The dense forest surrounding the clearing mercifully restrained the wind, and the sun felt blessedly warm. Lily untied the bindings of her parka as White Hawk removed his own burdens.
At his insistence, she'd put on heavy socks and hiking boots. They pinched miserably, so she bent to loosen the laces. When she was more comfortable, she swiveled around to look toward the canyon, wanting to avoid the memories revived by seeing Morgan's cabin.
Although she'd often tried, she hadn't forgotten this place, and knew very well what she'd find if she roamed the western rim. If she went deep inside the forest several miles to the south, she'd come across her old den. Were her tapestries and lush rugs still there, she wondered, or had they been taken by hikers or eaten by rodents? She preferred occupying her mind with this question to remembering that visiting her den would require passing the Clearing of the Black Hands. The site of the Indians' ancient rituals, it was also the place where she'd lost her powers, and the memory made her shiver. To avoid her distasteful feelings, she turned her attention to the rim.
Not far to their north was a path leading to the bottom of Ebony Canyon, which she assumed was the one they'd take. Less than two miles down, eight thousand feet at the most. A short distance really, especially compared to the hike they'd undertaken to get to the top. On flat land such a trek could be easily completed in about an hour. But the floor of the canyon was almost straight down, and the twists and turns would make the descent so arduous she doubted they'd get to the bottom much before dark.
When she first came to Arizona the contrast between the cool green mountain peaks and the hot shallow desert valleys amazed her. It wasn't uncommon to find people in one part of the state shoveling snow while those in lower elevations sunbathed, and here in Ebony Canyon the contrast was extreme.
A gust of wind swept up a cluster of fallen leaves, spiraling them in the air not far from where Lily sat, as if reminding her that winter was coming to the rim. She hugged her parka closer, knowing it would soon become a burden. The temperature would rise at least five degrees for every thousand feet they descended. At the bottom they'd find the tail end of summer. Ninety degrees — if they were lucky — but possibly warmer.
"How are you feeling?"
Lily jerked her head in White Hawk's direction and felt an unpleasant crick in the cold stiff muscles of her neck. "Are you asking from curiosity, or do you really want to know?"
"It's still a long hike down," he replied evenly. "Your injuries were severe. I don't relish the idea of having to carry you."
"Nor do I. Don't concern yourself. I'm fine."
Drawn to the charred skeleton that had once housed her former lover, Lily barely registered his curt nod.
"What happened to the cabin?"
"I burned it at Morgan's request."
"You were friends then, you and he?"
"Yes . . ." He paused, and she felt him adding fuel to his hatred. "And Dana was also my friend."
"I see."
Her eyes were still riveted on the cabin and she pried them away in time to see White Hawk walking toward her. He handed her a leaf-wrapped loaf and several dark sticks of dried meat along with a small leather flask.
"More of the tonic," he informed her. "Drink it."
"I'm not taking another drop of that vile stuff."
"Drink it," he repeated in a gentler tone. "I have a pear in my sack that will wash away the aftertaste."
She fixed him with an obstinate look.
"I promise."
Lily met his gaze. Although the gash on her leg hadn't hurt through the difficult hike upward, and her wrist didn't pain her, she felt light-headed. From the altitude, she'd told herself, unwilling to believe her once invulnerable body felt any after effects from Sebastian's attack. But even sitting wasn't restoring her energy the way it should. The medicine had helped before . . .
"One more dose can't hurt." She downed it swiftly.
White Hawk promptly produced the pear, and she bit into it eagerly, mildly surprised to learn he'd been telling the truth. She found she was hungrier than she'd thought, and she gobbled up the fruit, then began unwrapping the loaf.
Giving it a suspicious look, she tore off a small piece and popped it into her mouth. Grainy with cornmeal, it had a slightly sweet flavor that was delicious. Soon it was gone. All that remained were the slices of meat jerky.
She lifted one to her lips, feeling a wave of revulsion. She didn't understand it, but meat did this to her every time. Lowering the slice, she placed it beside the others. Some animal would eat them later. Better it than her.
White Hawk hadn't noticed. He'd arranged his satchel into a roll under his head and now reclined on the ground, basking in the afternoon sun.
The silence felt oppressive. Occasionally a jay cawed from the forest, and if she cared to pay attention Lily knew she'd hear the scurrying of mice in the drying grasses surrounding the remains of Morgan's cabin. Rain had not graced these lands in quite some time, she realized, and the very dryness made the hulk of the blackened building all the more ominous.
Yealanay cawfanay nayfanay may.
Yealanay cawfanay nayfanay may.
The opening words of the Shadow of Venus came unbidden to Lily's mind, bringing a chill. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to banish the refrain. But it continued, and she tore her eyes from the burned-out structure, believing it had stirred the memory.
The act didn't help.
Yealanay cawfanay nayfanay may.
Yealanay cawfanay nayfanay may.
Again without willing it, she translated the words into English: Spirits of light, hear our plea. How could such a ceremony have worked its magic on her? Sebastian taught that one never pleaded with the spirits, one commanded them. Yet Dana Gibb's words, meant for Morgan Wilder, not for her, had somehow stripped her of the werewolf gift.
She lowered her head to her knees, willing her mind to be still. Finally the repetitive verse ceased, but her soul still felt battered. For Morgan's sake, she'd been robbed of her superhuman powers. For Morgan's sake, she'd killed Jorje and violated Lupine Law.
Sebastian's angry face appeared in her mind as it had just days before in her luxurious bathroom. By his order, she'd followed Morgan to this canyon. She'd begged Sebastian not to make her go, but he had remained immovable in his demands.
Now he blamed her for Jorje's death. The wolfling had been about to break the Law himself! If he hadn't tried to kill Morgan, he'd be alive today. How dare Sebastian put this all on her head?
Yes, she'd done it, but she'd already suffered for her crime. Now she belonged to no one, belonged nowhere. What good was a werewolf queen who had no werewolf powers?
The jay cried out again and Lily looked up, then dropped her gaze to the meat strips on the ground beside her. Warmed by their time in the sun, they gleamed with heavy grease.
Lily's stomach roiled and she snatched up the pieces, hurling them in the direction of the canyon. What foolishness, she thought, as she watched them flying through the air. What was done was done. She couldn't undo it.
She got to her feet and looked over at White Hawk, who was still relaxing and clearly unprepared to leave.
"Come on," she said. "I'm ready to travel again."
Chapter Six
Ravenheart had chosen a particularly rigorous vision quest, foregoing even water as he stoically carried Stone People from the surrounding area up the steep slopes of the mesa to the sweat lodge. He stacked the small boulders beside the deep pit outside the door to lodge, where he would later build a fire and heat the rocks until they glowed like coals.
He had stopped sweating long ago, and he planned to wait for the hottest part of the day to build the fire. Strenuous testing of the body sharpened the mind and brought the visions faster.
This sweat ceremony would bring his answers, he felt sure. He'd have a sign so magnificent even Star Dancer could not refute it. He had no doubt it would come. He was a truebom, with unbroken lineage, and his power was
now arising, preparing him for the years of rulership ahead.
For hours he'd collected rocks, more than he needed, stacking them high beside the deep hole in the ground. Father Sun blazed down on his head, scorching his face and his almost naked limbs. He'd soon shed even the loincloth and entered the lodge where the spirits would visit. His guides would come, unveiling their plan for how he'd assume his rightful place.
Around him, the Four Leggeds rustled, the Winged Ones roosted in the scant shade of rain-starved chaparral, not even wasting energy to chirp. But he could endure the heat, the cloying dampness that refused to return to Sister Cloud and drop its moisture on the earth.
Soon the sun hurled its greatest heat, and Ravenheart knew the time had come. He gathered rotting corpses of fallen cacti, picked up broken twigs and crackling dried grasses, again performing the tedious task without thought to his own discomfort.
Later he bent beside the firepit and took a box of matches from a small sack belted around his waist. Lost in his own heady arrogance, and momentarily forgetting that matches were not the way of the original Dawn People whose traditions he'd so sanctimoniously sworn to restore, he struck the match against a rock. Dropping it, he lit another, and another.
The fuel exploded in flames, spewing sparks that drifted to his hairless skin, singeing it. Of this he took no heed. Instead he moved closer, allowing the searing heat to purify him, wipe out all thoughts of weakness and bodily needs.
Lifting his hands to Grandfather Sky, staring boldly into the scorching eye of Father Sun, he stood silhouetted on the mesa against the spitting fire. A triumphant laugh rose from his throat and he allowed it to escape, sending cactus wren fluttering in alarm from their shady roosts.
The Spirits would bless him this time. And woe to any who might stand in his way.
* * *
Lily leaned into the crook of a paloverde tree and gingerly peeled her hiking boot away from her shin. She could hardly breathe, the air was so thick and heavy, yet the parched landscape through which they were traveling begged for water. Even the towering, long-fingered cacti looked shriveled and limp amid the barren rocks. Her fears had been realized. Just hours before, she'd been shivering in the mountain air and now she was sweltering. Ninety degrees? Yes. And ninety percent humidity with it, or so it seemed.
Looking behind her, she tilted back her head and gazed up at the rim of the canyon, taking in the once-sharp edges that had now blurred into muted shades of red, gold, gray, and green. They must be close to the bottom. Surely they were. They'd been hiking down for eons.
At a grueling pace too, and the minute White Hawk suggested they take a rest at this sparsely shaded spot, Lily had dropped the hiking pack off her back without reply.
White Hawk had also foregone words, and now he knelt beside a narrow stream, filling lightweight gourds with water. Having changed into loose-fitting lightweight pants and a shapeless hemp shirt lightly decorated with beadwork, he now looked more like the Indian he was than the traveling businessman he'd appeared to be on the train.
A surge of resentment flashed through Lily, pro-yoked, she supposed, by the moment of abject gratitude she'd experienced when he'd said they could stop. Except for the occasional touch of a hand to steady her when she found it hard to keep her footing, he'd ignored her throughout the entire slippery descent. Gratitude was the last thing he deserved.
What right did he have to drag her here? She held no fond memories of Ebony Canyon, had certainly never entertained a desire to return.
She was sunburned and aching. Every nerve and muscle of her body groaned from hunger and fatigue. And her leg hurt like hell. Not from the rapidly fading welt on her thigh left by Sebastian's attack, but from the damned boots her captor had made her wear.
Peering into the gap between her boot and shin, she examined an angry blister.
White Hawk returned from the river with the gourds slung over his shoulder. He hung them from the tree against which Lily rested, but she paid him no attention as she gently prodded the tender skin beneath the tongue of her boot.
"No wonder you've blistered," he said unsympathetically. "Those are a poor excuse for hiking shoes."
"You're the one who packed them!" she countered. "Couldn't you see they're fashion boots? While they're all the rage in the city, I'm sure Doris never dreamed I'd put them to this kind of use when she ordered them for me." She looked up at him crossly. "Do you by any chance have more of those Band-Aids in your bag?"
"Who's Doris?" White Hawk bent down to search through his deerskin satchel.
"My mother," she replied, unlacing the boot.
"You call your mother by her first name?"
"Not to her face." She paused in the unlacing and looked up again.
"Why do you ask? As I remember, your people often call their parents by first name."
He shrugged, lifted out the box, then moved toward her. "They aren't very warm people are they?"
"Who aren't?"
"Your parents."
Lily let out a strangled laugh. "You haven't said anything to me but 'eat' and 'walk' since we started. Now you're suddenly interested in my parents?"
For a second, his face had softened, but now his mouth tightened into a hard line. Bending to help her unlace the boot, he coldly said, "Not really."
Lily swatted his hands. "I don't want your help!"
Although the line of his lips grew even harder, he ignored the slap and continued unlacing her boot.
"Why do you care if I'm blistered anyway?"
"I don't." Slipping off her boot, he met her eyes coldly, then shimmied her sock to her ankle. "But it's a long journey. You'll never make it if this gets any worse."
Dropping to his knees, he dragged his satchel closer and took out a small ceramic bottle and a leather packet. Lily continued grumbling, but watched with interest as he opened the packet, took out an irregular circle-shaped leaf, then untied a strip around the bottle, releasing a stopper that reminded Lily of an animal's bladder. After pouring the murky liquid onto the leaf, he applied it to her shin.
When the sharp menthol odor drifted up to her nose, Lily stopped complaining. She recognized the smell from the shower, when she'd stripped the poultice off her miraculously healed wounds.
It was then she noticed his gentle touch. His hands, now exceedingly warm, rested over the blistered area, siphoning away the sting. His face no longer looked harsh. He closed his eyes languidly, speaking in a language Lily didn't understand, but recognized as belonging to his people. White Hawk, the shaman, had replaced White Hawk, the warrior.
"What are you saying?" she asked.
He shook his head, a mute request for silence, and Lily obeyed. This man might be her captor, but he still possessed a healing touch. Leaning back against the tree branch, she closed her eyes.
"You can start complaining again whenever you like," he said after a time. Lily lifted her lids to see him plastering a Band-Aid over the poultice.
"Herbs and adhesive bandages," she remarked. "What century are you from?"
"The People use what works." He climbed to his feet and picked up a sleeping bag, which he began unrolling. "I took a pair of sandals from your closet." He inclined his head in the direction of the backpack. "We'll stay here until the worst of the heat passes, so you might as well put them on and give that leg a rest."
Lily nodded. She'd transferred the sandals from the Hermes suitcase into the backpack herself before they left the meager shelter of the rattle-trap car. When she'd finished, White Hawk had tossed the exquisite bag aside, murmuring something about "leaving gifts by the side of the road." Although she knew she had bigger challenges ahead than protecting her belongings, and actually cared little if sparrows made a nest inside the damned thing, she'd asserted herself anyway, needing some illusion that she still had control.
As was growing common, her protest went unheeded. But she'd won one battle that day. As they descended deeper into the bowels of the canyon, the heat became insufferable.
White Hawk discarded their parkas and blankets, then directed her to change into shorts. She'd eagerly complied. The jeans had been sticking to her skin, making the steep trail even harder to handle. But then he insisted she leave the jeans with the other items, and she'd adamantly refused to give up her last warm piece of clothing. Who knew if she might get an opportunity to escape?
Now she shoved the still-damp jeans aside, searching for the sandals, feeling a delicious relief as she slipped out of the heavy boots. Life did hold its simple pleasures, she thought cynically, wandering over to one of the sleeping bags White Hawk had unfurled on the ground. She sat down, casting a sharp eye about for ants or scorpions.
White Hawk handed her another leaf-wrapped loaf. "Eat again. We'll sleep until the heat passes, but the night journey will still be arduous."
She unwrapped the loaf hastily, remembering its pleasing flavor. As she was chewing, White Hawk placed several strips of jerky in her empty hand.
"I don't care much for meat," she said, attempting to give them back.
His sharp look conveyed immense disbelief. "Eat it anyway."
She had every intention of defying him, but when she finished the loaf, her stomach still felt empty. Torn between her desire for autonomy and her hunger, she eventually gave in to the latter. The strip was firm and leathery, but she gnawed at it greedily, especially appreciating the salty taste that seemed to ease the aches in her muscles. When the first one was gone, she attacked another.
"Sienna Doe becomes White Wolf Woman," White Hawk said.
"What?"
"Nothing. A legend." Then he lay down on his bed roll, folded his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes.
When Lily finished her last strip of jerky, she did the same, troubled that she couldn't get White Hawk's remark out of her mind.
* * *
Ravenheart could barely hold up his head. In the corner of the lodge, inside another pit, the Stone People gave off their intense heat but he refused to succumb to the lure of the cooler floor. He dropped another ladleful of water on the fiery rocks. Steam filled the lodge. He lost track of time and tried not to think of how much more comfortable he'd be on the floor.
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