nose in Ralph’s kibble dish and crunched loudly.

  “You can’t be in here.”

  Ralph trotted in and spied the interloper. He arched, hissing, hair on end and tail ballooning.

  “It’s okay, Bubbe.” She bent to ruffle his fur. “I think this fella might be lost.”

  Ralph’s growl changed from threatening to annoyed. He sniffed the air around the visitor, not sure whether to attack. Then the tabby stopped eating and sashayed over. Ralph hissed and stood his ground.

  When the tabby crouched and folded its front paws beneath its bulk, Ralph moved between it and the bowl and mirrored its pose. His growl quieted to an anxious hum.

  Unperturbed, the cat set about cleaning its body, starting with the wide shoulders and back. Ralph mewed a capitulatory sigh. The interloper ignored both human and pet as if this were its domain and it had every right to be here.

  “Oh! Do you live here?” That was the likeliest answer. Maybe the cat was her father’s. It was cold outside, so she would let it stay the night. She could find out tomorrow if it belonged.

  Leaving the cats to sort things out, she dressed in the pink-plaid flannel pajamas she’d found in the dresser and slid her feet into matching fuzzy socks. It was ten-fifteen, seven-fifteen Pacific, but she was worn ragged. This day had been a doozy.

  Her new-found father might not survive the night. Mitchell Wainwright had been a roller-coaster ride. And there was a tension present with the rest of the family that ran just beneath the surface. They’d been nice enough. But all was not as it seemed in Atlanta.

  Adding wood to the fire, Emily climbed into the high bed, sighing when the mattress cradled her like a cloud. She smoothed the covers so that nothing touched her skin but soft flannel, then fluffed her feather pillows. Powering on the flat screen TV, she ran the channels with the remote.

  Nothing caught her interest until she came across a California station. A powerful storm clobbered the Los Angeles coast. Overhead views showed water flooding the runways at LAX and an inundated shoreline up to Malibu.

  Emily gasped at the footage of the storm surge pounding Venice Pier and splintering it to smithereens. When the camera panned to a wave overtaking an apartment building, Emily immediately recognized her Bottle Brush tree.

  She leaned toward the screen, screaming, “NOOOOOO—” as the sea engulfed her building and kept going, sweeping inland.

  The picture shifted to a scrolling list of shelter locations and contact information. Emily switched off the TV and hunkered beneath the covers. Her body trembled. If she hadn’t agreed to fly out that very morning, she would be dead.

  She wept for Maude and the homeless people living in Muscle Beach and prayed the authorities had evacuated them. A scratch and a thud signaled Ralph had joined her in bed. She dragged him to her and hugged him close, rocking and crying for Venice and Maude.

  Ralph squirmed out of her arms and kneaded the bed beside Emily’s feet. She dried her eyes and shoved the images from her mind. She was on a slippery emotional slope already.

  She couldn’t think about this latest disaster. Not now.

  An ember popped and whistled before joining the gentle crackle of the fire. Emily concentrated on the shadows on the ceiling and emptying her mind. In spite of her twanging nerves, a blessed peace filled the room. Little by little, her frame relaxed. Soon, she heaved a sigh of release.

  The last few days had been bizarre. Now by all accounts, she should be dead. But for the first time since Trey’s freak accident, Emily felt safe. Why had she doubted? Why did she ever?

  Ralph purred at her feet, and somehow Emily knew that the big cat in the living room was purring, too.

  Discovery

  T he day had gone well for the paying public. As usual, Shalane remembered few details. She seldom did when channeling spirit. At her direction, the staff videoed each session, taking pains to film her from every angle. Shalane pored over these videos, ever amazed that God chose her to deliver his message.

  Some called Shalane the Messiah, but she harbored no such illusion. The religious right asserted she was riddled with original sin. But in Shalane’s world, sex wasn’t bad. Or sinful.

  Sterilizing and euthanizing undesirables? Forced abortions? Infanticide? Genocide? Slavery? These were evil. Buying up the world’s banks to unleash financial collapse and ruin? Sinful. Fouling the food supply and manipulating the skies? Unconscionable. Killing the bees? A death knell for all.

  But sex? What could be more natural? When the great Beings seeded Earth, they ensured the perpetuity of bloodlines by bedding many, not just one. Successful civilizations continued this practice into the last century. Kings and reigning monarchs of some countries still took several wives.

  Add in untold courtesans, concubines, and mistresses, and the net outcome meant a rapid rise in the number of descendants bearing royal blood, thus ensuring the furtherance of those lines. Shalane had no such bloodline to further, but she figured what was good for the gander was good for the goose.

  She fast-forwarded through the intro and the opening song to watch her entrance. Her arms were flung wide and a smile radiated from her glistening cheeks.

  Shalane jotted a note to have Grace blot and powder her before each session, then studied her movements, looking for anything to hint at the raging headache held barely at bay by the blockers.

  She saw nothing. What Shalane did see was Spirit taking over and using her, moving her about the stage, putting words in her mouth, delivering the message of the ages—the end is near, but do not fear. Turn to the Father in all your actions. Give Him your troubles, your worries, your woes.

  Bring Him your burdens. He’ll replace them with joy. Bring Him your brokenness. You’ll receive new life. Offer up yourself and your possessions, He’ll absolve your sins, no matter how heinous.

  Live in the sunlight of the Spirit and the pardon would be permanent—with everlasting life in Jehovah’s kingdom, a place of perfection, with no suffering, no wars and no death.

  By the end of the recording, Shalane had half a page of notes. Not bad considering she had been hampered by the blocker, which dulled her senses as well as the pain. It was a good thing God was God, no matter how battered or imperfect the vessel.

  Done with that task, Shalane opened her laptop to check emails. Not for her official persona, but her private account. The one she used to seek companions. Her favorite screen name was 1hotvixen and it had never failed to deliver.

  Yes, Shalane had gained weight. Her sugar habit seesawed between out of control and abstinence, with little territory in between. But plenty preferred Rubenesque women. Whole dating sites were dedicated to finding the perfect “plumpy”.

  After her failure with Ebby, Shalane steered away from hetero women. Men, on the other hand, were eager to sleep with bisexual women, ever hopeful she would bring another lady for a threesome. Sometimes, when it suited her, Shalane did.

  She surfed the prospects on several dating sites, preferring the thrill of conquest over the ease of the fuck-me sites. None of the candidates aroused Shalane. She clicked off, out-of-sorts, and plodded the short distance to the bathroom.

  Stripping, she turned the shower on hot and stepped in, wincing when the water scalded her skin. The cascade beat against her shoulders and sensitive breasts.

  Shalane plunged her head beneath the torrent, gasping as it seared her scalp and ears. Then she opened her legs, reveling in the heat. She lathered her body, paying special attention to her swollen clit, convulsing once, twice, three times, before rinsing and exiting the skinny stall.

  She wrapped a heavy towel around her and peeked into Cecil
’s room. He snored, dead to the world. Closing the door, Shalane stepped to her cubicle and let the towel fall in a sodden heap to the floor. She inspected her body in the full-length mirror, not liking what she saw.

  She had gained another five pounds and it showed. Combing her wet hair, she stared at her reflection. She was no longer the beauty she wished herself to be. Good thing she could fix it with magic.

  Waving her hand in front of her face, Shalane watched it transform. Her eyes looked larger and sparkled with life. Her skin glowed, the sallow tint hidden behind the modest spell. Her teeth and nose were perfect. Shalane was beautiful to behold.

  Satisfied, she climbed into the uncomfortable bed with a glass of wine and used the remote to power on the overhead screen. She wasted several minutes surfing hundreds of stations for anything that might lull her to sleep. There were infomercials, thinly-veiled lies disguised as news, and shows in which idiots did every stupid thing the emcee suggested.

  In five short minutes, contestants swallowed mud, ate insects, dove into a vat of melted lard, and got slapped by an eighty-year old grandma in a wheelchair.

  Craving something other than drivel, Shalane changed the station and gasped in disbelief. There on the monitor was Ebby Panera, sporting an unruly mane of jaw-length red hair. Splashed across the screen was the name Emily Bridget Hester. Was Ebby an alias?

  “Well, I’ll be damned. So, it was you the other day. Where are you, Ebby?” Shalane increased the volume.

  “…the long-lost daughter of land tycoon Hamilton Hester was living in Venice, California at the time of her discovery, ending a twenty-six-year search. Miss Hester was kidnapped at the age of four by her mother, Janis Alexis Mayhall Hester of Nantucket, New York, during a trip to the local market.

  “That was June 21st 2016, the heiress’s fourth birthday. Mother and child never returned to their Druid Hills mansion where her father and family waited.”

  “Oh boohoo,” Shalane snarked. “Where is she now?”

  “Emily Hester’s whereabouts were discovered by Wainwright and Associates, a local law firm, in what was described as an ongoing effort to locate the heiress. Details are sketchy, as are the facts of Emily Hester’s hasty return to Atlanta.”

  Shalane’s heart kerthumped. Ebby was in Atlanta.

  “Sources say that Hamilton Hester collapsed hours before his daughter’s arrival. Details are being withheld by the family and Emory University Hospital, an institution the Hester family has supported with sizable donations and endowments over the years.

  “The prestigious School of Meteorology is housed in the Hester Building, funded in part by Hamilton Hester in honor of his commitment to the science. This is Dan Landover, reporting live from Emory University Hospital in Atlanta.”

  The photograph of Ebby Panera was replaced by a news anchor reporting on the storm in Los Angeles. Shalane watched for a few more minutes, then muted the sound. She tossed the remote on the bed and took a contemplative gulp of cabernet.

  Ebby Panera was an heiress. Damn. And in Atlanta. Grabbing her eDroid, she accessed her schedule. Atlanta was six long weeks away. In the meantime, Shalane would recast her Elemental.

  **

  In a Draco’s life the rules are simple—win you live, lose you die. This accomplished two things necessary for the survival of a space-limited species with long life-spans: population control and the continuation of the fiercest lines.

  Nergal eyed his dinner opponent, a battle-scarred Ecthelion. The ugly creature’s only chance of surviving until tomorrow was to kill Nergal. And that was not going to happen.

  Circling the room on great, clawed feet, Nergal observed the lizard’s movements. He knew its weaknesses and was about to pounce when a buzzing interrupted, breaking his concentration.

  Nergal glanced at the hologram. A message awaited. The Fomorian was receiving new information from the woman.

  When Nergal returned his gaze, the Ecthelion was gone. Groaning, Nergal wheeled on sturdy hind legs, regretting having heeded the computer. The creature leapt, sinking needle-sharp teeth into Nergal’s throat. Pain lanced through him.

  Reacting swiftly, he pried the strong jaws loose with claws of steel. He yanked and heard a grinding crack. Putting his back into the task, he tore the lizard’s face apart. But dinner would have to wait.

  Leaving the Ecthelion lying in a pool of blood, Nergal strode from the arena to his office. He activated the screen with a curt, “Receive incoming.” An image of Shalane Carpenter appeared on the screen, caught in the act of magic.

  “Rewind,” Nergal commanded, “back to the beginning.” Settling in his lounger, he licked his bloody claws clean. The target was watching a video of her performance from the night before. Nergal wagged his head. Humans were so arrogant. “Skip forward.”

  The recording changed to Shalane Carpenter conjuring an energetic spell to bedevil someone named Ebby Panera. Nergal paced his office, restlessness growing. Who was this Ebby Panera?

  Hunger interceding, he returned for the fallen Ecthelion.

  Catspeak

  T he crack of thunder at daybreak woke Emily from a deep sleep. Rain lashed against the carriage house, driven in sheets by a wind that alternately roared against the siding and moaned through the trees. Rolling to one side, Emily dragged the other pillow over her head and fell back to sleep in the swaddle of warm blankets.

  It was after ten when she finally roused. Emily listened to the rhythmic melody of the rain and breathed in the scent of lavender potpourri and charred ashes. Wishing she didn’t have to, she crawled from the covers, shivering in the morning air.

  Sliding her feet into the slippers she’d scavenged the night before, Emily wrapped a throw around her quivering shoulders, bumped the thermostat up a couple of notches, and shuffled to the kitchen.

  She set water to boil and opened the door for a meowing Ralph to go out. The tabby cat was nowhere to be seen. Did it know a secret way out of the house? Or had Emily dreamed the whole damned thing?

  Back in the warming bedroom, she exchanged the throw for a long, fleece robe, also discovered the night before. She swapped the slippers for her worn knee-high Koolaburras; she desperately needed a new pair.

  The teakettle whistled and she hurried to the kitchen. It was bright and cheerful in spite of the gloomy day. She poured water over the green tea leaves she’d brought from home and set it to steep in a thick, ceramic mug.

  Gathering her journal and a pen, she took it all to the porch, a solarium with three Plexiglas walls that opened on a garden surrounded by woods.

  Ralph spied her and loped to the storm door, eager to get out of the cold rain. Emily let him in and settled in an overstuffed armchair similar to the one she’d left in Venice Beach. Her breath feathered the air.

  A tulip-shaped thermometer of the mercury kind registered thirty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. It had a ways to go to reach the forecast fifty-two. Sipping her tea, Emily blew out a breath and watched the tendrils rise.

  Her iBlast buzzed and Emily jumped, anxiety spiking. It was a text from Mitchell Wainwright. Hamilton Hester was stable, but still in a coma. Mitchell suggested taking the day to settle in and asked if Emily needed anything.

  Only to be left alone, though she refrained from saying so. Folding her legs in lotus position, she pulled a nubby blanket up to her chin, and cradled the mug in her cold hands. When a slightly-damp Ralph asked to sit in her lap, she put the mug on the table to make room.

  Outside, the rain calmed to a drizzle. Birds lined up to take turns in a puddle occupied by a bright-red cardinal. It splashed with abandon, then flew to a branch. A cedar waxwing took its place. Delighted, Emily searched the bushes. Where there was one waxwing, you could usually find others.

  Sure enough, the overgrown privets teemed. The top-knotted birds flitted to and fro in a feeding frenzy, gorging on the purple berries that had somehow survived the winter. The happy, high-pitched titter of their collective-trill penetrated the Plexiglas windows.

 
A thump from the kitchen startled her and Ralph. Birds forgotten, she scrambled from the chair.

  “Who’s there?” Emily opened the door to peek around. The mysterious tabby blinked up at her.

  “Oh. It’s you.”

  With an insulted meow, the cat wound through Emily’s legs and padded to the sun porch to flop on the rug. A bowed and puffed Ralph hissed from the arm of the chair.

  “It’s okay, Bubbe,” she assured the twenty-pounder. “You know it’s you I love.”

  She sat, pulled Ralph into her lap, and buried her face in his thick, white fur. The rain beat down in sheets again, sending the birds to cover.

  Despite her usual jumpiness, last night’s feeling of safety persisted. It was an odd, but totally pleasant sensation. One Emily could get used to. She smiled, and noticed the tabby cat was smiling too.

  A warmth bloomed inside her, like an oven kicking on or a sun bursting over an unseen horizon. Emily’s smile deepened to a lopsided grin. Outside, a fat robin darted from the branch of a stately oak and landed with a splash in the puddle.

  A floodgate let go, releasing a torrent of dammed-up emotions. Happy tears sprang to Emily’s eyes. This place was perfect. If she tried to imagine a better situation, she couldn’t. Other than having her father home and healthy. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and hugged the foreign contentment close.

  A sunbeam fell across her face. At the same moment the tabby leapt to the arm of Emily’s chair, damn near parting Emily from her skin. The cat stretched its nose to Ralph, who returned the gesture. When it presented its forehead to Emily, she reciprocated. The cat bumped her head, then startled her again by leaping over her shoulder, remarkably nimble for one so hefty.

  Mushing the cushion, it lowered its girth to sprawl across the back of the chair. Ralph eyed the intruder with displeasure.

  A squirrel darted across the yard, catching Emily’s eye. It scattered the birds to lap water from the puddle, reminding her of last night’s dream. The tabby shifted.