“How?” she asked him, struck by the understanding of it. That he’d indeed been hunting. That, somehow, from the hotel where they could see or hear none of this, he’d led them to this place of disturbance.
Just as the night before, he’d run straight for trouble. And not for the first time that night, not to judge by his appearance.
“How?” she said again, and this time it was a demand as she set her heels to the cement and stopped him short.
Not that he couldn’t have dragged her on. But she had a sense of him now. She didn’t think he’d do that.
And he didn’t.
But she could clearly see the conflict in him—the way something had crept inside to haunt him, tugging at him—creating a strain in his eyes, a tension in his jaw and neck and shoulders.
“It’s what I do,” he said, and the look he turned on her frightened her more than anything about the past twenty-four hours. Full of the hunter’s intensity, full of words he didn’t quite seem to be able to say. “It’s why I don’t have a home. It’s what happened last night. It’s what you wanted to see.”
She didn’t notice the sunny day, or the warmth on her exposed skin, or the pleasant sensation of muscles loosening up with the walk. She found herself whispering, “Be careful.”
It struck him in a way she hadn’t expected—but he shook it off, and he went on.
She expected him to slow as they got closer, to take in the situation...to figure it out. Maybe he already had it figured out. It made little sense to her—a motley gathering of drab figures, each of which held signs on sticks: propped against their legs, attached to their torsos. They spread out along the edge of the park entry corner to which Mac had brought them, shouting incoherent slogans in an uncoordinated fashion.
Inside the park sat a pleasant cluster of trees and a fountain, a statue of a child and a burro not far away amid a clever surround of native desert stone and plantings. There, another, smaller group of people appeared to ignore the protestors completely.
Between the two, a bored cop sat on his motorcycle.
And then she felt it. The instinct that had been part of her for so long that she never questioned it, never doubted it. The self-righteous little group, working off their frenzy of entitled superiority, their chanting grown louder, more discordant. And there—that man in the baggy brown trousers and faded zip-front shirt. Intent. “Mac,” she said, uneasy—glancing at the bored cop, thinking surely this ragtag little band of negativity wouldn’t start anything with such supervision.
Mac gave her a glance of surprise. “Zip-front guy?”
She nodded tightly. “What’s going on here?”
“Near as I can tell,” Mac said, squinting at the quiet party in the park, “it’s a pagan thing. And some other people protesting the pagan thing.”
“How—”
But he gave her a ghost of that grin and nodded at the long, narrow parking lot that ran along what looked to her like a giant concrete ditch. They weren’t far from it, or from the protesters, and he’d eased their pace. “Bumper sticker.”
She smacked his arm. Just as if they’d been together for years. He only grinned bigger—even if the moment didn’t last. His expression abruptly faded; she saw the reason immediately. One of the quiet party, dressed in earth-child-casual and sandals much like hers, breaking away from his group to approach the chanters. Oh. That is so not a good idea.
And maybe he knew it. But he came anyway, exchanging a few words with the cop—who seemed equally skeptical but who then just watched as the man went on. Ordinary man, a bit dumpy around the middle, a bit thin on top...
Full of courage.
“I’d like to invite you to join us,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the chanting. “This is a day when we’ve chosen to give back to the Earth, even modestly, by picking up trash along the perimeter of the park and feasting here. Surely your own beliefs teach you to honor—”
“Sinner!” cried a woman, shrill and sudden, as if she’d startled even herself. “Sinner!”
“You’ll rot in hell!” shouted a man.
“You pervert our world!”
“Okay then,” the man said, barely audible as Gwen strained for his words, aware that they weren’t far away at all now, having turned to head along the concrete ditch—Mac’s doing, leading the way with his shoulders set. She slowed, dragging subtly against him, her hand still captured by his and now attempting to do the capturing.
And then her instinctive warning system spiked and she gasped, knowing the zip-shirt guy had reached his tipping point. She startled, too, when Mac whirled on her—
No, not on her—on the crowd. And she saw in his eyes the exact moment they each realized it—that the other had known, had felt it—and then the protesters broke. They dropped their signs and flung their banners and transformed from motley dull curiosities to vicious sheep, led by the flashpoint in a zip-front shirt. Fists became weapons, sign sticks became bludgeons—
A woman from the pagan group screamed; the man who’d played envoy flung dignity aside and bolted for it. The cop shouted, suddenly no longer bored. And Mac pulled his hand free of Gwen’s and gave her a verbal shove. “Stay here!”
Almost, she didn’t, as he ran the short distance to intercept the group—a wicked sprint, moving faster than she’d ever imagined and never losing the fierce purpose of his stride. But even as she moved to follow, she checked herself. She’d promised.
He flowed into that crowd, leaving men on the ground in his wake. Not wounding them—none of them athletic, some of them aging—but taking them down all the same. A clever shove here, a shift of weight there, a yank-and-tangle over there—all smooth and clean and bewildering.
From nowhere, it struck. A hard slap of ugliness, a startling wash of all things cruel and mean.
It struck.
She cried out—heard herself, didn’t even know why. She didn’t even understand what she felt—only that it made her feel sick and dirty.
Mac dropped as though felled, there at the edge of those he’d left tangled on the ground.
Gwen instantly broke her promise and ran for him—a glance at the small remaining protesters and their amplified frenzy, a glance at the cop’s face as he aimed his Taser, one hand at his shoulder mike as he shouted for backup. She flung herself down beside Mac, who knelt back against his heels, his hands at his head and his face set in pain. He turned on her, fierce and wild and lightning-fast, and even her wildest effort to wrench aside wasn’t enough.
She did the only thing left to her and grabbed him back, getting up in his face. “Get a grip, Mac!” she shouted at him. “We have to get out of here!”
Something got through to him. He shoved himself off the ground, taking her with him. If the cop noticed or cared, he cut his losses, fully engaged with the protesters he’d stopped.
Mac and Gwen ran for it. Or staggered for it. Tripping, fumbling, until slowly Gwen realized she was no longer holding him steady—and noticed that she was the one keeping up with his long strides and not the other way around, even as they turned a corner and slowed.
The pleasantly baking sun suddenly seemed more than hot. She dragged him a few steps farther, to the shade of a tree in storefront landscaping. “Guess I’m glad for these shorts after all,” she said, wiping her face with the hem of her shirt.
Mac only looked grim. As much as he sent her a flicker of appreciation, as much as he tried to straighten up and shrug it off. After a moment, he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Look,” Gwen said. “A gas station. Let’s get something to drink. Something cold. Maybe even crushed ice. Do you want a bright red tongue from the cherry or blue from the raspberry?” And then, because he didn’t take the cue, didn’t shed his grimness, she asked, “Why sorry? Because you did it, or because you stopped?”
He snorted appreciation for that. “I wouldn’t have done that if I’d thought—” He shook his head. “I don’t know why that happened.”
She
hesitated, then asked it anyway, blotting her face against her shoulder a final time. “You felt it coming, didn’t you? Knew that man would start it?”
Not that she truly had any question.
He only gave her a grim look. “Crushed ice it is then.”
But oh, too late. There, heading for the gas station, two young men with heads shaved close, wifebeater shirts, baggy pants, crude tattoos. And again...
Intent.
Gwen didn’t think about it; she reached for Mac’s arm, holding tight.
And Mac apparently didn’t think about it, either. “What the hell is it about this place?” he muttered, striking out for the gas station at an angle of interception—but only a few steps before a quick, hard hesitation, looking at Gwen.
She held both hands up in quick acquiescence. Maybe even surrender.
And only then realized the relief she felt—that it wasn’t her, running into trouble. Trying to warn the people in the gas station store, inevitably just ending up in the line of fire. She didn’t have to make the decision.
He was already doing it. As if he’d always done it. Intercepting the two incipient troublemakers, planting himself before them. And yes, she’d indicated she’d stay back...but not so far she couldn’t keep track of things. She found herself easing in on the edge of it all as Mac said, “This place is closed to you. Find your trouble somewhere else.”
They pushed up close to him, sneering the predictable responses—the insults and the threats, all rolled up into one. One of them gave him a hard shove, unable to conceal surprise when Mac stayed rooted.
She saw the man’s sudden move—hand pulling out a switchblade and flicking it open—and she drew sharp breath to cry a warning she never had the chance to voice. Instead she froze, startled as splintered light lanced out from between them to make the toughs squint and hesitate—but not for long.
By then Mac had lifted the knife he now held between them—that big clip-blade Bowie he couldn’t possibly have been carrying all this time. Couldn’t possibly—
He said, “I don’t think you heard me. This place is closed to you. And by the time you cut me with that little knife of yours, I’ll have you gutted.” He smiled; it sent a shiver between Gwen’s shoulder blades.
It wasn’t a bluff.
And they knew it.
But it was written there on their faces—the awareness that the odds were against Mac, that they were losing face, losing fun. Run, whispered Gwen’s instinct. Oh, run!
Instead, Mac moved a step closer. “And here’s the really fun thing,” he said. “Your faces and your knife are on the security camera. Mine,” he added, smiling again, “aren’t.”
Gwen could lip-read the curses from where she stood, even if the snarling made them almost unintelligible. “You won’t always be here,” one of them said, stepping back stiffly, his blade snicking closed; the Bowie knife glimmered revealed and...eager, Gwen would have said. Since when did that make sense?
“Security camera,” Mac said. “Your faces. Images set aside for the police, should anything happen to this place.” He smiled again. Not nice. “And I mean anything.”
“Hey,” the second guy protested, his sneer sliding over to indignant protest. “We can’t control what happens to this place! It’s run by a buncha spic fags! Plenty of reason for people to—”
“Anything,” Mac said. The blade glimmered. “So maybe you don’t want to be around here, huh?”
Maybe not. Seething, out-maneuvered, out-bladed, and for that matter without nearly the necessary mojo, they backed away—wary steps at first, and then pivoting out to a jog.
And Mac, standing there, still lost in dark thoughts...
Gwen checked her impulse to go to him, but instead pushed through the entrance to the station storefront. There she found a slight and neatly turned out Latino who might very well have triggered the hateful response of the young men outside—and he knew it, too, his face tight and worried. “Hey,” she said. “They’re gone. If that security camera works, save the tape. But I think Mac scared ’em off for good. He told them they’d be blamed for anything that happened here, thanks to this big fail of theirs.”
Relief flooded his features. “They been working up to this,” he said. “This city...there’s something going on...” He shook his head. “Hey...soda or something? On the house?”
She brightened. “Oh! You know, I was really thinking about a cherry crushed ice—”
He held up a hand. “Please. And one for your friend?”
She glanced out at Mac. “I don’t think he’s a cherry crushed ice sort of guy. Who knows? We really just met.”
The station attendant scoffed, filling a large cup with more crushed ice than she could ever finish off. “The way he is with you? ¡Si se puede!”
Gwen laughed. “Points for best use of inspirational phrase. And thank you!” She took the proffered cup and straw. “But seriously...get that security tape, okay? Just in case. Those guys were ugly.”
He pointed at the phone. “Owner is on his way. I’m sure he’d like to meet—”
But Gwen stopped listening, swallowing that first sweet slurp of crushed ice and flavor, suddenly too cold as it hit her stomach. She felt the trickle of uncertain feeling, the wash of it over her skin, crawling and repulsive. “Do you feel—?”
The man shook his head. “Just the way the swamp cooler always feels—”
But he’d known what she meant. And he stopped, just as uncertain as she.
And Mac no longer stood out in front of the store.
Mac, who’d been so vulnerable to this inexplicable wall of hatred.
“Gotta go,” Gwen said. “Be careful!”
“Y tu, chica,” he said as she pushed out the door, his voice nearly lost in the jingle of the bells there. “Y tu.”
She stood outside in the bright world again, the heat washing against her so strongly that it momentarily overwhelmed that subtle sensation of...something. Two cars at the pumps, everyone minding their own business, no one happy. She squelched an urge to call for him; wherever he was, he wouldn’t want that.
Like you know him so well.
Well enough. And he couldn’t have gone far. Wouldn’t have, surely—
As if she was confident, she headed around the side of the little station, where the lot grew weedy and untended, an adobe wall angling to cut it off nearly at the back corner of the station and not even enough room for a trash bin.
Mac stood, back to the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed—his face was tense, jaw tight, hands flat against the building.
“Mac!” She ran to him, dodging the stickery weed clumps and stuttering to a stop at the look on his face, the way he turned from her—understanding the message of it. Don’t come any closer.
As if she had a choice. As if she could leave him like that.
As if she would.
Chapter 6
Run away, Gwen. Please run away.
“Mac,” she said, determination lacing her voice—penetrating even the darkness. “I feel it, too. Not like you do, but I can tell. Whatever it is, let me help.” Her hand on his upper arm and he couldn’t help it—it came on him like a lightning reflex, knocking her hand away, snatching her in his own grip—a cruel grip, fingers tight, eyes never even opening.
She cried out—nothing more than a sharp gasp, as offended as she was frightened—but she didn’t even try to break away. She stepped up to him.
He lost track, then, as the blade pounded him.
“Dammit, Mac, I need some help here! Come on!”
Bright light flashed through his mind, reflected through his body...slicing mirror-bright shards, bouncing and multiplying and the blade—
—wail fury desperation kill you kill her no no no—
The stucco wall of the gas station grated against his skin, lifted the back of his shirt as he slid, legs no longer holding him—but Gwen was right there keeping him from falling outright.
Gone.
It was
gone.
The tarry darkness, the blade’s fear, its fury. Light flickered within and became soothing dapples, and Mac gulped air—a gasp profound enough to be his very first breath. He found himself sitting on his heels, his back still to the stucco, an unexpected crouch.
And still he held Gwen’s arm. She knelt before him, and her eyes sparked determination, a bold light blue in a freckled surround. One hand pressed up against his chest, there where the unbuttoned henley gapped to show skin; one hand clutched the pendant that fell just below the notch of her collarbones. “Mac,” she said, and only then did he hear the fear lurking behind the determination.
What did you do? He meant to say it out loud, but his breath hitched on new realization.
The blade was gone.
Oh, still in his pocket. Still warm with fury.
But not in his mind.
Not feeding him trickles of feelings, of emotions that weren’t his. Not ramping up what he might otherwise feel himself with what it wanted him to seek out and enhance.
Just him. Michael MacKenzie, free and clear.
And realizing, just as suddenly, how much he still wanted this woman. All on his own, without trickles of stolen feelings or ramped-up reactions. How he was still entranced by the spark of her, the life of her. Still beguiled by the heart-shaped face, the barely there cleft in her chin, the way her eyebrows lifted as she looked at him now.
Relief flooded in to replace the startled emptiness. The blade had screwed with his head, but it hadn’t replaced what he was.
Not yet.
And for whatever reason, he had this moment. Freed, he found himself with no restraint at all. He pulled her between his knees with hands both gentled and intractable, watching her eyes widen as he guided her right up to meet his mouth, his hands sliding up her arms to cup her head, losing himself in the inexplicable luxury of just being himself.
Of being them.
Oh, hell yes, he kissed her.
Her hand crept to the back of his neck, fingers against damp skin, and oh, hell yes, she kissed him back.
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