Free Seeing Is Believing by Lindsay McKenna Page B

furrow and her mouth curve downward. “What is it?”
    Jerking her hands away from the closet, she whispered, “Something evil is in there!” She shook her hands to fling off the energy they’d accumulated by having contact with the closet doors.
    Frowning, Wes pulled her away. “Stay back,” he warned, before carefully opening one of the doors. It was dark inside the closet, but he knew in a casita like this, where no expense was spared, there would be a light switch. Fumbling, he found it. Once the light was on, he hauled both giant doors outward and folded them back for a better view.
    “Look!” Diana gasped, pointing up to the right-hand corner of the closet about the clothes rack.
    Wes tensed momentarily, his hand automatically going for his revolver beneath his jacket. His gaze settled on the red object in the corner. “What the hell…”
    “Wait! Don’t touch it!”
    He glanced at her as she came over to where he stood. “Why? What is it?”
    “I think it’s a rattle of some kind.”
    “So?” He itched to reach up and retrieve it.
    Gulping, Diana stood on tiptoe to get a better look at it. “It is a rattle! A ceremonial one, from what I can tell. Wes, don’t touch it, please. It could be dangerous.”
    “How?” There was disbelief in his voice. It looked like a gourd that had been sloppily painted a red color, with two black feathers attached to the wooden handle.
    Gripping his arm, she kept her gaze fastened on the gourd. “Rattles are like loaded guns, Wes. You don’t handle them unless you know exactly what they are and what you’re doing.”
    “Explain.” He was fully aware of her fingers digging into his arm, as if she was afraid he wouldn’t listen to her warning.
    “Rattles are like pipes—they’re all different. Usually, they’re made out of a gourd of some kind, or a turtle shell or deer hoof. People making rattles, if they know what they’re doing, will fill them with stones. Those stones usually come from around an anthill.”
    “Do you mean it’s dangerous if someone throws it at me?” he asked wryly, a grin crossing his mouth.
    Diana’s heart wouldn’t stop pounding. She sensed real danger and wasn’t in the mood for his teasing. “This isn’t funny, Wes! I’ve seen people pick up a rattle and get thrown clear across a room, unconscious by the time they hit the other wall. Rattles are nothing to play around with. If the maker of a rattle is a good person, it can be beautiful, healing and powerful. But if a sorcerer—a person with evil intent—makes one, the rattle can kill. Please, you’ve got to believe me!”
    “I didn’t say I didn’t,” Wes muttered, desperately wanting to hold the object.
    “That rattle has no markings, no symbols on it.”
    “So?”
    “Usually the very powerful rattles have no markings.”
    “It has feathers.”
    “They look like buzzard feathers to me,” Diana muttered, craning her neck. “It’s a rattle of transformation.”
    “Meaning?”
    She wiped her damp hands on the sides of her skirt. “That rattle was made to transform something.”
    “Give me an example.”
    Nervously, Diana backed away from the closet. She was grateful Wes came with her. Above all, she didn’t want him picking up the rattle without a knowledge of what he was doing. She sat down on the edge of the bed.
    “Healers usually possess a transformation rattle. If the rattle is shaken near a sick person, the vibration of the stones striking the gourd can help break or dissolve invisible blocks in the patient’s aura and make them well.”
    “That’s not evil,” Wes said, sitting down beside her, folding his hands between his long thighs.
    “No,” Diana agreed, “it’s not. But I’ve seen my mother come up against both male and female sorcerers from time to time, and they always use a gourd of transformation to try and get her.”
    “Get her?”
    “Kill her.”
    Wes stared at her, dumbfounded.
    Diana pointed to the gourd. “If that is a