Rebel

by Zoë Archer

  Usually, he could combat those feelings being out in the field. Not this time.

  He came from a venerable line of intellectuals, all blessed—or cursed—with extraordinary minds that perpetually churned out ideas and inventions as readily as most people ate. And almost everyone in his family, with the notable exception of odd Aunt Sabrina, had managed to find spouses or long-term romantic partners. Some of the marriages were more successful than others, yet, for the most part, domestic felicity had been attained by generations of Graveses. The very fact that he was alive attested to this.

  Why was he different? Were his standards simply too high? Should he try to make himself more accessible to the average woman?

  He didn’t want the average woman. He wanted a woman with whom he could be fully himself, in all his peculiarity, and who engaged him on every level. He knew it would be nigh impossible to find a woman whose brain worked as his did, constantly at work on dozens of inventions simultaneously, his mind picking apart the world and searching eternally for the whys and wherefores. That would be excruciating, for both of them. Yet there had to be a woman out there, somewhere, who wasn’t silly and wasn’t dull or strident or insubstantial or pedantic or…ordinary.

  Such women did exist. They were Blades of the Rose. But he had learned early the important principle that female Blades were for friendship and the shared goal of protecting Sources. Not lovers.

  Oddly, the flame-haired Miss Murphy from the trading post popped into Catullus’s mind like an errant spark. She had a luscious figure, it was true, but he’d seen something in her bright blue eyes that attested to a depth and energy he’d seldom found outside of the Blades. He remembered how she took in the dilapidated saloon, missing nothing, alert to everything around her. Including—nay, especially—him. Intriguing.

  He would never see Miss Murphy again, and, even if he did, it would not matter. He reminded himself of this as he closed up the Compass. He, Astrid, and Lesperance were on a desperate bid to protect the Earth Spirits’ totems and Astrid herself. Already their search had cost one Blade his life. And, should they succeed, the Heirs still held the Primal Source and would be unleashing it upon an unsuspecting world—soon. Very soon. Nations and the lives of millions hung in the balance. There wasn’t time or room for Catullus to brood and feel sorry for himself. The sorrows of his heart held no place here.

  Yet, as he waited by the fire for Astrid and Lesperance to return from their nocturnal tryst, Catullus wondered only half in jest if he might be able to replace his heart with one made of clockworks. A mechanical heart could never feel lonely.

  Swift Cloud Woman stood with her arms crossed, watching from her place in the forest encampment with sardonic detachment as the men who called themselves Heirs swore and spat and blamed each other for their defeat in the caverns.

  Back in the caves, their medicine man had extinguished the flames that barred them from the totem’s cave, only to find their prey—and Swift Cloud Woman’s prize—gone.

  Rather than chase their quarry like clumsy idiots, the Heirs and Swift Cloud Woman had retreated, back through the caverns, and then out, past the body of the slain man. He had died well, she thought, a courageous warrior defending his brothers. That hadn’t stopped her from rifling through his pockets, searching for anything of value. Nothing there except a bone-handled folding knife and a few wilted wildflowers. She took the knife.

  They had staggered back down the mountain, everyone in foul temper, until one of the guides found a good place for the night’s encampment. No sooner had the tents been pitched than the men all began arguing, carrying on or else sulking.

  “They were right there!” the fat white man whined and readjusted the bandage over the slight bullet graze on his hand. “Already had the totem!”

  “You shoot worse than a blind drunkard,” the tall one called Milbourne snapped.

  “But you’re the marksman,” sneered the fat man. “And you didn’t even hit the Indian. And you,” he yelled, rounding on the bearded medicine man. “Bloody lot of good your spells did us, Bracebridge. Light a few trees on fire and then nothing! Just a sodding flint, you are.”

  “Careful, Halling,” seethed the medicine man. “Or I’ll make your balls swell like rotten melons and explode.”

  “Muzzle it, all of you,” the leader spat.

  “Why?” the fat one sulked. “You need silence so you can devise yet another brilliant plan?”

  Meanwhile, the remaining two mountain men passed a jug of wretched liquor back and forth, as disinterested in the death of their fellow guide as they were in the argument.

  Men were fools—white men especially. Never taking responsibility for their actions. Never thinking beyond a handful of moments in the future. They stumbled forward, fists flailing, cocks out, and then bawled like elk when they didn’t get what they want.

  Winter Wolf had been different, though. A noble warrior. And wise. Wise enough to know that the territory of the Earth Spirits had to be kept pure from defilement. Her brother understood that, of the two siblings, she possessed the sharper mind. Without her guidance, he acted recklessly, so she planned their attacks against trespassers, their routes for patrol. She hadn’t the ability to take an animal’s shape, so Winter Wolf became her weapon. And he was proud to do it.

  Fresh outrage surged anew to think of her brother’s death. He had been foolish, hunting alone while she was busy plying miners with cheap whiskey heavily laced with water hemlock. She had intended to take their valuables when the convulsions began. But she had felt something was wrong, and left the white men to froth and seize. Winter Wolf was not at their little camp, and did not return for many days. Only when she ventured to a nearby trading post did she see him—or what was left of him. His wolf pelt hung off the back of a trapper’s packhorse. Where his body lay, she never knew, but she knew precisely where to find the body of the trapper who killed her brother. Behind a saloon, where she had lured him with lusty promises and then slit his throat. Yet it did not bring Winter Wolf back.

  Foolish boy. Swift Cloud Woman dragged her fist across her leaking eyes, furious. With herself, for leaving her reckless brother alone. With Winter Wolf, for being so rash as to get himself killed. With the white man, who befouled her lands with their greed. But most of all, with the Earth Spirits.

  She would have retribution. She would make the Earth Spirits suffer. In the best possible way. They thought themselves so proud and free, valuing their independence most of all. But they would bend to her. Each and every one. Even, and this was best, the One Who Is Three. The most powerful Earth Spirit, hers to control.

  Such wonderful plans she had. A hard smile twisted her mouth. With the totems in her possession, Swift Cloud Woman would command the wolves to eviscerate their own parents, the bears to tear the limbs from their own children, the hawks to peel at the flesh of their spouses. And One Who Is Three would drink the blood of his white lover.

  Oh, Winter Wolf, you will see from the Hunting Grounds, and you will laugh, as we laughed at the pleadings of unclean intruders, begging for their lives.

  She would see this all come to pass. Hate was such a wonderful fuel, burning cold and clean.

  “Silence, everyone!” She strode into the middle of the encampment and felt a thrill of triumph when every one of the men was rendered speechless. She regarded all of them, each in turn, and they gaped at her like mice beneath a hawk’s shadow.

  “Stupid white men,” she said, derisive. “Perhaps your medicine man can conjure up some testicles for each of you.”

  They continued to stare at her, stunned, until the fat one recovered enough to trundle forward. “I’ll thrash you, red-skinned bitch,” he blustered, finger pointing through the bandage on his hand.

  His howl split the air, followed by an arc of red that spattered in the dirt. The fat man cradled his hand and gawked at the tip of his finger, now lying in the dust. “You cunt!”

  Swift Cloud Woman sheathed her knife coolly. “Threaten me again,
and I will flay you. Slowly. Beginning with your big pink belly and ending with your big pink rump.”

  The medicine man and the tall man chuckled as their fat companion sniveled, retreating. The leader, Staunton, however, narrowed his eyes as he gazed at her.

  “I’d appreciate it,” he said, silkily, “if you don’t wound any of my men. They’re no good to me injured.”

  “Make sure they give me no cause,” she answered.

  He tipped his head in acknowledgment, then held out a hand. “Now that the floor is yours, please enlighten us.”

  She ignored the thread of sarcasm in his voice. “Tell me—what is it you all seek? Why have you come so far from home?”

  “We come for the glory of England,” Staunton answered at once. “We seek whatever means we can to help our nation.”

  “The triumph of Britain,” threw in the medicine man.

  “All the world will belong to the Crown,” added the tall man.

  “Most of it,” amended Staunton quickly, seeing her flare with alarm at this idea.

  The fat man only whimpered.

  She shook her head. “No, this is what you claim, but it is not truly what you desire. Each of you claims to work for a greater power, yet in each of your hearts, all you covet is power for yourselves and none for your fellow warriors. Like a child hoarding berries, stuffing them into his face until his belly aches. Then one of you is sick and the rest have nothing. As you have nothing now.”

  The medicine man and the tall man both snorted in derision, but the leader raised a brow at her. He was truly listening to what she said. It seemed he was well suited to his role.

  “If this is true, what would you suggest to remedy the situation?” he asked, only slightly ironic.

  “Remember that all that matters is the tribe,” she counseled. “Do not try to be the lone warrior with the most coups, for that does not bring victory, only boasts. You are all part of the same tomahawk, working as one to cut down your enemy, and you”—she pointed at Staunton—“are the tomahawk’s blade.”

  The leader made an ironic grimace. “I’d ask you to refrain from saying the word ‘blade.’ However,” he continued, “I see your reasoning. Perhaps we can work somewhat more…cooperatively.”

  “Yes, a plan for the next battle. Each of you to play a part that leads to one thing—conquest.”

  “What would you know of tribes?” challenged the tall man. “Yours exiled you.”

  Hot humiliation and anger darkened her cheeks. “Everything that my brother and I did was for the tribe. Yet they were too weak, too soft. They were not willing to be strong and merciless. And for being what they should have been, my brother and I were cast out. For that,” she clipped, “I vow to see them punished.”

  “Sounds selfish,” noted the medicine man.

  “No,” she said proudly, drawing herself up. “It is righteous.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Staunton. “As righteous as what we do in service to our country.”

  Native woman and white man shared a look of mutual understanding. They alone truly grasped what it meant to dedicate oneself to the greater good. Strange that she would find that insight with a white man, her enemy. Yet it did not change her plans for the future.

  “So, now that we’ve reached a true agreement,” Staunton continued, clapping his hands together, “it’s time to plot our strategy. All of us.”

  “Agreed,” Swift Cloud Woman said, allowing herself to smile. She could hardly wait for what was to come next.

  Despite yesterday’s bitter loss, despite the omnipresent threat of the Heirs, the group traveled this morning with a definite sense of lightness and purpose. Two of the three totems were in their possession and safe. For now. The third, final totem was within a day’s journey. Yes, the Heirs still wanted her, but she would not allow herself to dwell in fear of them.

  “I think,” she said softly, “we just might succeed in this mad venture.”

  Nathan, sharing in her enthusiasm, flashed her a grin that set the tinder of her desire alight.

  “Careful, Astrid,” warned Catullus, brusque. “Victory is never certain.”

  Well, there was someone who wasn’t quite as optimistic or in good spirits as she and Nathan. Catullus had been silent, verging on sullen, ever since waking. She had a good idea why.

  No one, not even scholarly Catullus Graves, would be particularly chipper after sitting alone and listening to people make passionate love in the forest. She had tried to take him aside earlier that morning and, if not apologize, at least thank him for his forbearance. He hadn’t given her a chance to speak. Instead, he loaded up his pack and marched off into the woods. She and Nathan had scrambled after him before Catullus stomped away entirely.

  “I do know that,” she answered now. “Complacency leads to disaster. One of the Blades’ tenets.”

  Nathan nodded, understanding. “Take nothing for granted.”

  Which she most definitely did not. As she and her companions threaded through the trees, following the path of the green river, Astrid could not keep her gaze from Nathan or stop her pulse from surging anew with each glance. Long-limbed and supple in purposeful movement, his body was known to her as intimately as her own. More, she knew the man who inhabited his sleek body, and when he caught her shamelessly admiring him, the heat flaring in his eyes nearly made her stumble. Or spin into the air like a loosened feather on a breeze.

  Yet Catullus, surly as he was, spoke the truth. She was too seasoned a campaigner to fall into one of the most basic traps. So she kept herself alert to her surroundings, falling into old patterns of caution and readiness.

  Silently, they pushed on through the dense, old forest, the path of trees older and more wise than any mere human could ever hope to be. She listened to the sounds they made, their branches and the millions of fine green needles moving against each other, whispering ancient secrets.

  As they passed a particularly weathered, aged tree, Nathan inhaled sharply, snaring her attention. His eyes were bright, sharp, as though they could see beyond the veil of time.

  “I feel it,” he said. His hand came up to hover over his chest. “Here. Growing stronger. A…rising, drawing me on. Up.” He looked up, searching through the branches for something only he could see or sense.

  Her own heart leapt with excitement. They were getting close. And another evolution in Nathan had already begun. “The totem is calling you.”

  Without speaking, he moved ahead, intent, and Astrid sensed it, too, the currents of power that flowed through the forest, the sky. She shared a glance of anticipation with Catullus, before Catullus remembered he was cross and walked on, his expression shuttered.

  Afternoon, and the green river abruptly stopped.

  They all stared up at the object blocking their path.

  Nathan scowled, as if he could burn the thing down with the heat of his gaze.

  “That is…rather tall,” Astrid said.

  “Like a cannon is a rather big gun,” Catullus murmured.

  A cliff, nearly a quarter of a mile high, towered over the three travelers. The cliff stretched toward the heavens, rocky face completely sheer, impassive, and flat. Nothing interrupted its indifferent surface—except a lone pine that grew halfway up the barren expanse. The tree pointed at an angle from the sheer face, toward the sky, isolated and proud.

  And entirely inaccessible.

  Chapter 17

  Flight, Fight

  “Not unexpected,” Catullus murmured, looking up, as they all were. “But still, a surprise. I did not quite believe anything—aside from a titan—could be this tall.”

  “It’s there,” Nathan said, voice tight. “The totem. Held by the tree.”

  Astrid paced forward and placed her hand upon the stone. “There is nothing to hold on to. No way to climb. Unless,” she said, turning to Catullus, “you’ve one of your ingenious devices in your pack.”

  “Alas, nothing that might work here.” He looked almost sheepish at his overs
ight.

  “Perhaps we could go around and try from the top,” she suggested. “Lower ourselves down.”

  But Catullus shook his head. “We don’t have enough rope.” He gazed at the movement of the tree on the cliff. “And the wind would dash anyone to pieces against the rocks.”

  “And it would take too long to find a way around.” Astrid swore, knowing the totem was so close but impossible to reach. She and Catullus stared up at the solitary tree, which seemed to taunt them from its height.

  “There’s another way.”

  Both Astrid and Catullus turned at Nathan’s voice. He, too, was looking up, hands on his hips, expression focused, mouth a taut line.

  “How?” asked Catullus.

  Nathan’s gaze snapped to his companions. “Fly.”

  Astrid’s eyes widened. They had discussed the possibility that Nathan could change into a hawk, but he’d been unable to make the shift. “Can you now?”

  He began pulling off his clothing. “Don’t know,” he growled. “But there’s no choice. The totem’s up there and we have to get it.” He threw the last of his garments to the ground, readying himself, and then shut his eyes in concentration. Ragged inhalations sawed from him as he forced himself to focus inwardly, drawing upon the fury he had felt when first transforming into his other animal forms.

  Astrid and Catullus held their collective breaths, waiting.

  Nothing happened. Then, the mist of his change began to gather. Astrid clenched her fists in readiness.

  The mists obscured Nathan, then dispersed. Leaving him crouched and snarling as his wolf.

  The growl he made was pure frustration.

  “It’s all right,” Astrid said, calm. “Try again.”