Under His Skin (4 page)

“Why don’t you go check your own chest and leave me alone?”

Brec hated the sharp tone of his words, but he couldn’t help it. Rejection from a woman got under his skin more than anything else and with Ana’s abrupt dismissal bringing Katie’s abandonment back to the forefront of his mind, he just didn’t have the patience to deal with his older brother’s chastisement.

He knelt down on the cold sand and raised his hand to the chest’s lock. His fingertips brushed the rusted metal and suddenly all other emotions vanished from his mind on a flood of pure panic. The rusted lock was gone. Broken metal poked at his skin as he groped at where the lock should have been
,
lifting the latch so he could raise the lid. He nearly swallowed his tongue as he dug around the chest’s interior, searching in vain for what he already knew was gone. The sound of his knuckles slamming against the sides of the empty chest tightened his lungs until he almost couldn’t draw enough breath to shout for his brother.

“Micah,” he said hoarsely.

“What?” His brother’s voice was thick with concern as he walked up to Micah, already holding his seal-skin in preparation for the return to the sea.

“My skin,” Brec choked, his world growing darker around the edges. “It’s gone.”

Ana’s hands shook as she slammed the door to her cabin closed. She threw the keys to her snowmobile across the room, not caring when they slid across the dining room table and clattered to the floor. Rushing past the dining room, she dashed up the stairs to her bedroom. The bag of herbs she’d bought from Mrs. Downing’s shop fell from her fingers and she turned her full attention to the heavy treasure slung over her shoulder.

Barely a wisp of air passed her lips as she carefully pulled the large seal-skin from over her shoulder and held it up in front of her. It was beautiful.
Silvery grey with a spattering of black spots and a slightly lighter shade of gray where his throat would be.
Just looking at the skin seemed to bring the sound of rushing waves licking against the shore to her ears and the scent of salty air to her nose.

It’s not the same, but it would be better than this.
She looked down at her human body. There’d been a time when she’d liked her human form.
A time when she’d been all long slender lines and sleek, toned muscle.
That had been two years ago.
Before it had become permanent.
Before she’d lost the freedom of running through the snow, the cold air sliding through her fur like a lover’s caress.
Now there was a hateful layer of fat over the toned muscle she’d once enjoyed. Her hips were too round, her chest too plump. She looked . . . human.

She shook her head and strode around her queen-sized bed covered in its simple white sheets to the full length mirror that stood against one wall. The seal-skin seemed to grow heavier in her hands as she held it against her body. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

It won’t work. It never works.

She clenched her teeth and straightened her spine as if defying the image in the mirror.
It will work. It has to work.
Disgust roiled up through her body. She was sick of seeing pale peach skin and blonde hair that only looked silver to those humans who didn’t know any better. For two years this human body had stared at her when she looked in the mirror and every day that image angered her more and more. Two legs didn’t let you run like the wind. Rosy flesh didn’t keep you warm in a snowstorm. Humans seemed born to die.

Laying the fur down on the bed with tender care, she kept her eyes on the smooth pelt as she began to disrobe. Technically, she didn’t have to take her clothes off to put the skin on. A true skin would close over her human body just as easily clothed as naked. Still, she didn’t want to take the chance that any little detail like that may keep the magic from working. This wasn’t her skin, after all.

The chilly cabin air assaulted her afresh with the removal of each item until she stood shivering in nothing but the prison her human skin had become. She picked up the fur and closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of sea and seal. With bated breath she swung the fur over her shoulders, wrapping herself in its warmth as she waited . . .

Nothing.

Her lower lip trembled and she bit down on it as tears burned her eyes. Tension coiled inside her as she refused to give up, refused to open her eyes. It would work this time. It had to work this time. Even a seal-skin was better than nothing. She could live in the sea. Swimming through the water would be closer to running across a frozen meadow than anything this human body was capable of.

Any minute now the skin would come alive and tighten around her body, shifting and writhing until it closed around her like a cocoon and transformed her into something more than human. The threat of tears burned behind her eyes.
Any minute now.

A fine tremble started in her shoulders, working its way down her body to her knees. It wasn’t working.
Another failure.
The world spun around her as her legs gave out, sending her crashing to the floor. She curled up into a ball as her hope shattered and giant sobs racked her body. The weight of the seal-skin mocked her—reminding her that there was only one skin that would give her the freedom she wanted so badly. And it was gone forever.

“I want my life back,” she sobbed to the empty room. She gripped the fur in her fist, jerking on it as if she could force it to work. “I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t.” She squeezed her eyes shut, sending a fresh wave of hot tears down her cheeks. Her voice seemed to grow smaller inside her, so that the next words left her mouth in a whisper. “I’m not a human. I’m not a human.” She raised her eyes briefly to the ceiling. “I want my fur back.”

No deity appeared before her, no mysterious voice echoed in her head. As they had for the past two years, her prayers hung in the air, unheard by anyone but her. She dropped her head to the floor.

For a while she just
lie
there, soaking the wooden boards with her pain. She had no reason to get up yet. There were no friends to call, no family to visit. Her parents had died before she was born and thanks to her ridiculous inheritance, she had no job to worry about. For all anyone cared, she could lie on this floor and cry until her puny human body froze to death. They wouldn’t even find her corpse until Mrs. Downing noticed the drop in her income statements and came looking for her.

The minutes crawled by. The clock on her dresser broke the silence with its rhythmic ticks.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Every second came and went and nothing changed. Nothing had changed for two years.

Grim determination burned in her belly. The energy slowly, but surely, built up in her muscles until she pushed herself off the floor. With her head still hanging down, she concentrated on all the pain, misery, and hopelessness and she shoved it down into the dark depths of her soul. She’d wallowed in it enough for now. It was time to put it away.

She got up. She always got up. After every failure, after every defeat, she always got back up and tried again. The seal-skin slid off her shoulders as she stood and straightened her spine, staring down her reflection in the mirror. It would change soon. She would make it change.

Emotions tried to escape their bonds, but she beat them back into submission. The image of an iron safe hovered in her mind and she shoved all the feelings inside and locked the door. A cold numbness settled over her and suddenly she could breathe again.

Leaving the worthless seal-skin on the floor, she picked up the bag of herbs and carried them to the small dresser that sat against her bedroom wall opposite the mirror. The shelf above the dresser sagged with the weight of over twenty texts. She ran her fingers over the care worn spines until she found the one she needed.

“This will work,” she said to herself. She tried to force confidence into her words. She had to believe it would work, had to really
really
believe. Surely the power of positive thinking wasn’t just something stupid people said when they were too weak to actually work for their goals?

“Witch hazel, slippery elm, and
kukui
nut oil,” she murmured, reading the ingredients for what had to be the thousandth healing spell she’d done in the last couple years. “Put the slippery elm in a bowl of
kukui
nut oil and let the infusion stand for twenty-four hours.”

“Fuck!” she cursed, smacking the pages of the book with her hand. Her palm stung, the blood in her veins made sluggish by the cold air so that the pain seemed to lock up her muscles. She waved it in the air absently.
“A whole day to sit and wait.
Fabulous.”

Grumbling to herself and trying to hold the impending sense of despair at bay, she left her bedroom and clambered down the stairs. Hanging a right on the ground floor, she walked through the dining room and curved back into the kitchen. The sounds of cupboard doors slamming filled the air as she searched for the ingredients she needed. The sharp violent sounds took the edge off her frustration and eased some of the tension from her shoulders. Armed with the herbs she needed, she went back to her room.

The paper of the bag from Mrs. Downing’s shop crackled as she removed the
kukui
nut oil along with oak bark, sea buckthorn oil, and hyssop. She set the
kukui
nut oil beside the small bowl she’d retrieved from the kitchen and set the other herbs aside. After pouring the oil into the bowl, she pressed the elm bark into the liquid until most of it was covered. She put the lid on the small bowl and straightened her spine. With any luck, she’d be back in her real skin by sunset tomorrow.

My real skin.

Her gaze slowly slid from the healing tincture on her dresser to the open doorway leading to the stairs. Soft white fur danced in front of her eyes like a ghost, calling to her, reminding her of what she’d once had. She could almost feel the silky strands now . . .

As if in a dream, she walked out the door and down the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs she turned, immediately heading down the second short staircase to the first floor of her split level cabin. Ignoring the quaint room with its large couch and widescreen television, she turned again to face another door.

As she turned the knob and pulled the door open, the smell of the basement wafted over her. The scent of fresh earth caressed her senses. Underneath it all she could almost hear something calling to her, weak and dying as it was.
Her old life.
Hysteria wrapped its arms around her and her throat constricted with unshed tears.

The stairs passed quickly under her feet as she followed the imaginary sounds. She stared at the dirt floor as she began to dig. In her mind’s eye her hands weren’t human hands. They were paws. Small white paws tipped with black claws that flew through the dirt like it was nothing. Paws could dig for hours and never tire, never hurt. Claws didn’t break off and bleed like human fingernails.

Cursing at the pain, she kept going nonetheless. There
was
only a few inches of dirt between her and the trapdoor. The fact that it took her as long as it did to uncover it spoke of how weak her human form was. Another reminder of how much she’d lost. Anger tightened her mouth. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

The trapdoor creaked as she pulled it open to reveal the ladder below. With practiced ease, she lowered herself onto the wooden rungs and climbed down through the narrow space before dropping into the dark alcove underneath. She felt around for the flameless lantern that she always left at the bottom of the ladder. A minute later the lantern’s gentle faux flame cast its electric glow over the room.

The iron chest in her mind hovered clear and sharp as she steadily shoved all her emotions inside. By the time she turned to face the room, she had the composure of cold stone. A slight frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. She should have brought the seal-skin down here. Her gaze rested on the pile of furs on the alcove’s floor. Seal-skins, wolf pelts, and even a brown bear’s hide all lay like the ghosts of her victims. She’d tried on every one and every one had laid on her like so much dead weight.
Reminders of her failure.

Images flared up of the skins’ victims. Other
skinwalkers
who had gone for their skin one day only to find it was gone, vanished without a trace.
Victims.

Guilt started to gnaw at her, but Ana shoved it away. She would return them soon. As soon as she got her fur back, when she could be certain she wouldn’t suddenly find a spell that would make one of these skins work for her. Shrieks of despair echoed in her head as the sight of all those skins reminded her of the people they belonged to. She cried out and nearly dropped the lantern as she grasped her head in her hands. Scrambling for the image of the iron chest, she desperately tried to force the guilt from eating away her already fraying sanity.