The Serpent in the Stone (The Gifted Series)

by Nicki Greenwood

  Faith met her before she’d gone more than a few steps in the direction of Ian’s camp. “Good, you’re out. Ready to start surveying?”

  “I was going to... Never mind. What needs doing?”

  “If you had something to do—” Grinning, Faith tilted her head toward the south end of the island.

  Sara raised a hand to cut her off. When Faith wouldn’t stop grinning, Sara added a glare that she hoped Faith interpreted as Shut up and quit looking so smug. “It can wait.”

  So could giving that man a piece of her mind. First chance she got tomorrow.

  ****

  What in hell is this? Ian wondered. He was locked in a room he didn’t recognize, barely able to see and without a clue what was happening.

  The small room’s murkiness closed in on him, coffinlike. He tried the door again, but the handle still wouldn’t budge. The air boiled with hissing voices that made his skin prickle. A sharp metallic scent stung his nose.

  Blood.

  “Okay, not liking this now.” Determined to escape, he crept forward into the space. His questing fingers landed on what felt like a bookshelf, littered with heaps of scattered volumes. As he paced along, he kicked a few more of them and they slid across the floor.

  He groped blindly, and winced when he touched something sharp that sliced across his fingers. His hand fell upon a banker’s lamp. He switched it on, squinting as the room came into focus.

  A scarred cherry desk stood before him, all its drawers ripped out and the contents tossed on the floor. Broken glass. Shredded paper. File drawers thrown open and kicked aside.

  The surface of the desk bore a blackish stain. He reached out to touch it.

  A hand slapped down on his shoulder in a vise grip. He whirled around.

  A man loomed over him, his face stark-white, his blue eyes burning. Blood covered him from head to foot.

  Ian swore and wrenched backward over the desk in a futile effort to escape.

  The man gripped Ian’s shirt in both hands and hauled him closer. Ian’s heart thundered in his chest. His attacker’s eyes shone like knives in the gloom. “Hhhhelp her.”

  Ian gasped and sat bolt upright on his cot. The nightmare faded, giving way to the soft pre-dawn gray of his tent interior. His heartbeat crashed in his ears. Panting, he raked a hand through sleep-tousled hair.

  He examined his stinging hand, half-expecting to see blood where the glass had sliced it in his dream.

  Nothing.

  He tried not to admit to relief. He’d never experienced real pain in a dream before, and he hadn’t had a nightmare in years. Must be coming to this place, seeing Sara. Everything was messing with his senses.

  Your own fault, he scolded himself. He’d been the one to follow her. He’d been the one to ask for Shetland.

  What the hell was he thinking?

  He grappled for his watch on the table beside his cot. Almost five o’clock. With a sigh, he swung out of bed and onto his feet to start work.

  ****

  Hvitmar had been made with a shapeshifter in mind.

  Sara ran as a wolf, with the wind whistling through her fur and reveling in the shape. It brought her speed. Power. Joy in the simple act of being alive. Freedom she’d never known as a human. She galloped along the shoreline, her broad paws eating up the ground. The air was crisp with the scents of earth and ocean. Cries of seabirds rang out in the sky.

  Ian’s birds, she thought with a snort.

  She hadn’t even gone in the direction of his camp yet. Skirting the dig site to avoid leaving tracks, she’d explored the northern edges of the island. Gulls scolded her, and she spied a seal dozing among the rocks offshore.

  She decided to head up to Ian’s camp before the fog burned off and left her visible to any observers. She’d start by asking him down to breakfast, a safe enough opening. Then she’d follow it up with Get off my island and see how he took that.

  But first, she owed her sister an apology for their spat yesterday. She set off toward Faith’s tent.

  Sara approached it with caution. A long yawn came from within. Tongue lolling, she padded to a halt outside and snuffed aloud.

  She heard a rustle. The door flap opened and her sister ducked out, struggling into a heavy wool sweater. “What are you doing outside like that?” Faith whispered.

  Sara didn’t bother to shapeshift back to her human body. She twitched an ear and glanced around the foggy moor, then back to her sister.

  Faith crossed her arms. “All right, so no one’s up. I hope you didn’t leave tracks everywhere for me to scuff out.”

  Sara shook her shaggy lupine head.

  Faith looked southward toward Ian’s camp, then smiled at her. “You’re planning to go see him, aren’t you? Told you, you should.”

  Sara flattened her ears. God, she loved having ears that flattened. Very eloquent.

  “Get out of here before the guys get up. Say hi to him for me.”

  Sara sent her a last, annoyed glare before loping away.

  ****

  Ian tossed a fleece vest on over his thermal shirt, then hooked an extra set of carabiners to his climbing harness. He glanced around his tent before realizing he must have left his rope bag hanging outside last night. In his hurry to record data on yesterday’s climb, he’d dropped most of his gear and gone straight into the tent to write as soon as he got back.

  Outside, he threw the coil of rope over his shoulder and headed for the sea cliffs. He’d spotted a nest sheltered in a crag about halfway down, and itched to get a closer look.

  When he reached the cliff edge, he looked out over the ocean. The view took his breath away. The sunrise had just begun, burning off the fog and painting the few clouds with a champagne-pink blaze. Unst made a faint, misty shadow on the horizon. This, he could handle. To hell with people and supernatural powers and all that head-case stuff that made living day to day such a pain in the ass. A view like this made it all go away.

  He’d learned from a young age to spot good holds, and which surfaces were secure enough for a chock or cam that would support him. The southern cliffs of Hvitmar were high and challenging, but not impossible. He hitched up his anchor points and auto-belayer, then secured a mat at the cliff edge to prevent rubbing on the rope. “All right, lady,” he said, “let’s see what else you’re hiding.” He hooked the rope to his belt, then started over the edge.

  Once he found his seat in the harness, he touched the toes of his shoes against the cliffside and pushed off, feeding the rope along and rappelling downward. The sun went from pink to brilliant red and began to turn golden. Birds squabbled far below on the beach at the cliff base.

  He had almost reached the site of the nest when the rope gave a twang, followed by a sickening lurch. Ian jerked his head up. More than a body length above on the rope was a telltale frayed strand hanging loose. “Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered. How the hell had this happened? The rope had been perfectly sound on inspection last night. Jamming his fingers into the nearest crevice, he twisted his hand sideways just as the rest of the rope snapped.

  His body plunged downward, until his handhold yanked it to a halt. Fire seared up his left arm from shoulder to wrist. He snarled in agony. His shoes scraped madly against the cliff, seeking a purchase as the remainder of the rope slithered past him on its descent. Don’t look down, Christ, don’t look. He swallowed back his fear and thought fast. Stones crumbled under his feet and plummeted away. He dangled against the side of the cliff, trying to lie flat against the stone. Winds battered dangerously against his body.

  No one would hear him in this wind, even if he screamed.

  “Son of a bitch.” He had to look.

  No footholds, no handholds, nothing at all. Smooth as glass for far too much space underneath him. More than a hundred feet below lay the rocky cliff base. His arm throbbed and threatened to pry his handhold from the rock. Panting, he closed his eyes against stinging sweat and pressed his forehead against the stone.

  When he c
hecked, upward didn’t look any better. The next closest handhold was half a body length up. Even if he swung, he didn’t think he could reach it, but he had to try. His hands were sweating, and he couldn’t reach his belt bucket to rechalk.

  Face it, Waverly, you’re screwed. His handhold began to loosen, sending shards of pain down his arm. He took a breath and used what leverage he had to push sideways.

  His fingers slid out of the crevice.

  He went backward, slipping away from the cliff in a free fall. He didn’t even have time or breath to scream.

  Wind whistled past him. The cliffside went by in a speeding blur.

  Ian knew he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Chapter Two

  Oh, my God. Still in her wolf shape, Sara summoned her telekinesis and stopped Ian’s plummeting body in midair. Even from this distance, standing far above at the cliff’s edge, she heard his grunt of shock. Her heartbeat slammed. Every hair of her pelt stood on end. Her horrified moan came out as a low-pitched whine.

  There would be no way out of this.

  She watched him look around and notice that he dangled by nothing. The ocean crashed against the rocks some seventy feet below him. “Jesus!” he shouted. He pulled his arms and legs closer to his body, and she almost lost her hold on him. Breathless, she struggled to steady his weight with her gift.

  He looked up and found her standing at the cliff edge. She trembled under his stare, but dared not look away. Gently, she lifted him with her power. His body rose upward.

  His gaze never left her through each foot of his ascent. At last, he reached the top of the cliff, floating over the lip to solid ground. She sidestepped as she lowered him down. He kept right on staring until she wanted to cower before him.

  His hand came up to his left shoulder. Sweat trickled down his forehead. She smelled the distress of his pain and heard his breath shuddering in and out. The thought repeating in his head barged into her senses, even without her seeking it.

  Wolf eyes aren’t green.

  Terror seized her. She bolted straight for the cliff edge.

  He lunged forward. “No!”

  She catapulted over the precipice into space and dropped out of his sight. Her stomach swooped as she fell. Quickly, she called on the shape of the gulls squawking in alarm around her. In a flash, she changed into one of the birds, then circled high into the air.

  Ian staggered toward the cliff edge, clutching his arm. He leaned over and looked, down, down, down to the water. After a few moments, he turned away from the cliff and stumbled to where she—the wolf—had been standing. He dropped to one knee, pressing his injured arm close to his body, and scanned the ground.

  Shaking so hard she could barely maintain the gull form, she soared northward down the island, craving escape. Only when she was sure he wasn’t looking did she let go of the gull shape and return to her human one. For a few seconds, she could only stand there and tremble with shock. What have I done?

  Minutes passed. She had to force herself to walk toward him. Every step felt like a move toward a noose with her name on it. She approached him from behind, light-footed, prepared to run again. Her voice shook a little as she spoke. “What are you doing?”

  He looked up and blinked as if he thought she were a hallucination. With a grunt, he lurched to his feet and swayed.

  She hurried to his side. “What’s wrong?”

  “My shoulder. I think it’s dislocated.”

  Flushed and fearful, she examined him from head to foot. There was no choice. “Come on. I’ll help you into your tent.” She touched his uninjured arm.

  He radiated heat through the jacket. She almost let go, but he slumped against her and she willed herself to stay put. He bit off a gasp and stumbled along with her. As soon as they got into the tent, he fell onto his cot and blacked out.

  The sudden silence was alarming. Sara shifted her weight from foot to foot, uncertain what to do. Every impulse screamed at her to run. She could have slipped out at any moment...but she didn’t.

  Dislocated. No matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t leave him like that. She knelt and pawed underneath a small table, looking for his first-aid kit. If he even had one. What kind of a fool...

  He moaned behind her. Sara whirled around, tried to rise, and banged her head on the underside of the table. She winced and crawled out from under it to rub her throbbing scalp. That would be her penance for deciding to come see him.

  But if she hadn’t...

  His eyes opened and he tried to sit up. When he put weight on his left elbow, his face contorted in pain. He dropped back with a groan.

  Without thinking, she shot across the tent to the cot, then slid a hand underneath his back. “We need to get you to Mainland and have your shoulder X-rayed.”

  He groaned again as she helped him sit upright. “No.”

  “What do you mean, ‘no’? Your shoulder’s dislocated. You might have a frac—”

  “I said no. Can you put it back in place?”

  “Ian—”

  “Can you, or can’t you?”

  She hissed outward through her teeth and sprang to her feet. “Yes. I can. Right now, I’m likely to leave you this way. Go ahead and give me an excuse.”

  He closed his eyes, panting, and relief washed through her at the respite from that intense stare. Sweat trickled down his forehead.

  Her own concerns forgotten, she moved toward him again. “For God’s sake, Ian,” she said, softening her tone as she knelt before the cot. She reached for his arm.

  His eyes opened again as she touched him. She made herself look away. “H-How did it happen?”

  “My rope broke.”

  She caught her breath. If she’d been just a few seconds later... She might not have had to worry about someone knowing about her powers. Her stomach somersaulted. Rattled, she placed one hand on his left bicep and cupped his elbow with the other. I can’t believe how warm he is, she thought, feeling the muscular curve and sinew of his arm under her hands. “Hold still. This will hurt.” She gave his arm a firm shift in the right direction.

  With a pop, the joint slid back into place. Ian grunted and his breath whooshed out. “Thank you,” he said at last.

  Without answering, she reached for the buckles of his climbing harness and undid them one by one. She felt his gaze raking her face as she worked. Heat crept into her cheeks. Commanding her hands not to shake—and not getting the results she wanted—she reached for the last buckle on his waistbelt. Just as she laid her hand on the strap to undo it, he seized her wrist in an iron grip.

  She yelped and tried to jerk away...but he wasn’t looking at her. He dropped her hand, then picked up the length of cord still hanging from his belt. He thumbed the broken end. “I’m not leaving the island.”

  “You don’t think you’re going to go back to climbing down cliffs, do you? You need a hospital.”

  He held up the broken rope, so close that she had no choice but to look at it. “This was cut.”

  She focused on the end of the rope and saw the neatly sheared fibers. “Who would want to c-cut it?”

  He dropped the cord again, this time gripping both her wrists in spite of his injured arm. “My question exactly.”

  She recoiled, but he kept his hold. It took all her resolve not to hit him with telekinesis. “Let go of me,” she whispered.

  He didn’t. His stare went icy, and she found herself wishing for the blazing look from moments before. She tried to pull away again. He held on, gritting his teeth through what must have been an excruciating jerk of his shoulder. “Let go,” she repeated with as much indignation as possible.

  He released her wrists and sat back. Pain crept into his features, but he masked it so fast she knew he hadn’t meant her to see.

  “Here.” She reached for his waistbelt again, but hesitated. “Do you want help, or not?”

  His expression lost some of that hard edge. She unbuckled the waistbelt with forced
calm. Her gaze drifted lower. Ears burning, she followed the seam of his pants to the juncture of his thighs. Her heart pounded so hard, she dreaded he’d hear it.

  Ian shifted and sat ramrod-straight. Her fingers flew to the buckles of the leg loops. His thigh muscles were rigid as marble. She loosened the buckles and slid the harness off his body, then reached for his fleece vest. “You’re going to need some help...unless you can do this one-handed...” She trailed off with her fingers on the zipper, feeling heat flush her face.

  When he didn’t respond, she dared a look upward. The barest suggestion of humor had crept into his pain-glazed eyes. “I can figure it out,” he said. She lowered her hand and he undid the zipper, then shrugged his good shoulder. The vest came off one side. He reached across his chest and eased it down the other arm.

  Watching him undress—even one innocent piece of clothing—brought on a fresh wave of jitters. Her stare fixed on the broad planes of his torso, visible under the snug thermal shirt. Well-defined shoulder muscles sloped into the curves of arm and chest. Mesmerized, she let her gaze fall lower. He’s built more like a marathon swimmer than a teacher. How does this man spend time in a classroom and look like that? “D-Do you have a sling? Painkillers?”

  “Under the bed. The first-aid kit.”

  She bent and fished around under his cot for it. Sweat glistened on his face. She shook herself out of her daze and opened the kit to find a prescription bottle. “You came prepared.”

  “Not the first time I’ve had a shoulder problem,” he ground out.

  She handed him the water canteen from his bedside table, then helped him put on a sling. Tension rippled through his body under her fingers. She longed to ask him about his memory of Faith’s necklace, but the thought of saying it aloud terrified her.

  Her gaze traveled downward over the sling to his left hand. Dried blood crusted his bruised knuckles and torn fingertips. She reached into the first-aid kit for a packet of antiseptic wipes, then tore it open and dabbed gingerly at his wounds.

  His body shivered and she looked up. The corner of his mouth had twisted into a wry smile. He shook with silent laughter, then winced and held his arm closer to his body. “What?” she whispered.