Wake to Darkness. Maggie Shayne

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      Everything had been brown and barren when I’d left to hit the talk show circuit, but now there was a fluffy blanket of snow on everything. I’d never had eyesight in the winter before. Not since I was twelve, anyway. My fairy-tale cottage looked more like Santa’s workshop now, and the sight of snow clinging to the branches of the towering pines had me gaping like an air-starved trout. And I’d thought fall was gorgeous.

      Damn, I love where I live.

      I parked outside the garage instead of taking the time to drive in. I wanted to walk in the snow and gawk at my view some more. But as soon as I was out and inhaling my first icy, pine-scented breath, the front door opened, and Myrtle came running right down the steps and along the curving stone path to my feet, where she wiggled against my legs. My gorgeous niece Misty stood in the doorway, shaking her head but grinning.

      You couldn’t not love a blind bulldog.

      I crouched down and rubbed Myrt’s ears, kissed her face. “Hey, little boodog. Did you miss me?”

      “Snarf,” she replied. Which meant, only if you brought me something edible.

      Fortunately, I had. “Come on inside and I’ll give you a treat.”

      She followed me in, trotting along all on her own. She’d become completely confident in finding her way around her home base. As long as I didn’t leave things out of place, you’d never know she was blind. Away from home she was a lot more dependent, but here, she ruled.

      “How was the trip?” Misty asked, moving her tall and impossibly thin frame aside to let Myrtle and me come in. Like there wasn’t already room.

      “It was great, but I’m glad to get home.” I gave her a hug. “I brought you something, too, to thank you for taking care of Myrt.”

      “It was fun. We watched all your appearances. You really kicked ass, Aunt Rache.”

      “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” I frowned and sniffed. “What smells so good?”

      “Amy’s making you a welcome-home dinner. Pulled pork or something with an equally pornographic name.”

      “Ooooh.” I don’t know if I said that, or my stomach did. Amy worked for me, but she was not my cook or housekeeper, so this was above and beyond the call of duty. I didn’t even have a cook or housekeeper and didn’t want one. I liked my space, didn’t like other people poking around in my stuff. I shucked my boots and coat, leaving them where they fell, and headed for the sofa to collapse. “God, it’s good to be home.”

      When my short, slightly round assistant and right-hand woman finally emerged from the kitchen to tell us dinner was served, I didn’t want to get up.

      “Amy, if we can eat in here I’ll give you a Christmas bonus.”

      She grinned, dark red lipstick making her teeth look whiter, thick black eyeliner making her skin look paler. She dressed like an aspiring Addams Family member. “You always give me a Christmas bonus.”

      “Then I’ll give you a bigger one. Please?”

      She shrugged. “It’s your house.”

      “It is, isn’t it? Then I decree we eat in front of the TV like a bunch of real rednecks.”

      “I’m gonna bring everything in, then,” Amy said. “You clear off the coffee table.”

      I saluted her and cleared off the magazines, books and catalogs with a sweep of my arm. “Done.”

      “God help us all,” Amy muttered.

      “Give me your keys, Aunt Rache. I’ll go get your luggage for you.”

      “You are definitely the good twin. I don’t care what your mother says.” I nodded at my coat, lying like a red puddle by the front door. “They’re in the pocket.”

      A few minutes later we ate. My luggage was in my room, my coat and boots magically in the closet, and the gifts from the Big Apple had been delivered. I’d managed to get two signed photos from Rusted Rail, a band they both adored, who’d also been guests on one of the talk shows I’d done. I was no longer sure which one. It was a blur at this point. The girls were thrilled. We talked into the night, and then Amy went home for the first time in several days, and Misty headed up to the guest room.

      I walked around the house after it was quiet again. There was no cleanup to do; Amy and Misty had done it for me, knowing I always came back from these trips exhausted. And I was.

      But there was more on my mind than being wiped out. I was thinking about Mason Brown’s visit and what he had said, and yes, I was feeling guilty for not telling him everything. The thing was, this phenomenon where I would start to dream, then be immediately startled wide awake, hadn’t been happening all that long. I mean, I’d sort of implied to him that it had been happening ever since we nailed the Wraith and went our separate ways. But it hadn’t. I hadn’t had another one of those terrifying vision-dreams since, so I guess my brain had seen no point in waking me up. Until about two weeks ago, give or take. But it had happened five times since then. I would start to dream, and bam! I’d be sitting straight up in bed with my eyes wide open, that startle reflex waking me right up. And every one of those times I’d been sure the dream I was about to enter wasn’t an ordinary one. It had felt like the other ones. Those terrible, horrible visions when I’d been seeing through the eyes of the serial killer whose heart beat in another man. And whose corneas had restored my eyesight.

      Two weeks. That was how long he said the transplant recipient had been missing. A person who had received organs from the same donor. Mason’s brother, Eric, the original Wraith. What if my dreams had been telling me where she was, what had happened to her? What if I could have helped her?

      It’s not my job. I’m not a caped crusader, I’m a self-help author.

      But what if I could help? I mean, really, was it asking too much to just have a damned dream? Even a nightmare. It couldn’t hurt me, after all. It wasn’t real. It was a dream.

      I suppose I could try to let one play out. What harm is there in that?

      Images from the earlier visions started to creep in like black ink spilling over my brain, but I shoved them away. “It’s just a missing person,” I told Myrt. “She might be in trouble. I need to let the dream play out, because that’s what any decent human being would do.”

      Nodding, my decision firmly made, I headed for the stairs. “Come on, Myrt. Bedtime.”

      She was right beside me, hadn’t left my side since I’d gotten home, and she trotted up the stairs, happy as hell. She’d lost a few pounds since I’d adopted her. Our long walks were doing her a world of good, despite the fact that she acted like they were sheer torture.

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