"White Hawk," she said weakly, certain she hadn't died. Even the Devil wouldn't be so cruel as to deliver her into this man's hands.
She saw she was in a kind of box. White Hawk was outlined in light, and his wide shoulders blocked everything behind him. Her body felt leaden, and painful throbs came from her wrist and her leg. She wanted to seek the source of the pain but her captor was already forcing another sip of the fluid past her lips.
She swallowed involuntarily. "This tastes like hell. What is it?"
"A tonic." He tilted the cup again, silencing her for the moment. "It rebuilds the blood and will make you strong for traveling."
Downing the dose quickly, she raised her hand against the next one. "Where are we?"
White Hawk hesitated. When the silence continued, she repeated her question.
"On a train to Arizona. I'm taking you back to Ebony Mountain."
"Nooo!" Lily levered up on her elbows. Her head instantly spun. Spots danced before her face. "Sebastian . . ."
". . . cannot help you. Don't even hope for it."
"You fool . . ." Too tired to manage more than a whisper, she made one last effort to warn him. She supposed she owed him that at least. "You'll only draw more danger . . . to your people."
He stared at her a moment with narrowed eyes, then moved the cup back to her lips. "Take another sip."
He didn't understand and she was too weak to make him. Nor did she truly care that much. After taking her last dose of bitter medicine, she collapsed onto the bed and returned to her dreams.
She lost all track of where she was. Between her sojourns to the past, White Hawk poured the bitter brew down her throat. On a few occasions he urged her to eat a bite of pear or peach, once a banana. Then Lily would drift off again, remembering . . .
The day of Gwen's tearful departure finally woke her. Such a small transgression, really, buying Lily yet another dress that her mother thought was too frilly and flashy. But Doris had fired her. Later, when Lily stared up at Gwen in the luggage-cluttered entry foyer and listened to her teary-eyed explanation of why they wouldn't be together anymore, she only knew she was losing the one person who'd ever made her feel wanted.
Although her parents often told Lily she was too big for tantrums, she'd thrown one anyway. It had done no good. Gwen was gone for good. The hard-faced Mrs. Preston arrived the next day.
Lily had been five, and the morning Gwen left was the last time she'd ever been held with love.
Now feeling the pain as acutely as she had that day, she lurched upright, a sob caught in her throat.
"Are you in pain?"
"What?" Lily asked, startled by the unexpected voice.
"I asked if you were in pain."
On a bench opposite her bunk sat White Hawk, holding a newspaper in his hand. His loathing tone added to her misery, and when he got up and reached for her hand, she flinched. "Don't!" She shoved her arm beneath her covers.
"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.
Chapter Four
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 latecome
rs, 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."
"Quite able."
Although Lily wasn't truly hungry, the prospect of escaping close quarters with him appealed to her very much. She stood up, waiting somewhat impatiently as Tony took a belt holding a sheathed knife from the closet. He buckled the belt around his waist, slipped on a gray wool blazer, then pulled out Lily's linen jacket and handed it to her.
"Put this on. They keep the cars very cold with their artificial air, and you'll be susceptible to a chill until your blood rebuilds."
"How thoughtful," she replied acidly, shrugging into the jacket as she followed him out the door.
They walked single file through the narrow aisles of the Pullman car and Lily couldn't help notice how well White Hawk blended into his surroundings. Not only was he wearing black-dyed denims, a tan shirt of soft cotton, and the blazer, but he'd knotted his hair at the nape of his neck, concealing its length.
Anyone encountering them would assume they were a pair of business people in comfortable traveling attire. In the absence of the leather leggings and fur cape he'd usually worn in the canyon, she wondered if she would even have recognized him if they passed in the halls.
But wasn't that the Dawn People's way? To blend with their environment, much like chameleons. It had made them difficult quarry in Ebony Canyon, which was why she and Jorje so frequently turned to outside hikers to feed the hunger.
An oddly distressing shiver shot up her spine. An aftermath of her injuries, she told herself, deciding to concentrate on the food she might order for dinner. A Caesar salad, perhaps.
The dining car had muted lights and candles, white tablecloths, fresh rosebuds in crystal vases. A romantic setting. Unless, of course, you were with your future executioner.
A livened maitre d' showed them to a window table for two, and when the waiter appeared shortly after that Lily requested the salad.
Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set Page 30