Beyond the Darkness (12 page)

Petra frowned. She’d never connected the story to her own life. “She was afraid to tell her father about the cruelty she suffered because he was too cowed to confront his new wife about it. Cinderella thought he might be angry at her instead.”

“Then she became a princess. I saw the cartoon movie cel at your townhouse. And another of Snow White. Both princesses. Both orphans. As was Dorothy in the
Wizard of Oz.
Do you understand why you’re drawn to them?”

She shrugged. “I like their stories. I always have.”

“That’s because you are a princess and an orphan.” Before she could object, he added, “And you’re also a healer. Those are part of your archetypes, which is what I meant when I said earlier that it was part of your psyche. We all have them, twelve archetypes who guide our journey here. There are almost ninety of them, like Victim, Queen, Knight, Avenger, Warrior.”

“I suppose you’re a warrior.”

“And the hermit.”

She picked up another knife, one with a blade half as long as a sword. “I also love the story of Aigiarm, an ancient Mongolian princess who challenged her many suitors. She put up her virginity to their horses if one could wrestle her to the ground. They say she ended up with ten thousand horses, and not one man won her virginity. I have a painting of her in my dining room.”

“That’s a good princess to focus on right now.”

He grabbed her and spun her around. The knife dropped to the floor as he slammed her against the wall, his body pressed to hers. “Always be ready, princess. The big bad wolf is on the prowl.”

It would be much more annoying if there wasn’t an erotic undertone to the way he pressed her wrists to the wall at the sides of her head, the way he looked at her as though he would eat her up.

“Maybe I’m not afraid of the big bad wolf.” She kneed him, gratified that he hadn’t been ready for that. He grunted but didn’t buckle.

“Better,” he said on a tight voice, stepping back in a slow, deliberate manner.

She grimaced and wanted to apologize, but that sounded more princessish and not warriorish, so she didn’t. “I don’t want to be ready every second.” She picked up the knife and set it back on the table, then picked up the one she’d been working with.

He walked stiffly toward the display table. “You have to be.”

“What if I accidentally stab you? Or the knife drops and spears our feet?”

“I’m watching where it goes.” He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a leather belt. “Most of my sheaths are made to be mounted horizontally on my belt. That’s why I wear loose shirts that hang over my waistline.” He wrapped the belt around her waist. “Too big. I’ll take it into Flag and have the guy who made it put in another hole. I want it to fit tight.” He surveyed what she was wearing, a form-fitting long-sleeved shirt. “Most of what I’ve seen you wear are tight shirts or sweaters, which look great but don’t do much for disguising a weapon.”

She was distracted by the feel of his hands on her waist. “What about an ankle holster? I’ve seen those in the movies.”

“Imagine that you need to get your knife quick. You have to reach down, lift your pant leg, and then extract the knife. Takes too long. But I could have the sheath made into something you could wear around your neck. Either way, babe, you gotta wear something looser. Keep the knife in the sheath and go through the motions of pulling it from either location. See which feels best.”

Baggy shirts and sweaters. Was there
no
justice in the world? On the upside, that meant she’d have to do some shopping. She watched him demonstrate pulling the knife from his belt and then beneath his shirt and copied the motions. “I think I like it around my neck.”

“That’s what we’ll do, then.”

“Thank you. For the knife.”

“It’s a gift I wish I didn’t need to give you.”

She nodded toward a display hanging on the wall. “Why are those knives displayed separately and on blue velvet?”

“Those are from my father’s collection.” He reached up and unhooked one with a wavy blade. “This was my first knife. He gave it to me when I was seven.”

She shook her head. “Seven.” The thing was a foot long.

“Right before he died. It was a big deal, that he trusted me with it. During the full moon he always took his knives outside to sanctify them. He dedicated them to the blood of the innocent. He would cut his hand to put his own blood on the blade and ask the gods to help him. That last time I saw him, we were living in DC but we came out West so my mother could visit her people. He and I stayed here for the weekend. That’s when he showed me the Blade Room and gave me my first knife. He told me it would be mine someday.

“We walked outside to a fire pit, and we went through the ceremony, sanctifying the knife he’d given me with my blood.” He was staring at his reflection in the blade, maybe standing with his father again. At seven.

She held the knife out on the palm of her hand. “I want to sanctify this knife.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you even believe in that kind of thing?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore. I just know I want to sanctify this knife.”

He met her gaze, and she saw something close to admiration in his eyes. “We’ll do it tonight, before we leave.”

She felt a strange trill go through her. At the prospect of being with Cheveyo in the moonlight, cutting her hand, or because of that admiration, she didn’t know.

A
short while later they reached Flag, parking in the historical area. It resembled an Old West type of town, with lots of shops and restaurants. Since it was a college town, she saw a lot of young people, and people her own age who enviably had nothing more to worry about than exams and studying.

Cheveyo parked along the curb in front of a bookstore. The streets were dusty and sprinkled with leaves that had fallen from the trees planted along the sidewalk.

She followed him into the leather shop next door. Cheveyo obviously knew the Native American man behind the counter well, as they exchanged warm greetings and a handshake. Maybe he was from his mother’s tribe. Or, thinking of the many sheaths Cheveyo had, he was probably just a good customer.

“Petra, this is Vince Blackhawk, one of the best leathersmiths in the world. This is an associate of mine, Petra Aruda.”

She nodded, and he gave her a slight bow. As Cheveyo described what he needed done, she looked around at the variety of leather items, from art to belts to boots. Associate, huh?

She breathed in the smell of leather. “Is it wrong to love the scent of dead cow?”

In a soft, reverent voice, Vince said, “Each cow that is used for my leather is honored in death and thanked for its contribution to my welfare, and to the enjoyment of those who buy my wares.”

“Uh . . . that’s great. Really.”

Vince crooked a finger as tanned as his leather, beckoning her closer. When she hesitated, he said, “I need to measure you for length of cord.”

“Oh.” She released a breath and walked over.

After measuring the cord, Vince told them it would be ready in a short while.

They walked passed art galleries and shops that boasted turquoise, pottery, and silver jewelry. Lots of gorgeous Native American artwork. She kept pausing, taking in all the pretties. Gifts? Would Eric or Lucas like a silver pendant? Funny, she didn’t feel that driving need to buy things for everyone. She looked at Cheveyo, who was watching her with amusement.

“Does your mom have a shop like this?” she asked.

“No, she works from a studio I had built for her at her home on the rez. Her work is in many of these shops, though.”

“That must make you proud.” She could tell that it did. She paused outside a clothing boutique. “Can I pop into this shop for a few minutes? I need to get some baggy shirts.” It wasn’t baggy shirts that had snagged her attention, but the cutest leatheresque fringe vest with turquoise beading in the window. She desperately needed to buy something fun.

Pope pointed to a shop three spaces down. “I am going into the pastry store. Perhaps it is a similar draw as yours I experience when I see éclairs in the window.”

Cheveyo rolled his eyes. “Make it quick,” he said, though she knew he didn’t want either of them to wander off.

“I know, ten minutes,” she said with a smile, breaking down the last remnant of his resistance, at least by the way his own mouth curved. “You can come in with me.”

He leaned against a heavy wooden beam. “I’ll wait here, thank you.”

She walked in, dazzled by the upscale boutique and all of the pretty outfits. She sought out the rack with the vests and snagged one in her size. She wasn’t as thin as the mannequin in the window, but she bet she’d rock the vest anyway. Turning to another rack, she picked out a couple of tops that fit the baggy bill. When she turned to ask the clerk where to try them on, she stopped, mouth half open. The woman behind the counter had the same expression, only hers was tinged with shame.

Suza the seductress cleaning lady’s dark eyebrows furrowed. “Oh, shoot, you’re not hunting me down, are you? I’m telling you, I never laid a finger on that man.”

Petra stifled a smile. “I believe you.”

Suza studied her. “Yeah, you’re cool.” She splayed her hand on her chest. “Whew. I know women can get crazy jealous, especially about a man as good-looking as that one. I should have known better. Not only is he hotter than the Sonoran Desert in July, I had a feeling his heart was elsewhere.”

“We’re not . . . you know, involved. I’ve only met him twice before now.” She wasn’t giving permission for the woman to continue to try to seduce him, was she? Hopefully not.

Suza was frowning in puzzlement. “That can’t be true, not with what I picked up. You’re very special to him.”

Petra blinked at that. “How do you know that?”

She fiddled with her long black braid. “I felt it when he looked at you, right after I . . . well, you know. He was checking your reaction. And I just now realized the pictures in the china cabinet drawer, they’re of you. He’s known you for a long time, ’cause some of them are when you were younger.”

“He has pictures . . . of me?”

“A bunch. Found them when I was polishing the silverware. I did wonder if you were his girl, but then, there were no signs of a woman living in that beautiful house, so I thought maybe you’d died or something. That would explain his sadness. Whether you’re involved or not, that man adores you.” Her gaze dropped to the hangers she was holding. “You want to try those on?”

“Oh. Yes.”

The vest didn’t seem all that exciting compared to what Suza had just told her. “You work here, too?”

“I own this place, opened it a couple of months ago. It took every penny I had, so I do cleaning on the side for extra cash.”

Petra looked around the store, now seeing it as a woman’s dream. “I like it. I hope you succeed beyond your wildest dreams.”

“Thanks, sweetie. See, I don’t do everything on impulse, though that part of me does get me into trouble sometimes. I need to tamp it down, for sure.” Suza led her toward dressing rooms with wooden doors painted in southwestern colors in abstract designs.

Petra paused before going in the room. “You feel people’s feelings?”

Suza was unlocking one of the rooms. “As does my mother and grandmother. A gift and a curse,” she added with a wry smile.

“Don’t I know it.” At Suza’s surprised expression, Petra said, “I mean, I’ve heard that psychic abilities can be a double-edged sword.”

“Yes, but it’s clued me in on three cheating bastards and one lying girlfriend.” She opened the door for her and gave her a wry smile. “Once I got past being the Queen of Denial.”

“I can see how that would come in handy.” She liked Suza. Liked her even better because she hadn’t slept with Cheveyo. She was a striking woman, with stormy-sky eyes, creamy skin, and hair that reminded her of Cheveyo’s pitch-black jag fur.

Petra focused on trying on the clothing, the vest first. It showed off her cleavage and still maintained modesty, and the fringe danced with her movements. She was so buying it. She tried on the other shirts, shrugged, and put them in the keeper pile, too. No fun buying clothing she wasn’t in love with.

A couple minutes later she took the clothing to the counter. Earrings that matched the turquoise beads caught her eye, and she held them up and surveyed her reflection in the oval mirror.

“All set?” Suza asked.

Petra nodded, and when given the total, handed her cash. “I don’t think it’s weird that you pick up people’s feelings. You’re an empathic.”

“Yeah, that’s what they say. Well, thanks for that. I’m not ashamed of it, but some people . . .” She waved a hand that sported two silver and turquoise rings. Her gaze went beyond Petra. Outside, Pope had joined Cheveyo, offering him something in the white bag as he ate an éclair. “What’s his story?”

“Pope?” At Suza’s nod, Petra had to stifle a laugh at the thought of trying to explain his story.

Suza’s smile lit her face, her gaze still on him as she wrapped up her purchases like a gift. “He’s got wild eyes. Is he involved with someone?”

“Ah, no. Hasn’t ever been, actually. His job keeps him pretty busy.”