Read Online A Season of Miracles by Heather Graham - Free Book Online Page B

may be all that, but it’s not enough. Fear is a good thing, young man. Fear can create a quest for knowledge, because no man is so strong he can defy God, Heaven and Hell, and all the Fates. Get out of here. And don’t come to me again unless your mind is open.”
    She stood and, with a flourish, spun away from him, then rushed from the bar.
    Startled, he sat back in the chair.
    â€œWow, that was…scary!”
    He turned around and saw that the girl who had been in his chair just moments earlier had spoken. A pretty young brunette, she was clinging to her lanky escort, eyes wide, cheeks pale.
    â€œWell,” he said with a shrug, “it’s Halloween, after all.”
    One of the bartenders—a freckled redhead wearing bobbing bug antennae—came walking over, wiping a glass as he looked out the door. “She didn’t even get her money,” he said, then shrugged fatalistically. “Oh well, I imagine she’ll be back.”
    He returned to his position behind the bar.
    â€œLook at the card that’s turned over now,” the brunette said. She grabbed her boyfriend’s lapel. “That wasn’t my card.” She stared at Robert, scared again, shaking her head. “It’s your card. It has to be your card.”
    â€œSo? I don’t believe in prophecy. Fate is what we make it,” he said firmly.
    â€œIt’s…it’s still your card,” she whispered, then turned, heading out.
    â€œWomen,” the man said. “You know the old saying. Can’t live with ’em, can’t shoot ’em, either.”
    He hurried after the brunette.
    Robert looked at the card on the table. He didn’t know much about tarot cards, and he certainly didn’t believe in their ability to foretell the future.
    But even he recognized the Grim Reaper.
    Â 
    The dream came suddenly.
    She smelled smoke. And then there was the rustling sound of dry kindling as it caught fire. The acrid smell of something burning…
    Flesh.
    Pain, a searing pain…
    She awoke with a violent start and jumped out of bed, screaming, “Fire! Henry, get Grandfather!”
    With her eyes open, she saw that there was no fire. She stood dead still. No smoke, no fire, no scent of burning flesh.
    Her door suddenly burst open.
    There was Henry, Grandfather’s assistant.
    Henry was seventy, a spring chicken compared to Douglas Llewellyn. He stood in her doorway in his proper pajamas and robe, snow-white hair beneath a bed cap, as if he were a character right out of a Dickens novel.
    â€œJillian?” he cried, looking frantically around.
    Embarrassment filled her. She’d been dreaming.
    â€œOh, Henry, I’m so sorry. I had a nightmare, I…I guess.”
    He exhaled a vastly relieved sigh. “Oh, my dear girl,” he said.
    She walked to the doorway, setting a hand on his shoulder. “Henry, are you all right? My God, I can’t believe I was screaming like that. I wouldn’t have worried you for the world. How ridiculous. I guess it happened because it’s Halloween.”
    He smiled. “Why, Miss Jillian, you’ve never been afraid of Halloween, or the dark, or things that go bump in the night.”
    She lifted a hand. “I’m at a loss myself. But I’m sorry.” She set her palm on his chest. His heart rate was slowing.
    â€œI’m fine, Miss Jillian. Just fine. The old ticker is pumping just as it should. Shall I fix you a drink? A hot toddy?”
    â€œNo, no more alcohol,” she said.
    He arched a brow.
    â€œI had a few Guinness Stouts,” she told him.
    â€œWell, then, what say we share some hot chocolate?”
    She smiled. “Sounds good.”
    As she had since she’d been a little girl, after her mother died, she slipped her hand into his. They walked out to the second floor landing and down to the kitchen together.
    As they chatted, memories of the awful vividness of the nightmare