Free Stone of Ascension by Lynda Aicher

chiseled at her nerves. Releasing a frustrated sigh, she leaned back and yanked on her leg until it emerged from the depths of the snow. “Yeah, well, I’m not going to stand here and wait for you to drag me off to my death.” She straightened and turned back to the house only to find him standing directly in front of her. Damn, he was quiet.
    “I’m not going to kill you.” Amusement flickered over his face as he watched her shake and stomp the snow off her leg. “Or, as you say, drag you to your death. But I do need to turn you in.”
    She froze. “What do you mean, turn me in?” What in the hell was he talking about? Panic edged back in to take an icy hold on her remaining calm.
    He looked away to stare across the frozen field. The wind gusted up, pummeling them both as they stood open and exposed to the elements.
    “It’s for your own protection.”
    The way he refused to look at her had Amber doubting the truth of his last statement. She grabbed at her hair, the wind forcing it to dance and fly in wild streams around her head and over her face. Silently cursing, she tried to rein in the strands. This was one of those days where she wished she had the courage to just cut it all off.
    She jumped when his hands brushed against her head to control the wild mass of flying hair. A spark that she now associated with pure energy raced along her scalp and down her back, warming her entire body. It edged back the panic and shot spears of longing straight to her core. How did he do that?
    “There,” he said once she had the mass clamped tightly in her hands. He stood so close she had to tilt her head back to look at him. His hands still rested on her head, entwined within her hair. He looked down at her with an intensity that had her blood suddenly boiling. This man, this stranger, affected her in a way that he shouldn’t. In a way that should have her running away scared instead of slowing leaning forward, pulled in by his touch and the unchecked desire that was evident in his eyes.
    Abruptly, he pulled away. “Come back to the porch. At least it offers some break from the wind.” He turned and walked toward the house without waiting to see if she followed. His assumption of her obedience irritated her, but there was nowhere to run. There were no tracks in the snow or even a plowed driveway to indicate that anyone had been at the farmhouse since the snow began last fall.
    The house itself was well kept, with pale yellow paint, white trim and the broad white porch that stretched across the front of the two-story structure. Curtains hung closed over every window, and empty clay flower pots were tucked into the corners of the porch, waiting for spring to arrive. There was no hint of neglect, but it felt absolutely deserted.
    Once again, logic won out over stubbornness. It was stupid, and cold, to stand out in the wind. And she wasn’t really scared of him. By him. Maybe it was because she’d watched him for so long that it felt like she knew him. Despite the oddity of what was happening and the exceedingly strange and unbelievable events that had been thrust upon her, the man himself did not inspire fear.
    Now the events themselves, those were another thing.
    She discounted the strange feelings left by his touch and followed him up the steps, lifting the hem of his coat to keep from tripping. She looked around and waited for him to say something.
    He didn’t.
    “So why do you think I’m this so-called Marked One?” she finally put out there as she took the time to roll up the sleeves of his coat. Questions were way preferred to the uncomfortable silence that threatened to pull away the false calm she presented.
    “Because you are. The mark on the back of your hand—the white bird rising—is a rare and unique symbol that will only appear on the one who has the strength to control its power.”
    Reflex had her tucking her exposed hands into the deep pockets of his coat.
    “You’re wrong,” she bluffed. “I