Storm of Visions (2 page)

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L
ong ago, when the world was young, a young woman lived in a poor village on the edge of a vast, dark forest. The face she saw in the reflecting pool was glorious in its splendor, and all the men of the village competed for her favors, each desiring her as his wife.

Their good opinion of her was matched only by her good opinion of herself, and she declared she would take only a man whose magnificence matched her own. She scorned the metalsmith with his blackened face, the woodsman with his hand that lacked fingers, the warrior with his scarred chest, the farmer who was stooped from planting the soil.

She took instead the eldest son of the local lord, a lazy lad as famed for his dark, wavy hair and deep-set blue eyes as for his vanity. Together they rolled on the bed, made passionate love, and talked of the comely family they would have. Before the year was out, she grew large with child. She strutted, if a woman great with child could be said to strut, and imagined how she would present the lord’s son with a strapping boy who would bind him to her forever.

But in the spring, when it came time to deliver her child, she gave birth not to one healthy male, but to two scrawny, wailing, red-faced babes. Worse, on closer examination, the two babes were not like her and her lover.

They were not perfect.

The elder looked as if red wine stained him from the tips of his tiny fingers to his bony shoulder.

The younger, a girl, had a dirty smudge in the palm of her hand that to the mother looked exactly like . . . an eye.

Disgusting. And terrifying.

These children would not do.

The mother rose from her birthing bed. She ignored the lord’s messengers, ignored the dismay of the women who attended the birth, ignored her own bleeding body. She took her children, the children she had brought forth from her womb, and disappeared from the village on a mission that made the midwife huddle by the fire and mutter a prayer.

She took the trail that wound into the deepest part of the forest where, it was said, the old and hungry gods waited to devour any human who dared venture close. There she abandoned the boy.

The girl she tossed into a swiftly running stream.

At the moment when she turned away, abandoning her children without a backward glance, they were left devoid of the gift every child is automatically given at birth—a parent’s love. In that moment, their small hearts stopped beating. They died. . . .

And came back to life changed, gifted, the vacuum in their hearts filled by a new gift, one given in pity and in love.

These two children were the first Abandoned Ones.

They didn’t perish, as their mother intended.

The boy was picked up by a group of wanderers, and carried by them into the subcontinent of India, where he grew into manhood. There he became a legend, for he created fire in the palm of his hand.

That was his gift.

As he grew in age and wisdom, he gathered around him others like himself, babes who had been tossed aside like offal and, as amends, had been given a special gift. They were the Chosen Ones, seven men and women who formed a powerful force of light in a dark world.

The girl floated down the cold torrent, bobbing to the surface and screaming when her tiny body caught on a branch. A woman—a witch—heard the shrieks and pulled the baby from the water. Disappointed by the scrawny, worthless thing, she intended to toss her back . . . until she saw the eye on the baby’s palm. She knew then that the child was special, so she took her to her home and raised her, starved her, tormented her, used her as a slave.

She taught her how to hate.

On the day the girl became a woman, and her first menstrual blood stained her thighs, she looked at the witch and, in a vision, foresaw the old woman’s future. In a voice warm with delight, she told the witch a horrible death awaited her.

The girl was a seer, and that was her gift.

Determined to evade her fate, the witch set up an altar to her master, the devil, and prepared to sacrifice the girl. But as the girl had grown up, the woman had grown old, and the girl took the knife and plunged it into the witch’s heart.

The devil himself took form.

He scrutinized the girl, as beautiful as her mother, yet not heartless. No, this girl was steeped in anger, and with her gift, she would be a worthy instrument in his hand. So he showed her his wonders, promised her a place at his right hand, and commissioned her to find others like herself and bring them to him to do evil in the world. Around her, she gathered six other abandoned children—warped, abused, and special—and they were the Others.

The girl designated their first task. They found the poor village and the lonely, miserable woman who fourteen years before had given birth to twins, and they killed her most horribly.

Then the Others used their powers to cut like a scythe through the countryside, bringing famine and fear, anguish and death.

So through ages and eons, through low places and high, in the countryside and in the cities, through prophecies and revelations, the battle was joined between the Chosen Ones and the Others . . . and that battle was fought for the hearts and souls of the Abandoned Ones.

That battle goes on today. . . .

J
acqueline Vargha dug her corkscrew out of her jeans and, with an expert twist and pull, opened another bottle of Blue Oak wines. The tasting room hummed with the conversation of two dozen happy tourists—happy because everyone was engaged in sampling some of the best cabernet sauvignon in the valley.

She poured generous glasses for the young couple before her. They had money, they thought they knew a lot about wines, and if she handled them right, she could sell a case, maybe more, of the high-end wines. “Blue Oak Winery grows our grapes exclusively in our own estate vineyards, one in Napa Valley and one in Alexander Valley.” She’d given this speech a thousand times, and it wasn’t always easy to make it sound fresh. Maybe if she’d gone to Juilliard and taken acting . . . “As you sip the pure cab, you’ll notice the rich cassis and berry flavors that form the base of the wine; then you’ll pick up the spicy, peppery flavor and a hint of cherry.”

They sipped and nodded, their brows furrowed.

At the other end of the long bar, Michelle explained to the newest arrivals, two recently returned marines, “It’s twenty dollars to taste the wine, but we refund that amount if you buy a bottle.” Leaning forward, she placed two glasses on the counter, and the Blue Oak logo on the crest of her right breast strained at her thin blue T-shirt.

The guys’ eyes glazed over, and they dug out their wallets without a hint of protest.

Jacqueline grinned. She swore the vintner hired his female help by the size of their chests and how well they used them. How Jacqueline, with her B-cups, had gotten the job, she did not know. Maybe because the vintner’s wife had wandered through during the interview and it had been politic to employ the woman with the little boobies. Probably because Jacqueline was twenty-two and levelheaded, the kind of worker who could keep the tasting room under control, and did. Certainly because she was tall and long-legged, and smiled like Miss America accepting the crown.

It was a character flaw created by a mother who nagged at her to
smile
until it was easier to give in than fight.

But she could never fill a Blue Oaks T-shirt the way Michelle did.

A party of six finished their tasting and left, muttering about the heat.

They were right. Spring had come with a vengeance, and the temperature had been unrelenting, like an upwelling of hell.

Jacqueline lifted her shoulder-length hair off her neck and wished for a breeze.

The world took on a sepia tint, and the word echoed in her mind, a soft, foreboding whisper. . . .

Jacqueline’s breath slowed. Her eyes narrowed. Her hands, clad in fingerless leather gloves, curled into her hair. She stood, frozen in place, caught by a vision that clawed its way up from deep inside her, overwhelming her, taking her somewhere she did not wish to go.

Then she faintly heard the sound of water dripping, and a cold gust of air brushed the back of her neck.

She snapped back to the moment, to the tasting room, to her job behind the counter serving wine to a dozen thirsty tourists, to Michelle’s voice whispering, “Dibs, Jacquie. He’s divine. Dibs. Dibs!”

What could have pulled Michelle’s attention away from the buff young marines?

Jacqueline glanced at the guy who stood in the doorway—and froze in wary appreciation.

He was a dark silhouette against the bright sunlight: long and lean, narrow hips wrapped in fitted, faded denim, and a black silk T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders. He stood aggressively, with his arms held away from his body, like a bullfighter prepared to face the final challenge.

No wonder Michelle was impressed. He was her kind of guy. He was trouble.

Jacqueline had had enough trouble in her life. She dropped her hair, flexed her hands to rid them of the betraying stiffness, and in an undertone, said, “He’s all yours.”

“That’s right, sweetheart. Because I called dibs, and don’t you forget it.” Raising her voice, Michelle called, “Come in, sir, and take your place at the counter. There’s always room for another connoisseur of fine wines.”

Two of the older ladies glanced back, did a double take, and moved aside to let him in. Because they might be schoolteachers, and married, but when a guy walked like Mr. Aggressive, like a stalker on a mission, he commanded adulation.

They were glad to give it to him.

Michelle gave her speech about the tasting fee and the refund, and almost vibrated with excitement as Mr. Aggressive put his twenty on the counter. She poured a generous glass of the first cabernet sauvignon, and avidly watched as he swirled it, his gaze on the brilliant garnet in the glass. Without even trying, Mr. Aggressive demanded the notice of everyone in the tasting room. He was one of
those
guys, filling the space, taking the oxygen, putting his stamp on the place, the hour, the atmosphere.

Unbidden, Jacqueline’s attention wandered his direction.

He breathed in the bouquet, then lifted the glass to his lips—and with a swift, sideways glance, speared her with his gaze.

The image of him seared into her brain. Dark hair, close cut. Olive skin. Sinful cheekbones. And blue eyes. Pale, brilliant, cold eyes like blue diamonds that held her prisoner in his gaze.

She couldn’t look away. Not while he sipped, tasted, and approved with a slow, steady nod. Not when his gaze dropped to her leather-clad hands. Not when he lifted his glass in a salute to her. Not until he looked away, back to Michelle.

Michelle spoke clearly, loud enough for Jacqueline to hear her, loud enough for everyone to hear her. “That’s Jacquie. She’s our resident nun. She doesn’t date; she doesn’t care for guys at all; she only works and hikes and reads.”

Jacqueline flushed.
Thank you, Michelle. That was something everybody here needed to know.

“Really?” The guy had a great voice, warm and deep, vibrant in a way that made a girl strain to listen to him. Not that Jacqueline wanted to hear him, or even tried, but like Michelle, he pitched his tone loud enough for her to hear. “Is she gay?”

“I guess.” Michelle glanced at Jacqueline, and something in Jacqueline’s face must have made her change her mind. “No, she’s just not interested in sex.”

“Maybe she hasn’t met the right man,” he said.

It sure isn’t you, you conceited bastard.
But Jacqueline gave no indication that she heard.

Yet a glance at his half smile proved he had plucked the thought from her mind.

Oblivious to the undercurrents, Michelle stepped back to open a new bottle and murmured to Jacqueline, “Look at the quirk in his cheek. Look at that crooked smile. Give him a martini and a license to kill, and he’d be the new James Bond—you know, the rough one.”

“Give him a sailor hat and a can of spinach, and he’d be Popeye.” Jacqueline returned Michelle’s shocked look with a cool one. “I’m just sayin’.”

Middle-aged, well-dressed, two married couples stood a little apart, drinking their wine, chatting and laughing. The Fun Four might buy a bottle, no more, but they were good for the tasting room, giving it the warmth and ambiance of a sophisticated party, and Jacqueline was grateful when the gray-haired man caught her eye and changed the subject. “It’s warm in here. Can I turn on the ceiling fans?” he asked.

She sighed gustily. “I wish you could. You may have noticed that we’re remodeling”—she indicated the old counter pushed off to the side and the half-painted wall—“and the electrician isn’t done with the wiring.”