Page 32 of Dream Weaver

“I’m not small. And I’m not angry,” she growled, whirling away again. “Also, you’re not that big.”

Ha. Tell that to the Ford Fiesta.

“You’re making me look like an ax murderer,” I complained.

“Well, that wouldn’t be a stretch,” she muttered.

Now, that hurt my ego. I was a firefighter, hero to small children and the occasional adult — especially those whose homes were surrounded by flames, as my sister had onceobserved dryly. That was when the average citizen upped his or her appreciation for “unskilled workers” like us.

“I could murder you and stuff your body in this sack, and no one would notice,” I said just as a couple appeared at the next bend.

They stopped in their tracks.

“Just kidding,” I mumbled, hurrying past.

The next twenty minutes passed silently except for the crunch of our boots over gravel. We were high up on Airport Mesa, and the views were amazing. Capital Butte, Cathedral Rock, Wilson Mountain… Everywhere I looked, rocks jutted up in jagged formations, and the scent of juniper filled my nose.

Heavenly, except for the ax murderer part.

“This way.” Abby cut right, off the trail. Five minutes after, she stopped and studied the ground.

“Isn’t the vortex over there?” I pointed to where a handful of hikers snapped photos slightly downslope from our position, barely visible through the scrubby trees.

Abby shook her head, then held a hand out, palm down, and followed it around.

“That’s where the sign points, but the heart of the vortex is right…about…here.”

She stopped, looking down.

I kept a tight grip on the ax. If she pulled anything witchy, I was out of there.

“Vortex, huh?” I didn’t sense a thing.

“It comes and goes.” Abby stepped back and glanced around. Her gaze narrowed on something at the edge of the clearing.

“There. Look at that.”

I stepped over cautiously. “Those ashes, you mean?”

There was a whole pile of them, and fairly fresh.

Abby shook her head, dismissing them. “Lots of folks burn incense or make campfires at vortexes. They’re not supposed to, but they do.” Then she pointed. “I mean, that.”

I turned, following a rough, arched line scraped into the earth.

The wind ruffled my hair, and a raven crowed.

“What do those marks remind you of?” Abby kept her voice low.

Okay, this was getting a little spooky.

I found myself whispering, as if someone — or something — might overhear. “Looks like a fire line.”

Abby nodded grimly, then motioned for an ax. I unwrapped them slowly and handed over the one she’d made, then stepped back. It was always wise to give Abby a wide berth.

Back in Walt’s parking lot, she’d hefted the ax with power and expertise. Now, she barely tapped the ground.

But, whoa. The earth shook, and I stuck out my arms.

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