Rebel: The Blades of the Rose (39 page)

Growling, he lunged up, and the werewolf staggered back. Nathan advanced, slashing. He raked his claws over Bracebridge's head. The Heir yowled in pain as Nathan's claw caught him across his scalp. Nathan pressed his onslaught, and the werewolf shuffled backward, directly toward the fire burning in the middle of the encampment. What had been a small campfire now blazed, fed by several burning undead who now piled in a heap of ashes and bone. Thick, black smoke billowed up in a dark column, darker than the night sky overhead.

Seeing himself backed up against the fire, Bracebridge desperately surged forward. Nathan drove the werewolf back again with a snap of his teeth.

Bracebridge shuddered, then shrank. He shriveled into his human form, all pink flesh and red wounds. The crouching Heir looked down at his hands, no longer topped with claws, and groaned.

“No!” he cried. “My spell.” He glared up at Nathan. “Filthy savage. You cost me my magic.”

Nathan changed, casting off the cumbersome weight of his bear form, back into a man. “Then we finish this as equals.” He advanced, and Bracebridge scuttled back, until the fire stopped him.

“Careful, Nathan!” Astrid shouted. “The fire—”

Within the fire, a black shape materialized. Not smoke or burning timber. A figure.

It emerged from the fire. At first, the flames hid the form so that it appeared only a tall, dark shape. Then, as it stepped out from the blaze, it became a man. In English clothing. With a face scarred, misshapen. He'd been burned, Nathan realized. Terrible burns that had healed but left the man disfigured, a web of thick, angry flesh. One eye had fused shut, his mouth permanently twisted. None of that was as awful as the hate glinting in his gaze.

Bracebridge, cowering at the scarred man's feet, looked up, eyes terrified. “Edgeworth! How did you—?”

“I've learned the fire now.” The man surveyed the encampment, the bodies of Heirs scattered like heaps of refuse. He glared at Nathan and Astrid in turn, and when he saw Graves advancing, the man's sneer deepened. “You and your Hottentot family have been a thorn in the side of the Heirs for too long, Graves.”

Graves did not blink. “We've been Blades for nearly two hundred years, Edgeworth. How long has your family been Heirs?”

His remark hit home, because the man winced as if slapped. So he turned back to Astrid. “This does not matter,” he spat at her. “The Primal Source is ours and we will command it without your knowledge, stupid whore.”

Nathan growled, stepping forward. Whoever this Edgeworth was, he'd pay for his insult to her.

Before Nathan could reach him, Edgeworth grabbed Bracebridge by the arm and hauled the mage backward, toward the fire.

“No! No!” shouted Bracebridge. “I'll be burned!”

“Not if you travel with me.” Edgeworth retreated, and flames licked at him and the mage without harm.

“Edgeworth! Here—help me!” Milbourne, bound and powerless, cried out.

Yet Edgeworth seemed little interested in aiding him. “Bracebridge has some of his magic left,” he said, scornful. “All you have is failure.” Then he and the mage sank back into the flames. The blaze engulfed them, and with a hiss, they disappeared into the fire, leaving Milbourne behind.

The captive Heir cursed. Then the battle lines moved over him. Undead warriors trampled him in retreat from advancing bears and wolves, uncaring that their errant swords slashed at the man on the ground. Heavy bears lumbered over Milbourne, crushing him. The sounds of his shattering bones and skull were lost underneath the clash.

This didn't matter to Nathan. Neither did the sounds of battle, growing quieter now as the Earth Spirits destroyed the last of the undead. And Nathan didn't care about the bodies of Staunton, Halling, Milbourne, the mercenaries, or Swift Cloud Woman. Even the totems, which Graves held out to Iron Wolf, were of no importance. He cared about one thing, one
person,
only.

Bloody, battered, he turned to Astrid, opening his arms.

She ran to him, and they held each other as if allowing even an inch to separate them meant the destruction of the world. As he embraced her, as she him, the length of her shaking body pressed against his own, he couldn't feel his wounds or exhaustion. Instead, with her hands on him and her warm breath in his ear as she whispered, again and again, “Love you, love you,” and he saying exactly the same thing, he felt the perfect rightness of their hearts locking together. Being made, finally, whole.

Bittersweet, the end of battle. Sweet, because Nathan walked beside her through the encampment, his fingers laced with hers, his presence warm and strong—though tired and wounded—and she felt herself so replete with love for him, it eclipsed nearly everything.

But not all. Here was bitterness. As she, Nathan, Catullus, and Iron Wolf surveyed and tended the injured Earth Spirits, they found He Watches Stars in a small heap, stained with blood, face drawn and ashen, his breath rattling. Near him lay his heavy war ax, streaked with a surprising amount of gore.

As dawn began to lighten the sky, Astrid knelt beside him, cradling him in her arms, as the others gathered close. He Watches Stars' slightness surprised her, as if most of his soul, and weight, had already fled. Astrid shared a worried look with Nathan at the shallowness of the old man's breathing.

“Warrior
and
medicine man,” Astrid murmured, brushing his damp gray hair from his forehead. “You are a man of many arts.”

He Watches Stars gave her a small, tight smile. “This world is made up of more than spirit. It always pays to know how to wield an ax.” He winced as pain moved through him.

“Be at rest, Grandfather,” said Nathan, placing a hand on the old man's shoulder. “We will tend your honorable wounds.”

“Morning Hawk Woman,” Iron Wolf called over his shoulder. A young woman hurried forward. “He Watches Stars has need of your healing skills.”

“No,” rasped the medicine man. “I saw this night, long ago. The night I was to join the stars and sky. But I am glad.” He turned ancient eyes to Nathan. “For I have seen and fought beside the One Who Is Three.” He took Nathan's hand in his own, shaking. “Your journey does not end here.” His other hand wrapped around Astrid's, and it was both fragile and strong. “And you will not be alone.” The medicine man gazed at Astrid. She felt herself pulled into the dark, powerful currents within his fathomless eyes. “No longer Hunter Shadow Woman. Bright Star Woman. And her mate. Together…a force…unstoppable.”

Then, under many watchful, stricken eyes, He Watches Stars stilled. She felt it, when the spirit left behind the shell of his body, for he grew lighter, and what she held in her arms was as substantial as a fallen leaf.

Astrid carefully lowered him to the ground, closing his eyes. Her throat ached. She wearied of death, because it never seemed to end and was, ultimately, inescapable. At some point, everyone must pass through the shadowy veil into…she did not know.

Nathan's broad, warm hand against her cheek brought her back to the realm of life. His gaze held hers. There, she saw his own sorrow at the medicine man's passing, but also the promise and fulfillment of joy. Once, she would have run from such promise. Now she ran toward it, toward him.

One consolation—He Watches Stars was the only casualty of the Earth Spirits. There were many wounded, but, to a one, each member of the tribe gloried in their injuries, proof of a battle well fought.

Nathan gave her another caress before moving toward Iron Wolf, hand extended.

“I haven't words to truly thank you,” Nathan said, gruff. “Not as you and the tribe deserve, for coming to my aid.”

The chief stared down at the offered hand before taking it. “You are our brother. We heard the sorrow in your howl, and we came. The tribe sees to its people.”

Nathan, solemn-eyed, clasped the chief's hand and seemed to grow even taller. Astrid's heart brimmed.

Though she hated to disrupt the moment of connection between Nathan and his tribe, she had to ask, “What is to become of the totems?”

Iron Wolf released his grasp of Nathan's hand. “He Watches Stars told me what must be done, should the totems be restored to us.” He glanced up at the lightening sky. “Now is the time. Come.”

 

Everyone moved through the forest, to stand upon the banks of a nearby river. It flowed, wide, quick, and clean, before branching into three directions.

Iron Wolf gripped the totems by their leather cords, holding them over the rushing water. “Great Spirit,” he intoned, “and the spirits of these sacred mountains and rivers, your children entrust their medicine to you. Take these totems, these vessels of power, and hide them from those that would corrupt their strength through greed and foolishness. This, your children humbly ask you.”

The chief cast the totems into the river. The assembled people watched silently as the totems disappeared into the roiling white water. A gasp sounded from the crowd as the hawk totem was flung up into the air by the churning foam. But the totem did not fall back into the water. Instead, it rose up into the air, as if carried by an invisible hawk, disappearing into the clouds.

All eyes turned to the two remaining totems. The wolf totem sped down one path of the river, the bear down another. Soon, they had both vanished into nature.

Iron Wolf nodded. “The Great Spirit is wise, and now none shall have knowledge of the totems.”

Quietly, the crowd returned to the encampment, everyone quiet and awed by what had transpired, even Astrid, Nathan, and Catullus.

“There will be many scars and many stories,” said Iron Wolf. “Such tales will last for generations.” He glanced at the burning mounds of the undead, now very much dead, and at three Earth Spirits, who strode forward to heft the falcon's carcass onto the growing bonfire. No one touched the bodies of Swift Cloud Woman, Staunton, Milbourne, and Halling, leaving them to scavengers.

Fitting, thought Astrid. The Heirs were nothing but carrion.

But not all of them.

Nathan followed her gaze, and a crease appeared between his dark brows. “Bracebridge escaped,” he growled.

“To England,” she answered.

Catullus said, “The man in the fire, Jonas Edgeworth. He is the leader of the Heirs now.”

“That scarred madman?” asked Astrid.

Grim, Catullus nodded. “He's been warped by rage and magic. Which makes the fact that he has the Primal Source all the more terrifying.”

“So we must leave for England,” Nathan said at once. “Right away.”

At his words, Astrid felt as if the sun rose not overhead but within her, radiant with love. He held true to his vow, that he would go where she went, that her battles were his.

Iron Wolf could not understand their conversation, since they spoke in English, so Nathan turned to the chief. “I must leave the tribe.”

“But you are the One Who Is Three,” Iron Wolf objected.

“What does that mean?” asked Astrid.

“The One Who Is Three is a bringer of peace in times of trouble. And now that the white man draws closer and closer to our territory, as the Earth Spirits hear of the harm done to other Native people, we have more need of the One Who Is Three than ever.” Iron Wolf frowned, deeply troubled.

Nathan turned to Astrid. “When the fight against the Heirs is over, will you come back with me?” He held her hands in his own, his gaze black and penetrating, full of strength and steel, yet also, beneath, revealing a core of need. She knew it cost him to expose this need, and felt humbled and joyous to be the one he trusted.

“Of course,” she answered immediately.

He actually let out a breath, as if nervous about her answer, then smiled so brilliantly she felt herself borne aloft.

But Catullus's rueful chuckle brought her back down to earth. “You are both awfully confident of our triumph against the Heirs. There is a war to be fought,” he said. “And we will be on the front lines of that war. Nothing, especially victory, is certain.”

Nathan tugged Astrid closer, then wrapped her in his lean, capable arms. His lips pressed against the top of her head. She breathed him in, the scents of blood and dirt and sweat. He was solid and real, a man who had fought through the ramparts she'd built around her heart, to bring her back to life.

“True,” she said. “But there's no excitement in certainty, and if there is anything that rebels love, it's risk.” She gazed up at Nathan. “And I am more than willing to take that risk.”

“We'll tear the world down,” Nathan rumbled. The animal shone within his eyes, wild and fierce, and the man, as well, just as ferocious.

As they came together in a heated kiss, she understood. Love had not tamed him. Nor her. They were both creatures that could never surrender. She saw in him the mirror of her soul, and knew that together they would set the world ablaze.

The sun broke over the tops of the trees, and morning began.

She really should leave.

Gemma Murphy looked around the muddy yard surrounding the trading post, hands planted on her hips. She paid no attention to the rain that dampened her hair, since she had grown used to an almost incessant drizzle for the past week. It was one of many signs that winter was fast approaching. Soon, the Northwest Territory would be blanketed with snow, making travel nearly impossible and extremely dangerous.

Though it might make for an interesting coda to the piece she had been writing, she hadn't much desire to freeze to death on her way back to Chicago. It was not as though she lacked material for her story.

Two months had seen her penning a series of articles she planned on titling “One Woman's Journey into the Heart of the Wild.” She'd watched countless fur trade transactions, lived for a spell with a trapper and his Native wife, even stayed with a local Stoney Indian tribe. In truth, she could write a whole book about her adventures here in the Canadian Rockies, but she wasn't a novelist, she was a journalist. And, by God, she would prove it to those narrow-minded lummoxes at the
Tribune.

Gemma strode through the yard, nodding her greetings to the men lingering there. She felt their eyes on her, but she was well used to the sensation. At the paper, she was one of two female writers, and out in the Northwest Territory, women were in short supply. However, the men out here in the wilderness were a good sight more respectful than the sniggering jackasses who called themselves reporters. Each time she walked through the paper's doors and into the nest of cramped desks, everyone stared at her as if she was some stranger who had wandered in off the streets. A stranger with a full bosom.

Instead of slogging through mud, she envisioned herself marching into her editor's office with a sheaf of paper under her arm. She would triumphantly slam the articles on Ludlow Hallam's desk. His pipe would drop from his mouth, scattering tobacco on the floor.

“There,” she would say as everyone gathered outside, gaping. “I am never writing another piece of tripe about gardening or spring fashions or household tips
ever again.
”

What a wonderful moment that would be. She absolutely could not wait until it happened.

So why was she lingering at the trading post, when she really should be going home? Something was keeping her there, and she found herself delaying her departure, mystified by herself.

Suddenly, she had her answer.

Three people on horseback approached the trading post. At first, they were too far away for Gemma to make out anything about them. But then they were in the yard, and something thrilled through her.

He was back.

A variety of people visited the trading post. Trappers. Miners. Naturalists. Mounties. Natives. Missionaries. Of every color and stripe. Gemma made note of every one.

Yet none of them had left such a lingering impression as he did.

Instinctively, Gemma slid behind an outbuilding and watched as the three riders dismounted. One was the capable, serious mountain woman. Another was the Native attorney, now dressed in buckskins. They both surveyed the yard, alert and aware. Their movements were perfectly attuned to the other, as though connected by, and communicating through, an unseen bond. Even vigilant, they were continuously aware of each other. It was a union so profound, Gemma's breath caught to see it.

But they did not hold her attention for long.
He
did. Granted, his clothing was not nearly as dazzling as before—he looked, in fact, grimy and threadbare. But his spectacular wardrobe had not drawn her as had his eyes. In all her life, Gemma had never seen eyes like his. Not so much the dark color, but the powerful intelligence gleaming there. The precision of mind and immeasurable insight. Truly, someone extraordinary must reside behind those eyes. Someone she desperately wanted to know.

The fact that he had a gorgeously sculpted face and body was also something of an incentive. His tall, muscular body had held her riveted, the width of his shoulders and absolute assurance in his walk, his movements.

Strange indeed. Men usually did not affect her so strongly. She'd always prided herself on her cool head, interviewing even the most handsome light-opera tenor without blushing or flirting. Something about this man, though, pierced her professionalism, reaching beneath her journalist's armor to find the woman beneath.

Gemma continued to watch him as he and his companions led their horses across the yard, straight toward where she was hiding. She could not stop watching him. And when he and his friends stopped, just around the corner from where she stood, Gemma flattened herself against the wall to listen in on their conversation.

Yes, she was eavesdropping. Rude—perhaps. But one didn't become a respected journalist by following the rules of polite society.

“Will it take long to reach England?” asked the Native man.

“Perhaps a month,” was the answer. “We'll take a stagecoach to St. Louis, then a train to NewYork, and from there, a steamer to Southampton.”

Gemma's heart knocked against the inside of her chest to hear
him
speak. That voice! Rich and low, and with the most delicious British accent. Women melted at such voices and, as much as she prided herself on being different from the average woman, in this she was no exception. Beyond its mere sound, though, was the intellect thrumming beneath. Profound. What secrets and insights might he harbor? Gemma needed to know.

“I hope that isn't too long,” said the woman.

Why? For what?

“You think the Heirs might still make use of the Primal Source?”
he
asked.

“It's entirely possible,” answered the woman. “They might not know precisely what they have, but the Primal Source is too powerful to be still for long, especially in the hands of those who would exploit it. We need to reach England.”

“And soon,” finished the Native man, as if speaking the same sentence.

“If we are too late,” the woman continued, her words perfectly transitioning from the man's, “the consequences will be disastrous.”

Every journalistic bone in Gemma's body hummed to life. She had no idea what these people were talking about—Heirs, Primal Sources, disastrous consequences—but it sounded not only fascinating, but dangerous. Precisely the sort of thing she loved to write about. If her instincts were right, and they always were, then whatever this trio was involved in was a thousand times more extraordinary than a few articles about life in the Northwest Territory.

“I'm going to check in with Sergeant Williamson,” said the Native man. “Tell him to forward Prescott's belongings on to the office in Victoria. Along with my letter of resignation.” He made a soft noise of amusement. “Something so small as that task brought me here. To you.” There was no doubt from the warmth and devotion in his voice that he was addressing the woman.

“I'm glad it did,” the woman answered, with just as much tenderness. She added, her voice more businesslike, “And I'll let the sergeant know that Edwin Mayne attacked me in my cabin but was killed by my feral dog.”

“Feral dog?” repeated the Native man, almost as if insulted.

“Vicious wolf,” amended the woman fondly.

“Better,” said the man, also affectionate.

How odd.

“I can stay with the horses,”
he
said, and Gemma heard the footsteps of the Native man and the mountain woman heading toward the Mounties' office.

Gemma debated whether to slink away or pretend to just arrive, when she heard
him
say, “Please, do come out. I hate to think of you lurking like a footpad.”

Oh, dear. Gemma never had anyone catch her before. Well, nothing to do but brazen it out. She tilted up her chin and rounded the corner, careful to keep her expression cool and assured.

Of course, seeing him up close, talking with him—his height, that voice, those eyes—had the unwonted effect of making her blush. Since she was a redhead, that meant her freckles turned crimson. Delightful.

“Unless you
are
a footpad,” he said, wry. But then he stared at her face, at her freckles, actually, and seemed to lose the thread of the conversation. They stared at each other for several long moments, Gemma deeply aware of him, and he seemingly in thrall by her. A few feet separated them, but even that felt strangely intimate, the air hot and alive.

They both blinked, collecting themselves. “I'm
not
a footpad,” she answered. “I was merely taking a…” What was that English word? “A constitutional through the post.”

“How much did you hear?” he asked, and while his tone was sharp, his eyes lingered on her lips.

Come to think of it, he had a beautiful mouth. Sensuous and full. It probably felt wonderful pressed against one's skin. Dear God,
what
was she thinking?

“Oh, nothing,” she replied. “Something about a dog.”

That seemed to placate him, though only slightly.

She stuck out her hand, knowing that, back home, a white woman shaking the hand of a Negro man was forbidden. But she was in the wilderness now, and normal rules could go rot. “I'm Gemma Murphy.”

He eyed her ungloved hand for a moment before extending his own. His hands were large, but agile, and as he clasped her hand with his, she felt a sudden current, as though a coil of light unwound inside her. His own breathing came a little quicker, his eyes widening slightly behind his spectacles.

She longed to delve deep into those eyes, learn what mysteries they held. This was a most intriguing man, and he drew her in not only for the intelligence illuminating his face, but the stories he held. What a life this man must lead! The journalist in her was unbearably captivated, as much as the woman.

“Catullus Graves,” he murmured, slightly dazed.

“You were the talk of the trading post, Mr. Graves,” she said, “not that long ago.”

“Why is that?”

“Your guide, Jourdain, came back and said you and your companion insisted on going into some dangerous territory. He thought you might be dead.” The news had unexpectedly saddened her, more than she would have anticipated about someone who was, in truth, a complete stranger.

A shadow fell across Catullus Graves's face. “I am not. But my friend is. We had to bury him in the mountains.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, sincere.

“Thank you. But he died doing what he loved, so there is some comfort in that.”

“And if you died doing what you loved,” Gemma asked, “what that might be?”

He thought about it. “I would be in my workshop. Having just invented inexhaustible and clean fuel.”

“Are you an inventor, Mr. Graves? What sort of inventions do you create? Do you have any with you now?”

“You ask an exceptional amount of questions, Miss Murphy.” But his tone wasn't shocked or reprimanding. Almost…admiring.

“A terrible habit that I cultivate tirelessly,” she answered.

He seemed a little startled by her response. But then he smiled at her.

She thought she might actually lose consciousness. Good gracious, did this Catullus Graves have a beautiful smile. Warmly, slowly unfurling. And even a bit shy.

“Catullus?”

Both Gemma and Graves turned at the sound of the mountain woman's voice. She and the Native man were striding toward them, wearing matching, wary expressions, completely in tune with each other.

Graves dropped Gemma's hand, surprising her. She hadn't realized they were still holding on to each other. “Ah,” he said, sounding a bit flustered. “Astrid, Nathan, this is Miss Gemma Murphy. She's something of a habitué of the trading post.”

“But not for long,” Gemma added. “I'll be leaving soon.”

“Going home?” asked the woman, with more than a touch of suspicion.

Gemma didn't like to outright lie, so she said, “Mm,” which was neither a confirmation nor a denial.

“Everything's settled with Sergeant Williamson,” said the Native man to Graves. “He said we can get a stagecoach at Fort Macleod.”

“Excellent,” said Graves. He turned to Gemma. “I have to go. I'm sorry.”

They were both taken aback at the sincerity in his voice.

“Maybe we'll meet again,” she said.

“Unfortunately,” he replied, “I doubt that.”

“Is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Unfortunate?”

He gazed at her, holding her with the sumptuous deep brown of his eyes. She felt herself under a minute inspection, as though he was reaching inside her and carefully, thoughtfully sorting and categorizing her into discrete elements. Like one of his inventions, perhaps. But she was more than a machine.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “It is unfortunate.”

“Catullus,” said the mountain woman.

Again, Gemma and Graves glanced over and saw the woman and Native man mounted on their horses and waiting.

“Good-bye, Miss Murphy,” said Graves. He hovered for a moment, as though trying to decide whether to shake her hand, kiss her, or just walk away. Finally, he settled on shaking her hand, though they were both a little awkward in their movements. And then he let go. With motion far more graceful than when he shook her hand, he strode away and mounted his horse.

A final glance at her, the faintest hint of puzzlement in his expression, and then he and his companions wheeled their horses around and rode away.

Gemma waited just long enough for Graves to disappear before breaking into a run. She needed a horse, a guide, and a gun. She was hunting a story, and something told her the one she now chased would be spectacular.