Soul Song (The Soul Mate Tree Book 10)
Page 2
“What’s the last thing you remember, umm . . .” Tim rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Dorothea, but everyone calls me Dottie.”
“Nice to meet you, Dottie. My name’s Guatimozin, but everyone calls me Tim.”
“Teeem?”
“Yes, that’s how you say it. Now, the last thing you remember?”
Dottie scowled. “Runnin’ up the hill ta this tree, when it looked normal, and then wakin’ up here.”
“Nothing else?”
Through the monochrome coloring of the realm he detected the heat of a blush filling her cheeks. The rosy glow shone through the gray.
“Nothin’ I care ta discuss.”
Tim didn’t have time to dawdle. He’d just finished helping a member of the McKinley pack in North sector five, still called Alaska. Any previous plans of making it to Blue Wolf Enclave before his friends had their baby were fading. The child would be unique, not merely from the goddess’s meddling, but her parents’ differences. He’d promised to try and be there.
He wanted to be annoyed this odd area of the in-between pulled him in. Tim should be upset the strange tree drew him in, and this woman compelled him to stay, but for some inexplicable reason he wasn’t. As much as he wished to continue on to the enclave, he ached to remain here with Dottie. To assist her in escaping.
Ridiculous. I don’t even know her. It must be pity. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t help a damsel in distress? That’s all it is.
He gave a single firm nod, successfully convincing himself other powers weren’t at play.
Tim rested his hands on his hips. “So, you don’t know why you’re here, but do you know where your body might be?”
Eyes wide, she stepped back. “Whaddya mean, my body?” Eyes filling with moisture, her jaw quivered.
“Gaia’s teats, I’m sorry, Dottie.” Stepping closer, he gripped her shoulders. “Here you’re just a spirit, a soul. It’s impossible for me to take you away from this realm without holding on to your physical form in the living world.”
Wrapping his arms around her, he hugged her close. “I’ve got you. We’ll fix everything.”
He squeezed her tighter as she broke into tears, burying her face into his shoulder.
Rocking against him, her chest and hips rolled with every wave of grief passing over the poor wisp of a thing. The cotton fabric of his shirt absorbed her tears, warming with the salty fluid’s heat. Her nails, digging into his back as she clung to him, triggered something more than empathy.
He shimmied to adjust the erection that had filled his slacks since the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Now hard enough to pound steel, Tim shifted his hips away from her tempting curves, trying not to scare her.
He studied the swaying tree which had brought him to this woman. Its trunk stood quiet in the living world, yet here it expanded and contracted as though it breathed. The branches gently waved in a nonexistent breeze. Bursting with bright splashes of colors in a world void of them, it was obviously special. Since it existed in both planes, he had no idea what it could be.
It might have some connection to Dottie, or it could be coincidence. He rolled his eyes at the very notion . . . he didn’t believe anything occurred by chance. The tree brought them both here for some reason, likely so he could help her return to her proper plane. Now he just had to locate where her body was, and help her soul cross back into the living realm, then he could continue with his journey.
When her shoulders stopped heaving, Tim loosened his hold, suppressing the urge to kiss the top of her head. Stepping back, he maintained contact by gently cupping her elbows, peering down at her. Dottie wiped away her tears with a quiet sniffle before glancing up.
Recognizing a kindred spirit, another who rarely expressed weakness or released tears, he wanted to cradle her face and tell her he understood. Instead, he scanned the familiar horizon. Tim continued to study the roiling gray of the clouds until she spoke.
“Sorry ‘bout the breakdown. I’m fine now, only needed a moment ta accept my situation. Not that I didn’t realize my life threw an ing-bing, but hearin’ you say it . . .” Dottie sighed, rolling her eyes to the sky. “I was performin’ in a town called Black Diamond. I’m a singer. Before I showed up here, I ran ta a tree on the hill on the outskirts. This tree.” She motioned to the swaying branches with a chuckle. “Except it was normal. I would guess I’m somewhere around there.”
“Okay, it’s a place to start. I’ll head into town and rummage for information and return to you in a few hours.” Tim stroked her hair, rubbing her soft curled strands between his fingers. Catching himself, he smiled and pulled his hand back. “I . . . yeah . . . I’ll be back soon.”
She grabbed his hand. “Wait. If I’m a spirit here, what are you? How come you can touch me, and how is it possible for you ta leave here and find my body?”
“I’ll wing it.” He chuckled at the pun. “And I’m a spirit here too, an eagle shifter. A servant of the horned god. I’m a guardian of the in-between and come and go as I please.”
The moment she dropped his hand, he mourned the loss of her touch. He should’ve known those words would frighten her. Obviously, a human would revile his kind, but it still hurt. “What I am, is the only chance you have of surviving.” His annoyance leaked through.
Her wide, apologetic eyes met his, and made him wish he could take back the words. Softening his tone, he continued, “I’ll break you out of here. Promise.”
“Thank you, Tim. I know you will. I’m sorry, for . . . for my reaction. It’s jus’ . . . you understand?”
“Of course, I get it.” Tim felt compelled to forgive her actions, as well as prevent her from struggling with any guilt. He didn’t have a habit of pointing out the ignorance of humans, but he rarely let them off the hook easily. Moreover, he never cared enough to be concerned either way.
“So, what exactly do you do for the horned god?” She smiled sweetly.
The sudden flash of her teeth filled him with heat, and healed any wounds.
“I help lost souls, usually at my god’s bidding.”
“Usually? Did yer god send you here now?” Dottie tilted her head.
Tim smirked. “Not as far as I can tell. I guess I’ll have to do this one without his influence.”
Stepping back, he faded into the living realm, leaving the oddly intriguing woman in the care of the brightly colored tree.
Chapter 3
Dottie’s fingers curled into fists, chastising herself for being such a chump. How could she be weak in the knees for a man like Tim? Not only had she just met him, but if what he said was true, he was a devoted servant of the horned god. Growing up in the Christian churches of the south, they’d considered such things blasphemous stories. Men and women who took on a predatory animal form were considered the work of the devil.
She laughed to herself. How could something as magnificent as an animal or as beautiful as a human be the work of the devil? Dottie remained steadfast . . . only God could create beings with such love.
In her pre-teen years, she’d often hide in the tops of the trees and pray to Jesus, asking if he’d make her a bird. She dreamed of flying away from the South Carolina island her mother’s alcoholism chained them on, to find love and fame. The kind her Grandma Dorothy had.
Although named after her mother’s mother, no one had ever called her Dorothea. From the moment she’d come into the world slimy and screaming, they referred to her as Dottie. Although, Grandpa Thomas secretly called her Smudge. He would coo to her and tell her though she wasn’t quite black, nor quite white, she would always be his little Smudged Dot.
Lifting her arm, she inspected her skin. Here, between life and death, her flesh held a silvery hue. In the land of the living, Dottie passed for white; even if her heritage
demanded otherwise.
Her lips curled as she pictured Gramps, a striking, deep mocha man, who spoke with pride of his African ancestors. Grams met him when he’d joined her USO touring band. She called him her shadow. Every time Grams turned around, he’d been there.
Gramps would proffer a grand bow, proclaiming, “The beautiful, talented Dorothea, swept off her feet by the handsome shadow.” He insisted her grandmother fell for him the moment they’d locked gazes. But Grams only winked, stating he’d worn her down over time.
Grandma Dorothy swore he’d worked like the breaking waves against the stones of Beauport Bay, the place the two exchanged vows.
Dottie lay back against the tree, closing her eyes, bringing their wedding photographs to the forefront of her mind. They’d ventured to the picturesque Isle of Jersey while performing for the troops in France. Back then folks frowned upon interracial marriage and subjected it to physical resistance, but the French couldn’t care less.
Her guts twisting, Dottie’s lids tightened in sorrow at the memory of the stories her mother would whisper. Tales of how her grandparents’ cross-continental fame made them rich and happy, until the Second World War ended and they returned to the states. They’d fallen in love at such a young age, children hadn’t even crossed their minds.
When Dottie’s mother, ossified from finishing a bottle of bourbon, spoke of her past, she’d spitefully add how Grams and Gramps had never wanted her. Spitting out how her parents treated her like an accident. Dottie had studied her mom’s childhood pictures. She’d sported skin pale as Grams, but according to her, having a biracial child interfered with their social status at outings, forcing them to pawn her off onto a French au pair.
Dottie’s eyes snapped open. Fueled by anger, her southern drawl broke though. “Oh, boohoo, Mama. How horrible ta have a sober woman focused solely on yer care and comfort.”
Jumping up, she paced. Her mother’s self-pity had known no bounds. She’d accuse Dottie of trying to be a white woman, shaming her for betraying their black ancestors. Then in the next breath she’d lament how unfair the world treated a black woman trying to live her life with a white man. Yet, as far as Dottie could tell, no one had ever cared about her black roots until her mother shoved the fact in their faces.
In most instances, the people around them didn’t act uncomfortable even after learning they weren’t pure white women. They never asked them to leave until her mother began her inebriated yelling.
Honestly, after the Diesel War, race weighed as a far lesser prejudice than being a Were or a Shifter. Like how I treated Tim. Huffing, disgusted with herself, she shook her head, noting the absence of the thin chain that usually pulled with the movement.
Reaching up, grasping about her neck, she searched for the large locket, but found nothing. “Applesauce.”
Johnny had her take it off before she went on stage; said the resort guests expected a high-class dame, not a sentimental one. It should be settled in a glass dish on her dressing room vanity, unless Johnny’s little chippy, Violet, and her cheating man had dumped it to the floor during their betrayal.
The beautiful vintage piece of jewelry had come addressed to her in a plain brown box on her nineteenth birthday. Missing a return address and void of a card or note, she could only assume who had sent it. No one else would send her something like a family heirloom but the two people who’d always loved her.
Pictures of her Grandma Dorothea and Grandpa Thomas sat snugly inside. Never the monsters her mother made them out to be, they’d only shown Dottie unconditional love. Affection flowed through her, remembering many visits where Gramps played piano as Grams and Dottie sang until their voices gave out.
In fact, shortly before leaving South Carolina forever, she’d found a hidden letter they’d written, begging her mother to let them move their only grandchild into their home. They’d wanted to take over caring for Dottie, and begged her mom to leave her husband, to get sober. It was dated around the time of her tenth birthday. When she confronted her, Mama insisted, because she’d refused their offer, Grams and Gramps wrote them off.
Dottie never got the chance to say goodbye, or even lay eyes on them again, which broke her in ways she didn’t know she could reconcile. No one had shown her as much love and devotion as her grandparents. Her mother, father, stepfather, and all the men who’d come and gone cared only about themselves. She reached down and picked up a rock from the dead ground.
Even a no-good grifter like Johnny. Who swore ta love me forever.
She threw the stone with all her might. As it faded away through the mist, she scrutinized all her choices. Dottie swore never to be this gullible again. If she made it out of here the only person she’d turn to for love and acceptance would be herself.
What ‘bout Tim?
The gorgeous man with silver eyes so full of humanity she could end up lost in them. He had extended a kindness and concern at helping her out of here, and back to her living, breathing body. Tim hadn’t even asked if she wanted help. He simply went into town to find her. Skepticism slinked through her mind.
What reasonin’ does he have behind his actions?
There had to be an ulterior motive. Would assisting her gain him favor with his boss? Or would he ask for payment in the end? Biting her bottom lip, Dottie stirred up images of how she’d like to repay him. Relaxing her jaw, she let out an exasperated sigh.
There I go again, tryin’ ta throw my heart at someone. It’s likely he’s simply an honorable man with a good and noble fortitude who’ll help me . . . and move on.
~ ~ ~
After checking the hospital and every other location humans would keep a woman in a coma, Tim traveled to the theater she’d headlined. One of the marquis still held her poster, her name scrawled in lights along the top. She leaned into her microphone, its stand tipped on the base. Bedroom eyes with thick black lashes stared at him through the image. Her perfect teeth bit her plump, red, lower lip, one corner of her mouth tilted up in a sexy smirk.
Putting his hands in his pockets, he surreptitiously adjusted his swelling cock. It took the whole trek to town to will the engorged flesh to relax after being in her presence. Even a two-dimensional image of Dottie turned him on. What on earth was wrong with him? He felt like a hormonal teenager, and he hadn’t even acted like one of those in his youth.
Taking a deep breath and untucking his shirt to hide the bulge, Tim entered the theater lobby. He scented rogue Weres the moment he crossed the threshold. The small woman behind the window, the only one in sight, wasn’t a Were or Shifter. The stench permeated the air, but running out of options, he had to ask if she knew Dottie’s whereabouts.
The human blushed. “Terrible thing. She took a spill and her fiancé set up care for her.”
“Her”–he swallowed–“man doesn’t have her at the hospital?”
“Oh no, private care at the old army base.”
“Her fiancé is a soldier?”
The woman cleared her throat. “Well, no. They moved our militia ta the base at Potterville, ‘bout forty miles closer ta Eureka.”
Smiling, Tim nodded. “Ah, of course. Then I’ll head over to the old base. Where is it?”
“Only a few blocks East of here, but it’s still a fortress there. You gotta have clearance ta get in.”
“Clearance?”
“It’s like a country club. Jus’ for VIPs in town.”
Tapping his hand on the counter, he thanked her, turning just in time to catch a couple rogues entering the building. Taking the exit on the far side to avoid them, he snuck out, heading toward the base she spoke of.
Arriving at a high, chain-linked fence topped with barbed wire, Tim chuckled dryly. Like a country club . . . in hell. Trucks and crates stamped with the notorious Animal Gang logo crowded the other side of the fortifications.
She hadn’t mentioned a fiancé. He’d only spent a brief time with her, but he still assumed she’d have said something about being engaged. Maybe expressed some concern of how her lover would respond to her absence. If Tim was honest with himself though, selfishness caused his response. He hoped to be the only man in her life.
God’s antlers, she’s perfect. Of course she’s taken.
~ ~ ~
The eerie silence of this place began to grate on Dottie’s nerves. What did Tim call it? The in-between? Well it had a creepy way of absorbing sounds. When she’d pitched the stone, it never made a thud, as though it continued to travel through the mist, without gravity bringing it down to the ground.
Maybe nothin’ between life and death is substantial enough ta resonate. Bein’ only a spirit, does it mean I won’t either?
“Only one way ta find out.”
She hummed at first. Testing to see if the notes vanished like the rock, or bounced about the colorless trees in the distance. The tune returned as though ricocheting around a cathedral. The acoustics amplified her already dulcet tone.
Shifting her drone into a song, Dottie picked one of her favorites. She glanced up at the swirling purples and pinks of her resting place. Sure, it may not be a fruit tree, but the song ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree’ still worked.
Gramps liked the Tex Beneke version best, but Grams and Dottie would always belt out the Andrews Sisters’ variant when his fingers danced across the keys. She identified with the story of a young man heading off to war and the woman he left behind.
Adventuring into the city instead of battle, Tim took the place of the GI Joe in her mind. She’d faithfully wait here for him to return. Dottie hoped his quest would end with Johnny laying on the floor, her ex-fiancé’s nose as broken as her heart. If she could go with him, she’d give that wrong number Violet a fist in the kisser, too.