by Lisa Ladew
Jameson rubbed a hand over the back of his neck again, feeling the shortness of his hairline, trying to pull himself together. “Ah, I hit the railroads. I left Five Hills.”
He took a deep breath and told the truth. “I ran like the scared child I was.”
The scent in the room deepened to sympathy, making Jameson’s guts wither. The hundreds of times he had imagined this moment, he never realized he’d have to tell the whole truth. How had he not realized that?
“When my grief quieted and I’d grown into an adult, I returned. I’ve been here since, waiting, watching, gathering information, and trying to do my duty, although I’m still not sure of what it is. The Steward is lost to time. I search for the resting place every year, taking a month to traverse the forest on foot. I’ve investigated every Natanhala forest legend myself, camping out, looking for caves, looking for the kernel of truth hidden in the story. I have never found any sign of the Steward, and I fear I never will.”
His voice grew stronger. “That’s why I called this meeting. The Steward isn’t returning. Neither are the switches. But we shifters still have a duty to act-”
A male in the front row interrupted him. A Five Hills cop named Dario something. Jameson didn’t know him well. “The Steward, is it a person?”
Jameson nodded. He knew that much. Had heard disjointed conversation and speculation his entire childhood from others who’d heard tell of the Steward’s previous wakings. Indeed, most shifters had not fought in the vampire wars. Their sole job had been to breed, to make more shifters who could be entwined by fate to a destiny beyond their imagination.
The cop stood and held his hand a foot above his head. “Is he big?”
Jameson nodded again. “By all reports, yes. Seven foot tall.”
“His eyes go creepy black when he gets pissed?”
Jameson shuddered, but nodded. He’d heard it said.
“He’s in the Five Hills cellblock. We arrested him yesterday for trying to destroy what he called a vampire in a storefront TV.”
Words failed Jameson, and so did his muscles. He caught himself heavily on the table, then recovered and rushed out of the room without another word.
Chapter 10
Jameson curled his fingers into his palms, standing tall, resisting the urge to shift his weight as he waited for the young police officer to let him into the cellblock area.
Carick. The Steward.
Did he have the name right? He would soon know.
The officer leading him to the cellblock was barely out of recruit class. He opened the security door to let Jameson in, then peered at him boldly. Officer Smith, the name embroidered above his pocket said.
Smith cleared his throat, his expression a bit nasty as he regarded Jameson’s uniform. “What does a forest ranger need a gun for? Bears and shit?”
Jameson glowered at him. He was used to the assumptions. His uniform of flat-brimmed Stetson hat, forest-green pants and button-down shirt with the arrowhead insignia, was designed to be more inviting than intimidating. He’d stopped on the way to change into the uniform he always kept pressed and ready in his car, knowing it was his best chance at having the Steward released into his custody.
“You ever responded to a call within the Nantahala Forest?” he grunted. He’d had time to calm himself and realize that this was most likely a wild goose chase. Some big crazy human. Not the Steward. It couldn’t be. The distance made him able to think again, to carry on with business as usual.
“No.” The answer was clipped, like the officer thought he was above Jameson, having no idea that Jameson could have his badge with a word. Not that Jameson would do that. He could tolerate smart asses. He could tolerate dickheads to a degree. The only thing he couldn’t handle at all was lazy officers who showed up with un-ironed uniforms and shirked their duties.
Jameson pulled out his badge, holding it up to the young officer’s face. “And you never will. Consider this equivalent to your own badge, but just like you mostly only have authority within Five Hills, we mostly only have authority within the forest.”
The officer nodded, a bit of respect finally showing on his face. “Oh. You got a cellblock?”
“We have a holding facility. When it’s not enough, we transfer our prisoners to Asheville.” Jameson did not wince when he said the name of the town. Not at all.
The officer started down the sterile hallway, motioning for Jameson to follow. “Asheville, yeah. I tried to get a job there but they…”
Jameson let the officer’s words wash over him as he nodded in the right places and held his breath, waiting for his first glimpse of the prisoner. They entered an open room, where a massive male with shaggy hair and beard and eyes like coal sat on a wooden bench, his eyes on the floor, wearing a police-issued uniform and bare feet.
(him)
Jameson shuddered, wiping his palms surreptitiously on his pants. The male didn’t look up, but his shoulders twitched.
Officer Smith lifted his chin to the man in the cell. “What do you want with this guy?”
Jameson squinted at the man in the cell as he considered the best way to answer. “Forest Services has a special interest in him.”
Smiths’s eyes barely twitched. “He dangerous?”
“Nah, shouldn’t be. I’ll take custody, get him sorted out. You won’t see him again.”
“He was spouting some crazy shit when they brought him in.”
Jameson didn’t respond. He watched the male closely. Could this all be for nothing? Was he making a huge mistake?
Smith shouldered close to the bars, pulling keys from his belt and unlocking the cell door. The man stood and shifted his feet to turn and meet Jameson’s gaze.
The Steward. No doubt. The truth was in his towering form, his rippling muscles, too big to be true, his non-scent, and the blame in his dark eyes.
Jameson stepped into the cell, holding out a pair of moccasins. The Steward could change when they were out of here.
Tan hands snatched the footwear from Jameson, the muscles under his skin rippling with restrained power. In fact the Steward’s whole body was battle-ready, tense and honed to a brutal edge. Had he been doing dead-lifts in his sleep, for fuck’s sake?
The Steward said only one word, but it spoke volumes. Entire encyclopedias. “Keeper.”
Jameson nodded sharply, then turned to Smith, cutting off any other talk. “He mine?”
***
Jameson led the way to the parking lot and Carick followed. The hairs on the back of Jameson’s neck prickled with nervous energy. He didn’t know what the hell to expect from the man behind him. War, maybe.
The afternoon sun blasted down on them as they made their way to Jameson’s truck. Carick’s eyes missed nothing.
Carick followed Jameson to the driver’s side of the truck. Jameson pointed him to the other side. “You get in over there.”
Carick nodded and stepped back, but did not head that way. Jameson stood there for a moment before he figured out that Carick was watching him to see how he got into the truck. He opened the door and climbed in. Carick headed for the passenger seat and did the same.
Now to go where, exactly? Do what? Jameson had no plan for this. He would drive around until something sparked inside him. He hit the road and headed straight out of town, to the forest, where everything was better.
Carick’s eyes crawled over everything in the cab of the truck. He watched Jameson’s every movement with an intensity that made Jameson think he would be able to drive the truck perfectly when the drive was over.
When they left the city limits, the conversation started. Carick had questions.
“What is the year?”
“2017.”
Carick’s sharp intake of breath told Jameson everything he needed to know about what Carick had believed.
Carick recovered quickly. “What awoke me, and pray tell the reason it was not you?”
Jameson sped up, twisting along mountain roads, his eyes on the fo
rest. There were two spots in this forest that called to him, but only one that he’d been to in the last one hundred years. He ignored them both and just drove.
“I don’t know what woke you. It wasn’t me because the old Keeper was slain before he could tell me where to find you.”
The Steward took in another big breath. Carick. Jameson didn’t know if he dared call the male that. What was he? Some sort of god? Divine Warrior? Ultimate weapon? Jameson did not know. The male’s voice was deep but normal, his words tight and archaic, but understandable. This is really happening. He had the Steward in his truck, and soon he would ask his own questions.
Carick looked out the window on his side, his voice soft. “William was a strong and resolute Keeper. I mourn him. Vampires?”
Carick’s words touched Jameson, even though he didn’t want them to. He nodded. “Vampires got him, yes. It was my fault,” he said the last part quickly. “I sought to kill a vampire and William protected me from him, but lost his life at the same time.”
Carick watched him closely, his eyes glittering. When he finally spoke, Jameson could not read his tone. “You cannot kill vampires.”
Yeah, right. He knew that. He was looking like a fucking idiot already. “I was going to try. He killed my family.”
“How could he possibly?” The question was sharp, disbelieving. Accusatory?
Jameson sped up again, taking a curve too fast. “The vampires discovered something you never knew of. A knife that kills shifters. They can’t heal from the wound. There was a battle. The Reckoning, it’s called. It was that damn big.”
“How?” The question came again, but this time it was whispered, hushed, like Jameson had said something eternally awful and irrevocable. As if he’d told Carick the sun had died.
Jameson’s words were rough. “How did the vampires get bloodblades? I don’t know. What are bloodblades? No fucking clue. How did the battle happen? That one’s easy. The vampires swept through the forest and killed everyone. The magicks didn’t work. They found us and exterminated us. Easily.”
Carick seemed to shrink. Jameson glanced over at him. His broad face was white, his lips twisted. He forced out a few words. “But you regrouped. Tell me of my switches in this time.”
Jameson shook his head as rough emotion coursed through him. Anger? Guilt? He didn’t know. “Regroup? I don’t think you’re getting it. There was no regrouping from every single shifter and switch being murdered. Oh, well, except for me, a boy with a mysterious duty who was never told what his duty was or how to do it.”
“Not possible,” Carick said, his voice regaining strength. “We sent some away. To avoid this very thing.”
Jameson snorted in derision, even as his mind noted that Carick was mimicking his words and his way of speaking. Every moment, the Steward sounded less archaic. “Yeah? Were they sent away with instructions? Maybe told to return someday? Cuz almost one hundred and fifty years later all we’ve got is a handful of shifters who even know vampires exist. No one has seen a sign of a switch since the Reckoning. We don’t even have a proper resistance.”
Jameson kept himself together. How much of this was his fault? All of it? How was he going to explain to Carick how much things had changed?
“Resistance,” Carick muttered. “Has it come to that? In my day, battles were fought openly, vampires hunted at will. Resistance implies the opposite. Have the vampires truly won?”
Jameson didn’t answer for a long time. The word did make him think of underground meetings, secret passwords, members being pulled out of their houses in the dead of night and never heard from again. Did he even want to be a part of such thing? He sighed. “Vampire numbers were also decimated, but they came back. They have not won, but they’re making a move now, a big one that I never could have imagined.”
Carick spoke one word. “Government.”
“You got it.”
Carick gazed out the window. This forest looks as I remember. But the world I saw on the tell-oh-vision has moved on. I imagine your government is grand now?”
Jameson snorted. “Grand? No? Huge? Bloated? Powerful? Sure. There are many layers, many levels, and none of them know that vampires or shifters exist. Both would be persecuted.”
Carick looked up sharply, his face stricken. “You speak as if you believe switches to be no more.”
Jameson nodded, but hesitantly, not sure what to make of the grief he saw on Carick’s face. He did not respond, did not put his affirmation into words. And still his mind went to the woman in the diner. The waves of brown, curly hair. The sweet, mountain scent. He shook his head sharply, trying to figure out what to do now. He had to find that woman. But he had to deal with Carick. But he had to find that woman.
Damn. The Steward was just as clueless and unprepared as the rest of them. He was no Divine Warrior who would have all the answers now that he was awake. Jameson would drop him somewhere, go find that woman, determine if she was a switch or not, and then play more 20 bullshit questions with Carick. The woman took precedence for now. And he wasn’t going to tell Carick. The guy looked like he was used to being in charge, and Jameson wouldn’t be surprised if orders started coming out of his mouth any second. As Keeper, Jameson’s duty was to follow those orders, he knew that much. But first he would find the female on his own. He would not allow Carick to step into a role he couldn’t possibly understand in modern times and send that petite, lovely woman out to kill vampires. Things would have to be different. Carick would learn.
His lips curled in a smile. Now he knew exactly where he was taking Carick, and they would be there in only ten minutes. Then Jameson would ‘leave Carick to think on all that has happened’ and go hunting.
But Carick wasn’t done. Already the commands came. His voice strong and steady, he said, “We must return to the old ways. Call the covenbound together with the ingrav-” Jameson startled. He’d heard the word before but didn’t know where. “-we shall devise a plan of attack. First order of business will be to find some switches-”
Jameson held up a hand to stop him. “The who? The what? How exactly?”
Carick’s voice rose sharply. “The ingrav. The claws and the knife together. Draw it anywhere, then run your palm down it, and all coventwined feel drawn to the area where you are.” As Jameson was reeling from the information, Carrick’s eyes narrowed and he stared hard at Jameson. “How old were you on the date of this Reckoning?”
Jameson swallowed hard. “Eleven.”
“You had no training?”
“None.” Shit.
Carick floundered for a second, then leaned toward Jameson, his voice urgent. “How big is your wolf?”
“Four hundred pounds.”
Carick eased. “So you’ve taken the role? Become a beast of the bond?”
Jameson could only stare straight ahead and try to stay on the road as mouthed the foreign phrase. “Beast of the bond?”
“A wolf-of-war. Grown twice your size because of a threat, in order to fight.”
Jameson shook his head. A beast. That’s what William had become to save him.
Carick muttered to himself for several minutes. Then he faced Jameson again. “What about the failsafe?”
Jameson waved a hand, sick of not understanding any of it. There’d been so little talk about any of this in his house growing up! Why?
“Any coven would have been able to train you. You only had to go to the any of the coven houses within the forest. You are coventwined, they would have opened for you. Don’t tell me you’ve never felt them call you.”
“Those are real?” Jameson breathed. “I thought I was wrong, had misunderstood. That they were symbols of the war, not actual… things.”
Carick fell silent, searching the terrain on all sides of them. “There,” he finally said, pointing to a side road. More of a trail, really. “Take it.”
Jameson swallowed hard, and did so. He knew exactly where the road would end. Tsigule. Evil wind.
He sped up the road,
mindless of the washouts and branches trying to block their way. His 4x4 could handle any of it.
Within a few moments, he had to stop, blocked by one of the biggest boulders in the forest. One of five massive boulders, to be exact, each the size of an SUV. On the other side of the boulder was a wide grassy meadow full of baby’s breath, a sea of delicate white flowers in exactly the shape of a square. It had no business being in the middle of this mountainous forest.
On the other side of the meadow, a cliff where the wind howled all day, all night, any season, any year. The locals had a saying. “When the evil wind stops, the world ends.”
A small, gravel parking lot butted up against the boulder, a rock path leading to a plaque that told the local legend of the cliff and the spot. Carick hopped out of the truck, gesturing angrily at the parking lot, the trash cans, the signs of human activity. Jameson followed, trying to hear what he was saying. “Only the coventwined should be able to see this boulder, this field-”
Carick rounded on him. “This is… some sort of an attraction? To humans?”
Jameson bowed his head. Was he responsible for that, too? “There’s a legend. You can read it on the plaque, there.”
Instead of reading it, Carick strode to the plaque and ripped it out of the ground, ripped the stake right up out of the dirt, tossing the plaque into the woods. He ran at the rock and jumped. Jameson’s mouth dropped open as the man’s leap took him to the top of the rock, then beyond. Shit. The guy was not human, no way. Not shifter either. What then?
Jameson sprinted to the other side of the rock, where Carick was sprinting through the wildflowers to the cliff beyond. Carick could see in the way his shaggy hair whipped around his head when the winds reached him.
Carick stared over the cliff for several long moments, as Jameson watched him, his thoughts on hold. Carick was silent, and still, but his bowed back belied the tension in his body.
Finally he flung his arms wide, his head back, and bellowed at the oppressive sky, a shattering noise of hopelessness that reached Jameson’s ears easily, aided by the evil wind.