Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set

by Flynn, Connie

  He came to the last can, put it on the trunk floor and reached for the supply of Coke which he piled in on top of the beer. After adding food, he put the backpack on the ground.

  "Ready for the bags, Tony?"

  He nodded eagerly. Since their first trip, taken shortly after the death of Tony's mother three years before, his father had assigned the sleeping bags to Tony. The task always made him feel he was doing his part.

  Gazing into the forest while his father strapped on the bags, he saw a raven land in a tall pine.

  "See that, Dad?" He pointed at the bird. "Uncle Joseph says Raven created the world."

  "And his old teacher would tell you it was Turtle," Delmar replied with a laugh. "At least on Mondays. By Thursday he'd say it was Coyote. Those are just stories, Tony, and if your uncle had ever been born again into Jesus he'd know it."

  "But Uncle Joseph talks to the spirits."

  His father stood up, threw down his cigarette and crushed it on the ground. "Well I talk to Jesus, and Jesus talks to God." Picking up the backpack, he slipped his arms into the straps. "Enough tales of the old ways," he said. "Let's see what surprises nature has in store for us today."

  Grabbing the beer from the trunk, he slammed the lid and cocked his head toward Tony. "Come on, son. It's a long hike to the creek."

  With that he popped the top on the can, took a healthy swig, and started walking into the forest.

  Still taking peeks at the raven, Tony followed, not knowing what to believe, as usual. The conversation was the first of many to follow, and eventually Tony rejected both his father's and his uncle's spirituality. He put his energy into doing well in school, playing football, and making the honor role. When he first encountered Tajaya in the mountains, he hadn't given thought to the subject of spiritualism in years.

  He never dreamed meeting her would lead him to shamanism, and as he sat holding his father's hand the bitter irony didn't escape him. After years of discipline in the magic of healing, he possessed the skills to help his father live a while longer, yet he knew such action would only violate nature's rhythm and prolong his father's suffering. Still, he could lessen the pain of the ulcerated leg.

  Opening his heavy lids, he stood and lifted the blanket. Someone, probably Jenna, had elevated his father's leg and swaddled it in heavy bandages. Calling on the spirits, Tony felt the familiar electric sensation travel through his fingers as he placed his hands on Delmar's diseased flesh. After a short time, Delmar's eyes fluttered open.

  "Well, if it isn't my son the computer genius," he said in a cracking voice. "Come to see me off." Then a wide smile crossed his ravaged face. "I'm so glad to see you, Tony."

  * * *

  Delmar died peacefully in his sleep three days after Tony arrived. He had a Christian burial that included none of the old ways, and though Uncle Joseph lamented this decision, he stoically endured the service. Later, after Delmar had been cremated, he handed Tony the urn filled with ashes and asked him to speak to the Great Spirit in Delmar's behalf when he scattered them.

  Tony embraced his uncle, gave his aunt a kiss, then left for Ebony Canyon. He'd been gone from the canyon five days.

  Now, passing Morgan Wilder's burned-out cabin, he paused, remembering the afternoon he'd set it afire at Morgan's request. The crumbling remains still seemed an affirmation to him of triumph over all that was unholy, and he stared at it awhile.

  Instead of bringing thoughts of victory, however, it brought memories of Lily. Not the huge sleek werewolf with her groomed silver coat, but the naked, mud-covered woman he'd found in the forest bordering the Clearing of the Black Hands. She'd snarled and snapped at him, speaking in that unintelligible language that those creatures used. But she'd been human, slender, short of stature, and still fighting.

  He'd also seen her genuine remorse when she'd fallen on the lifeless body that had once been her companion. Slain by her own hands, yet regretted by her heart.

  Tony turned away impatiently. Why was he thinking such things? What remorse had Lily shown for the lost lives of his people?

  Searching for more evidence of her evil nature, he walked to the rim of the canyon, where he planned to free his father's ashes, letting them drift into the canyon. His spirit had always been happy here.

  The walk was short and he unlaced his satchel on the way, taking out the brass urn when he reached his destination. Lightning ripped across distant storm clouds. The air was heavy. And still. Although the clouds rushed across the mottled sky, not a breath of wind stirred the surrounding grass and trees. A monsoon would strike the canyon tonight. He hoped it brought rain, but experience told him it might only bring Brother Wind.

  He took the seal off the urn and lifted it up.

  "Great Spirit," he mouthed, slowly tipping the urn. "Accept this gift. Absorb your child Delmar into the One from which he sprang. Let him sit by your side until he is renewed."

  The ashes slid from the urn, slowly at first, then streaming down. Suddenly a breeze appeared, lifting the dark ash and swirling it into a funnel that wove and danced as it made its way to the canyon floor.

  Tony smiled, knowing Delmar had made an appearance. Fittingly dramatic for one who'd lived life so lustily.

  He stood on the rim until the funnel disappeared into the scrub oak and cacti below, then moved toward the trail to the bottom.

  He'd asked for a vision quest, and now that the time was at hand he felt unprepared. By concentrating on the way Lily had hurt Shala, he'd been fueling his hatred for her rather than trying to overcome it. Worse, he didn't want to let it go. His hatred had sustained him for almost five years—and bound him eternally to Tajaya.

  But he was doubting the spirits. He'd chosen to do the sweat ceremony because he was unprepared, not in spite of it. When the time came, the appropriate guide would appear and show him the way to cleanse the stain from his soul. They'd never failed him before. They wouldn't fail him now. And he was ready.

  Reassured, Tony slung his satchel over his shoulder and took his first step down the steep trail. He was ready.

  Sure he was.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lily had started scratching lines outside her pueblo door on her first day in the village. Since the encounter at the grotto, she'd added seven new ones.

  Except to add the markings and empty her waste in the lime pits at the far end of her walkway, she seldom left her room. She lay around, sleeping, staring at the walls, sometimes braiding and unbraiding her hair for hours. Although she knew she should do something about it, the thought of escape seldom entered her mind. Occasionally she remembered Ravenheart's offer, but felt too listless to search him out.

  Each mealtime, drink and food mysteriously appeared at her door, but she never saw who brought it. Nor did she care. On her single excursion, when the heat made her succumb to the lure of a cool bath, she learned she was the object of renewed interest, but no one allowed their eyes to linger or spoke to her.

  Expecting Star Dancer to deliver news of the inquisition any day, she told herself the information would spur her into action. Finally, after a week of brooding without a word from the High Shaman, her restless spirit reemerged and she decided to end her self-imposed exile.

  A pleasant breeze greeted her when she stepped on the walkway. It was nearly noon, but most people were in the fields and the village center was relatively empty. As she watched the miniature bodies strolling below, she had a devilish urge to drop the contents of the pot in her hands upon their scornful heads. She let it pass, and walked along the railing, staring below, feeling very isolated.

  When she reached the catwalk that led to the lime pit, she hurried on, eager to dump her smelly burden. She leaned over, turned the pot upside down, and once it was emptied turned to go back to her room. That's when her eyes brushed the slanting cliff, and she wondered why she hadn't noticed how close it was to the catwalk wall before.

  She glanced quickly down the walkway. Finding it empty, she climbed onto the wall.

&
nbsp; A daunting drop lay below, but the distance between the wall and the cliff was an easy jump. A small scrub oak close to the rocky soil and would give her something to grab at when she landed.

  Footsteps sounded on the walkway, and she jumped from the wall, feeling more hopeful. Not that she could just take off. She needed food and water for the long hike back to civilization. Maybe, when no one was paying attention to her, she could sneak into White Hawk's wickiup and search for a parka.

  It was time to find out exactly when the Tribunal would convene. Did she have weeks to prepare or only days?

  But clouds were hiding the sun, and the humidity was still bearable. She'd eat a full meal, squirrel away some extra food, then take a walk and enjoy the unusually mild weather. After that, she'd seek out Star Dancer and possibly mention Ravenheart's offer to defend her.

  But why? she asked herself. She didn't need his help, and her werewolf instincts made her scorn traitors. A pack only survived through loyalty. So did a tribe.

  She returned to her quarters for something suitable to wear while facing the cold shoulders she knew were coming. The silk blouse had fared better than she expected, so she put that on, along with her denim jeans. Then she braided her hair again.

  When her feet hit the ground after the long descent down the ladder, she inhaled the aromas from the hearths and her stomach growled. A woman wearing a beaded tunic stood beside the nearest fire pit, stirring something in a kettle hanging above the flames. Not far from her feet, a child of about two or three guided rocks along the ground, chortling at the clouds of dust they raised. People were gathering now, forming a line. Lily fell in behind them, trying not to notice their furtive looks.

  When the fire tender served her the fragrant stew with a tight-lipped expression, Lily gave her a haughty stare, then moved on to a piece of pork bubbling on the spit, thinking her body needed meat for the trek ahead, despite her aversion to it.

  Hotter than she expected, it burned her hand. She dropped the meat on the plate and popped her fingers in her mouth. A man behind her chuckled. She turned, recognizing him as the grandfather who'd protected the rashly brave young boy. Since then she'd learned his name was Gerard, and that he was a member of the council. His status meant nothing to her, though, and she jutted out her chin, then clicked her teeth together. His amusement faded, and he fell back a few paces.

  Her fingers stung like hell, but she refused to pay them any heed, and forced herself to finish filling her plate in a leisurely fashion despite the grumbles she heard from behind.

  Just as she turned from the hearth to find a place where she could discretely plunge her fingers into cool water, the sound of whooping laughter filled the village. A herd of older children rolled a giant hoop with long sticks, each trying to gain mastery over it.

  "Careful," Gerard warned. But they were too engrossed in their game. One of the bigger boys raced by the fire pit, jabbing his stick at the hoop. Suddenly, his foot struck a rock and he stumbled.

  Arms whirling, he struggled to right himself by reaching for anything to ease his fall. His hand found the end of the spit; his fingers closed around it.

  The weight of his body dislodged the spit from its supporting forks. With a doleful creak of splintering wood, it crashed into the fire. The heavy metal pot, which had been supported by the pole, wobbled, then tilted, sending the steaming contents rushing toward its lip. The toddler still happily moved his rock creatures along the dusty soil beneath.

  Lily dropped her plate. Dipping low, she swooped the baby up just before the boiling stew spilled on the spot where he'd been playing.

  Trembling, she clutched him to her chest. He touched her hair with his chubby brown hand, round eyes calmly unaware of the danger he'd just escaped.

  "Pretty," he said, or at least that's what Lily thought she heard.

  Then his mother tore the boy from Lily's arms.

  "Joey, Joey," she babbled. Joey began to cry then, apparently sensing his mother's alarm, and she rocked him gently, crooning in her language. Lily heard the older boy beseeching a grandmother for forgiveness.

  Rattled well beyond what the circumstances dictated, Lily looked down. Chunks of vegetable and meat lay on the ground, their juices already being sucked up by the dry soil. Her plate was upside down, it contents covered by yellow dust. She bent to scoop up the mess.

  Somebody touched her shoulder. Flinching, she looked up, meeting Frieda's black-toothed scowl.

  "Get up, wolf woman," she rasped. "We don't need your help."

  A sarcastic retort sprang to Lily's lips, but something in the faded eyes made her stop. Lily had killed three of this woman's offspring, who'd once been like the plump, happy-faced baby she'd just held. Soft, accepting, defenseless — and so easy to love. Perhaps this ancient one had a right to her hate. Perhaps it was the only thing that sustained her. Perhaps . . .

  Lily got up and walked to another hearth. No longer hungry, she sat on the stone bench, not sure what to do next. Trembling slightly, and unaccountably sad, she put her elbows on her knees and buried her hands in her hair. After a time, she saw a shadow fall upon her feet.

  The baby's mother stood in front of her, a plate in one hand. "I am Kessa," she said, "mother of the boy you saved. You may eat at my hearth."

  Distress lined Kessa's attractive face, as if she feared she'd fallen in with the devil, by took the plate anyway and followed her back to the fire pit.

  Lily had told herself she'd leave the hearth as soon as she finished eating and go seek out Star Dancer. But Kessa had taken a protective stance toward her, giving squelching looks to anyone who whispered about her or regarded her with curiosity. So Lily stayed, sipping a sweet tasting tea and staring into the flames which drew her gaze hypnotically.

  Memories lingered inside those red-orange fingers, and each time they flared, another emerged. She saw Dana Gibbs, arms stretched to the sky as she recited her deadly verse. The fire sputtered and flared anew. Another memory arose—Morgan Wilder, bleeding and half dead, crawling toward the sanctified ceremonial ring.

  The licking flames subsided only to arise again, this time bringing images of Jorje. Fangs bared, poised above Morgan's throat, growling murderous threats.

  Repeatedly she'd told herself she'd slain Jorje only to protect Morgan. But had that been her only choice? She'd been stronger than the wolfling. Couldn't she have found another way?

  Lily tore her eyes away, a mass lodged in her throat. All this second-guessing was wasted energy. It was done. No matter how wise a different course of action seemed when viewed after the fact, the pest couldn't be changed.

  To keep her mind off it, she turned her attention to the men, women, and children around her. Only a handful stayed by the hearth now, but they talked animatedly among themselves, joking, laughing, totally relaxing.

  Such a happy people. The only time she ever saw fear or anger in their faces was when she somehow entered their awareness. Where they found their happiness, she didn't know. They led such a boring life. Working in the fields or with the livestock, eating, sleeping, protecting themselves against the elements. And so ordinary—no operas or plays or shopping at Harrod's and Neiman Marcus. Not even cinemas or Kmarts. No wonder some of them looked forward to their journeys to the outside.

  But many, she noticed, seemed perfectly content to be where they were. With this thought she stood up, stretched her limbs, and went to the hearth. Giving her cup to Kessa, she thanked her for the meal and headed off to find Star Dancer.

  She stopped abruptly.

  Shala was coming her way. Lily didn't know if she'd been spotted yet, but she expected that when she was the girl would turn away. Their eyes met, but Shala didn't swerve. Although appearing small and frightened, she continued in Lily's direction.

  Lily walked forward slowly, afraid to make any sudden moves.

  "Were you coming to see me?" she asked when their paths met halfway between the hearth and the longhouse.

  "Yes," Shala replied somberly. "Co
uld we walk together for a time?"

  “If you like "

  Shala led her to the river, which was full of life. Evening was approaching and birds twittered excitedly. Insects made their various night songs. Even the river sang as it rushed between its shores.

  But Lily felt like death. Obviously Shala had something important on her mind, which she wasn't sure she wanted to hear.

  "Frieda Red Feather says you saved Joey's life this morning," Shala finally said, glancing down at her small intertwined hands.

  "His life?" Lily replied, startled by the subject. "No, I didn't save his life. Although he probably would have been badly burned if I hadn't been there."

  "No, no. The kettle was falling, Frieda says. It would have squashed him."

  "It was? I didn't notice."

  "Well, if Frieda says so, it must be true." Shala shot a glance at Lily. "She doesn't like you very much, you know."

  Lily laughed. "She hates me, Shala."

  "That is true."

  Shala bobbed her head again and looked back at her hands. As they continued walking, the sun danced on her blue-black hair, tempting Lily to try to capture one of the shimmering highlights.

  Instead she probed the girl's thoughts, which were still open and unguarded. She caught fleeting memories. She doubted Shala herself was aware of some of them. One, at age three, particularly caught Lily's attention. She'd been playing with other children, and one by one they'd drifted to their mothers. Shala had turned to White Hawk, and though she loved her father she now understood he was the only one she had.

  Even earlier — Shala, barely able to walk, screaming in terror on a floor of ancient pine needles. Lily plucked images from the baby's unformed mind — sharp teeth, blood, blurred and swiftly moving figures, a woman's piercing cry.

  The cry was cut short. Baby Shala screamed again.

  As the horror of that moment flooded Lily's mind, she suddenly felt Shala's love. Pure, undemanding, unwavering, and directed at her. At her.