by Sharon Sala
Granted he and his men weren’t in covered wagons, and there were no mountains directly around them, but they were fucking trapped by a wall of Indians in vehicles as far as he could see. Emile Harper had seriously underestimated the Navajo nation.
As the officers started toward him, he heard the doors opening and closing in the SUVS behind him and knew the men were getting out. So they’d been made. Big fucking deal. He would get them out of it. He opted for a happy face and raised his hand in hello.
“Hey guys, what’s going on? Looks like quite a reunion here. Hope we didn’t mess up the group picture.”
No one laughed, which meant he wasn’t going to be talking his way out of this.
At that point, the tallest officer stepped up.
“Johnston Nantay, Navajo tribal police. I want to see some identification.”
“Look, no hard feelings here. We obviously are somewhere we don’t belong. Our bad. We’ll just turn around and leave the same way we came, okay?”
“No, not okay. Hand over your wallets, all of you.”
Conroy heard a distinct click behind him, like someone had just released the safety on a gun. He pivoted quickly, his hand up in the air.
“No weapons! No weapons!” he yelled.
When he turned around, not only had the officers pulled their weapons, but there were three hundred plus Indians spilling out of their cars, armed to the teeth. If he didn’t defuse this situation and fast, they might go down in a history repeat of Custer’s last stand.
Conroy waved at the men he’d brought with him.
“Drop the guns and hand over your wallets.”
His men shifted nervously.
The sound of several hundred rifles jacking shells into the chambers breeched the sudden silence.
Conroy threw down his wallet and handgun, and turned to face Nantay.
“I’m unarmed, I’m unarmed! Don’t shoot!”
Nantay’s men began gathering up the wallets and weapons while he turned his attention to Conroy.
“I would be interested in hearing what you thought you were going to do here,” Nantay said.
“We have obviously taken a wrong turn,” Conroy said.
Nantay didn’t respond as he began flipping wallets open, and the more he looked, the angrier he got.
“You’re either a very stupid white man, or you think we are,” he said, as he tossed the wallets into an evidence bag and handed them to another officer.
Conroy took a deep breath, but said nothing.
“Handcuff them,” Nantay said.
“Look here, you can’t—”
Nantay finally smiled. “Well, yes we can, because this is our land and you, Mr. Washington, as well as Jackson, Truman, Jefferson, Adams, and all the other presidents you’ve brought with you, are going to jail.”
“We’ve done nothing but take a wrong turn on a hunting trip,” Conroy argued.
But the officers were through talking. They handcuffed the eight-man crew, tossed them in the back of two vans, and headed for the jail as the hundreds of other Navajo climbed back in their vehicles and began dispersing in different directions.
Many rough miles and an hour later, the vans pulled up at the jail. The officers began removing their prisoners, who were complaining loudly of the ride and their rights.
As they started into the building, an older man with long braids walked out, then stopped in their path. The officers yanked their prisoners to a halt as the old man approached, and then began moving from man to man, eyeing each one of them carefully.
“What do you say, George?” Nantay asked.
George Begay nodded. “Yes, these are the ones,” then he walked toward his truck, got in and drove away.
“Who the hell was that?” Conroy asked.
Nantay poked his rifle in Conroy’s back. “That was the man who told us you were coming, now walk forward, Mr. Washington.”
Conroy frowned. “What do you mean, told you we were coming?”
Nantay paused. “The Pony Express has long since disappeared. How did you think we found you?” he said, and hauled them into jail.
***
When Conroy and his men never called in, Emile Harper knew something had gone wrong. These were men who knew if they got caught, they were on their own. However, if they’d been made, then it was all the warning the Birdsong woman would need to hide out, which meant next time she would definitely not be in her grandfather’s house. So much for brute force. Moving on to technology.
***
Binini Island—West Indies
Thanks to Madame ReeRee, he knew something the U.S. government did not. He knew where Layla Birdsong was hiding, and he thought it a place most fitting. According to ReeRee she was still on the Navajo reservation, but not near any settlements. She’d already gone to ground and was holed up by water in a place called the canyon of death. It was ironic that he’d been able to confirm the existence with a voodoo queen and Google, although he found out later that the correct translation was the Canyon del Muerto. The internet was a wonderful invention.
But, just as he was about to celebrate an easy retrieval, further research brought his premature celebration to a halt. Canyon del Muerto wasn’t just a little spot on the map. It was miles and miles and miles of land in a remote part of the reservation. However, anything worth having, was worth fighting for, and he knew just who to call.
He ordered some bread and cheese and a bottle of his favorite wine to be brought up from the wine cellar, then settled into the most comfortable chair in the library to make the call. It was a silly little ritual, but Prince believed in bad luck, so repeating a ritual that had brought him good luck was needed to offset the bad.
He took a sip of the wine, rolling it around in his mouth and then sucking it under his tongue to get the full bouquet before letting it slide down his throat. He allowed himself a small moment of ecstasy at the perfection of the taste, and then broke off a piece of bread, slathered on some of his favorite soft cheese, and took a big bite. He was chewing as he punched in the numbers, and swallowed as the call went through. One more sip of wine as the phone began to ring, and if everything in the universe was aligned as it should be, his call would be answered before the third ring.
One ring, then two. He was holding his breath as the third ring began, then a click, and the voice he’d been waiting for came online. He smiled.
***
Maurice Tenet was an oddity in the world of humans. Being an albino meant always being the one who stood out in a crowd—never being the guy on the beach with the buff bod and oiled-down pecs. Women were nice to him, but mostly through curiosity. He had sex when he wanted it because he could buy it, and liked the setup far better than all the crap that came with a ‘relationship’.
But the older he got, the more serious his eye condition became. He lived with the risk of blindness, not to mention suffering with the skin conditions that were a result of his affliction. He could have become a bitter man, but instead of feeling like he was missing out, he had, instead, created a world around him in which he was the norm, and anyone else he let in became the odd man out.
He drove a white car with white interior and wore only white clothing. He lived in an oversized white beach house in LaJolla, California in which all the walls, furniture and floor coverings were white, and both his maid and his personal chef were people who’d also been born with albinism.
The art on his walls was black and white, and the light fixtures were either all white milk glass or glass with no color at all. Today was Tuesday, which meant it was feeding day for Winston, his pet albino boa. And, keeping with the décor, he was, at the moment, feeding Winston his bi-monthly diet of white mice. He dropped the last mouse into the snake’s mouth, watching absently as the boa began swallowing it whole. He never got bored watching the little mice wiggle, even after
they were well inside Winston’s body.
Satisfied that task was over, he slid the lid back onto the boa’s glass case and then walked out of the game room into the library just as the phone rang. He waved at the maid, indicating he wanted a drink. She knew the routine and scurried away as he answered the call.
“Tenet here.”
“Maurice, it’s Landan. How are you?”
Maurice leaned back in his chair and rubbed his belly, as if contemplating a meal he was about to eat.
“Landan, I haven’t heard from you in ages. I’m fine, and you?”
“The same, always searching for a new and better world.”
Maurice laughed. “Ever the dreamer,” my friend. “So to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
“What? You think I don’t call just to say hello?”
“You haven’t yet and I’m thinking you’re past the age of changing your spots. What do you need of me, Landan? What curiosity do you have need of this time?”
“It’s not a thing, it’s a person… a woman actually.”
Maurice’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Acquiring people required more skill than finding relics.
“It will cost you, you know,” Maurice said.
“Money is not an issue,” Prince said.
“Well, it is with me. So talk. Who is the woman? What trick is she capable of pulling that might warn her in advance of my arrival?”
“Her name is Layla Birdsong. As for abilities, I’m not exactly certain. I have a tentative location and a photo. I’ll email you the particulars.”
Maurice frowned. “I know that name. Why do I know that name,” he muttered, and then it hit him. “Oh shit! You want me to go after a woman with an evil genie in her back pocket that peeled the skin off the last man who got near her? I don’t think so.”
Prince frowned. He didn’t like to be told no.
“What would it take for you to go after her?”
“Everything you have on what you think she is, and 24 hours to think about what my life is worth to me.”
“Done. I’ll call you this time tomorrow and just so you know, I expect a positive answer.”
Maurice frowned. “Don’t threaten me, Landan. Not even subtly. Do we understand each other?”
Prince sighed. “Yes, and I apologize for that. It’s just very important to me.”
“Yes and so is my next breath. I’ll be in touch. Nice talking to you.”
He hung up before Prince had anything more to say and smiled at the maid who brought in his drink.
“Thank you, Pet. You’re the best.”
Petula Sims smiled and giggled, then scurried off before her boss got that look in his eye. They didn’t love each other, but shared the occasional meeting of the minds and bed for a twenty minute stretch, after which Pet had the job of removing dirty sheets and remaking the bed, while Maurice took himself off to the shower. He always compensated in her paycheck, she banked the extra for hard times, and that was how it worked in this house.
Chapter Six
One week later
Layla and Niyol ate once a day, usually rabbit; occasionally a prairie chicken or snake. When they’d first reached the cave, he’d started her out drinking water three times a day, and now she was down to two without feeling thirst. She needed to be physically able to withstand hardship for the days ahead, and there was not much time to prepare her.
Layla had always been fit, but after the week in the hospital, and now the rigors of the training he was putting her through, she was losing body fat a rapid rate. Her jeans were old and soft, but they were hanging low on her hips. Sometimes she wore a loose shirt, but more often than not nothing more than a gray sports bra and her daddy’s necklace dangling between her breasts. She kept her hair braided, or in a ponytail at the nape of her neck, and her smooth brown skin was getting browner. The cuts on her belly and cheek were mostly healed and the scars were noticeable, but she didn’t care. The cut on the back of her arm was healed, but tender.
This morning Niyol had sent her out to run the canyon, beginning from the cave all the way to where the wall began to curve—and back again. She’d been running for only a short while when Niyol waved her in. She jogged in gratefully.
“That wasn’t much of a workout.”
“It wasn’t meant to be,” he said. “I had things to do that you aren’t meant to see.”
Layla stared, first at him and then at the floor of the cave behind him.
“Where did all that come from?”
“From me.”
Her eyes widened. “You can conjure up physical things?”
“It is not conjuring. It is a simple matter of acquisition from one place to another.”
“I am impressed,” she said, eyeing a spear and the bow and quiver of arrows—nice ones with a fine metal tip, a lot like the ones her father had used. There were other knives, although she preferred the hunting knife she wore around her waist, but no guns or ammo.
“Why all the old stuff? Why not some guns and ammo?”
“Because you will fight the old way, or the Old Ones will not deem you worthy.”
She walked past him for a closer look, heard a slight shuffling of feet and reacted, but not fast enough. Once again she was on her back with Niyol on top of her.
Layla sighed in frustration. “Crap.”
“You are—”
“Don’t say it. I know, I know. I’m dead,” she muttered, as she pushed him off.
He was frowning as he helped her up. “You are not paying attention. You can learn anything if you just pay attention, and there’s not much time.”
Layla nodded. “I will do better,” she said, and slid her arms around his neck, as if to hug him, but tried to trip him, instead.
She saw his eyes widen just a fraction of a second before she moved, but he was grinning.
“I wasn’t expecting that, but you gave yourself away.”
“How?”
“Your eyes always close when we’re about to kiss. This time they widened slightly as you mentally assessed what you were about to do.”
“Crap again.”
He laughed, and this time swung her up into his arms. “I want to make love to you.”
Layla’s pulse kicked. “The feeling is mutual.”
“But this is not the time.”
Her disappointment was physical. “Then put me down and pay attention to what I’m going to tell you.”
He frowned slightly, but did as she asked.
“Here’s the deal, Windwalker. When you walk in human shoes, you don’t tease a woman with heaven, and then pull back and tell her the dishes aren’t done.”
His frown deepened. “I don’t understand. I did not ask you to do these dishes of which you speak.”
This time she was the one grinning. “It’s an analogy. What I’m saying is, don’t turn a woman on and then walk away. It’s called teasing.”
His expression lightened. “Ah. Teasing. I get it. I will never tell you to do dishes.”
All of a sudden Layla felt like crying because she knew that to be true, and it was probably the saddest thing she would hear all day.
Her eyes welled as she turned away, but Niyol saw. A sharp pain pierced his chest and his hand moved to the pain without thinking. It had been a long time since he’d felt regret, and was remembering he hadn’t liked it then, and didn’t like it now.
“I am sorry for hurting you,” he said. “But I am here to keep you alive, and you must learn many things before it’s too late.”
She shrugged and wiped the tears from her cheeks before she would face him again.
“I just over-reacted. You do your job and I’ll do mine, and we’ll say goodbye without making it a big deal. So what’s the next lesson?”
The pain in Niyol’s chest grew more in
tense. He couldn’t bear the look on her face another moment longer without trying to explain.
“You are wrong. It will be, what you call, a big deal. Standing in this body, feeling what I feel, it will be a most cruel and unjust goodbye. I will mourn your loss as great as you mourn mine. What you must never forget is that you belong to me. You have always belonged to me. As you take your last breath, look up. I will be standing beside you, waiting to take you home.”
A sob rolled up Layla’s throat as she threw herself into Niyol’s arms.
“You break my heart,” she whispered.
Niyol buried his face in the curve of her neck, then began taking off her clothes.
“I thought you said this wasn’t the time,” Layla said.
“I was wrong.”
He shed his clothes as if they were water and laid her down on the bedroll. Deep in a cave in the Canyon del Muerto, surrounded by an arsenal of weapons, he showed her how very wrong he had been.
***
Against every ounce of good sense he possessed, Maurice Tenet gave into his greed and accepted the job Landan Prince offered him—to the tune of five million dollars, plus expenses.
After the dossier Prince sent on Layla Birdsong, Tenet caught the first flight out to Arizona, rented a car in Phoenix, and headed toward the Navajo reservation armed with a camera, his usual protective garb from the dangers of sun and wind, and wearing an assortment of Native American jewelry to make it appear he was both a fan and an admirer.
He wheeled into a gift shop on the reservation, booked a tour to see the pueblo ruins in Canyon del Muerto, and insinuated himself into a faux friendship with the driver along the way.
The oddity of his condition always made it easy to strike up a conversation. People were curious about the pasty-white man garbed from head to toe, wearing wrap-around sunglasses.
All he had to do to get a reaction was take the sunglasses off. The moment they saw his eyes, no matter how hard they tried to hide it, they freaked. With no pigmentation to color the irises, all that was visible was the blood behind the lenses, giving him the appearance of a living, breathing vampire.