by Nya Rawlyns
“Yeah, something like that.”
“All right, I’ll be back with the trailer. You’ll want to move that truck into the lean-to, I expect.”
Trey watched Samuel drive away then backed the truck into the shed. He hopped onto the bed of the truck and peeled the tarp off the woman. She lay in a pool of sweat on the ridged metal surface. He’d deliberately made her as uncomfortable as possible. She looked close to caving. Tears stung her eyes and she wore that defeated look, her eyes dull, hair hanging lank and tangled. Neither of them had had access to bathing facilities since their mad dash cross-country, but she was much the worse for wear.
“I’m going to look for something for you to wear. Wait here.”
The woman stared, uncomprehending, for a long moment, then rolled on her side, resigned. Trey ran to Samuel’s small cabin that he shared with a native woman during the winter months. If he was lucky, she might have left some clothes in Sam’s bedroom. It was worth a look. Where they were going, shorts and a tee shirt would not be enough protection from the elements ... and other things.
When he returned, the woman—Caitlin—lay curled in a fetal position. She’d heard him coming. Her shoulders gave an involuntary twitch as he once more jumped onto the truck bed.
“I’ve got clothes for you to wear. I’m going to untie you. Get dressed. I’ll wait over there.” He made quick work of untying her bonds, taking care to touch her as little as possible. He would have dressed her in the new togs himself, but he feared coming in too close a contact. Her energies still oscillated and grappled with his own, like tentacles seeking to entrap him once more.
The woman made short work of sloughing the filthy tee shirt and cut-offs. She shrugged into the peasant dress, then carefully wrapped and laced the corset. The simple act of donning clean clothes seemed to perk her up.
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace safe.”
“Safe from who?”
“The people who probably killed the old man with you.” Trey ignored her anguished look. “I’m assuming it was your father. You’re the one they want. You—and your special abilities.”
“You don’t know that,” she gasped.
“But I know the people who took him and who came after you. Trust me. We are both on their elimination lists. I’m taking us to a place where no one can touch us.”
“Why? Why not just give me to them? There must be a reward if they want me that bad. What’s in it for you?”
“Nothing. Everything. I’m not going to waste time explaining it to you. You wouldn’t understand.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her around to the back of the lean-to. He quickly trussed her so she couldn’t move and reapplied the piece of duct tape. “The truck and horse trailer are coming. I won’t be long.”
Trey walked to the front of the lean-to and waited for Samuel to drive up. His friend spun the rig around and parked it. He got out slowly and palmed a Remington thirty-aught-six as he approached the man he thought he knew as a friend.
“They’re saddled, ready to go. Mule’s panniers are packed much as I could. He’s carrying nearly two hundred pounds. I’d think kindly if you’d take care on the climbs. He’s a good mule.” Samuel gritted his teeth and spat out, “Not my best horses, but they’ll do you.”
“The rifle is in the truck. I’d best drive to the trailhead myself. You can pick the rig up tomorrow. You might want to get rid of that,” he inclined his head to the old Ford, “and forget you saw me.”
Samuel nodded and walked into the lean-to. He opened the truck door but turned back and called out, “Trey?”
“What?”
“Go with God, amigo.”
Trey watched, emotionless, as his only friend on this world drove away.
****
Caitlin stared, dull eyed, barely registering her captor’s well-choreographed movements as he checked tack and the over-stuffed bundles on the mule that he called ‘panniers’. She’d never been around either horses or mules and felt ill at ease with the beasts. She closed her eyes, hoping it was just a nightmare, only to have that tableau replaced with images of her father racing across Greyfalcon’s rooftop as she spun off into space, the sound of gunfire, screams of men hit, men running, her mad rappel down the side of the building—all whirled in a kaleidoscope of fierce angry reds and evil purples.
She whispered, “Please, dear God, let them be alive and let me live so I can go back for them. Please.” Her father may have given up on her brother, but she hadn’t. Once free of the madman holding her hostage, she’d do whatever was in her power to bring the O’Brien family together again. She held onto that thin sliver of hope with determination.
“Woman. Get over here. Time to mount up. We’re running out of light.”
“Why won’t you use my name? It’s...”
“I know what it is. Now get up there.”
The man angrily gripped her thin arm and squeezed hard. Her harsh intake of air seemed to dismay him, his strange gold-flecked brown eyes giving away what little emotion he displayed. But he persisted, dismay yielding to challenge, the pressure steady, promising more if she did not acquiesce. Scrambling awkwardly onto the animal, Caitlin took pleasure in the small victory though it was short-lived. He reached up and quickly bound her hands, then took the reins. Mounting easily, he settled the mule on one side of his horse and her mount on the other. He urged his horse forward toward a wavering curtain of air, heat waves dancing over the rocky ground, strangely indistinct ... and threatening at a primal level that churned her gut.
He turned to her and said, “This will feel strange. Close your eyes if it will help. If you need to vomit, do it off the other side.”
Caitlin asked, her voice barely above a whisper, “Where are we going?”
“To hell, woman, to hell.”
****
Eirik barked, “Don’t fuck with me, Gunnarr. He’s in the wind and you say he’s not alone?”
He refused to give his brother the satisfaction of asking who was with Trey, though he already had a good idea. He ached for clarification but not at the expense of giving Gunnarr the upper hand; too much of his own power base rested on a fragile foundation of hearsay and rumour, leaving Gunnarr secure with his illicit commerce.
Eirik decided to remind his brother what was at stake for both their groups, despite their mutual differences. In the process he hoped to shake out enough details so that his own people could devise an exit strategy for whatever mess his nephew was in.
Gunnarr’s deep voice raised an octave as he interrupted, “I’m aware of all that. The last thing I need right now is a history lesson.” He hesitated, then rushed on, “Let me remind you ... I wasn’t there. I’ve gotten this all second-hand from Knutr. I’m as much in the dark as you, Brother.”
Eirik heard rasping breaths as Gunnarr paused, clearly fighting for control. His agitation seemed out of proportion to the matter at hand, as bad as it was. Before he could pursue a new line of questioning, Gunnarr surprised him by speaking candidly.
“I have O’Brien.”
That confirmed Eirik’s suspicions but there had to be more. He was rapidly tiring of extracting, piecemeal, tidbits of information, but his brother was a master of the game. Reluctantly he asked, “And?”
“He’s injured.”
“Dammit, Gunnarr.”
“He’ll live. And, no, I don’t know exactly what went down. As soon as O’Brien can talk, I’ll find out what we both need to know.”
“Fuck you will...”
Gunnarr growled, “I will, whether or not you believe me.” He paused and other voices echoed weakly, followed by a terse, “I have to go.”
Eirik stared at the cell phone and wondered just what in hell was going on and what hornet’s nest Trey had stirred up this time.
Chapter Eight
The man lay supine on a bed of rocks, one leg elevated, the other stretched out. His boots still bore mud and smudged blades of grass from the nearly dry creek crossing. The dar
k blue wool jacket lay nestled, coiled, under his neck. He’d raised his stern face in silent supplication, one hand shielding his eyes, the other gripping his glasses.
Sun, they’d prayed for it for days, but now it burned like acid on the skin. The stranger she called ‘Aiden’ soaked it up. Dark stubble peppered his square jaw, hiding the dimple Caitlin found almost irresistible, almost.
Aiden. That wasn’t his name, not even close. In a fanciful fit, early on in the insane journey, she’d chosen for him. He’d ignored it, just as he had disregarded so much of the civility she’d foolishly insisted on bringing through the Portal. She forced herself to look away, to look anywhere but at the man she had learned to hate and desire in equal measure.
For the thousandth time, she asked herself, why me? Why this place and this time? Just not how ... that could never be explained. He’d called it a Portal, a gateway, unmapped and safe, for now. Mimicking his words, she reminded herself that it indeed had been a doorway into hell, an alien landscape, fearsome and unforgiving.
She could barely recall the flight from the self-styled armies pursuing them, friend and foe alike. Greyfalcon, of them she knew, but the Althings had been a distant, unknown factor. What had become of her father, ambushed while trying to save her? A frisson of apprehension swept like ice up and down her spine, the tingle almost soothing, far more real than the false stage upon which her new life played out. She had failed him—Jake O’Brien—the man she admired above all others, even when his mistakes had cost them her brother and everything that passed for normal in her skewed universe. Even when his moral compass had spun so wildly out of control that they’d resorted to madness to set it all to rights. Then him, the nameless being appearing in the shadows as she fled the mob. Like a stun gun to her gut, leaving her addled and helpless.
She’d wondered, who is he? She could have asked, what is he, but she wasn’t nearly prepared for those answers, not yet, not even after a seeming eternity where even fear took shelter from the mindless dance of unanswerable questions.
How ironic that using her ability to shift into other human shapes had resulted in nothing more than a monumental fuck-up. Kieran and her father were lost to her now, along with her own identity and her gift. She could no longer shift. She barely knew herself.
But she did know him.
Restless, she wriggled on the unforgiving surface. Everywhere she looked, the sere outcrops punctuated the pale sky, climbing row upon row, saw-toothed and menacing. Not nearly as terrifying as the things that lurked in her peripheral vision: a flicker of a wingtip and shush of leathery downdraft. He’d said they were safe but he hadn’t known about them.
Treading carefully on the steep slope, he’d led them to this point, to this resting place, to this mecca of cessation from the unrelenting motion. He’d been confident at first, judging from his cocky manner and imperious gestures, then less so as weeks went by without finding another Portal.
He’d muttered in a language she couldn’t understand, but the meaning was clear. They were adrift in a wilderness of unimaginable bleakness. Whatever plans he’d had, however he measured his ability to keep them secure from the horrors inhabiting this place, his new mission now boiled down to simple survival. His bolthole would prove to be their undoing, a phantom one-way door into a room with no exit. They would die here, unremarked. All because of her and her so-called gifts—the prize, the Golden Fleece, the brass ring. Freak abilities for the freak-show she called her existence.
Why him? Why was he the Champion, the lone tilter at windmills, bucking what surely had to be powerful groups, well-armed and determined to secure her, ‘the asset’, by any and all means? What possible use could she be to anyone? If only he would look at her, really look, what would he see?
Questions, useless now. If there had been any answers, surely he would have revealed ... something. She licked her lips, rough and parched, and smiled. Her God was perverse for she would fill the hollowness of her life with the man’s unending disdain as she extended another small courtesy before hope vanished forever.
“Do you want some water?”
He grunted and flicked a finger. She leaned over his still form, stretching to reach the saddlebag standing sentinel near a precipitous boulder fall. Small stones skittered downhill with an alarming pinging, snicking noise. She extricated a small canteen from inside the leather bag resting against his head. He could easily have reached it; he chose not to. That was her job, tend to his needs and fulfill their unspoken agreement: protection. Her life now boiled down to its essence—payment rendered.
She unscrewed the lid but he ignored her. Though but an instant in time, it amounted to an eternity for her to reflect on her own insignificance. She was thirsty, beyond need, beyond desire. Her lips were parched, her skin seared, drained of all moisture. Lank, straw-colored hair hung straight and unkempt. Dry as the shrivelled prairie grass. Bone dry.
She asked again, “Do you want this water? There’s not much left.”
Silently, reluctantly, he rousted himself from his uncomfortable bed. He took the canteen and drained it, the last drop falling onto his full lower lip, beading into a sweet bubble of slickness. The bead swam in near perfect rainbows, refracted in the harsh light. With reptilian ease, he flicked his tongue and the droplet disappeared. She tried to swallow, choking through her pain.
He lay back against the unforgiving rock, his rough hands cradling his glasses with sensuous ease, at peace with himself. Caitlin fingered the lid of the empty canteen, then screwed it on and replaced it in the saddle-bag.
“I’ll see to the horses.”
She pretended there might be an eye twitch, some recognition, some homage to her existence as a human being. She searched his face, letting grit-filled eyes scan his stocky torso, revelling in its harsh contours. Her gaze rested on his hands, such beautiful hands—strong, solid and square. For a man with such a muscular build, he had long, elegant fingers. She dreamt of those hands as they’d caressed her, undoing the leather laces on her bodice, one lace at a time. She could almost feel his slender finger tracing down the line of her throat to her collarbone and beyond, how he’d teased her and set her senses on fire. Her ears rang with his soft moans and a heartbeat that thudded in rhythm with her own the one time he’d held her tight, shielding her from the attack, his blood hot on her hands.
Foolish woman, don’t let him play with you that way her brain screamed at her. She knew the truth of it, and the knowing came harsh and unbidden. But her heart fluttered at the soft touches, the way he brushed her hair from her face, the pain in his eyes and the hunger.
“Enough,” she mumbled and rose slowly to make her way down the slope to where they’d ground-tied the two horses and the mule. This escape into an alternate reality had taken on a strange hue, all grays and tans and muddy browns. She felt aged, far beyond her twenty-eight years, each one a burden on her soul.
Her brain still struggled to wrap around the unseemliness, the incongruity, of why anyone would find her worthy of such extreme measures. Surely who she was, what she was, paled to insignificance when measured against ... what? No yardstick of merit applied, not now, not here. Not from him.
“Come here, you damn ornery mule,” Caitlin muttered as she slipped even further into the bizarre persona that now defined her existence. “Move over, you hear me?”
She shoved, hard, and felt insanely pleased when the beast moved a mere fraction of an inch. She took her victories in small doses in her new reality. No sound gave away the stealth approach, yet she knew, she knew, when he came near. There would be heat, pressure and inexplicable sensations racing up and down her spine, a herald of nerve-endings running rampant. She knew it, for it welled uncontrollably every time he came near. Lust. Shared. His in denial; hers barely contained, each ready to explode. It was more, far more than a mere rutting would sate. She needed a proper term, in recognition of the reality and the essence of the man, for what he represented. Fear. Temptation. Otherworldliness. If he was a
ll this—and her mind no longer rebelled at the implications—she could draw a small comfort from this hidden knowledge. She steeled herself, preparing to engage with her ... Demon.
“You are...” he hesitated, then moved in tight, almost nestling his broad frame against her back, in the not-so-subtle dance they’d been doing since time ceased to exist. It was a tango so tense and intimate, so annoying, that she cringed, the closeness now cloyingly claustrophobic. He continued, her Aiden-not-Aiden, “...not as unsure now.”
Well, whoopti-fuckin’-do, she thought and flinched at his snicker of derision. She had no clue how he could read her body language so well. Familiar fingers of terror pricked at her spine as she once more entertained the possibility that he could actually read her thoughts.
“Let me,” he murmured, a whisper in her ear.
His lips brushed a feather touch against her lobe, sending spirals of tension winging across her scalp, painful in its piercing intensity. He gently moved her out of the way. Caitlin marvelled at the false consideration, the unnecessary attention to her obvious inability to learn her new role.
Her inner voice clanged a warning: you will pay for that tiny kindness, in spades.
“I can do this.” Caitlin stepped in front of him, ever surprised that they stood at exactly the same height, nose-to-nose at five-feet-ten, but he out-massed her by an order of magnitude.
The demon-stranger sneered, “No, you can’t. Or won’t.”
Won’t. Can’t. Shouldn’t. She remembered the line from an old movie, one her dad had loved so much. Desperately clinging to reason she searched her fractured memory, the phrase an anchor in the wilderness to which she’d been damned.
She bowed her head and mouthed the words: ‘He tasks me and I shall have him.’
“I think not.”
Once more his prescience burned into her, like ice over fire, a hot poker in her gut, followed by a gully wash of frigid ice, leaving her trembling. She was sick of his meddling with her thoughts, her very essence.
Caitlin hissed, “You think wrong...” and the ‘asshole’ petered out in the back of her throat as he grinned down at her, sanctimonious and sure of himself.