The Empath. Bonnie Vanak
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cage containing the chocolate-colored rabbit.
“Come on, Tammy. Let’s see what’s wrong with Herman.”
Inside the spacious living room, Maggie set down the cage. She removed the large French lop from the cage and set him on the tiled floor. Herman weakly hopped. His back left leg flopped. Broken, probably.
A terrible suspicion crested over Maggie. “Tammy, how did this happen?”
Her gaze flicked away. “I forget to lock the door sometimes. He got out. Mom said he got his leg caught.”
Maggie gnawed at her lower lip. Outside of her own dog, she hadn’t examined an animal in over two months. Doing so caused odd images to flash through her mind, as if she could envision the source of the animal’s injury. Feel its past and pain.
Just an overactive imagination. It was only her great desire to heal, causing her to envision the injury’s source.
Yet the fledgling ability had grown stronger over the past six months. Maggie had solved the problem by leaving the initial exams to Mark, in exchange for doing the clinic’s paperwork.
“I thought your mother didn’t like animals.”
Sniffling, Tammy explained her friend Bobby had given her Herman when his family moved away. “It was either me or Sally. Sally has a big yard with a fence, but she’s got a hamster. Mom didn’t want him, but Dad said I could keep him if Herman stayed in the cage. Please, can you make him better? He’s hurting.”
Maggie gently stroked the quivering rabbit. Images poured through her mind like movie screen captions: Fear. Pain. Cage door open. Freedom. Good smells. Food nearby. White grass. Urge to void. Tall human. Screams. Pointed shoe. Hurt. Fear. Hide.
Tammy’s mother had kicked it in a rage for the droppings on her immaculate white wool rug.
Biting back a startled cry, she jerked her hand away. Maggie turned, hiding her reaction from Tammy.
“Is Herman going to be okay?” Tammy asked.
“He’ll be fine. I need to get the medicine to fix him.”
Maggie pushed a weary hand through her hair as she went upstairs to her office. She headed for a locked white cabinet and combed through it for the necessary supplies.
The odd ability to envision the source of an animal’s pain hadn’t vanished. It was growing stronger.
No. She hadn’t felt the animal’s pain, nor seen what happened. Besides, Iona Whittaker was fastidious, but cruel …? Ridiculous. Herman probably broke his leg …
Falling down the stairs, a deep male voice asked.
Maggie gasped, nearly dropping a box of bandages. First hallucinations, now voices? Definitely, too little sleep.
Science, not speculation. Cell mitosis. She formed images of cells, dividing, new life growing. Her mind processed the information at hand. Rabbit, broken foot caused probably by angry woman with a ruined carpet. Yes, Iona Whittaker could be cruel. People were.
Businesslike, she stacked emergency medical supplies on a tray. Splint, bandages, tape, medicine, syringe, needle, medication, prescription pad.
Downstairs, she injected Herman with a mild sedative, asked Tammy questions about school to divert the girl’s worries. Very gently, she bound the rabbit’s broken leg. Maggie settled Herman back into his cage. She inhaled the scent of fresh cedar shavings and gave the bunny a reassuring pat.
“Such a pretty chocolate color,” Maggie murmured.
Tammy brightened. “Herman’s like an Easter bunny.”
Easter bunny. Delicious, biting into a chocolate bunny.
Rabbit. Fresh. Tasty. Raw, bloodied meat. Dinner. Energy.
Shocked, she analyzed her thoughts. Where did that come from? One minute, daydreaming about a sugar rush, the next, salivating over meat.
“I’ll give you some pills.” She scribbled instructions on the pad. Herman. Injured rabbit. Sweet little rabbit.
Prey. Thrill of the kill, snapping bones, sinking fangs into fresh, delicious meat …
Maggie shoved aside the hungry thoughts. Giving Tammy instructions on how to administer the medication, she smiled.
“Herman has been well cared for. He has good muscle tone,” she noted, trying not to think of meat. Good meat, not tough, just right. Laced with tasty fat …
Maggie hastily stood, grabbed the cage. Sweat beaded on her brow. I’m going insane. First feeling images and pain, then hearing voices, and now, thinking of pet rabbits as dinner?
At the door, Maggie gently pushed aside
Tammy’s offering of crumbled dollar bills. “Instead of paying me, I need a favor. Herman looks a little cramped in his cage. I bet he’d love a nice, big yard. Why don’t you give him to Sally? You can visit him, and it will make your mother happy.” And keep that bitch from hurting him again.
Tammy’s lips curled up, then she glanced down at Herman. “All right, Dr. Sinclair. I guess it’s only fair to share him.”
“Yes, it is.”
Placing the cage on her little red wagon, Tammy turned. Her brow wrinkled. “Are you okay, Dr. Sinclair? You look funny.”
I bet. “I’m fine. Go home, call Sally.”
Maggie waved, closed the door then fled upstairs to grab sleep before she imagined anything else.
She fell asleep upstairs on her king-sized bed, dreaming of warm breath against the nape of her neck, hard muscles holding her fast.
White teeth erotically scraping her flesh, followed by a long, slow lick. Wetness pooled between her legs. She stirred. Maggie moaned as two large hands, dark hair dusting the backs, slid over her trembling thighs. Sliding them open. Dark eyes staring at wet female flesh.
You want my tongue. There.
Her vagina clenched, aching. Empty. Needing. Hot. Please.
What do you want?
You. Inside me. Please. Fill me. Forever.
I’ll give you everything you want. And more. My Maggie.
She jerked awake with a start, clutching the sheet. Sweat dampened her lace panties, the ribbed lilac sleep shirt. He had been inside her, again. Her dream lover.
His presence lingered, like the slow stroke of a man’s hand upon a woman’s naked skin. Tender as a lover’s caress, edged with desire. Demanding. Hot. Broad shoulders, hard muscles, crisp stubble abrading the soft skin of her throat as he kissed his way down her body.
Maggie stood on wobbly legs. She ran a hand through her curls. Two hours’ sleep gave no rest. She’d been tormented with edgy, erotic dreams, leaving her restless and yearning.
Late afternoon sun streamed through the sliding glass windows as she went downstairs. Maggie headed for the adjoining kitchen. Misha lay on the cool tile. With a false smile and a cheeriness she did not feel, she stooped down to pet her dog.
“Hey there, Misha, babe. Feel like eating a little dinner?”
A brown tail thumped madly against the floor. Hope rose, fed by desperation. From the fridge, Maggie fished out chicken livers. She cooked them over the electric range, chattering the whole time, filling empty space with words the dog did not understand, but were soothing.
Maggie set the dish on the floor. Misha sniffed, licked a piece. Hope rose. It sank as Misha walked away.
No appetite. Maggie, acquainted with the dying process, could not deny what her heart, and her mind, knew. Misha looked at her with mournful brown eyes as if to apologize. Maggie shoved the liver into the fridge.
She