Free Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars Page A

full attention, as if she were a small
furry gargoyle watching over me. Scarcely had I reclined that I
heard my wife’s footsteps as she came up from the basement and into
the living room.
    “I thought I heard you up here,” she said
softly, seating herself on the edge of the sofa next to me.
    I looked up to see her
lightly freckled face, framed by her auburn hair wrapped loosely in
a Gibson Girl about
her head. It never ceased to amaze me how this woman I had married
could easily slide from hippie activist to china doll in the blink
of an eye. Her bright green eyes stared back with concern as she
reached out and lightly touched my forehead near the
stitches.
    “How are you feeling?”
    “Physically or spiritually?” I asked, weakly
smiling back at her.
    “Both.”
    “Physically,” I told her, “like I’ve been hit
by a truck. Spiritually...drained, but still grounded.”
    “I wish you wouldn’t do these things to
yourself,” she gently admonished, lightly placing her hand over the
wound on my head. “A person can only take so much.”
    “I’ve got to be honest with you.” I relaxed,
feeling the healing energy she was directing through her hand. “I
lost control today. When I channeled those last few moments of
Ariel’s life, I couldn’t keep myself separated. She kept breaking
through and taking over. I know it scared the hell out of Ben.”
    “Oh, Rowan,” she whispered. “It scares the
hell out of me too.”
    Felicity was filled with an inherent desire
to make everything well and at the moment, she wore a deeply
empathic grimace. I watched her close her eyes and felt her ground
and center, directing a cool wash of energy over me that appeared
in my mind as a soothing green light. Soon, my dull headache
subsided, and the last knots of tension uncoiled from my neck and
shoulders.
    “Have you eaten?” she asked me.
    “No,” I answered. “Not yet.”
    “I’ll go make you something.” She leaned
forward and lightly kissed me on the forehead. “You just
relax.”
    I vaguely remember the smell of corned beef
hash and eggs wafting into the room as I drifted into tortured
sleep.
     
    Screaming.
    Screaming forever with no pause. Distorted
noises. Sounds of ripping and tearing. The forever tortured banshee
wail. I am in Ariel Tanner’s apartment. The kitchen. I am standing
in the kitchen. The room is bathed in a surreal wash of white. I
shade my eyes against the stark brightness.
    Silence.
    Clear, unbroken silence.
    My heart pounding. Thump thump, Thump thump,
Thump thump. Louder. Fighting to escape from my chest. Blood
rushing in my ears, pushing back the silence.
    Fear.
    Pure, unadulterated terror.
    “ Please come in,” a voice.
    I turn to face the direction of the voice.
Ariel Tanner is standing before me, radiant and lovely in a white
lace gown. She smiles at me.
    “ Rowan, how nice to see you.” Her voice
floats mellifluously, displacing the rushing in my ears. “It’s been
so long.”
    “ Ariel?” I question.
    She jerks spasmodically, and the smile flees
her lips. Her eyes grow wide and she looks down. A spot of crimson
appears on the high neck of the lace gown and begins growing.
Spreading. Her mouth falls open in shock, and she looks back at me
with questioning eyes. The vermilion stain waxes unceasingly,
covering her chest.
    “ Why, Rowan?” she mouths. “Why?”
    Darkness.
    Falling. Wind rushing past. Faster, faster,
faster...
    An unearthly sound. A demonic chord growing
stronger.
    Impact.
    I’m standing in Ariel Tanner’s bedroom.
Everything is cast in an eerie blue light. Her body is spread
across the bed, her dead eyes staring at me. I walk toward her, and
they follow me. The bloodstains appear black in the supernatural
light. A sound at my back, slow and rhythmic, but unintelligible. I
turn. A figure in a robe is there lighting candles.
    “ Who are you?” I ask, but my voice is
drowned out by the muffled chant.
    I take a step forward and the figure
disappears. There is a