Chaos Bites

by Lori Handeland

  “Oh. Ah. Well. Ain’t that nice? I was gonna say you’ve got something there behind yer ear.” He pointed.

  I swiped a glob of draugar off my neck then casually wiped it on my jeans. “Deerfly,” I said, hoping like hell they had them here.

  “Bastards,” the man muttered, and spit a brown stream of tobacco juice into a cup at his elbow.

  I was a little embarrassed that I’d expected the guy to question if I was black. I’d been asked that all my life, and I hated it. Not because I didn’t want to be seen as African American. Ruthie had been, after all, and I’d wanted nothing more than to be exactly like her—until I was.

  No, it had bothered me then because I hadn’t known who my parents were. I had no idea why I looked the way I did, and I hadn’t wanted to be reminded of that. Of course once I’d met my mother, I’d only wanted a return to my blissful state of ignorance.

  “You doin’ some sightseeing?” the man asked.

  “Mmm,” I said, eyeing the key in his hand. Why didn’t he just hand it over?

  “ ’Cause if ye are, it’s good ye aren’t white.”

  My gaze flicked from the key to his face. “Excuse me?”

  “There are a lot of places ‘round here that are cursed for the white man.”

  “Sure there are.”

  He grinned, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. Why on earth would someone do that on purpose? “You can hardly blame the Sioux for being teed off.”

  “Interesting position for a white man.”

  “My great-great-great-granny was Lakota.”

  My ears perked up as the curse got a whole lot more interesting. “Really?” I’d discovered that family legends often held the truth.

  “Really. You know the government stole the Black Hills from the People.”

  “I heard something about that.”

  He grinned that terrible grin again. “They call the hills Paha Sapa, and they’re sacred. In the Treaty of Fort Laramie the Sioux were given ownership. But then gold was discovered.”

  “And suddenly the land that was useless enough to give to the Indians wasn’t so useless anymore.”

  “You’ve heard the story?”

  “It’s common enough. They found oil in Indian Territory. Shazaam. Not so Indian anymore.”

  The clerk nodded. “White men started pourin’ into the Black Hills. Custer even led an expedition in 1874. Carved his name right into the peak of Inyan Kara. You can still see it. G. CUSTER. ’74. According to my granny, the mountain was angry. Ever since then, any white man steps foot on Inyan Kara is cursed.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Didn’t work out too well for Custer.”

  “That’s because he was a moron,” I muttered.

  “That too,” the clerk agreed. “Split his force. Underestimated the enemy. Got hisself surrounded. Him a West Point man, too. Though he did graduate at the bottom of the class.”

  My regard for the clerk increased. I should know better than to judge by appearance. This guy knew a thing or two.

  “Despite the protests of the Indians,” he continued, “white men began to mine for gold. When the Cheyenne joined the Sioux and they all kicked some ass, the government said the Sioux had broken the treaty and took the Black Hills away.”

  “What about a reparation lawsuit?” I asked.

  “United States Versus the Sioux Nation of Indians, 1980. Supreme Court ruled the Black Hills were illegally confiscated, and the Sioux should be paid what they were worth in 1874 plus interest—around a hundred and six million dollars.” His eyes actually twinkled.

  “Go on,” I urged. I wanted to hear the rest almost as much as he wanted to tell it to me.

  “Sioux refused to accept the money. Wanted their sacred hills back.”

  “But most of it’s divided into national parks,” I mused.

  “Few state parks, too. So them gettin’ back their land . . . wasn’t happenin’.”

  “And the money?”

  “Sits in the bank. Last I heard it had grown to over seven hundred fifty million dollars. And the Sioux won’t touch it even though they’re one of the poorest people in the country.”

  “What about the curse?”

  “Stays in force until the hills again belong to the People.”

  “That could be a while.”

  He nodded. “So it’s good yer—what did ye say? Ethiopian?”

  “Egyptian.”

  The clerk shrugged.

  “You never answered me before. You believe the Black Hills are cursed?

  “Maybe not all of them. But Inyan Kara . . .” His eyes got a faraway expression. “Yeah. I believe it.”

  “Why?”

  “There’ve been plenty of hikers gone up and never come back down. Weird storms blowin’ in from nowhere. Lightning blazing from a clear sky. Torrential rains and such. Probably been a dozen broken bones in the last year alone—legs, ankles, arms. Inyan Kara’s got a bad reputation, and the landowners are real touchy ’bout who they let walk through. Gotta ask permission, maybe even sign somethin’. Lawsuits, you know.”

  The scourge of America. Lawsuits. And lawyers. The latter almost made demons look good.

  Almost.

  “Sounds to me like the place is in a bad-weather pattern, with a lot of dangerous slopes and stupid hikers. You don’t really think the mountain can bring up a storm, do you?”

  I didn’t. But only because I knew what could.

  “Guess not.” The man smiled again. If he was going to continue with the chew, he should really stop. “But it’s a good story, ain’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “Still goin’ to see Inyan Kara?”

  “I am. According to you, the mountain oughta love me.”

  “One more thing.” He sobered. “Folks say they’ve seen . . .”

  An old man? A young one? A ghost? A wraith? A spirit?

  “A coyote.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “It’s big,” he continued. “Some think it’s part wolf. It’s also black. No one ’round here’s ever seen a black coyote, though I hear tell they exist. Some claim it’s a medicine man who can change shape.”

  I laughed, but the sound was forced. Because I thought it was a medicine man who could change shape, too.

  But changing into a coyote was disturbing. To the Navajo it’s an insult to call anyone a coyote. In their folklore the animal is a disreputable character, one that does nasty things and cannot be trusted. They call the coyote mah-ih, one who roams. Which might explain how a Navajo shaman wound up in Lakota land.

  “If you come across it,” he urged, “be careful. Thing’s been known to attack. Some thought the animal was rabid and went after it, but they never found a trace when they carried a gun. Smart bugger. People been seein’ it for more years than a coyote could live. Myself, I think there’s a pack of them up there.”

  Well, at least I knew who—I mean what—to search for.

  “I’ll be careful,” I said.

  “You do that.” The clerk tossed the key onto the counter then retreated through a door to the rear where a television blared, “Wheel. Of. Fortune!”

  Another night, another motel room, I thought as I made use of the key. This one was little different from any other. Drab. Dank. Dark. The only color came from the god-awful painting of a pheasant that hung over the bed.

  I suddenly realized how tired of it all I was. Or maybe I was just tired and being alone was making me depressed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stayed in a motel alone. Maybe I hadn’t.

  I considered calling Megan, but that would only make me more miserable. I’d wind up missing her, missing the kids, the bar, my apartment, everything I’d left behind and hoped to return to.

  I was starting to suspect that I might never be able to stay more than a day or two in one place for the rest of my life. However long that might turn out to be.

  The thought of sleeping with hidden draugar remains stuck in unknown pla
ces had me climbing into the water-stained tub despite my exhaustion. Who knew where more globs of blood and ash might lurk?

  When I was done, I returned to the bedroom, which was far too quiet. In the mirror my face was drawn and pale—for me. For anyone else, the shade would be deep tan. My eyes appeared bluer than usual, probably because of the haunted expression that now lived there.

  The jeweled collar that circled my neck mocked me. So pretty and bright, a complete contrast with the ugly darkness it controlled. I wanted that darkness gone, along with the damn collar, but I didn’t know if that were possible. I had a sneaking suspicion the darkness was a part of me now.

  The turquoise that lay between my breasts seemed to pulse to the beat of my heart, calling me, mesmerizing me, and slowly I lifted my hand and touched it. In the glass just behind me, something moved, something low to the ground and dark.

  My fingers clenched on the turquoise as I spun around. “Sawyer?”

  Nothing was there.

  My head hung, the disappointment far too deep. What would I have done if Sawyer had been in the room—as a beast or as a man?

  I rubbed the greenish blue rock with my thumb, and it warmed—from my hand or from the magic? The stone was a conduit, or at least it had been when Sawyer was alive. Now it was simply a stone.

  Turning back, I froze.

  Sawyer stood in the mirror.

  CHAPTER 18

  I closed my eyes then opened them again. He was still there.

  He wasn’t a reflection; he wasn’t in the room. I checked.

  No, he was in the mirror.

  I hadn’t seen him like this since he’d died. Make that since before he’d died.

  I didn’t want to remember what he’d looked like trussed to a telephone pole with his heart torn out. Unfortunately what I wanted, I rarely got, and I’d seen it often enough both in my dreams and out of them.

  His skin glistened bronze beneath a sun I couldn’t see. Muscles rippled in his stomach, his chest, his arms, causing his tattoos to dance. His hair shone black, sleek, and loose; it flowed around his shoulders, blown by a wind too far away for me to feel. His gray eyes burned wherever they touched. Since I’d left my clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor, along with the towel, my body responded to the brush of his gaze as fiercely as if he’d run his fingers everywhere.

  “I miss you,” I whispered, and he held out his hand.

  I reached forward, half afraid I’d put my palm to the cool glass and he’d vanish now like he had when he’d died. Instead my fingers squelched through the pane, seeming to disappear from here and appear over there. His closed around them, and Sawyer tugged me into the mirror.

  I stumbled, and he caught me. He was warm, and he smelled so good—like the trees, the earth, the sun on the mountain—like himself. I wanted to rub my face all over him, feel his flesh against my cheek, his hair brush my eyelids, his scent becoming my own.

  Glancing through the looking glass at the motel room, empty but for my duffel and keys, made me dizzy. Here the sun shone bright and warm in opposition to the moon sheen I’d left behind. That contrast made me realize that where I stood was the mirror image of where I’d been.

  I returned my attention to Sawyer, questions ready to tumble from my lips, and he kissed me.

  He tasted of both day and night, salt and sugar, spicy yet sweet. He tasted like Sawyer, and all I wanted was to keep tasting him until the pain and the fear and the loneliness went away.

  I filled my hands with his hair. The ebony strands felt like midnight—cool and dark, they flowed over my wrists, spilling the scent of the mountains that rose from the desert and the wind that whirled the waters of the sea.

  His tongue brushed the seam of my lips, causing gooseflesh to ripple across my back. He rubbed the prickle away with firm strokes of his hard, magic hands, then traced his nails across my shoulders, making the skin rise again.

  Opening to him, I met his tongue with my own, dueling, teasing, chasing it back into his mouth for just one more taste. I scored his lip with my teeth, tempted to draw blood just to see if I could.

  A wraith wouldn’t bleed, neither ghost nor spirit, just a man. But Sawyer had never been just anything in his life.

  If I drew his blood would he disappear forever? If I tasted it would I? I didn’t want to take that chance.

  My hands were cold against his neck, and he shivered. I ran my palms over him as he’d done to me, and beneath my closed eyelids the images of his beasts flashed like a Vegas light show. If I wanted, I could become each of them. All I had to do was touch him and reach for the change.

  Though there was another skinwalker on Inyan Kara, there would never be another with the power of Sawyer, the power of me. There was no one like us in the world.

  He’d told me once how similar we were, and I’d denied it. The thought of being as cold, sarcastic, dangerous, and distant as he was had repelled me. For years Sawyer had terrified me. Probably because whenever I peered into his eyes I saw a reflection of myself. More recently I’d come to realize that our similarities connected us in a way I was connected to no one else. Only with Sawyer could I ever be completely me.

  I tried to peer into his face, but the sunlight through the windows was too bright. I squinted, and he flicked his wrist. The curtains flew across the curtain rod with a muffled shriek.

  The sun still peeked around the edges just enough that I could see myself at the center of his gray gaze, captured forever.

  “What is this?” I asked. “Where are we?”

  He didn’t answer, and I began to wonder if he could. Like the Little Mermaid, had his voice been the price he’d had to pay to touch me one more time? What would I pay to touch him?

  How about your soul?

  I started. Was this how Summer had lost hers? Feeling the pain of Jimmy’s inevitable loss, knowing she could prevent it, being enticed with the promise of saving him. All she had to do was sell her immortal soul. Would I do the same to bring Sawyer back? Would I do it even for Jimmy?

  “Kiss me,” I whispered. “Kiss me and don’t stop. Love me and don’t talk.”

  I didn’t want to hear any more whispers, not his and definitely not my own.

  Sawyer didn’t need to be told twice to have sex. Sawyer was sex. Temptation in perfect form.

  He slid to his knees, his mouth, his hands caressing me as he went. His tongue circled my navel; his teeth scraped my hip. He pressed his thumb to the throbbing vein in my thigh, then he lowered his head, and his hair cascaded over my knee as he put his mouth to that vein and suckled.

  I thought I might fall, but his palms held me firmly by the backs of my legs, the tips of his index fingers just brushing the swell of my rear, sliding across the sensitive skin below.

  I steadied myself with a hand on his shoulder, the other cupping his head, urging him on. Who could have ever imagined that the press of lips, the spike of teeth, the laving of a tongue against the femoral artery could nearly make me come?

  He inched upward, but I slid down. I wanted to kiss him again, to make this last. He’d be gone when we were done, and after tomorrow who knew if I’d ever see him again. The last ghost I’d raised had told me what I needed to know then taken the express train to eternity.

  I both wanted that for Sawyer and feared it. He deserved peace; despite Jimmy’s words, he deserved heaven. But once Sawyer went, he’d be lost to me. I doubted he’d get a weekend pass for a dream booty call.

  We knelt face-to-face, so close in height our bodies aligned perfectly. His erection caressed the darker curls between my thighs. The mountain lion on his chest seemed to purr when my breasts brushed against it. Only a whisper apart, breath mingling, hands at our sides, our eyes stared intently into each other’s.

  I licked my lips, and my tongue caught the edge of his. A flame seemed to flare at the center of his eerie gray gaze, and he lifted one hand, clasped my neck, then crushed our mouths together.

  My heart gave a single thud then began to race. S
awyer tensed, jerked back. His eyes flared first yellow, then orange, then the pupil at the center widened into the silhouette of a great bird in flight. For just an instant his face flickered—man, bird, man, bird.

  Hissing, he yanked his palm away, shaking it as if he’d been burned, though I could see no evidence of it. When he lifted his eyes, they’d returned to their normal light gray.

  “The shifting works both ways,” I murmured.

  Not only could I touch one of his tattoos and become the animal beneath, it appeared he could touch the phoenix on my neck and become one, too. That would have been an intriguing development if he weren’t dead.

  I stared into Sawyer’s face; he stared into mine.

  “Whatever,” I said, and kissed him again.

  He laughed, the vibration causing a shimmer to slide all the way from my lips to my toes.

  We kissed for a long time. He could make me forget the now. Hell, he could make me forget my name. Too bad he couldn’t make me forget the past; too bad he couldn’t scourge it from my brain forever.

  His mouth trailed across my neck to my breasts. Sawyer might be part beast, but he was all man. As lovely as kissing was, eventually he moved on.

  I cupped his chin, lifted his face, smiled at his confusion. “Lie back.”

  A shove in the middle of his chest, a tiny flare of light and a slight shimmy of my form when I touched his mountain lion, then he tumbled onto the floor.

  I wanted to walk my lips over his skin, rub my cheek against his flesh and memorize the texture, imprint the scent, though I knew that for the rest of my life when I smelled rain on the trees I’d smell him.

  Closing my eyes I traced my mouth across his fluttering eyelids, the fine blade of his nose, the spike of his cheekbones and chin. The curve of his neck tasted like the first blade of grass in spring—sweet and tart, green and earthy. When I kissed his biceps, his wolf howled in my head—agony, ecstasy, freedom and pain.

  “Hush,” I murmured against his skin, then licked the tattoo from the tip of the wolf’s tilted snout to the base of his curling tail.

  The rumble of Sawyer’s growl drew my lips to his chest. I avoided the lion in the center, concentrating on the flat, brown disks of his nipples. His nipples were softer, darker than the rest, and they tasted softer and darker, too. Like fine Belgian chocolate after a long stretch of generic candy bars.