Sacred Burial Grounds
By Morgan Kelley
Copyright 2012 by Morgan Kelley LLC All rights reserved.
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author. All characters are fictional and any similarity to real
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ThirdEdition ©Copyright 2013 by Morgan Kelley LLC
All rights reserved
So begins Ethan Blackhawk’s story…
~ Prologue~
He was Indian. Not full blooded like his one brother, but half like his other brother. All three had the blood of ancient warriors running through their veins. There was never a doubt that he was just as good as they, if not better, because he had the ability of the shaman. Communing with the Great Spirit, to see what the mere man couldn’t comprehend, and make the sacrifices needed to appease those already gone ahead into the afterlife. The bloodline was his inheritance and was his right. All that was left was to claim it and stand among his ancestors- present and past.
One brother wasted his heritage, ran away and chose the path of the white man; the other stayed, and made nothing of his life. Both misused what was so freely given to them. They had the birthright, and the names that they were born with while he had the generic name of his mother. Oh, how he longed to be special like them, and have his father and grandfather acknowledge his existence. Alas, they didn’t see him, even when he walked among them daily. He was invisible to them and almost a ghost. They were barely aware of his presence.
Looking down at his flesh in the moon’s glow, he felt revulsion. The Great Spirit hadn’t blessed him with the tan that his brothers had inherited, but the paleness of white man. Even his features were a disappointment. Void were the lines and angles that gave him the look of his lineage, and ever present was the reminder that he was his mother’s child. For a while, he doubted that he was even one of them, but his mother had promised him the man they called father was also his. Swearing she slept with him and conceived him one night during the blood moon. The attraction was strong to his genealogy. The shaman ran deep within his body yearning to be free. His greatest desire was to show them all what he knew to be true. Not only was he one of three and the youngest, but the most powerful of them all.
He was brother and shaman.
All of this was necessary, just to prove that he was not less, but more. Once the truth was out, he would be welcomed into their lives, and to be allowed to sit with them and to join in their ceremonies. Finally heritage would be his. A vow would be made to them that he would not walk away from his heritage, like the other two had done so easily. He only needed to bide his time, practice his skills, and one day he would make his mark on them. It was his oath to those that came before him. Time was his as he waited patiently for them to acknowledge that he was family. If they wouldn’t acknowledge the truth, he would force them to see him. No more would there be lurking in the shadows. He would erupt into the spotlight to take back what was stolen from him.
His absconded heritage and lineage.
As he stood over the hole safeguarding the gaping chasm, there was nothing felt for the women whose spiritless bodies lay within. They were a means to an ends. Their bones used for ritual, and their bodies used for release and the creation of life. Now their souls would be released to the spirit world upon completion. He helped them make life, and it was his to take away. They gave the ultimate sacrifice; they gave to the man who would be revered by his people one day. Now it was time to make them see him, and turn against the ones that had forgotten his existence. By using all the Great Spirit had to offer, no longer would he be invisible. It was only a matter of time.
Walking through shadows, as the trees blocked the moonlight, he returned to the woman bound to the tree. Her head hung, as she bled from the arrow piercing her body. Soon she’d exsanguinate and die, joining the others in the unmarked grave. She would rest with them until her flesh left her bones, and all that remained was the precious skeleton that he needed so desperately. Harvesting what he required and wanted, allowing the bugs and worms to do the dirty work. Nature would consume the flesh from them, making them pure white and ready. It was all about the power of the bones, his runes to see into the spirit world. Once in his hands and with a few well-chosen words, he would have the spirits at his control. Shamanism would make him strong and mysticism would place him just out of his family’s reach. The proof would be in the greatness he could achieve, and he would feel the power of his people. In his sack were the smallest of the skulls being salvaged, as tokens of the job he had ahead of him. They would travel with him home, as a constant reminder that life was for the powerful to control. Much like his had been created and shaped by the shaman before him.
This wasn’t his first or only collection of remains. Oh no, it had taken six years to perfect, and fine-tuned his craft of making a human disappear. It was careful, precise work to pick the ones that weren’t going to be missed. First came the romancing and luring them to him, and then came the sweet words to convince them to begin growing life deep within. It was a carefully planned seduction. All to please the spirits during the sacrifice; these bones had the extra special power in them. They were growing purity, and life. They were the unborn, yet to be rejected by their families or their lineage. They were still unmarked by society, and best used in the rituals. They were his favorite victims, not only because their mothers fought harder to save them and keep them protected, but because he would be the first to hold their tiny skeletons and use them to do great things. Somewhere deep inside him there was a twinge of guilt, but he must continue forward. One day when he found the right woman, worthy of his Native heritage, he would allow his progeny to be born, but only after his family accepted him. As of yet, the perfect woman had eluded him. The others were unworthy to walk beside him as shaman.
The woman by the tree sighed, releasing her last breath and passing into the spirit world. It was time. Now nature would continue on and resume the work, and in a few months when he returned, he would have the bones he needed for the rituals that made him stronger. One day when he was accepted, all of their sacrifices would be remembered and appreciated. They were the stepping stones to the strong future he deserved. Each one held a special place in his life. After all, they were part of him.
Freeing her from her bindings, he checked her pulse. When he was certain there was none, he carried her to the chasm, sliding down into its hungry mouth with its next meal. It wasn’t easy to maneuver, but he took the utmost care to not step on the others. Crushing their beautiful white bones under his boots would be the ultimate affront to the Great Spirit, and a precious waste of time. These bones came at a price, and they must not be wasted. Placing a chaste kiss on her forehead in goodbye and thanking her for her sacrifice, she was given her new home. Below her were the varying degrees of decayed corpses, being worked by nature and time. Soon she would be one of them, and offer up the precious contents he held so dear. Surveying them he nodded in appreciation of his cache. Death had found each one of them, and the spirit world would call them home during ritual.
Pulling the custom made arrow from her heart, he examined the tip. It was made specifically for the kill, and there was pride behind the craftsmanship. Since he was an outsider and invisible to the family, there was no one to teach him the basics of Native hunting skills. It had been up to him to do research on how to creat
e the perfect arrow for the kill. One day his father and grandfather would feel remorse for not advising him, but until then, he would find the answers he sought online and from books. Touching the tip of the arrow, he appreciated the efficiency of the kill. Now this arrow would be retired and join the others in the special quiver at home, marking the count. This woman would not be forgotten, and neither would be the gift she had given him.
With one last count of his inventory, he felt pleasure at how well his plan had come to fruition. He could remember each of their names and the time they had spent together. Each one held a fond memory for him. As the count was complete, he could make the journey home. All of his women were present and accounted for in the grave.
In the distance, there was the howl of the great wolf and he took it as a sign. The wolf was a strong totem guide. It stood for perseverance, success and the spirits. He knew then that he was doing the job he was meant to do. The path he stood on would lead him ultimately to the life he deserved, as he continued the work of the Great Spirit. One day his brothers the raven and the fox would understand and they would beg to have the Bull in their presence. After all, he was their blood. Soon they wouldn’t be able to deny it.
The time was coming.
The first shovel full of dirt covered the women, and for now he bid them farewell. In the near future they would be reunited. It was just a matter of carefully planning his move into the family and finding a way to replace the brothers that he had no need for anymore. Blood may be thicker than water, but he wasn’t letting that stop him.
This was his destiny.
~Chapter One~
Wednesday pre-dawn
The dawn broke on a new morning, and Callen Whitefox pulled his exhausted body unwillingly from his bed. The previous night’s debauchery had been a bad idea from the start. The late night out with his officers at the local tavern was going to be the downfall of his day. Now he would pay for his choices with a pounding headache, and the overwhelming need to crawl under a rock and die. Camaraderie had seemed like such a good idea at the time, and now it just seemed like a disaster he should’ve avoided at all costs. It took every ounce of energy to shower and shave, and he was barely able to stare into the mirror at the mess staring back. As he pulled his brown hair back into a ponytail and washed the residue of shaving cream from his face, he prayed for divine intervention even when he knew he deserved the punishment. Today was going to be a challenge to survive.
Being chief of the reservation police had its good days, and its bad ones. It wasn’t like it would be exciting and fun, there was a desk full of paperwork waiting for him at work, and just the thought of it made his head pound more.
Lately, he felt misplaced in life and had found himself slipping into the shady side of existence. There seemed to be more excuses for drinking, more one night stands he could suddenly rationalize, and more mistakes he wasn’t learning a lesson from. The drinking eased the feelings that he was lost, and although he knew the choice was a dangerous path, the allure still called to him. It was one his own father had chosen in life, and had allowed himself to succumb to with a disastrous end.
Callen Whitefox closed his eyes, and prayed for divine intervention, because today he was going to pay dearly. It wasn’t like he could call in sick to his boss, shirk his duties off on a co-worker, and pretend that it didn’t matter. Days like today, he wished he wasn’t the boss.
Deep down, he wasn’t sure if the job mattered, or if he was just stubborn, refusing to let his obligations fall to the wayside. Growing up, his father had dodged his duties and that lacked all appeal. Drinking and sex were one thing, but blowing off responsibilities was something entirely different. Being a victim of that himself, he swore he wouldn’t be anything like his father when he grew up. Yeah, maybe it was an insignificant job being chief of police on the reservation, but it was his life. Whitefox made the choice to come back, and now he had to follow through and finish the job. He’d make himself accept and enjoy it.
One way or another.
As he made a pot of coffee and popped three aspirin, the view from his kitchen window offered him some comfort. He’d done his time off the reservation as a local deputy sheriff and in the end. He missed home so much he came back. That was ironic, because growing up all he wanted to do was get away from the place and people that made him. Watching his older brother take off and run away from it all, he’d been jealous and envious. The nerve it took to step off the Rez, spreading your wings and never return took guts and bravery. There was nothing more that he wanted than to do the same thing. Only it didn’t work for him, at all. Escaping the reservation was easier said than done. Now, as he stared out into his little patch of land, there was pride that his little cabin was all his. It was part of who he was, and who he would always be. Yeah, he took the easy way out, and promised himself one day it would be different, but at thirty five, one day still seemed out of reach. The Indian blood in him made him, defined him, and it took years, but he eventually learned to be proud of his heritage. Now he wore it like a badge of honor. If only he could feel that way about the job.
Whitefox took his coffee and stood out on his deck, just enjoying the peace of the day. Soon it’d be warm and stagnant, and he’d have to be at work. But for just now he could take in the cool crispness and enjoy. First things first, he needed to get over the hangover that was beating in his brain. It was reminding him that he wasn’t a young kid anymore, and to be slamming beers with his friends was always a bad idea.
The only miracle was that he had the common sense to not bring a woman home. The awkward morning of him not remembering her name, and why she was there would just exacerbate the pounding of his head. As much as he liked the pleasure he found in the opposite sex, lately that too was wearing thin. Because he was full Native, his grandfather was insistent that he marry to keep the bloodlines pure. That meant limited selection on the reservation and truthfully, he’d already ‘been there and done most of that’. Nothing clicked and hope was wearing out. Sitting back on the chair, he propped his feet up on the railing and closed his eyes, taking in the silence and praying the medicine would work sooner rather than later. As usual, he made the promise he wouldn’t do it again, and this time meant it…
He promised.
Growing up on the reservation had been a tough existence. One of the hardest things he would ever have to do in his life. The abject poverty, poor living conditions, and the stigmata of who his father was didn’t help much. Callen Whitefox was a bastard. Thanks to his sperm donor father, who had an affair with his mom. She was young, naive and believed in love at first sight. Let that be a lesson to any idiot that used that phrase. ‘Love at first sight’ had consequences, and he was living, breathing proof of that. Had she known that the man was a cheating bastard, maybe she would have thought twice about the one night stand that resulted in a child. Then again with his mother, it probably wouldn’t have mattered one bit.
While he didn’t believe in the conveniences of love, he did believe in the actuality of fate, and that it was going to happen despite the participant’s willingness. He couldn’t help but wish she had found a man that was not going to knock her up and walk away. It would have been nice to actually have a dad growing up as a child. Callen Whitefox couldn’t help but dislike his father. He was a drunk and a piss poor role model on fatherhood. The only good thing was it gave him things he might not have had otherwise.
His grandfather was head of the reservation, and at eighty-eight years old he was as sharp as a whip and very much centered in their beliefs and lifestyle. Timothy raised him and for that he would be eternally grateful. The old man tried to step in and take care of his other grandson, but he was too wild and out of control. A short stint in foster care ended his brother’s wildness. Whitefox knew that just seeing him packed up and shipped away had helped keep him in line. As a scared kid he didn’t want to be taken away from his grandfather. He truly missed his brother. The years that they shared were nothing but good tim
es, and it was nice knowing that he wasn’t the only one in the world betrayed by their father. As a teenager it gave him solace to know that with both their mothers gone, they still had each other. It was an unbreakable blood bond.
Yeah, he wished.
Whitefox laughed at the idea of camaraderie with his brother. That bridge was burned when they were teenage boys and the hopes of reconnecting lay in the ash and rubble. Growing up, the raven and the fox were inseparable. They did everything that they could to raise hell, and make their mark on the reservation. His brother was smart, saw trouble coming, and would make sure he kept his brother out of jail and the grasps of the law. He was the older brother, and he did his job well. Growing up he wanted nothing more than to be just like him, because he was a bad ass brother to have. He couldn’t help but smile at the memories of the hell they raised and the fun they had just being a team.
Then like the smile on his face it was all gone. The pain of that loss, at losing that bond with his brother still haunted him. Stupid events on his behalf made them break apart, and no matter what he did after to rectify, explain, and try to heal the wound, it wasn’t forgiven. Callen Whitefox was dead to his brother, and that in itself hurt more viciously than anything else in life would. It was all over a woman. She didn’t matter to either of them. What a stupid momentary lapse of judgment on his behalf. She was trying to trap them both, unbeknownst to them, and in the process tore the brothers in half. It left scars that would never heal.
It had been a good ten years since he seen his brother, and the only reason that their paths crossed was an assignment while he worked for a sheriff’s department. Happenstance and nothing more brought them back together, briefly. That day had been brutal, just like the day they ended their brotherhood. Eyes met across a table in cold disdain. His brother stood, dialing his boss, and informing him that he had a conflict of interest and needed a reassignment. Ten years had passed since he looked into the face of the man that he missed and loved. Every day he wondered how he could fix what he broke in order to heal the rift.
Sacred Burial Grounds (An FBI Romance Thriller (book 2)) Page 1