And a special thanks to Paul Heitsch, David Brenin, Samantha Cook, Suzanne Elise Freeman, PJ Ochlan, Vincent Fallow, L. Sophie Helbig, and Hope Newhouse—the outstanding voices behind my audiobooks!
– S. E. Smith
Aditsan Claw, adrift in a world he no longer understands, knows his spirit is slipping away. Lost, alone, and near death, he accepts that he will soon leave the world of his people. When the vision of a woman appears before him, he concludes he must be dreaming—until he feels her gentle touch against his skin.
Angeni heard the soft sigh on the wind. Curious, she follows the heartbroken whisper. Her journey leads her to a wounded warrior.
Forbidden to help, but unable to resist, Angeni risks her very existence to help the warrior. Can two souls, bound by different rules, find a way to stay together in a world where neither belongs?
Chapter One
Aditsan Claw sank to his knees on the plateau and stared out across the vast desert. The sticky dampness of blood made the velvet shirt he was wearing cling to his skin. He ignored the discomfort. The fabric helped stem the blood from the deep cut to his side. His stiff fingers slowly opened and the bow in his hand fell to the rocky sand beside him.
His gaze beheld the beautiful mountains and for a brief second, he almost forgot about how much pain he was in. Shadows crossed over the mountains, causing the reddish rocks to look even darker than they were. He looked up at the clear blue sky dotted with high clouds. A wry smile curved his lips when he saw the remains of a contrail. For a moment, he imagined he was on one of the huge jets traveling to Toronto, London, or Sydney. That was where he belonged—not here in the middle of nowhere Utah trying to pretend that he was one of his distant ancestors.
Who was I trying to kid? he thought with a self-deprecating chuckle.
He winced and wrapped his arm around his ribs. He was pretty sure he had cracked a few during his fall. The pain made his head spin. He bowed his head and released a shallow, shuddering breath.
If he were lucky, George, his executive secretary, would send out a search party for him—in two or three days. All of this was his fault. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been warned. Hell, even George had been shocked and asked him if perhaps a visit to the gym might be a better way to prove he hadn’t grown soft.
He breathed slowly through his nose and opened his eyes. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he reached for his grandfather’s old bow. He used the sturdy weapon as a cane to help him stand. By the time he was back to his feet, he was panting. The sweat on his face made him feel chilled and he was having trouble catching his breath.
No more sitting or kneeling. If I do, I probably won’t be able to get up again, he silently cautioned himself.
There was a path that crossed the plateau and wound down to a river. He would be able to find some shade, relief from the intense heat, enough vegetation to make a small fire, and water to drink and wash his battered body.
“Never again,” he swore out loud.
It was amazing how speaking something out loud seemed to give him a bit more strength, even if he was talking to himself. He decided concentrating on something other than how painful it was to move might help. It wasn’t like he didn’t have experience with putting the painful parts of his life in a box and moving forward. Of course, most of those moments had been mental, not physical.
“Think of this as a great workout at the gym,” he muttered.
That was fine and dandy until his foot slipped on some loose stones. He released a long list of expletives. How could he have been so stupid?
“If anyone had ever suggested a week ago that I dress up like one of my ancestors and go play in the wilds, I would have thought them mad,” he muttered. He stopped and rested his hand against the cliff.
His world had come undone four days ago when his beloved grandfather had died. Niyol Claw had been his last connection to his former life. His grandfather hadn’t blinked an eye when his mother handed her only child over to him at the tender age of six. She had left and never returned. A part of him was surprised that his mother had kept him that long.
It would be years later before he discovered that his father had died before his birth in a car accident that took four other members of their tribe. He had visited the spot once a few years ago. One of the families of the men still maintained the roadside markers in remembrance of their fallen family member.
He took a deep breath and forced his body to obey his command to continue walking. His raw fingers stung as he dragged them along the sandstone wall. He ignored the pain. It was better to suffer a few more cuts than to fall again.
“When this is over, I’m never looking back again. My life here is over,” he vowed through clenched teeth.
If you make it out of here, the sardonic side of his mind retorted.
Aditsan ignored the self-doubt. He kept his eyes focused on his goal. That was how he had made it off the reservation, through law school, and became one of the wealthiest Native American entrepreneurs in the world. He never gave up anything without a fight.
Chapter Two
Three hours later, Aditsan gave up on his promise not to sink to his knees. His legs refused to hold him any longer. With a loud groan that echoed along the canyon walls, he lowered his sweat-drenched body to the hard ground and leaned back.
The sun was lower and most of the canyon was shaded. The breeze swirling along the canyon cooled his overheated flesh. The sound of the water soothed his exhausted mind. There was so much he still needed to do before dark, but his body refused to cooperate.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Perhaps a ten-minute power nap would help. Scenes from his morning flashed like a slideshow through his mind. If only there was some way to restart his day.
Hell, I need to restart the last week, he tiredly thought.
Four days earlier, he’d been holding meetings and planning a business trip to Sydney when George discreetly entered and handed him the note informing him of his grandfather’s death. He’d finished the meetings before returning to his office to call his grandfather’s nearest neighbor.
“Your grandfather already made all the arrangements. All you have to do is come,” Yas informed him.
“When?” he’d curtly replied.
“You might want to come tomorrow. Niyol set up a sunrise service. Not many people will show up. Your grandfather didn’t have a lot of visitors,” Yas said.
He remembered wincing at the pointed reminder that he hadn’t visited in the past few years. It had been all too easy to make one excuse or another about why he couldn’t visit. His grandfather never complained, but now Aditsan experienced the weight of remorse and guilt that he had stayed away. The man who had raised him had deserved better.
“I’ll be there,” he replied.
And he had been there. He’d canceled his meetings, his trip, packed up his Bentley, and driven back to the reservation. And like the day before, guilt had washed through him as he drove along the dusty, dirt road down to his grandfather’s meager dwelling in a car that cost more than his grandfather had probably made in a lifetime.
Niyol had refused all of his offers to move to Seattle. The house was practically the same as the day he’d arrived when he was a child. Slowly over the last few years, his grandfather had allowed him to hire workmen to install solar power, running water, and a modern bathroom. The small compromise helped alleviate some of his guilt but not all.
The property, nearly a thousand acres of dusty desert filled with canyons, juniper trees, cactus, and the animals that lived among them, would go to him. He had no use for the land. He had homes in Seattle, Sydney, and a flat in London. The last place he—or any of the ladies he dated—would want to stay was in the single room hogan with a tiny bathroom.
At the moment, the hogan sounds like a Five-star hotel, he mused.
The funeral had been simple. A handful of residents came to show their respects, but none of them lingered a
fterwards and he’d returned to his grandfather’s house feeling like a stranger. He’d spent the rest of the day going through his grandfather’s belongings, trying to decide what to keep and what to discard when he’d found the large box under the bed with his name on it.
“I should never have opened it,” he murmured without opening his eyes.
But he had opened it, and that was when he wished he could restart his week. Inside had been the outfit of a Navajo warrior. His fingers unconsciously touched the soft leather as they had that day, running his fingers along it. Each stitch was perfect, the beads sewn with loving care to form symbols of his people. The moccasins fit perfectly when he slipped them on. Under the clothing, he’d discovered a bone-handled knife in a leather sheath and the handcrafted bow along with a quiver filled with arrows.
The last thing in the box was an envelope with his name written on the front in uneven letters. He immediately recognized his grandfather’s handwriting. Emotion struck him hard when he picked up the envelope and pulled out the letter. The words poured through his exhausted mind as if they were burned into it.
Grandson, if you are reading this, then my time on this Earth has passed. Since your mother left you with me, I have seen the desire in your eyes to follow the winds, but I know better than any how deceiving they can be if you do not listen carefully. Now is the time. Use your ears. Listen to what they are saying. Inside this box is a connection to the old world. My last gift to you is the opportunity to find the happiness you are searching for.
“I don’t hear anything, Grandfather,” he had whispered.
Anger surged through him. All of his life he’d been fed stories about his people and the myths telling where they came from—stories of the birds, the plants, the land, the sky. Niyol expected him to believe them the same way he did, but it was impossible.
He had left, just like his mother. In the outside world, he’d found the success and wealth missing on the reservation. Now he lived in a world where myths were stories for the big screen; a way for some corporation to make money.
As the anger faded as quickly as it rose, Aditsan felt the weight of his injuries, and acknowledged that he would probably die here alone. Every bone and muscle in his body hurt. The deep cut to his side was seeping fresh blood, and each breath was a struggle.
“Grandfather, help me,” he murmured.
A light breeze caressed his face and he turned toward it. A smile lifted the corner of his lips when the sound of the birds mixed with those of the wind and water. A sense of peace washed through him and he slowly slid along the wall behind him to the ground.
I am with you, Grandson.
The gentle voice of his grandfather soothed his tired mind. His body relaxed and he gave in to his exhaustion. He wanted to escape the pain wracking him, if only for a short while. Another sound, this time from him, slipped into the wind and was carried away.
Chapter Three
Angeni paused and listened. The wind teased her senses, as if playing with her. Curious, she watched as it swirled around, forming a small dust devil.
“What are you trying to tell me?” she demanded.
The wind danced around her, causing her to twist around to keep up with it. Impatient, she wiggled her fingers. The whirlwind moved unevenly before enveloping her. Her long, black hair rose upward. The wind playfully braided it with bits of desert flowers tucked within the strands.
“Well, if you have something to share, tell me,” she instructed.
Grandfather, help me.
The low, raw plea caught her by surprise. She lifted a transparent arm. The wind filtered between her fingers before slipping away, but not before the anguish contained within the words reverberated through her.
She followed the wind, moving effortlessly across the sky. Her world was the spirit realm. Those like her made up the world that the people of Earth knew. They were the stars, the moon, the sun, the wind, the earth that grew the things the people needed. Her skill was in healing. She soothed the ravaged Earth after the others of her kind moved through.
Her gentle touch came after the fires of her brothers scorched the earth, the floods caused by her sisters’ tears, and the damaging winds from her father when he was angry at the way the people below treated the gift he and her mother had given them. They lived by the laws of nature: building, destroying, and healing, but never interfering with the day-to-day lives of those who walked the Earth. That was forbidden.
Yet… the sound of the soulful plea wrapped itself around her gentle heart. The pain in the human’s voice resonated through her. Curious about why the wind had decided to bring her this particular voice, she followed it across the world and along the narrow canyons. She followed the river created by one of her sisters to the end of the canyons carved by the flowing tears until she came to the beginning where the water still fell into the pool created by her father’s fist when he’d pounded the ground.
In the shade of the painted cliff lay a warrior. His side was soaked in blood. She absently noted it was the same color as her mother used to create the red canyon walls. Beside him lay a weapon designed to hunt the animals that were created to feed them.
Help him, the wind whispered to her.
“It is forbidden,” she replied, startled at the unusual request.
The mournful cry of the wind rose and made her look up. Her mother’s veil was sweeping across the sky, mixing the brilliant blue with hues of pink, red, and yellow. Soon, her father would chase the brightness of Mother Sun to the other side of the world.
Her focus moved back to the warrior lying on the ground. He released a soft moan and his breathing sounded labored. Perhaps she could help him. A little help couldn’t hurt—or be noticeable.
Angeni’s feet didn’t make a sound as she stepped along the ground. She knelt beside the warrior, reached out, and gently brushed a hand across his brow. His skin was cold to her touch. A shiver ran through his body and he moaned again in pain.
“Hush, warrior. I will help ease the pain,” she murmured in a soft voice.
She was shocked when the warrior’s eyelashes slowly rose and he stared back at her. It was as if he heard her! That was impossible. She started to pull her hand away from his brow when it was captured.
“Please… help me,” he whispered.
She stared into his dark brown eyes in stunned silence. Her fingers curled around his hand. She lifted her other hand and brushed her fingers along his cheek. The raw flesh healed under her tender touch.
“I will help you,” she promised.
A shudder ran through him and his eyelashes lowered until they lay like twin crescents on his high cheekbones. She carefully laid his hand across his stomach. Her eyes studied the sky and she fervently hoped that her father would be too busy tonight to realize what she was doing.
Her brothers and sisters would look down on her and wonder if she had lost her mind, but they would keep her secret. They knew her heart was too tender to ignore a cry for help. She returned her attention to the warrior as she thought of the people of this world. He would need warmth to keep the cold of the night at bay and to help protect him.
Angeni rose to her feet. She gathered the dry, broken branches littered around the area and built a fire ring. At her soft request, one of her brothers sent a small spark to light the wood. Next, she called to the wind to weave her soft blankets made from the cotton plants.
Soon, the warrior lay on a thick pallet formed by the wind. Angeni hummed softly as she removed his clothing. The song she sang healed the dark bruises and sealed the deep cuts. Her hands paused over his ribs. Three of them were cracked and a sharp edge had punctured his left lung.
She focused on the song of healing she was weaving. Threads of healing power extended from her and wove around his body. The colorful threads of life seeped through his flesh, mending bones and torn flesh. The song on her lips faded when she looked up and saw that he was watching her.
“
Don’t… stop,” he murmured.
A tender smile curved her lips. “Sleep, warrior,” she instructed.
Her fingers traced along his brow. He fought her command, but she wove a spell of healing sleep into her touch. His eyelids fluttered before they closed.
Angeni swallowed as she continued to caress him. How could he hear her? See her? Feel her touch? There was something different about him that both frightened and fascinated her. He was a man of the Earth, one destined to live a short life before he returned to the soil. Yet, the idea of his death repulsed her. She did not want him to die.
Her gaze lowered to his lips. They were slightly parted. Her hand slid down to his chest. He was breathing normally now that the injuries to his ribs and lung were healed. She leaned over him and hesitated a brief moment before she tenderly laid her lips against his in a brief kiss.
“Sleep, warrior. I will watch over you,” she promised.
Chapter Four
Aditsan lay still, listening to the morning birds. He kept his eyes closed, allowing his other senses—especially his hearing—to take over. It was as if he was hearing the world around him for the first time.
The soft buzz of bees moving from flower to flower sounded unusually loud. The wind swept along the ground and he picked out the faint sound of sand being shifted. There were other sounds. The waterfall flowing into the basin, the rush of the water across rocks, the chirps of the birds, and the patter of a small rodent looking for a last meal before the sun came up.
Mixed within the sounds was a lilting voice that soothed his soul. He slowly opened his eyes and gazed upward. He was lying under a protected section of the cliff.
The Glittering World Anthology: Native American Romance Paranormal Fantasy Page 24