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Nevan chimed in again. “What’s the difference bet
ween a seizure and a fit?”
“What difference does it make?” Rye dropped beside the Raintree woman, placing a hand on her shoulder. She felt hot, as if she had a fever, and she continued to shake. Hard. Dammit, she’d been fine when she’d left a few minutes ago.
Whatever was going on, she was not faking.
He let loose a stream of foul language that had Tully laughing and Nevan crossing himself. She was light enough, easy to pick off the floor and carry to the back of the public room.
“One of you fetch Doyle from the kitchen and tell him to watch the place for a bit,” he said. All three men agreed, without question. Not that he expected any actual customers this afternoon. They knew to steer clear; they would know Raintree was here.
That was why no one but her had come in for lunch. Did Echo know her family name sometimes elicited fear in others of their kind? In the past, Raintree royalty had sometimes been imperious and even dangerous. Not in the past couple hundred years, maybe, but independents remembered their history, they had heard the stories. They came here, more often than not, to be left alone.
Rye dipped down just enough to open the unmarked door at the back of the room. Steep, narrow stairs loomed ahead. He carried the Raintree woman up, into the room where he slept some nights, and lowered her to the unmade bed. Dull afternoon light streamed through the windows.
Already she was cooler, and the trembling was lessening. He backed away from the bed to stand by the door, arms crossed and scowl in place. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman in this bed. Just his luck, she was not there for a pleasant reason.
What the hell did she really want with him? Why was she here? No Raintree, especially not one of the royals, would need his help. None of them would leave the clan looking for a teacher when they were surrounded by some of the most gifted individuals in the world. No, she wanted something else.
Rye hadn’t been lying when he’d told her he didn’t teach anymore. He no longer had the patience for it, and besides, his attention had to be focused elsewhere. He was also no longer wild about bringing strangers into his circle, even for a few days. The last time, a good four years earlier, things had not ended well. He had to be so careful.
It wasn’t long at all before the woman on his bed opened her eyes and looked at him with tear-filled, hope-filled, impossible eyes. Those eyes had a way of cutting through him, of touching him deep down in a way he did not wish to be touched. He knew he was screwed even before she whispered, “Please, make it stop.”
Chapter 3
Fire. She hated the visions of fire more than anything else. This one—a true inferno—had taken place in a warehouse of some kind. China, Echo thought. Not that it mattered. The disaster was over. The fire had been waning as she’d fallen to the floor.
She looked at Ryder Duncan as she pulled herself back to the present. Straightening her sweater was as much a nervous gesture as anything else. It was a way to remind herself that this place and time were real. She was real, and safe. Unburned, no smoke in her lungs...
As was usual, she felt as if she were caught between a dream and reality, as if she were dreaming that she was awake but wasn’t quite there yet. The feeling would pass, she knew, but it usually took several minutes. She clutched the sheet beneath her hands, holding on to this world for dear life.
Her greatest fear was that one day she’d leave this world behind for much more than a few minutes. What if she stayed within a vision of disaster? Drowning or on fire, caught up in a violent earthquake or a trapped in a war zone. Would she die with those around her? It was that fear that had driven her here, away from her family, away from home and her responsibilities. The only way to handle that fear was to gain enough control so that she knew she’d always come back to herself.
Duncan had been her last sight before the vision, and now he was her first sight after. Even in her distressed state, she could appreciate that annoying as he was, he was a fine sight. Focusing on him allowed her to leave her fears behind. For now.
Normally she was alone when she came out of a vision. She’d always thought that was best. Her dreams of disasters, her visions of pain and suffering, they weren’t meant to be shared. Who would want to share them? Still, she had to admit, it was nice to see Duncan’s face waiting. Even if he did look pissed.
He was not at all what she’d expected when she’d flown to Ireland. It had been silly of her to expect anything at all! She hadn’t been able to find much in the way of detail about him. A mention in a story from ten years before, a second-or thirdhand account. In the real world, the world she lived in, “wizard” didn’t necessarily mean an old man with a long gray robe and long white hair and a magical staff. Though that was not impossible...
She sat up, uncomfortable to be on what was obviously his bed but too weak to stand just yet.
He continued their conversation as if there had been no break, no pause for her vision.
“Make what stop?” he asked, his voice cold.
She was probably wasting her time, explaining why she’d come to him for help. He’d already turned her down flat! But he had asked the question—make what stop?—and she knew better than to lie to him. She didn’t know exactly what powers he had, what gifts he possessed. He might realize she was lying; he might already know why she had come.
The truth. What else did she have to offer?
“My name is Echo Raintree. I’m called the Raintree prophet, but everyone knows I’m a poor excuse for a prophet.” That was her curse, as much as the visions. Always a disappointment, always less than she should be. “My visions come too late. There’s never anything I can do to help the people I see and hear...and feel. There was a time when I only saw these horrible things in my dreams, but as you just witnessed that is no longer true.” She shivered, then pulled the front of her sweater closed as if that might warm her. “They come all the time now, day and night, without warning, just...” She shuddered. “I don’t know what to do.”
He did not move closer or drop his arms. Jaw tight, dark eyes cold, he responded. Somehow, his Irish accent was more pronounced than it had been before as he asked, “You want me to train you to be a better prophet?”
Her heart leaped. In the beginning, even just a few moments ago, that had been her plan. But as she lay on his bed, shaking, feeling as if she’d blink and be back in the burning building, she realized she wanted more than control. Much more.
“No. I want the visions gone. I want them wiped away, erased. I want...help. The kind of help only you can offer.”
There was an uncomfortably long pause before he responded. “You want a lot,” he said without emotion.
