Eye of the Falcon Page 6

  “Besides I have to supplement it with roadkill I get from neighbors. And from the town. That deer I was given last week helped.”

  “You’re lucky you could get the birds to eat that. Most need to catch their prey live. Too bad they won’t work on the bones.”

  He shot her a look. “No, but the dogs will.”

  She laughed and nodded. “Isn’t that the truth?” She pushed her bowl off to the side. “I could use a second bowl.”

  He got up and filled the bowl again for Annie, then got himself a bowlful. The entire time Roash continued to drink chicken broth and peck away at seeds. He needed food as much as Issa. Unfortunately Eagle didn’t have much for him here. He’d have to go out and do the chores soon and check on the security system for the night. Especially tonight. He had an electric fence on part of the cages. He wanted to make sure they were all charged. He didn’t have a clue what the night would bring, but he’d be ready no matter what.

  “I checked the other X-rays. But I can’t see anything else. There could be some stuff I don’t know how to read as I deal in four-legged critters, but you got the gist of it.”

  “I really appreciate this.”

  “I’m sure you do. As far as breaking in the machine, you were right. This was a good one.” With the second bowl of soup in front of her, she set about eating, dipping her bread into the broth. When she was done, she said, “Now that was good.”

  She picked up the bowl, walked over to the sink. She turned and stared at Roash. “I’m a vet and spend my life helping animals, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “I wish I knew more about the bond these two have,” he admitted. “I’ve never seen anything like it either.”

  “Find out who she is, and then you’ll find where she was, where her cabin is.”

  “I’ll do that.” He glanced out at the night. “I need to set up security and electrify the fence around all the raptors.”

  “Forget about around the raptors. You need to make sure you got something set up around her.” And she nodded at the bedroom. “Call me in the night if you need to.”

  Eagle smiled gratefully at the woman with a heart of gold. “Thanks.”

  When she walked out, he stood at the front door and waited until she turned on her truck and took the battle-beaten old brown Ford out of his drive. She and Gray should get together. They had at one point, but they were both too damn stubborn to make it work. And yet they were two of a kind. And both damn good people.

  As soon as he saw the headlights heading down the road, he turned around and walked to the gate and locked it. With the dogs at his heels, he did a quick walk around the property checking on the inner security system. He turned on the electric fence near the raptors. Annie was right. He should have something around the house. It never occurred to him that he’d be in a situation where that would be necessary in his own home. He thought he’d left all that behind when he was honorably discharged from the military. He’d hated having to watch his back day and night in the navy, but that’s where he was all over again.

  He returned to the kitchen, turned on the lights to finish cleaning the guns, laid one by every window on the main floor, took three more upstairs where his bedroom was, and stepped into his big room.

  He didn’t feel comfortable being a floor away from her. He grabbed his bedding and went down to the living room couch to make himself comfortable. No way to know what the night would bring. He just wanted to make sure he was ready.

  *

  Stefan walked into his studio. He hadn’t had the urge to paint in several days. The break had actually been kind of nice. He’d come off a difficult case—a serial killer in Maine, of all places. Stefan had connected with the killer through his painting. Stefan had shut down his art for a few days afterward, needing the break to heal.

  The case had ended successfully, but it had left Stefan feeling worn and weary. As he walked through his studio, he opened up windows, pulling back the blinds to let in the sunshine. Something knocked at the back of his head, telling him to pick up a pen. He could ignore that a lot of times.

  But sometimes there was no help for it. He was forced to comply. He picked up his sketchbook and then dropped it immediately.

  No, apparently he wasn’t supposed to sketch. He shrugged and walked to an easel, randomly chose a canvas, and put it up. One of the most difficult processes in his life had been to learn to trust his psychic process. To trust that what was coming through needed to come through.

  If it meant destroying the canvas or making something completely not saleable, then that was okay too. As he reached for his paints, his hands stayed in the air, and he realized, no, this image had to be charcoal. Something he hadn’t worked with in months.

  At the sideboard he found a long piece of charcoal with a sharpened end and came back to the white canvas. He stood in front of it.

  “Who are you, and what can I do to help?”

  And then, in the process that had taken him years to perfect, he surrendered. Seconds later he watched as his hand lifted—his hand still attached to his arm, attached to his shoulder, and then to his body—but a hand following directions from some other soul.

  He watched the black lines show up. And they made no sense, and he realized this was one of those times where either he wasn’t meant to see what was coming or a message wasn’t coming through clearly. He closed his eyes and sent out a message of hope and love to whatever desperate soul was screaming at him.

  Mentally he kept getting a garbled sound of screeches and cries. Not the same as the woman he had contacted several days ago. But similar in an odd way. With his head bowed, he let his hand do what it needed to do.

  When he finally stepped back, his arm dropping to his side, he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. And stared. He’d done this many times, and often the results were shocking. Sometimes they were brilliant. Sometimes they were horrifying. And sometimes they were just childish blotches that meant nothing.

  But this, … this was exquisite.

  The door opened behind him, and Celina walked in. She stopped and gasped. “My goodness, that’s beautiful.” She raced to his side. She slipped her fingers into his hand, and the two stared at the beautiful snowy owl on the canvas. “Who is it?”

  The name when it came out made no sense. But even as he tried to make it into another name it refused to comply.

  “Humbug,” Stefan said. “That’s the only name I get. Humbug.”

  “That’s not a name,” Celina argued. “That’s more like an expression of disgust, like Scrooge saying, ‘Bah humbug.’”

  Stefan gave her a crooked grin and said, “This isn’t about Scrooge. But what I can tell you is, this owl is called Humbug. And he belongs to somebody, and somebody belongs to him. And he’s missing that person.”

  “They’ve been separated?” Celina whispered, her fingers stretching out as if to stroke the downy feathers on the canvas. “Wow, poor thing.”

  He wondered if the charcoal would smear, but he didn’t need to worry. Her fingers actually never touched, just wafted across the air above the canvas. “Yes, they’ve been separated.”

  She turned to him with a smile and said, “I think I like this new direction of your talents.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know that there is anything new about it.”

  “You’re connecting with animals. Animals in need. That will never be a wrong thing.” She turned back to the painting. “How can we help Humbug?”

  Stefan put down the charcoal, picked up a rag, and wiped his hand. “I have no idea.”

  Chapter 7

  Issa awoke with a start. Her heart slammed against her chest, and images flashed through her mind. Humbug on the roof of her cabin. Roash on the fence post. The sound of the men sneaking around the cabin. The panic, the fear. She lay frozen, her body trembling as she relived the moment she’d realized she was in danger. Staring straight ahead at the ceiling above her, she worried and wondered. What was going
on? Were the men coming yet again? Was that why she woke from a nightmare?

  In the back of her mind she heard a faint screech.

  It was Humbug. Did Humbug have the same abilities to communicate as Roash? The trouble was, she hadn’t known Roash could do that until this started. And even now she wasn’t exactly sure just what was going on with him. But he understood her pain. That he brought somebody to her aid was amazing but fell short of the connection she’d had with the falcon soul buddy of her childhood.

  Her mother had always mocked her, telling her that she was imagining things. That the falcon was just a well-trained bird, and the bond between them wasn’t extraordinary. Issa knew her mother was wrong. But there’d been no point in arguing with her then.

  The minute she brought up her falcon’s name or the old country or the life they’d led, her mother would shut her down with a sharp voice, telling her that life was gone. They were all gone, and Issa was never to speak of it again. And, if she persisted, her mother would get up and walk out.

  And Issa got the cold silent treatment. She remembered the pain and loneliness when her mother went silent, letting Issa know so clearly that her mother wanted no part of her. Growing up, that had been as hard as anything. So she went out of her way to avoid upsetting her mother. As an adult, she recognized the controlling tactic. One she hated. No one should ever withhold love and affection from a child. She didn’t give a damn what the reason, it certainly should not be simply for asking questions about your history.

  She wondered at the images and the memories that flowed through her mind. As much as she loved her mother, certain things her mother had done Issa hated. Once again her mind went to the box she never had a chance to go through. Both boxes.

  She needed to know what was behind all this. She could only hope her captors hadn’t found the boxes. She was sure they’d searched the cabin many times over. She’d only discovered the root cellar accidentally after she bought the property. It made sense as it was an old homestead originally. With the cabin modernized and upgraded for electricity and running water, the cellar might have been forgotten over the years.

  The trapdoor blended into the rest of the woodwork. Even the latch itself was wood and lay flat, matching the grain. When she had moved in, she’d made one pass on the floor on her hands and knees with a scrub brush, clearing away the years of emptiness and disuse. When her brush had caught on the handle, she’d been delighted with her find.

  Her eyes drifted closed again, only to be startled awake as more memories slammed into her mind. Men in huge trucks. Her heart caught in her stomach. She didn’t recognize the trucks, but they were driving in the city. She highly doubted they were anywhere close to here, as, from what she could see out the windows of Eagle’s house, the countryside spread to all corners around her.

  Tired and sore, she rolled over in bed, grimacing as her shoulder pulled. She tried to settle back into sleep. More images slammed into her mind. Disjointed, yet some completely in sequence, but in a different country. Sky scenes, urban scenes. As if the blow to the head had unlocked or shaken loose the filing system she had used to tuck everything away. Now it floated free through her mind, the chaos of mental folders tossed to the wind with bits and pieces going everywhere.

  She tried to blank it out. Tried to go back to sleep. Just as her eyes closed, once again a beautiful white face popped into her mind. Humbug. Tears welled up. Her kidnappers had said they’d shot all the birds they could find on her property. She had no doubt they had. Those men were monsters, uncaring of life, big or small. They had a goal, a mentality that said they came first. And everybody else was roadkill, so get out of the way or join them.

  According to them, she’d been in the way. And she still didn’t understand how that worked. But if they’d hurt Humbug … He was the gentlest big baby she’d ever met. But he needed care. He’d be lost without her. A bullet would’ve been the easiest death for him. Troubled, she fell into a deep sleep.

  *

  Eagle shifted on the couch. He’d slept on it before but not in a long time. It was hardly the top-of-the-line accommodations. His military days of sleeping on the hard ground were over. It certainly was not that he was old, but some injuries were just so much worse when springs pressed against them. He shifted again and then froze. What was that?

  Eagle threw back the blankets silently, straightening up and padding across the floor. He checked out the windows first. There was nothing moving in the night. But something was wrong. He moved from window to window and slipped across to Issa’s bed. There he froze. Her eyes were wide open; she stared straight ahead at the ceiling above her, unblinking …

  “Issa, are you okay?”

  There was no response. Neither did she blink or shift at the sound of his voice. Unnerved, but knowing catatonic states could be caused by many issues, he approached quietly. Roash rose from the night table beside her.

  He frowned. “What are you doing in here still?” He glanced at the window open barely enough for the falcon to squeeze through. That was reassuring. He didn’t want to have to consider any more metaphysical events. Because he was just out of explanations for those. He was a straightforward man, believed what he could see, what he could touch. But he’d used his intuition enough times to save his life to know he couldn’t discount that sixth sense either. Proving it was something completely different. And the weird events since finding Issa were something else again.

  He studied her face and that huge gaze staring straight up. He swore he saw something move across her features. Not like a grimace of pain or wave of fear but a shadow, … shaped like wings. He gave his head a shake. “Man, you need to get some rest.”

  But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from what he was seeing. He leaned over her, feeling this buzzing sound in his ears. He stared down into her eyes. His head was slammed with images: blue sky, clouds, green forest below. He pulled back, his heart bouncing around in his chest. What the hell was going on? He walked around her bed to approach from the other side, and one of Roash’s beautiful golden eyes glared up at him.

  “I’m not trying to hurt her. I just need to know what the hell’s going on.”

  That incredible gaze of Issa’s turned slowly as if tracking his progress. But he didn’t get a sense she knew he was here. No recognition shone in her eyes, no sense of awareness of her surroundings. Like a galaxy floated through the bright color of her irises. A blue that glowed with mystery—and shone with an odd sense of timelessness.

  He leaned over her so he could stare straight down into her eyes, and immediately the tingling started. Wary, he forced himself to stay in place. And images caught and held him again. Blue sky, clouds, raindrops dripping off leaves. This time the view from inside the tree up against the trunk. Water droplets rolling down branches and twigs. And in the early morning, sun peeking through, differently this time and yet stunning.

  The needles were sharp with clarity in the morning light. His jaw dropped, and he was afraid to break free, to move in any way to stop this. Yet he was sure he could reach out and touch them. His hand was already in the air …

  And just like that, it shut off. The images were gone. Issa lay as still as before, but now her eyes were closed. He let out his breath gently, trying not to wake her. Yet how could he not? He was desperate to know what had just happened.

  What she had done?

  He sank to the edge of the bed and stared. Who was this woman? This woman who could be anywhere from twenty to forty, who lay on his bed, her body so badly damaged, and yet her mind, her energy, so alive. So unique. And, yes, so special.

  And maybe that was the part that bothered him the most. It wasn’t like those images were on the movie screen or were still photos on the monitor. They’d been in front of him. Fully 3-D. As if coming from his own eyes. Shaken, he got up and slowly walked to the doorway. He kept his gaze on the woman who now appeared to be resting as easily as a child. Whatever had affected her earlier was seemingly gone.

&n
bsp; Just as he was about to exit through the door and put on coffee, knowing sleep was long gone for him, she sat up, completely unaware of her injuries. Her head turned almost like a robot, and she stared at him. “I have to get Humbug.”

  His mind struggled. Humbug? Humbug? Then he remembered. An owl in her care named Humbug. He took several steps toward her, hearing Roash lift his broken wings protectively … over her. She held out her arm, her gaze locked on his. Roash shifted position to settle on her forearm. Eagle couldn’t tear his gaze away. The bird settled right between her bruises. He would’ve said the bird’s claws caused the bruising if he had not seen for himself how very carefully and gently the bird placed his feet to minimize her pain.

  “Why do you need to get Humbug?” His voice was harsh, cold, and he admitted, but only to himself, maybe a little terrified.

  “He’s in trouble. They want to kill him to get back at me for escaping.”

  He could see that. His heart went out to the owl. Because the men who would do something like they’d done to her would do so much worse to Humbug. And, if they thought they could use it to hurt her more, they would. They’d shown no conscience yet. This would only get worse.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  She blinked and stared at him with a frown. It was like she just came back to awareness. “What did I say?”

  “You said we need to get Humbug. That they want to kill him.”

  Her gaze widened in shock. “I did?”

  Slowly he nodded, but he only saw confusion on her face. “Do you know where Humbug is?”

  She turned to him and shook her head. “No, but I wish I did.” Tears came to her eyes. She collapsed back onto the bed, pulling the covers up. Roash walked up to her shoulder, crooning, and she started to cry.

  *

  Dylan stared at the property. He couldn’t believe it was possible for her to have made it this far. He liked the fighting spirit of the woman. Of all the things he’d done over the last fifty years of his adult life, this was the worst. They not only had kidnapped a woman and beat her, but she was family. What they’d done to her … He shook his head. His mother would roll over in her grave, and his father would’ve given him a hiding, a good flogging. He didn’t much like it himself.