Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set

by Flynn, Connie

  "I'm not sure I get the point, Shala."

  The girl's eyes widened in obvious surprise. "But it's so plain. All is as Quetzalcoatl makes it, Lily. When White Wolf Woman again becomes Sienna Doe, she forgets that just a short time before she'd wanted meat, not grass. That is the way of the universe."

  Is it? Lily thought. "Maybe for the beasts, but people don't forget so easily."

  "Star Dancer says we can if we choose to."

  Lily wanted to ask if Shala had made the choice to forgive her mother's killer. She'd made a big mistake by lying when the subject first came up. But what else could she have done? She hadn't wanted to hurt the girl. That the lie would only add to Shala's pain if she ever learned the truth was something Lily preferred not to think about.

  She hopped down from the tree branch and offered Shala her hand. "Teach me more about these marvelous plants of yours, sweetheart. I never get tired of them."

  * * *

  After another stolen hour with Lily, Shala went off to her lessons. At loose ends, Lily wandered around the village, wondering what to do with the rest of her day.

  As usual, food was simmering over the fires, with the tenders periodically stoking the coals. Meals didn't seem to be an event here. People simply wandered in and out, taking food whenever they were hungry, although greater numbers gathered at midday and again at dusk. Right now, the stone benches were empty. Men and women toiled in the fields. She heard the giggles of children coming from the longhouse, joined by the richer, deeper laughter of Star Dancer. More laughter and excited voices came from the narrow canyon entrance to the left of the pueblos. For some reason all these high spirits made Lily imps keenly aware of her own isolation.

  At first she hadn't been bothered much by the Dawn People's disregard. If she'd given this any thought at all, she would have realized the treatment was so reminiscent of her childhood it seemed normal. But at the moment, her brush with loneliness made her long for Shala's company again.

  The girl had so much warmth, yet she was unusually perceptive and confident for one so young. Clearly the product of gentle guidance and loving attention, she had everything Lily once wished for and never had.

  Except a mother . . .

  Despite the heat, Lily shivered. Turning her attention to the mouth of the canyon, she saw a woman come out carrying a basket overflowing with speckled ears of corn. Lily glanced at the fields where the rows of stalks were wilting, harvested long ago. So where had the woman found the corn?

  Badly needing diversion, she strolled toward the canyon and looked in, finding a barren place filled with sharp amber-hued rocks that didn't invite one to walk on them. No one was there, and she concluded there must be an exit on the other end. Sensing the others wouldn't want her there, she glanced over her shoulder. No one had noticed her presence, so she moved quickly, hopping from one wobbly flat-topped stone to another until she saw a flash come from the mouth of a cave. Peering inside, she saw that the far wall pulsed with brilliance. Strangely, she could stare right into it without squinting.

  What was this place? A site for sacred ceremonies? A burial ground?

  She started to step in, but was stopped by a familiar shrill cry. Above her circled the large white raptor, nearly invisible against the harsh glare of the summer sky. Tony's messenger. Or so she'd assumed. Every time it showed up, he wasn't very far behind. Annoyed, she looked away and started into the cave.

  "What do you think you're doing, wolf woman?"

  Lily spun. Dark sunken eyes that were almost lost in folds of thick wrinkles stared at her menacingly, and Lily clearly read the woman's murderous thoughts.

  "Who wants to know?" she asked haughtily.

  "Frieda, mother and grandmother of warriors and shamans, and she demands an answer." The old woman weakly lifted a walking stick, slamming it down more from the weight of her teetering body than from the force she applied. How this fragile creature had navigated the rocks was beyond Lily's comprehension.

  "I was just curious." Lily plastered a smile on her face. Although she recognized the old woman as the one who'd spit at her the night she'd arrived in the village, this wasn't a formidable foe and she was unwilling to berate her.

  "Curious, eh? I thought curiosity was for the cat. You of the wolf lack the intelligence. Sleeping, quarreling, and eating, that is your way."

  Images of a vital square-shouldered woman standing over her with a spear came from Frieda's mind. Probably a younger version of herself, Lily thought, able to do what the old woman no longer could.

  But Frieda glared up at her as though she was unaware of this fact. Bending farther forward, leaning heavily on the walking stick, she curled her upper lip, revealing a mouth with very few teeth.

  "See these," she croaked, tapping the black and yellow stubs. "My daughters now mince my food as I once did for them. Yet I would rather live with these than have the sharp, dripping fangs of your kind, or even those smooth pearls you show with your false smile."

  Frieda suddenly reminded Lily of Mrs. Preston, and her polite smile vanished. "Why are you telling me this?"

  "Two sons and a granddaughter I lost to werewolves. Retribution now comes. The Tribunal will prevail. Your time to walk this earth is ending, wolf woman." With great effort, Frieda straightened her bent back and again fixed her dark eyes on Lily. "Now leave my sight. You are not fit to be at the doors of Quakahla."

  A small old woman, capable of harming no one, and yet the fury in the quaking voice shook Lily deeply. Struggling to maintain her dignity, she turned and hurried back up the narrow canyon, stumbling several times along the way. By the time she reemerged into the village, she'd almost convinced herself these people were more dangerous than Sebastian and all his underlings put together.

  As she made the long climb to her quarters, the raptor cried out again. Lily had the spooky feeling it was laughing at her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lily's skin crawled, and she felt suddenly dirtier than she'd ever felt before. Determined to wipe the encounter with the vile old woman from her mind, she hurried to her quarters, collected her bathing supplies, then climbed back down the ladder.

  Some of the People were gathering about the fires now, while others still worked in the field, and with everyone thus occupied, she hoped to find the grotto empty.

  It was, filling her with more relief than she cared to admit. Stripping off her clothes, she waded into the cool water.

  For a time, she simply floated, allowing the buoyancy to rock away her troubles. Frogs croaked and crickets chirped. Pigeons cooed in the trees above. Occasionally she heard the hammering of a woodpecker. The place was a virtual paradise, and despite the open disdain of her jailers, she felt safe here.

  What if she just stayed?

  The idea startled her so badly she treaded water again. Reaching for the sweet-smelling goo Shala had given her to use as a shampoo, she rubbed some into her scalp and began sudsing her hair. Those disdainful people, she reminded herself, would eventually kill her. And if they didn't . . . ?

  Well, Sebastian still lurked somewhere out there. Although she hadn't sensed him nearby since she and White Hawk hiked into the canyon, she knew he hadn't given up. Then, of course, there was Arlan Ravenheart, the would-be shaman who thought he could tame the werewolf power. Her best bet was to dupe him into believing she could deliver what he wanted, let him lead her through the maze.

  Then what? Run from Sebastian the rest of her life?

  None of these possible futures appealed to her and she decided to forget about them for the moment. She was alone now in a lovely grotto and wanted to enjoy this rare opportunity while it lasted. She drifted onto her back again, allowing the lapping water to rinse her hair, and enjoyed the slippery feel of Ivory against her skin as she soaped her body.

  Wanting to take in the sky, she opened her eyes. Fluffy white clouds drifted lazily above. One looked like a giraffe. Another reminded her of a budding rose. And that one looked like a bird floating on wind currents.<
br />
  Lily blinked hard. It was a bird! The hawk. How she despised that creature. Whenever it showed up something unpleasant happened, usually appearing in the form of the shaman who hated her so much.

  Her tranquil mood shattered, she sudsed up, wanting to make short work of the rest of her bath. The bar slid from her hand and she turned to retrieve it.

  That's when she saw him.

  "How long have you been standing there?" she asked irritably, ducking for the cover of the water. "I got the impression this area was off limits to men."

  "It is." White Hawk looked slightly dazed.

  Lily stretched her mind to discern his mood and was puzzled by what she felt.

  Desire?

  No, she must be misreading him. This man despised her. She read it in his thoughts, if only hazily, and saw it in his subtle gestures, his facial expressions. "Then what are you doing here?"

  "I'm leaving the village for a while, maybe a week, even longer." He crouched down next to the water, eyes downcast, uncharacteristically tense, and drew idle lines in the silt. "I'd like you to avoid Shala while I'm gone."

  Of course. She should have known he'd ask again. It was a small thing, really, or at least it would seem so to him. She supposed she could tell him what he wanted to hear, but it would only be another lie.

  "I can't." She said, her voice thickening.

  "Why is that?"

  "Because I . . . I'm– I just like being with her, okay?"

  He lifted his head, leveling his golden eyes at her, which were now dark with concern. "No, Lily, it isn't okay. This is a dangerous game you're playing, and Shala's the one who'll get hurt."

  As she listened to his plea, Lily realized that this man stood for something. Yes, she'd felt loathing seeping from him, and during their journey she knew he'd been sorely tempted to use that sharp blade of his to wreak vengeance for his wife's murder. But his reverence for justice had prevailed, and he'd delivered her unharmed into Star Dancer's hands.

  Even now, as she saw hope flickering on his features at her extended silence, she felt his struggle. They were alone. He could easily dispose of her and tell the others she'd escaped. And yet he didn't. His principals meant more to him than personal gratification.

  She'd stood for something once—Lupine Law. She'd believed in the Law, which had provided the rigid rules of conduct she'd longed for as a human child. They were simple, straightforward rules Werewolves respected each other's territories, didn't harm another's underlings, and honored one's betters. Werewolves didn't kill each other. . . .

  In one moment of rage and despair, she'd violated all she held dear.

  Even now, knowing White Hawk was right, she couldn't make the sacrifice needed to protect Shala. Her loneliness ran too deep and the girl was the only person who cared at all for her.

  "I can't," she repeated.

  His hope vanished, immediately replaced by outrage. "You killed her mother, Lily!" he growled, springing to his feet. "Have you no pity?"

  A gasp followed his question, then a small voice said, "Lily? But . . . but, you said . . ."

  White Hawk's face sagged as he slowly turned toward his daughter. Lily dropped her gaze, saw her own agonized eyes staring back . . . watery . . . rippling with regret.

  "You heard?" White Hawk asked dully, although the air was heavy with the answer.

  Shala bobbed her head. Tears slid slowly over her lower lids and streaked down her face.

  "Shala . . ." Lily swam toward the shore, reaching out, longing to say it wasn't true, wanting only to see Shala's eyes again sparkling with happiness.

  "No!" Shala whirled and flung her arms around White Hawk's waist, clutching hard. Her small shoulders shuddered, and Lily knew she was crying even though she smothered her sobs. White Hawk put his large hand on her back, turned, and guided her away.

  As they moved out of sight, Lily heard him say, "I didn't want you to find out this way."

  "It's okay, Papa." Shala's voice sounded thin and teary. "I won't go near her anymore."

  Lily pressed her hands against her heart. Over half a year ago, by her own unwise actions, she'd destroyed everything she valued. Then this gentle light named Shala had appeared in her life. But all too briefly, because now she was also gone.

  Yes, Lily had stood for something once. But the golden-eyed man who'd pleaded for his daughter's happiness still did.

  And now Lily had destroyed that happiness too.

  * * *

  Tony approached the square cinder-block house his family had lived in since the government tore down their wickiup. The white Buick was parked crosswise in the dirt yard, a jack sitting beside one of its flat tires. Two equally large cars in even worse disrepair sat farther off.

  Moving between rolling tumbleweeds, Tony tightened his collar against the chill wind. He’d sent the hawk to roost in a tree outside his father's bedroom and knew what he would find. Delmar's bed was surrounded by angel candles, crystals, and smudge pots. A crucifix graced one wall, the suffering Jesus gazing down on Delmar's wasted form. A dream catcher hung above the bed.

  Although his father had long ago converted to Christianity, in his last hours he'd permitted Uncle Joseph to waft smoldering rosemary and chant Apache prayers for Delmar's place in the afterlife.

  On the cement slab in front of the house, two boys and a girl raced radio-controlled cars. After speeding the distance, the cars careened onto the dirt, and the children ran to turn them over and begin the race again.

  Watching them made Tony think of Shala. He'd left her with Star Dancer, and even though she had stopped crying long before he departed the prior evening, he knew her spirit ached.

  If he'd kept his peace Shala would never have found out. No one else in the village would have told her—interference was not The People's way. But Lily should have avoided her like he'd asked. The recollection of her refusal strengthened his malice. She had killed the child's mother; now she'd broken her heart.

  "Hey, cousin Tony," called out one of the boys, who was inspecting the underside of his vehicle for damage.

  "Tony!" cried the other two children.

  "Hey, kids," he called in return.

  By the time he reached the patio a new race had started, and Tony watched until the little cars flew off the slab again.

  "I won!" cried the oldest boy, scampering to get his car.

  "If you slow them down, you can race them in a circle and they won't fall into the dirt."

  The boy glanced up from his shiny blue racer. "We know."

  Then he fell to his knees to line his car beside the others. Tony stood and watched them for a while, recognizing he'd once again butted in when events were progressing as they should.

  When the race ended, the older boy said, "Mom and Dad are inside with Grandfather."

  "Thanks." Tony opened the door and went in. The television was on with the volume turned down. Toys covered the carpet. An open, half-full Fritos bag lay on the sofa.

  He found his aunt in the kitchen briskly flattening dough between her hands. The sizzle and steam of bubbling fry bread came from the stove. A plate on the table held finished pieces. "I'm making it for Delmar," she said, turning to give him a smile. "It's his favorite."

  She lifted a browned pastry from the fryer, put it on paper towels to drain, then dropped the next one into the fat. Tony reached out toward the table.

  "You mind?"

  Jenna shook her head. "Your father won't eat much anyway."

  Tony ripped off a chunk of the bread. Nobody made fry bread like his Aunt Jenna and he savored the flavor. Soon his hawk spirit told him Joseph had finished the prayer. He finished the last of the bread, then went into the bedroom.

  His uncle looked up from the sleeping man in the bed. "Delmar has been asking for you."

  Joseph took a smudge pot and a bird wing to a battered chest and set them down, then led Tony as far from the bed as possible.

  "He refuses to see the white doctors anymore or even take their medicine,
" he said in a hushed tone.

  "Is your medicine helping?"

  "He sleeps, but the poison remains in his blood." Joseph leaned toward Tony's ear, lowering his voice further. "You must convince him he needs the white medicine. He'll listen to you."

  "You want me to contradict his will?"

  Joseph's eyes suddenly blazed. "He's your father, Tony! You nearly killed him when you abandoned your career and went off to join that wild tribe! Make up for it now by using your shaman's power!"

  "Isn't that a contradiction, Uncle, using shaman medicine to convince him to submit to the white doctors?"

  "We've done enough dancing and chanting. It isn't doing any good."

  Tony saw his uncle's lined, worried face and felt his pain over the impending loss of his brother—and his disillusionment. "Let me sit with him. If his will to live is strong and this is not his time, he'll survive the crisis. But if his soul yearns to cross over, not you or I or the white medicine can save him. Don't you understand that?"

  Joseph looked away. "Call me if there's a change." He shuffled to the door and closed it softly behind him.

  Tony crossed the room art sat in the chair beside the bed. Delmar snored softly and peacefully in the aftermath of Joseph's ritual, and Tony picked up his bony hand. When his father turned sixty that spring, Tony requested leave from the Dawn People to attend the celebration. Even then he'd felt this frailness. Years of hard living—too much rum and beer, too many cigarettes, fatty foods, and sugar—had brought Delmar to this place where liver damage and diabetes were slowly and painfully stealing his life essence.

  Weary from the long trip, Tony leaned back and closed his eyes. Although he didn't doze, his thoughts drifted, eventually coming to rest on a childhood memory.

  He'd been almost ten and Delmar had taken him camping on Ebony Mountain. They'd driven in as far as possible in an old boat of a car, stopping when the rutted roads finally ended. After lighting yet another Camel cigarette, Delmar sat on the lip of the trunk, leaned in and ripped the wrapping off several twelve-packs of beer. As he began methodically stacking the cans inside a backpack, he caught Tony staring at them. "Nectar for the soul," he said. "But not for you until you're old enough."