Lost Vegas Series

by Lizzy Ford

  The unmistakable sound of teeth tearing into flesh nauseated her.

  As when she hurt Aveline, and murdered Matilda, Tiana’s reality took on a surreal state, as if she were not fully present, and definitely not in control. What was solid became transparent, blurred, and smeared, like an artist sweeping a brush across his canvas and somehow reversing dark and light.

  “Stop!” She heard herself scream without feeling the words leave her mouth. A pulse of air, or energy, rippled out from her and swept outward. It knocked the Ghouls off their feet, and caused the trees nearest them to bend away. Trunks snapped, trees groaned, and the Ghouls fled.

  Tiana sucked in a deep breath. Dark and light returned to their original places, and the world righted itself. She became aware of the cold night air seeping into the space between buttons of her cloak, and the tears that had dried and left her cheeks stiff. The ringing of her ear was back, along with a trickle of warmth running from her ear down the side of her neck.

  “Warner!” she exclaimed and dashed forward. She dropped to her knees beside him and started to touch them then stopped. “Oh … oh god … Warner …” Chunks of his arm and shoulder had been bitten away, and half his scalp was gone. Blood covered everything.

  The tracker knelt on Warner’s other side, his dark gaze assessing whereas Tiana’s was too panicked to know where to look.

  “Can you help him?” she managed. Tears flooded her eyes, and she wiped her nose on her cloak.

  He nodded once before pulling off his satchel.

  In the distance, she heard the screams of Ghouls. Tiana looked towards the sounds. The cries were moving away from them this time.

  “His …” the tracker said and then pointed.

  She looked away from the forest to the satchel he indicated. It had been tossed into brush nearby. Tiana stood and retrieved it before crouching down beside the tracker.

  Warner was not conscious, and his breathing was shallow and quick.

  The tracker shifted away to start a fire before returning to bandage what he could of Warner’s wounds. He used the medical supplies from both his satchel and Warner’s. Tiana watched, helpless to do anything other than stay out of the way.

  The tracker placed the blades of two knives in the fire then returned and rolled Warner carefully onto his back. He cut off the bloodied shirt and paused.

  Tiana shifted forward to see what had his attention. The wounds in Warner’s abdomen were not Ghoul made, for they were half-healed.

  And unnaturally black.

  “What is that?” she whispered.

  “Marked,” the tracker said. He studied the wounds without touching them.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Attacked. Not human. Not Ghoul. Not animal. This …” the tracker paused, seeking the right words. “Beast. Marked him.”

  “Why?”

  “Not kill first time. Will kill second.”

  “What kind of animal could do this? Ghoul?” she asked.

  “Not Ghoul.” He sat back. “Old animal with many forms.”

  “Many forms.” She shivered. The vision of the man-beast replayed in her mind’s eye. “Bear, wolf, human?”

  “Yes. We call skinwalker.”

  She shivered.

  Why had Warner not told her he encountered such a creature or that it hurt him? If she had known he would be in danger leaving the city, she would not have asked him to accompany her.

  “The skinwalker will return to kill him?” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  Was this why the skinwalker had attacked them all in her vision? Had he come for Warner?

  She huddled in her cloak. The Native worked quickly to stop Warner’s bleeding, binding every wound except those on his abdomen. For those two punctures, he sealed them together using the superheated knives.

  Warner did not move at all during the tracker’s ministrations. After half an hour, the tracker sat back and released a deep breath.

  “Must take to village,” he said and wiped his face. “Will not live long.”

  Fear slithered through her, cold and deep. Tiana was not about to argue with him, but she could not help starting to panic at the idea she would not find Arthur in time.

  “Healer in village,” the tracker continued. “We take him. I take you east.”

  She swallowed hard and nodded. “Will he live if we get him to the village?” she ventured.

  “Maybe.”

  It was not a no.

  The tracker looked at her for the first time.

  She started to reach for her hood, but he gripped her wrist. His eyes went from her to Aveline’s bracelet to her face again.

  “What are you?” he asked.

  More tears spilled from her eyes. She pulled her hand from his grip and tugged her hood up with fumbling fingers. Tiana hid her face and hunched, waiting for him to turn into another Matilda.

  Instead, he maneuvered a new shirt over Warner’s head and began to clean up the area around them. He put out the fire next and then bent and hefted Warner over his shoulders. The tracker stood, paused to balance his load, and then began to walk.

  Tiana scrambled to her feet and followed.

  The clouds had cleared, and starlight reflected off what remained of the re-frozen snow to help light their path.

  I will save you, Arthur, she promised silently. No cage will trap you, and no skinwalker will harm you.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A full day and night’s journey away from the incident at the cave, the skinwalker moved through the forest with the ease of one who had become part of the darkness after many years of exposure. Ahead of him, his guide trotted with grace and agility, untouched by the branches, mud, and bramble in her path.

  A breeze stirred those pine needles and brush that had not frozen with the return of the cold this night. The wind ruffled the fur lining his cloak, and the feathers in his hair – and then moved through him, piercing his cloak, his skin, his spirit, and before sweeping outward to rattle the frozen branches ahead of him.

  He stopped. A second later, when the breeze ruffled the she-wolf’s fur, she halted, too. As one, they turned and faced the direction from which the unusual wind had come.

  Stop! The new spirit spoke again. When she had whispered the words, I see you, he had felt unease, for he did not understand what she meant, or why she sounded satisfied, for it could not possibly bode well for him. In all his time alive, he had never met anyone capable of seeing him when he chose not to be hidden.

  But this time, the spirit was distressed, and he sensed the words were not spoken to him. If she did not wish to talk to him, why did he hear her? Was this wind her, too? If he followed it, would he find the elusive spirit that danced in and out of his mind, outside his control?

  “This way,” said a small voice.

  He glanced back towards the direction they had been headed. The spirit of the little boy he had gutted at the last village stood in his path.

  “When I listened to you last, you led me into a nest of Ghouls,” the skinwalker said gruffly.

  The child smiled, his large eyes innocent. “You can trust me.”

  It had been a very long time since the skinwalker had been haunted by a vengeful spirit. He was accompanied by the spirits of those lives he had taken, but they were generally quiet and rarely ever confronted him.

  The skinwalker revered all spirits, even those that sought to lead him into danger. If anything, he was amused by the form the vengeful spirit had taken.

  “Be careful, child,” he whispered quietly. “If you are lost here, or I leave you, no one will find you but the Ghouls.”

  The little boy’s smile faded and seconds later, so did he. The greatest fear of a spirit was to be cut off from friends and family to spend eternity seeking others or a place they once knew. At least if they stayed with him, they were never alone.

  The skinwalker faced the direction they had come. He spent a moment in thought, shifting only when his guide nudged his h
and with her muzzle. He scratched her head absently.

  “We have business awaiting us,” he said finally.

  The she-wolf did not object, and the skinwalker began walking once more. He left the trail to navigate the woods, alerted to danger by the vengeful spirit who wished him dead. His destination, a semi-permanent outpost belonging to the Diné, who migrated with the seasons and food supply, was less than a mile ahead.

  He reached it ten minutes later, without incident.

  Five heartbeats assaulted his mind, and he braced himself to stay among the painful racket for the night. His guide accompanied him towards the outpost. After the incident with the red-haired man, he dared not leave his wolf alone in the forest. Because of her condition, she was far less alert and agile than usual.

  He came upon one of the scouts, a boy not yet out of puberty, and startled him. The skinwalker waited for him to regain his composure. He had never traveled this far west before in his life, so he did not expect a youth this young to know of him. The Diné were waiting for a messenger from one of his employers, and he was content to let them believe what they wished about him.

  “We were expecting you earlier,” the scout said and lowered his weapon.

  The skinwalker owed no one any explanation and remained silent despite the expectant pause from the young man across from him. The scout glanced towards the great black wolf and lingered. She bared her teeth to growl at him, as she did every other human, until the red-haired man.

  “Come with me,” the scout said and turned to guide them towards the other heartbeats. “You are lucky the Ghouls did not smell you. You should not travel alone.”

  The skinwalker snorted at the boy’s stern tone.

  The windows of the wooden cabin glowed with warm light, and the scent of roasting meat made the skinwalker and she-wolf both quicken their paces in anticipation of a hearty dinner. The scout led him into the cabin and motioned for them to sit near the hearth.

  “My brother will return shortly,” he said. “He is negotiating on behalf of our father, who is too ill to leave his home.”

  The skinwalker said nothing. He did not wait to be served but prepared a plate of food for himself and one filled with meat for the she-wolf, whose tail wagged when he set the meat in front of her.

  “She is beautiful,” the scout said, focus on the wolf again.

  The skinwalker nodded once and stuffed more food in his mouth.

  “What is she called?”

  He shrugged. She had never revealed her name to him, and he had never asked.

  When the skinwalker and his guide were finished, they sat back from their plates. The skinwalker ran his hands over the wolf’s body, checking for any new injuries or tangles in her coat. He worked out several small pieces of brush, changed the bandages on her injured leg, and then removed his cloak to relax. His guide stretched out beside him, trusting him to protect her while she dozed, which she did more often in her advanced stages of pregnancy. Her stomach bulged from her position on her side, and the skinwalker rested a hand on her belly to feel for any tiny kicks or movements from the pups within.

  The scout was quiet. The skinwalker watched him from his peripheral, noting that the young man had been staring at his black leg in puzzlement for a solid five minutes. If he knew what it was, or anything about the legend, he would not be seated calmly in the same forest as the skinwalker.

  As it was, the skinwalker was enjoying his relative obscurity among the western tribes. Obscurity was a trait he had not valued or missed, until he was free to enter any village or city without being chased out or attacked. In the East, everyone knew of him, and no one welcomed him, with the exception of the desperate or criminal, who needed his skills.

  A second man bearing a scar down the right side of his face entered with features resembling those of the scout, though where the scout was barely out of puberty, this man had left his adolescence behind five years or more.

  “You are Black Wolf?” he asked.

  The skinwalker nodded and stood. He had been called by many names in his time and settled on this as his favorite, out of reverence to his guide.

  The chief’s eldest son extended a hand, and they shook briefly. He was a strong man with a direct gaze and the air of someone accustomed to being listened to when he spoke.

  “I am Diving Eagle,” he said. “My father’s honor was greatly affected by his inability to meet with you himself. His heart is generous but weak, and he took the loss of everyone inhabiting one of our villages hard. You are fortunate not to have crossed paths with the beast that did it. No one was left alive.”

  “I travel with a guardian,” the skinwalker replied.

  “We have not seen her like in many generations here,” Diving Eagle said.

  “She is the last of her kind, but not for long,” the skinwalker replied. “Your father’s representative is acceptable.”

  “Thank you. Have you eaten?” Diving Eagle motioned to the food.

  The skinwalker nodded.

  “Good. Then let us discuss the prisoner.”

  The two of them sat, and the she-wolf settled beside the skinwalker again. He had been paid to secure the prisoner by any means necessary. The option to negotiate was available, but not required, by his employer, who had wanted to give him as many tools as his objective required. The skinwalker’s plan was to eat, rest, and then murder anyone standing between him and the prisoner. He sat with no expectation of being interested in anything the proud man across from him had to say.

  “First, we have moved the trespasser to a different location, known only to my father and me, for his protection,” Diving Eagle began.

  “Where?” The skinwalker asked.

  “With respect, cousin, I know who you are working for, and I do not trust him to deal fairly with us. For this reason, the trade will be on our terms, not his,” Diving Eagle said with equal parts firmness and quietness.

  Smart, the skinwalker thought. Though, if this man’s directness and aura were any indication, he should not have been surprised by the attention to detail and shrewdness with which he operated. Was this man the brains, or was his father?

  “I will need to verify the prisoner is who I seek,” the skinwalker said, testing his opponent.

  “You must trust me that he is. We will deliver him in a time and place we determine directly to your employer. If this is not acceptable, I have three more men coming to visit me with regards to this particular prisoner’s fate. My father has authorized me to conduct negotiations on his behalf, with the understanding I will only accept the deal that benefits our people the best.”

  He is the brains. The skinwalker had not operated on someone else’s terms in a very long time. Privately, he understood this scenario occurred because he failed to snatch the man he sought in the forest several weeks ago among a large hunting party sent by the city to find meat. His ruthless, determined employer had sent him word of where to go next, and who he should speak to. Had he not failed, he would not be in this position. It was entirely his responsibility to do what it required this time to secure his target, even if that meant negotiating with words and not weapons.

  The chief’s son was sharp, which he expected from those he normally dealt with, but operating on behalf of his people, which was unusual in the skinwalker’s line of mercenary work. Those who hired him tended to be men of little honor. His current employer was among them.

  On the surface, Diving Eagle did not seem to lack honor. Still, the skinwalker sensed more to Diving Eagle’s careful words. He spoke the truth, of which the skinwalker was certain, but managed to hide something about this situation as well.

  The unusual circumstances of this deal were unlike anything the skinwalker had dealt with in quite a while. So much so, he was curious enough to want to see where this all led, and why such efforts were necessary to secure one man.

  His guide did not warn him against this arrangement. She was dozing. If she deemed this man unworthy, or the arrangement poor, s
he would object.

  “Very well,” he agreed. “As long as I am paid.”

  “Thank you,” Diving Eagle ducked his head once in a display of polite deference that was not required, given his important position, but which elevated him one step more in the skinwalker’s opinion. “The precautions are necessary, given the identity of our prisoner.”

  “His identity is not my concern,” the skinwalker said. “Ensuring my employer’s offer is accepted is.”

  Diving Eagle studied him. “This particular man’s identity would increase what you were paid to do here by tenfold at least. There is not a chief or city leader for a thousand miles who would not give everything he owned to capture this man. Another great war will start once it is known who has him.”

  The skinwalker rarely cared about the alleged importance of anyone. At the end of the day, no one he crossed failed to pay what he demanded of them.

  “Arthur Hanover,” the scout said from his position seated near the door.

  “I am not familiar with his name,” the skinwalker replied.

  “His family has controlled the city of Lost Vegas for five centuries,” Diving Eagle replied.

  “Lost Vegas,” the skinwalker repeated. “The legendary city no army has taken?”

  “That very one. His father rules the city, and his only heir is our prisoner.”

  The skinwalker leaned back, impressed. “It was said fifty thousand warriors tried to take the city and broke against it like water a dam.”

  “If it were a hundred thousand, the results would be the same,” the scout said gravely. “Everything you have heard is true.”

  “Are their walls so high?”

  “There are no walls,” the scout said. “There was for two centuries, but then they came down.”

  “Then how did the city survive the wars among our kind?” the skinwalker asked.

  “Every warrior who tried, died.”

  The skinwalker lifted an eyebrow skeptically. This sounded like a child’s tale, not reality.

  “The truth is, no one knows. The last tribe that tried to take the city did so a hundred years ago, with fifty thousand warriors, and no one survived. No one alive knows exactly what happened that day. It is believed among those peoples around the city that a Hanover must always be in charge, or the city will fall,” Diving Eagle said. “Why that is, no one knows, except it has always been this way.”