Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set (41 page)

"The wounds may need more tending."

"I'm fine! I had a bad dream, that's all."

"I see." His warm golden eyes held more ice than
Sebastian's cool blue ones. "I imagine your kind have many."

"Yes." She arched one of her brows and returned
his cold stare. "A favorite of mine is about plucking the feathers off a
large white bird. One by one. A hawk, I believe."

A muscle twitched in his jaw, giving her a moment's
satisfaction that was quickly dimmed by the realization she was trapped in this
small room with him. Glancing around, she saw they were in a compartment of a
train.

"How did I get here?" she asked in a more civil
tone.

"I brought you."

"Can you even imagine it? I actually figured that part
out myself. How did you do it?"

"It's unimportant, but if you must know I put you in a
wheelchair and claimed you were very ill." He smiled grimly. "The
porters were very helpful."

He returned to the bench, picked up the newspaper and
resumed reading.

Lily combed her fingers through her tangled hair, which was
twisted uncomfortably around her body. She felt stronger. Maybe strong enough
to stand. She tentatively swung her feet to the floor.

Her blanket fell away, revealing the thin cotton camisole
and thong panties she'd been wearing when Sebastian showed up. She looked at
her legs, which dangled over the edge of her berth, bare to the waist. The toes
of one foot almost touched White Hawk's rough leather boots, and when he saw
how close their feet were, he drew his away.

"Did you enjoy the peep show?" Lily asked.

He gave her a scathing look, then inclined his head toward a
small open closet. "Your clothing."

She saw her jacket on a hanger. Underneath was one of her
Hermes suitcases. "You think of everything, don't you?"

     
As though she
hadn't spoken, he gestured to a narrow door next to the divan. "Change in
there. It has a shower."

Pulling the blanket free from the berth, Lily wrapped it
around her and got up to collect her things. The faint wobble of the floor made
her steps unsteady, and as she neared him, White Hawk pulled in his other foot.
She glanced down at it pointedly, gathered the blanket closer, then picked up
the suitcase and entered the small bathroom.

Inside, she leaned against the closed door and stared down
at her bandaged wrist. Her hand moved easily, with minimal discomfort.
Cautiously, she peeled the edge of the bandage free, finding a leaf plastered
onto the skin. She pulled that off too, then gaped in surprise.

She knew what damage a slashing werewolf claw inflicted, and
the wound should still have been red and raw. So why did only a thin, healing
crust remain? Lifting the bandage from the gash in her leg, she found only a
thick, dark scab. Dear God, she'd seen that wound herself, knew it had gone to
the bone.

How many days had she been unconscious?

Only White Hawk could answer that, but she didn't care to
talk to him at the moment. Dismissing her questions, she stripped off both
bandages and stepped into the shower, turning on the water full force. She took
her time showering, scrubbing off every last remnant of dried blood as if it
were toxic. When she got out, she toweled off the water, then went to face
herself in the mirror. She still felt like death and wondered if she looked
like it too.

Her image rippled unappealingly in the cheap mirror, and the
florescent light made a grating hum. From beneath her feet came the annoying
clack-a-clack-clack of the train speeding along the rails. The swaying motion
she'd found so soothing in the berth was now disorientating and made her
slightly dizzy.

If not for the hostile man outside, she would have bled to
death. Thanks to him, she remained in this world of sights, sounds, and senses,
although the ones she now faced were none too pleasing.

She sank onto the lid of the toilet until the dizziness
passed, then bent to get a comb from her suitcase. White Hawk had forgotten
nothing. As she combed her tangled hair, she wondered why he'd gone to so much
trouble. Surely he was planning to kill her. Why hadn't he simply let her die
by Sebastian's hand?

Shrugging with more bravado than she really felt, she
decided he must want to avenge his wife by administering the final blow
himself.

What was he waiting for?

Shrugging again, Lily applied herself to unsnarling a
particularly difficult tangle. White Hawk's reasons meant nothing to her, she
told herself. If vengeance was what he sought, he'd find it very hard to come
by.

Arlan Ravenheart walked softly to avoid stirring the heavy
dust on the ground in the village center. Although the air was thick with
monsoon dampness, the Great Spirit had seen fit to delay rain. Even now lines
of people in the fields passed huge cauldrons of water from the dwindling river
to maintain their food supply.

Taking in the hogans, wickiups, and occasional teepees that
haphazardly occupied the space surrounding the central longhouse, Ravenheart
frowned. It was nothing short of blasphemy to let those who hadn't originally
come from Quakahla to contaminate the tribe with their customs. Instead of
properly rejecting the foreign ways of the latecomers, councils through the
years had embraced them and integrated their customs until the traditions of
the first Dawn People were all but lost. Even now, the High Shaman was carrying
this odious practice into their true home inside Quakahla.

When he became High Shaman he'd put an end to it. The People
dwelled in pueblos, not in unsightly structures of stick, day, and animal skin.
His first act would be to burn every wickiup, hogan, and teepee — even the
longhouse — and declare pueblos the only fit dwellings.

The thought of all those messy shelters going up in flames
brought a pleased smile to his lips. He banished it quickly, well aware it
would be unwise to reveal his ambitions so early. Although even now Star Dancer
was supervising the construction of a new longhouse, and was undeserving of
such respect from him, he would still meet her with such dignified humility she
couldn't help but realize that his right to be the next High Shaman far
surpassed White Hawk's. She'd invite him to join the council and begin teaching
him her secrets.

Ravenheart quickened his step and entered a narrow canyon to
the left of the cliff that held the pueblos. Traveling over a path littered
with wobbling rocks, he reached a cave that emitted a glow bright enough to be
seen from outside, even though the sun blazed above his head.

Ravenheart stepped inside the cave. The walls and ceiling
gleamed with reflected light from the pulsing oval on the far back wall. The
gate to Quakahla. Soon it would flare, inviting him to pass through to the
dimension on the other side. The flash came. Squelching a familiar reluctance, he
moved forward. The promise of returning home filled him with immense joy, but
he hated this gate, hated the purity of its brilliance, hated the uncertainty
about his worthiness that always arose in that moment of passing.

But less than three phases of the moon remained—nineteen
days by the latecomers' counting. Then the Dawn People would file through this
gate, one by one, and he'd never have to endure this uncertainty again.

With a prayer to the spirits for protection, he crossed
quickly, fighting back overwhelming memories of his self-serving moments, his
acts of cruelty, his lack of concern for the weak and sick. Once on the other
side, the memories vanished, and he renewed his conviction that he was meant to
rule here.

Several hundred yards from the gate stood Star Dancer, her
back to him as she directed the workers constructing the new longhouse.

"Ravenheart . . ." She turned in his direction,
although he hadn't made a sound. She always knew when another approached, a
skill he hadn't yet developed, and he felt a surge of envy.

"You wish to speak, warrior?" A mild breeze blew
at her rich chestnut hair and pushed her broomstick skirt around her strong,
firm body. Such a display of health did not please Ravenheart. A long life for
her only delayed his ascension in the ranks.

He hurried forward, wanting none of the others to hear his
words. "Star Dancer," he said in an oily tone when he reached her
side. "I'm still dismayed you did not select me to retrieve the
she-wolf."

"So you have often said." She raised her eyebrows
gently. "You have a new complaint?"

"A lack of understanding. Haven't I pursued my training
rigorously? Although I'm not yet twenty-one winters, I am already a skilled
warrior. I'm mastering thought-forms and soon shall conquer shapeshifting."

"And what of healing? How comes the healing?"

Ravenheart hesitated. Despite his best attempts, his
healings had been weak and ineffectual. If not for White Hawk's intervention,
old Frieda would have succumbed to the fever that spring, and he knew Star Dancer
was aware of this.

"I still work on perfecting my skills." He bowed
his head in false humility. "But I haven't come to talk of that."

"Then speak your truth."

"White Hawk's heart is poisoned toward the she-wolf,
while mine is not. Since you didn't see fit to send me for her, I ask to be her
advocate before the Tribunal."

Star Dancer glanced toward the busy workers, letting her
eyes rest a moment on the fields beyond. "I've given little thought to her
defense, Ravenheart. Quakahla has taken most of my attention. Isn't it
magnificent?"

Indeed it was, and he could hardly wait to live there.
Golden fields of wheat danced in the breeze. Beyond them, dark stalks of corn
stood against the pure blue horizon like sentinels, guarding the endless herd
of buffalo that grazed on the plains. The rushing of a thick and swollen river
somewhere in the distance created a melody that added to the perfection.

Quakahla. It would be good to rule in Quakahla, far from the
encroaching eyes of the white man. He was the rightful leader, a trueborn of
the Dawn People, with a lineage he could trace back to the beginning. But this
latecomer standing in front of him had somehow risen to claim their highest
title. Still vital and in the prime of life, she'd be in his way for some time
to come.

He could handle that, if not for White Hawk. Ravenheart had
many winters ahead of him. But with another shaman in his way . . . Bringing
the she-wolf to her rightful retribution would do much to further his cause.

"What of my request, Riva?"

She turned displeased eyes toward him. None except a peer
addressed a shaman by given name.

"Star Dancer," he hastily recanted, cursing her
for noticing his misstep. "I apologize for my breech."

 
"Don't think of
it again," Star Dancer replied, her eyes filling with compassion.
"Now about your request . . ."

Ravenheart's chest leaped in anticipation.

"The defense of the she-wolf must be administered with
a loving heart," she said, "not for the gain of personal power.
Before you are fit for such an undertaking, you must first conquer your
pride."

Unnerved by the answer, he felt a subtle jerk in his jaw. He
knew she saw it. Did she miss nothing? "Consider taking a vision quest to
ponder these matters, Ravenheart . I know you hoped for a different answer, but
I can't give it to you, not at this time."

"When does the Tribunal convene?"

"I don't know. I wait for the omen." She looked
over her shoulder at two men by the longhouse who were heatedly disagreeing
over the placement of a board. Although obviously feeling needed there, she
returned her attention to him. "Do you wish to take the vision
quest?"

"If that's what I need to prepare for the Tribunal,
I'll do it. We'll speak again, after my return."

"Good. Go now and walk in beauty."

Then she turned toward the quarreling men, Ravenheart's
concerns dismissed. He watched her bitterly as she smoothly eased the tension
between the workers, knowing she would choose the favored one as surely as
Quetzalcoatl brought the sun each morning. As matters stood, Ravenheart would be
a feeble, useless old man before his days as High Shaman arrived.

No! He wouldn't let that happen.

This thought burning in his mind, he again surveyed the
fertile grounds of Quakahla. This was his kingdom, he vowed, and though he had
no vision of how it might come about, when the dark moon passed and the pulsing
thruway closed forever, he'd make sure White Hawk remained on the other side.

"How long have we been on the train?" Lily asked,
closing the bathroom door behind her.

Reading the newspaper as if he hadn't seen one in years,
White Hawk didn't give her as much as a glance. "Since Sunday
morning."

"And today is . . .
 
?"

He looked up. "Tuesday evening."

She gazed in confusion at her bandages.

Tony sensed her unspoken question. "The medicine of the
Dawn People is powerful. I used all of it at my disposal. We'll reach Flagstaff
in the morning and you need to be strong enough to–"

"Flagstaff?" She fixed him with a look of scorn.
"You really think I'm going back to the mountain with you?"

"You will." He turned his eyes to the paper.
"By all that is sacred, you will."

Ignoring the repulsed expression her nearness brought to his
face, she sat down beside him. "You'll only bring more werewolves to Ebony
Canyon."

"If you think you're frightening me, think again."

"Frighten a great warrior such as yourself? It never
crossed my mind. But not all your people are as powerful as you."

With a heavy sigh, he slapped the paper and rose to his
feet. "It's dinnertime and you haven't had a full meal for days. Since
you're well enough to be so sarcastic, I assume you're able to walk to the
dining car."