Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set (44 page)

Yes, she'd done it, but she'd already suffered for her
crime. Now she belonged to no one, belonged nowhere. What good was a werewolf
queen who had no werewolf powers?

The jay cried out again and Lily looked up, then dropped her
gaze to the meat strips on the ground beside her. Warmed by their time in the
sun, they gleamed with heavy grease.

Lily's stomach roiled and she snatched up the pieces,
hurling them in the direction of the canyon. What foolishness, she thought, as
she watched them flying through the air. What was done was done. She couldn't
undo it.

She got to her feet and looked over at White Hawk, who was
still relaxing and clearly unprepared to leave.

"Come on," she said. "I'm ready to travel
again."

Ravenheart had chosen a particularly rigorous vision quest,
foregoing even water as he stoically carried Stone People from the surrounding
area up the steep slopes of the mesa to the sweat lodge. He stacked the small
boulders beside the deep pit outside the door to lodge, where he would later
build a fire and heat the rocks until they glowed like coals.

He had stopped sweating long ago, and he planned to wait for
the hottest part of the day to build the fire. Strenuous testing of the body
sharpened the mind and brought the visions faster.

This sweat ceremony would bring his answers, he felt sure.
He'd have a sign so magnificent even Star Dancer could not refute it. He had no
doubt it would come. He was a truebom, with unbroken lineage, and his power was
now arising, preparing him for the years of rulership ahead.

For hours he'd collected rocks, more than he needed,
stacking them high beside the deep hole in the ground. Father Sun blazed down
on his head, scorching his face and his almost naked limbs. He'd soon shed even
the loincloth and entered the lodge where the spirits would visit. His guides
would come, unveiling their plan for how he'd assume his rightful place.

Around him, the Four Leggeds rustled, the Winged Ones
roosted in the scant shade of rain-starved chaparral, not even wasting energy
to chirp. But he could endure the heat, the cloying dampness that refused to
return to Sister Cloud and drop its moisture on the earth.

Soon the sun hurled its greatest heat, and Ravenheart knew
the time had come. He gathered rotting corpses of fallen cacti, picked up
broken twigs and crackling dried grasses, again performing the tedious task
without thought to his own discomfort.

Later he bent beside the firepit and took a box of matches
from a small sack belted around his waist. Lost in his own heady arrogance, and
momentarily forgetting that matches were not the way of the original Dawn
People whose traditions he'd so sanctimoniously sworn to restore, he struck the
match against a rock. Dropping it, he lit another, and another.

The fuel exploded in flames, spewing sparks that drifted to
his hairless skin, singeing it. Of this he took no heed. Instead he moved
closer, allowing the searing heat to purify him, wipe out all thoughts of
weakness and bodily needs.

Lifting his hands to Grandfather Sky, staring boldly into
the scorching eye of Father Sun, he stood silhouetted on the mesa against the
spitting fire. A triumphant laugh rose from his throat and he allowed it to
escape, sending cactus wren fluttering in alarm from their shady roosts.

The Spirits would bless him this time. And woe to any who
might stand in his way.

* * *

Lily leaned into the crook of a paloverde tree and gingerly
peeled her hiking boot away from her shin. She could hardly breathe, the air
was so thick and heavy, yet the parched landscape through which they were
traveling begged for water. Even the towering, long-fingered cacti looked
shriveled and limp amid the barren rocks. Her fears had been realized. Just
hours before, she'd been shivering in the mountain air and now she was
sweltering. Ninety degrees? Yes. And ninety percent humidity with it, or so it
seemed.

Looking behind her, she tilted back her head and gazed up at
the rim of the canyon, taking in the once-sharp edges that had now blurred into
muted shades of red, gold, gray, and green. They must be close to the bottom.
Surely they were. They'd been hiking down for eons.

At a grueling pace too, and the minute White Hawk suggested
they take a rest at this sparsely shaded spot, Lily had dropped the hiking pack
off her back without reply.

White Hawk had also foregone words, and now he knelt beside
a narrow stream, filling lightweight gourds with water. Having changed into
loose-fitting lightweight pants and a shapeless hemp shirt lightly decorated
with beadwork, he now looked more like the Indian he was than the traveling
businessman he'd appeared to be on the train.

A surge of resentment flashed through Lily, pro-yoked, she
supposed, by the moment of abject gratitude she'd experienced when he'd said
they could stop. Except for the occasional touch of a hand to steady her when
she found it hard to keep her footing, he'd ignored her throughout the entire
slippery descent. Gratitude was the last thing he deserved.

What right did he have to drag her here? She held no fond
memories of Ebony Canyon, had certainly never entertained a desire to return.

She was sunburned and aching. Every nerve and muscle of her
body groaned from hunger and fatigue. And her leg hurt like hell. Not from the
rapidly fading welt on her thigh left by Sebastian's attack, but from the
damned boots her captor had made her wear.

Peering into the gap between her boot and shin, she examined
an angry blister.

White Hawk returned from the river with the gourds slung
over his shoulder. He hung them from the tree against which Lily rested, but
she paid him no attention as she gently prodded the tender skin beneath the
tongue of her boot.

"No wonder you've blistered," he said
unsympathetically. "Those are a poor excuse for hiking shoes."

"You're the one who packed them!" she countered.
"Couldn't you see they're fashion boots? While they're all the rage in the
city, I'm sure Doris never dreamed I'd put them to this kind of use when she
ordered them for me." She looked up at him crossly. "Do you by any
chance have more of those Band-Aids in your bag?"

"Who's Doris?" White Hawk bent down to search
through his deerskin satchel.

"My mother," she replied, unlacing the boot.

 
"You call your
mother by her first name?"

"Not to her face." She paused in the unlacing and
looked up again.

"Why do you ask? As I remember, your people often call
their parents by first name."

He shrugged, lifted out the box, then moved toward her.
"They aren't very warm people are they?"

"Who aren't?"

"Your parents."

Lily let out a strangled laugh. "You haven't said
anything to me but 'eat' and 'walk' since we started. Now you're suddenly
interested in my parents?"

For a second, his face had softened, but now his mouth
tightened into a hard line. Bending to help her unlace the boot, he coldly
said, "Not really."

Lily swatted his hands. "I don't want your help!"

Although the line of his lips grew even harder, he ignored
the slap and continued unlacing her boot.

"Why do you care if I'm blistered anyway?"

"I don't." Slipping off her boot, he met her eyes
coldly, then shimmied her sock to her ankle. "But it's a long journey.
You'll never make it if this gets any worse."

Dropping to his knees, he dragged his satchel closer and
took out a small ceramic bottle and a leather packet. Lily continued grumbling,
but watched with interest as he opened the packet, took out an irregular
circle-shaped leaf, then untied a strip around the bottle, releasing a stopper
that reminded Lily of an animal's bladder. After pouring the murky liquid onto
the leaf, he applied it to her shin.

When the sharp menthol odor drifted up to her nose, Lily
stopped complaining. She recognized the smell from the shower, when she'd
stripped the poultice off her miraculously healed wounds.

It was then she noticed his gentle touch. His hands, now
exceedingly warm, rested over the blistered area, siphoning away the sting. His
face no longer looked harsh. He closed his eyes languidly, speaking in a
language Lily didn't understand, but recognized as belonging to his people.
White Hawk, the shaman, had replaced White Hawk, the warrior.

"What are you saying?" she asked.

He shook his head, a mute request for silence, and Lily
obeyed. This man might be her captor, but he still possessed a healing touch.
Leaning back against the tree branch, she closed her eyes.

"You can start complaining again whenever you
like," he said after a time. Lily lifted her lids to see him plastering a
Band-Aid over the poultice.

"Herbs and adhesive bandages," she remarked.
"What century are you from?"

"The People use what works." He climbed to his
feet and picked up a sleeping bag, which he began unrolling. "I took a
pair of sandals from your closet." He inclined his head in the direction
of the backpack. "We'll stay here until the worst of the heat passes, so
you might as well put them on and give that leg a rest."

Lily nodded. She'd transferred the sandals from the Hermes
suitcase into the backpack herself before they left the meager shelter of the
rattle-trap car. When she'd finished, White Hawk had tossed the exquisite bag
aside, murmuring something about "leaving gifts by the side of the
road." Although she knew she had bigger challenges ahead than protecting
her belongings, and actually cared little if sparrows made a nest inside the
damned thing, she'd asserted herself anyway, needing some illusion that she
still had control.

As was growing common, her protest went unheeded. But she'd
won one battle that day. As they descended deeper into the bowels of the
canyon, the heat became insufferable. White Hawk discarded their parkas and
blankets, then directed her to change into shorts. She'd eagerly complied. The
jeans had been sticking to her skin, making the steep trail even harder to
handle. But then he insisted she leave the jeans with the other items, and
she'd adamantly refused to give up her last warm piece of clothing. Who knew if
she might get an opportunity to escape?

Now she shoved the still-damp jeans aside, searching for the
sandals, feeling a delicious relief as she slipped out of the heavy boots. Life
did hold its simple pleasures, she thought cynically, wandering over to one of
the sleeping bags White Hawk had unfurled on the ground. She sat down, casting
a sharp eye about for ants or scorpions.

White Hawk handed her another leaf-wrapped loaf. "Eat
again. We'll sleep until the heat passes, but the night journey will still be
arduous."

She unwrapped the loaf hastily, remembering its pleasing
flavor. As she was chewing, White Hawk placed several strips of jerky in her
empty hand.

"I don't care much for meat," she said, attempting
to give them back.

His sharp look conveyed immense disbelief. "Eat it
anyway."

She had every intention of defying him, but when she
finished the loaf, her stomach still felt empty. Torn between her desire for autonomy
and her hunger, she eventually gave in to the latter. The strip was firm and
leathery, but she gnawed at it greedily, especially appreciating the salty
taste that seemed to ease the aches in her muscles. When the first one was
gone, she attacked another.

"Sienna Doe becomes White Wolf Woman," White Hawk
said.

"What?"

"Nothing. A legend." Then he lay down on his bed
roll, folded his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes.

When Lily finished her last strip of jerky, she did the
same, troubled that she couldn't get White Hawk's remark out of her mind.

* * *

 
Ravenheart could
barely hold up his head. In the corner of the lodge, inside another pit, the
Stone People gave off their intense heat but he refused to succumb to the lure
of the cooler floor. He dropped another ladleful of water on the fiery rocks.
Steam filled the lodge. He lost track of time and tried not to think of how
much more comfortable he'd be on the floor.

The vision would come. It would come.

But why was it taking so long? Hadn't his first quest been
rewarded quickly with the appearance of the Raven, whose name he now bore? The
spirits had blessed him with the sign of magic, yet that obstinate female
shaman had not seen fit to take proper notice.

She'd greeted his announcement calmly, then remarked that
his quest had taken an unusually short time. Was he certain his true animal
guide had appeared? Was Coyote, the Trickster, at work here? Ravenheart had
hidden his outrage and had refrained from asserting that he'd been hand-chosen
by the spirits. Star Dancer, he knew, would interpret his truth as excessive
pride. But was it prideful to claim one's rightful place?

No! A chosen one could never be denied. It was written.

Then, despite his strong will, Ravenheart's head lolled on
his neck. He toppled slowly toward the floor. He floated up to the miserly
clouds, caught in their mist, tortured by the moisture they promised but
refused to bestow.

Curling up, sightless to all around him, he keened a vision
quest chant. The spirits had deserted him, he knew it now, and he was dying.
None denied themselves fluids during a monsoon sweat, yet he had, and it would
be the end of him.

The spirits had deserted him.

A low growl broke through his slurred chants. He lifted his
weak neck and saw a figure walking through the fog. A silver muzzle dripping
with blood emerged, followed by eyes as blue as the sweltering Ebony Canyon sky
and so piercing that Ravenheart groaned and looked away.

"Brother Raven," said a silky voice.