How Not to Date a Skunk (2 page)

She would apologize and explain about falling asleep because of the meds and witnessing the dance. Then she would offer to delete the photos, though she hoped they would let at least her keep them for her private collection. She had shot some of the best photographs in her life in those few stolen moments, and it would pain her heart to have to destroy them.

Yes, that was what she was going to do.

But when she slid back the curtain that separated the annex from the rest of the tent, she froze.

It wasn’t because both of the warriors who had danced were exotically good looking. It wasn’t because their hair was as white as snow, though the elder looked to be no more than thirty and the younger in his early twenties. It wasn’t even because both men were now standing bare-assed naked before both elders, and the carpet and the drapes definitely matched.

What had her pausing and her eyes growing as wide as dinner plates was the fact that, as she watched, the eldest shuddered, whipped his hair free of the top knot it was held in, and turned into a huge-ass skunk.

She had no idea how long she stood there, mouth open like a fool, before higher brain functions started to kick in.

But it wasn’t until one of the elders, the female, began to clip the skunk’s hair, the male elder began to draw the skunk’s blood, and the younger warrior began to do something odd behind that massive tail that she made a noise.

And before she could even think of moving, the younger was in her face and snarling, his grip painful on her arm, and he began to speak in a language she recognized as Ojibwe.

She had been a professional photographer specializing in Great Plains Indians for so long she could tell the difference between several of the languages by sound, though she’d never found anyone to teach her to speak. But she didn’t have to be fluent to understand that that the young, white-haired man was pissed. Her first instinct was to jerk away from him and start fighting, but two things stopped her.

One, she was the one who had interfered. She knew enough about sacred ceremonies to know she had just offered up some major trespass. And two, the hot, white-haired man had just turned into a hawking mother-loving huge skunk!

She didn’t know where to look. The elders didn’t seem concerned — stone-faced was too weak a word to show their total lack of emotion. These were people she would never want to play poker with. And the younger white-haired warrior looked ready to kill.

“Would it help if I apologize?” She cut the younger off mid-yell, and everyone in the room stared at her with blank faces.

Everyone but the skunk.

The huge animal stomped its feet twice, and everyone in the room suddenly turned back to him. As Bilana stared, somewhere in between horror, bemusement, and confusion, the huge animal seemed to hop over to her, putting itself between her and the rest of the people in the room, shoving the younger warrior aside.

He had protected her, but she hoped to heaven above that he wouldn’t get it into his head to spray. She had been almost sprayed as a child, and the very sight of the huge skunk, protective as he was, brought back nightmares of running through the woods of Virginia trying to get away.

The skunk gave another stomp, and the elders rushed back to finish collecting hair and blood. The younger warrior still stared at her in anger, but moved behind the skunk and pressed a huge glass jar to something under his tail.

The skunk grunted, and a clear fluid filled the jar, releasing the same enticing smell she’d scented earlier when the warrior was dancing. She opened her mouth to speak again, but a glare from one solid black skunk eye had her shutting her trap and standing meekly as the bodily fluid collection was completed.

When the young warrior stepped back with his jar of collected fluid, the skunk shuddered once more and, faster than her eye could follow, there stood the white-haired warrior.

And despite the danger she knew herself to be in, she couldn’t help but examine his body from top to bottom… from an artistic point of view, of course.

“I hope you are enjoying the view.”

His voice, when he spoke, made her jump in shock. It was deep and gravelly, yet he had a lilting way of speaking that she found charming.

Still, she was speechless. What did one actually say to a giant skunk?

“Chaska,” the younger growled. “We have to silence her.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Chaska!”

“I claim her.”

Then there was silence.

“But… but she is not of the people!”

“But she is here.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“She is here,” the female elder responded to the irate younger warrior. “Within the circle.”

“I avoided the circle,” Bilana felt the need to add. “I didn’t know if it was blessed or not. I know that is… bad…” She trailed off as the younger warrior’s glare got stronger.

“You have desecrated a sacred ceremony.” He growled, stepping toward her, but paused when the elder warrior — Chaska — stepped into his path.

“If she was not meant to be here, she would not be here,” the female elder repeated, amusement in her tone.

“And I have chosen her as my own,” Chaska repeated. “There is no trespass.”

“You were to choose one of the appropriate women presented,” the angry one all but shouted in Chaska’s face. “You fought me for the honor to choose.”

“And I won the right to choose.” Chaska still sounded patient and still stood protectively before Bilana, so she was really rooting for the guy. After all, he was saving her from being silenced.

Silenced. The many and varied meanings of that term rolled through her head. It could mean something as simple as having to sign a gag order or as bad as having her tongue cut out. Or even worse… would an Indian make someone swim with the fishes?

This was South Dakota! Was there any water deep enough for them to hide her body?

“He chose me!” Bilana repeated, just in case there was any doubt. And to ensure there wasn’t, she reached out and gripped the arm of the naked, white-haired skunk man who did not stink.

“I have chosen.”

His word seemed to be final as the younger warrior stepped back, the female elder chuckled softly, and the male elder finally made a move.

“Then it is decided.” His voice was even deeper that Chaska’s, she realized, though she could not see any resemblance even in his wrinkled visage.

The younger groused a bit, but finally turned and walked away, the elders following. This left Bilana in the room with the naked skunk-man. She didn’t know if she should be happy or scared.

“So…”

“Where are you parked?” Chaska asked.

“Huh?”

“Where are you parked? It is time we left before someone else comes up with an excuse to stop this.”

“What exactly is this?” she asked. “I mean, the whole naked after you turned into a skunk thing. I have to ask ’cause I seriously have to know before I freak the hell out.”

His eyes glittered at her for a moment, then he spun around and walked over to a low table she had not noticed before. There he picked up a pair of dark-colored jeans.

She couldn’t help but peek as he bent to pull the clothing up corded calves and rock-hard thighs. It looked like her skunk-man worked out a lot. But then she had seen him dance on his hands.

He reached under the table to pull out a pair of the most beautiful beaded leather moccasins she had ever seen, and that included some of the most elaborate face dance regalia. He easily balanced on one foot and then the other, tugging the calf-high boots on. He bent over to adjust the fit, and Bilana had to acknowledge that he had a fine ass, the squeezable soft kind that always begged for a pinch.

While she was contemplating giving in to the call of Father Goose, he slipped on a tank top and turned to face her. “Ready?”

“For answers? Yes.”

“It’s a long story.” He smiled at her, showing curiously sharp teeth. “It spans generations, and I don’t think here is the place to tell it. After all, I was invited here. I am not a member of this particular tribe, though I am family. I think it best we leave before we make ourselves unwelcome.”

“I’m the one who is not appropriate,” she pointed out, but turned to exit the area the way she came in.

Once inside the main tent, she carefully avoided the ceremonial circle, stepping carefully around it as she made her way toward the exit, Chaska following.

“This had better be good,” she muttered, and he grinned in return.

“It’s a story to die for,” he promised her.

Funny — his wording didn’t make her feel any better.

She vaguely remembered the trip back to her hotel. She was still hazy from the pain meds, and that delicious, musky scent that covered him seemed to intensify in her truck. She made the trip on autopilot, and could barely remember parking outside of the small townhouse she’d rented on the hotel property.

But she snapped to when she felt the door to the driver’s side open, and a set of curious brown eyes peered at her. “Are you okay?” Chaska asked.

“You did change into a large skunk?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Then I guess I’m fine.”

He stepped back and watched her as she fumbled with the keys in the ignition and finally reached around to the back seat to pull out her camera case. As soon as it was in her hand, Chaska removed the bag from her grip and held his arm out for her to grasp.

She stared at it, mute, for a moment before she reached out and rested her palm on his forearm. It was like touching corded steel. She gripped his arm, and there was almost no give at all, almost no play in the muscles. He was like a solid wall. But then, he would be if he spent a lot of time dancing around on his hands.

She looked up into his face and felt a wave of embarrassment as she noted his arched eyebrow.

“Sorry,” she managed to say in an even tone. “I guess I’m not used to having, you know, gentlemanly behavior directed at me.”

“And that is a shame, indeed.” He looked almost angry for a second, then his expression cleared. “Someone with such a gentle spirit should be cherished.”

And what could she say to that? Bilana always had a hard time accepting compliments, probably because she had gotten so few of them during her formative years. She was a geek and a nerd and proud of it. Her interest in photography and folklore from an early age left her an outcast. The abrasive attitude she developed helped protect her and stood her in good stead in a profession dominated by men. She was just lucky enough to get a university grant to photograph the pow-wows and the Native American lifestyle that she loved, recording the changes in the closed group dynamic that had developed over the years.

And now she was standing with a man who had to be someone straight out of a myth. She was fascinated and a little bit intimidated, but oddly enough, not afraid. She was more afraid of the younger fighter and the elders than she was of this white-haired man.

“So…” He took a step back, drawing her from her truck like a lord assisting a lady from a carriage. “Are we going in?”

“Um, yeah.” She shook her head, clearing it of the past and her private thoughts about herself, preparing to fill it with the awe and mystery that seemed to make up this man. She allowed him to pull her from the truck and stepped gingerly onto the ground.

Evenings in South Dakota were almost as hot as the day. The air was dry, and she blessed the lack of humidity that would have strangled her lungs otherwise. She looked around at the hotel grounds and sighed deeply. Why did South Dakota have to be so fucked up? The weather sucked.

“Over there.” She pointed toward the townhouse she rented, noting someone had left a paper on the front stoop.

The walk there was silent, Chaska saying nothing but acting the gentleman, placing her away from the street side of the sidewalk during their brief sojourn.

She was still silent when she slid the key in the lock and ushered him inside.

“So.” She sighed. “Wanna let me in on all of this?” She motioned him to follow her into the living area that took up most of the first floor.

“All of this?” He placed her camera case on the long coffee table in front of the couch and stepped back. He gestured for her to take a seat and she smiled and did so, thinking that at least he wouldn’t silence her without warning her first.

“So?” she asked again, as she watched him settle beside her.

“So, I’m a skunk.”

She blinked at him before reaching for her camera case. “Tell me something I don’t know!” She flipped her viewfinder on and began to scroll through the photos. She flipped the camera around and stuck the image of him growling at the younger warrior in his face.

“It’s a nice one. Can I get a copy?”

“Explain!”

Chaska chuckled and leaned forward, his long braid sliding forward like a snake.

“How much do you know about skin walkers?”

“Huh?”

“Skin walkers.”

“My major was Native culture and mythology. I know what a skin walker is.”

“Then you know the story of Aniwye.”

“Aniwye? Didn’t he hunt men down and spray them to death?” Even as she said the words, her eyes grew round in her face and she shrank back into the couch.

“In some legends, true.” He rolled his eyes. “But in the Dakota legends, Aniwye was a brutal killer. The actual story is a little different.”

“As spoken by you.”

“As spoken by my whole tribe, my elders, and most importantly, my ancestors.”

“I know people have just begun to write the legends down over the past thirty years —”

“Yes. We didn’t have a written language until about thirty years ago. But trust me, the oral tradition is accurate in some things. I think I am proof enough.”

As he spoke, he lifted his right hand, and she watched in amazement as fur began to sprout thickly and his fingers bent over until his whole hand resembled a

furry, black paw. Before she could actually begin her freak out, the fur reversed, sinking back into his skin, and once again, she was staring at a well-formed, slim, masculine hand.

“You —” she stammered, “y-you need a manicure.” And that sounded so stupid to her own ears that she slammed the palm of her hand on her forehead and shook her head in shame.