Race the Darkness (17 page)

While she clung to him, he reached for the shampoo bottle. “Close your eyes. I'm going to wash your hair.” He checked to make certain she was listening, then squirted the shampoo on the top of her head. It'd been only a week, and her hair was already past her shoulders. He massaged the suds into her scalp. “Row brought your shampoo, but I forgot to get it. I guess you're going to smell like me.” Not that he minded.

He rinsed her hair, then just stood there under the spray with her.
Jesus. Just fucking do it.
It wasn't like he hadn't seen her naked before. “I'm going to take off your sundress now and get you cleaned up. You tell me if you've got any problems with this and I'll stop.”

Slowly, he reached down behind her and gathered her dress up, then pulled it up over her waist to her arms. “Baby, raise your arms for me.” She did, and he slipped the material over her head and tossed it in a soggy pile on the shower floor. With even more care, he slid her panties down her thighs until they fell and caught on her ankles. Throughout the entire process, she full-body leaned against him, shifting herself in response to his movements. At least she was aware of him, comfortable with him, and responsive to him—to a certain extent anyway.

He squirted his body wash on a rag and began at her shoulders, rubbing the cloth over her skin. Scars and cuts and still-fading yellow bruises marred her flesh. The sight of her skin reinforced his conviction never to allow anyone to control her life. Or hurt her ever again. If there was anything—anything at all—he could do to take away the pain of her grandmother's death, he'd do it. He'd happily carry the burden for her.

After the shower, he toweled her off, dressed her, and helped her lie down on the bed so he could get his own shower and get dressed for what was to come.

Twenty minutes later, he led her down the stairs and out his front door. Her grip on his hand was firm, too firm to be normal, but it was something.

A bruised sky hung over them. A low rumble of thunder sounded from the west, threatening to rip open the clouds and pour grief over them. Xander's guts began trembling. He fucking hated storms. But for her, to give her the opportunity to be at Gale's funeral, he would suck it up.

He guided her across to the meadow of his yard to a path between two old trees. Green forest engulfed them the moment they entered. The sound of their feet treading on the moss-covered trail was the only noise. When had he ever heard things so quiet? He hadn't. Ever. Cemetery Hill rose before them. “It's only a bit farther, but it's all up hill. You tell me if you get tired. Okay?” He waited for her to answer, but she didn't, just kept walking beside him, her eyes straight forward.

Isleen's breath quickened from the exertion of walking uphill so he wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her tight next to his body, hoping to take some of the effort from her steps. Part of him was tempted to carry her, but maybe the exertion would be good for her and allow her to actually sleep tonight.

The path ended abruptly at the bald hilltop. White slabs of stone jutted out of the earth at crazy angles. The men, women, children, and babies buried underneath those markers were the first settlers of the area. Dad stood at the head of an open grave, staring down into the pit as if he himself were about to be buried alive. Roweena and Matt were together on one side of the grave.

It was no surprise Dad wanted Gale buried on the property. The guy was probably going to erect a tent and live on top of her grave. Even as the thought crossed Xander's mind, he realized he might do the same thing if the roles had been reversed and something had happened to Isleen.

He led Isleen to the open grave, stopping across from Row and Matt. If ever a coffin could be called beautiful, it was this one. The polished wood had been carved with flowing swirls of flowers and birds. It was ornate enough for royalty, but pretty enough for a princess.

Isleen's breath caught, and Xander heard her heart banging around inside her chest like it wanted to escape and jump in the grave with Gale. She was
seeing
this. No more zoned out. He wrapped both arms around her, holding her tight, wishing he had words to make this easier on her, but she had to feel the grief. Needed to feel it in order to heal. She clung to him, twisting his shirt in her grip.

“I'm here,” he whispered against the top of her still-damp head. “I'm with you.”

Dad looked up at them, his face haggard from the destructive power of grief. Only this time, he didn't look
through
Xander. For the first time in decades, his gaze remained. Flames of the old rejection and shame heated Xander's skin and dampened his pits. He slammed a lid on those emotions, shifted his attention from Dad to Isleen, and refused to look at his father. This was about Isleen's need for closure, not his dad randomly deciding Xander existed.

“I owe you an explanation.” Dad's words were spoken more calmly than Xander had expected, but then silence followed. Only when it became as uncomfortable as a virulent case of jock itch did Xander finally look at Dad. His father's eyes softened, his face crumpled, and moisture slicked his cheeks. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I thought—”

“Dude.” No fucking way was he calling him
Dad
to his face. “This isn't about me. It's about saying good-bye to Gale. It's about Isleen getting the closure she needs to heal and move on.”

His father's eyes shifted to Isleen. She still clung to Xander, but her face was aimed at the open grave. He sensed her—the
her
that had been missing for the past few days—close to the surface, ready to break out of the protective shell she'd formed around herself.

Dad pulled a small leather book from his pocket. The binding was frayed, the leather worn and smudged. “The Legend of Fearless and Bear began three centuries ago. Gale and I both thought their story was our story. We were wrong. Gale left. I let her. Our bond broke. Our story doesn't have a happy ending.” He held the book to his face and began reading aloud.

A man, different than all others, used to roam this land. A man who was more than man. He carried a bit of spirit inside him. But even that bit of spirit was too great to contain within. Some of it showed on his skin.

The People, suspicious of all things unknown, believed a Bad Spirit had marked him—cursed him—for all to see. For all to avoid. For all to fear. The People believed the Bad Spirit wanted their souls.

So the man lived a solitary, nomadic life, nearly driven mad by isolation. One day a desperate loneliness overtook him. He tried to fight it, but was drawn to a field of women harvesting corn.

The women ran from him screaming.

A maiden stayed behind. Unlike the others, she did not fear him, but walked directly to him. Her face and arms bore the remains of a hundred healing wounds. He held out his hand to her.

She didn't hesitate, but settled her palm in his. A jolt of fire passed between them, but neither withdrew.

The maiden closed her eyes. “Take my life, and you may have my soul.”

He stared at her, mesmerized by her fearlessness. Why would she want to die?

When death did not claim her, she opened her eyes and pulled her hand from his.

He saw a pain inside her greater than what her body had endured. “Why do you wish to die?” he asked her.

“I possess dream sight. I've seen my fate and would rather die than submit. Death would be freedom.”

“Do you not fear me?”

“I fear this life more than you.”

The sounds of many feet running through the forest came to man and maiden.

“Kill me now. I do not wish to survive another sunrise in the village.”

“I do not take souls.”

The maiden's face twisted as if in great pain.

“Come with me.” The man held out his hand.

Men burst through the far side of the field.

The maiden hesitated only a moment before she placed her hand in his. As one, they turned and ran—together somehow swifter than the fastest of warriors. They ran until the dark of night covered the earth and the man no longer sensed anyone following them.

At a stream, they stopped. He lowered himself to the ground and the maiden collapsed atop him, knocking him back against the earth. Fearing his curse had claimed her, he grasped her shoulders and lifted her to see her face.

Her eyes made great pools of water that rained down her cheeks and fell upon his lips.

“Do not fear me.” He tried to move away from her. “I will not kill you. I will not take your soul.”

She clung to him, pressing her wet face against his neck. “I am not afraid. My eyes wash away the memories of the Bad Ones so I may live in peace.”

Her lack of fear, her willing touch, astonished him.

He named her Fearless, and she called him Bear for his great size and ferocity in protecting her. She soothed his loneliness by her presence. And she found joy for the first time. No longer under the control of the Bad Ones, she smiled and laughed when she never had before.

Bear suspected the Bad Ones were trying to reclaim Fearless and moved them constantly. Sometimes his senses tingled, and in those moments, they would do as they had done at the first. Run. Hand in hand through the forest.

Bear and Fearless grew closer and closer until Bear began to worry over his feelings for her.

His fear came to life when Fearless was struck with a deep affliction. She needed the medicine of a powerful healer to save her. For weeks Bear traveled, carrying her to the wisest medicine woman.

He was not permitted in villages or near dwellings. It was feared the Bad Spirit would claim a soul in each dwelling he passed, unless he himself offered his life. And he would, for he valued Fearless's life above his own.

He carried her to the village center, the location of the tribe's power. The tribe's men surrounded him, brandishing their knives and hatchets, waiting for the wise woman's command.

In the light of the fading sun, the wise woman cried a keening wail that hushed the people. She examined Fearless's wrist, spit on the star-shaped mark, and rubbed her tunic over the spot. Then she raised Fearless's wrist up for the tribe to witness. The people whooped and yelled, welcoming Fearless to the tribe.

The wise woman would care for her now. Bear laid Fearless down gently and tucked the heavy robes around her.

“You.” The wise woman pointed her gnarled finger at him.

He stepped back from his only love, his head held high and waited for death.

“You are the answer to my prayers. My enemies had sought to destroy my power by stealing my babe. Every day I have chanted a spell of protection for her and prayed for her return. You are marked, yet nothing can destroy your bond. You are my prayers come to life. You are her protector.”

“She is afflicted and needs strong medicine,” Bear said.

“I do not have the power. She is with the ancestors.”

Bear dropped to his knees beside Fearless. The light had faded from her, and he witnessed the truth of the woman's words. He lifted his head and howled. The sound roared through the village, startling all who heard.

When he quieted, the medicine woman placed his hand over Fearless's forehead. “I do not possess the power to call her soul back, but you are her destined one. You alone have the power to heal her.”

“I do not know the way.”

“The Spirit inside will guide you.”

Bear stilled, but the Spirit did not speak. The only thing in his mind was Fearless. He closed his eyes and chanted her name, remembered her laugh, her face, the soft sounds of her breathing as he lay with her.

Bear did not stop chanting until Fearless touched his hand. He opened his eyes. The light had returned to Fearless, the affliction gone.

The wise woman knelt next to them. “Daughter, you are returned to me a woman, but I love you as I loved the babe inside me.” She grasped both their hands. “Together you create a shield stronger than the oak. No harm will come to either of you while touching the other. As long as light shines in one of you, the other will live.”

At the wise woman's welcome, the tribe accepted Fearless and Bear. The wise woman taught Fearless her healing skills. Fearless's night sight—seeing in her dreams that which she couldn't see during the day—grew until she became the wisest woman of the region.

A time of great peace and prosperity settled over the land. From many moons away, people sought Fearless's healing and counsel.

The Bad Ones tried three times to kill Fearless, but they did not succeed. Nothing ever harmed Fearless and Bear, for they remained always together. Their bond, stronger than the hills, kept them from harm.

As they approached the end of their earthly lives, Bear carved a totem on the crest of the highest hill to remind all in the region that good always triumphed over evil, for he would protect Fearless into eternity.

They went to the ancestors together. The tribe built a great funeral pyre in honor of them and anointed their bodies in bear grease before setting the blaze. Every village in the region witnessed the black smoke burning in the sky.

A week later, after the fire cooled, the tribe gathered the ash and rubbed it over Bear's totem to seal their power together inside the carving for eternity.

* * *

The world of Fearless and Bear was so real and alive that Isleen could smell the ash from their funeral pyre. Only it wasn't ash she smelled, it was the dark, earthy scent of fresh dirt. The kind of soil that could only be found when digging a deep hole. Like for a grave. An image of a beautifully carved coffin floated in front of her closed eyes. Gran's coffin.
Oh no
. She wasn't going to open her eyes. No way. It wasn't safe out there—outside the shell of herself. Her only chance of survival was to keep floating in the dreamy haze of another time and be held safe in Xander's arms. He wouldn't let anything out there hurt her.