The Last Trace (The Chosen Novellas Book 1)

by Roh Morgon

  Trace cursed at the thought of wintering and traveling through unfamiliar country alone. All he’d needed was one more good trap run. That would’ve made enough to buy passage on a ship once he got to the coast.

  He took a deep breath.

  Now, ’cuz of him, I’m stuck here, running his pitiful lines in over-trapped streams.

  But it wasn’t his father he’d stayed for.

  Never understood why she put up with the ol’ bastard. Still don’t.

  His horse stumbled, jarring Trace back to reality. He winced at the sun climbing overhead and reached back for his sweat-stained hat that was tied to the saddle. He snugged it onto his head and the wide brim brought welcome shade to his eyes, though the warm sun felt good on his back and shoulders through his buckskins. He found himself nodding off and fought it, his head jerking up periodically, usually in response to a snort or a stumble. But he’d spent much of his years in the saddle, and hanging on was second nature. Soon the sway of the horse’s body as it stepped up the trail rocked him to sleep.

  The reins pulling through his fingers woke him, and Trace sat up, blinking, and tightened his grip. They had stopped, and both animals were hungrily grazing along a short embankment that ran along the trail. He let them eat, realizing that in his haste to leave, they’d missed their morning graze.

  His own stomach rumbled and he fished behind him to untie the deerskin bundle his mother gave him. He opened it to find biscuits, dried fruit, and venison jerky. Unsure how well the food would sit, he took a bite of biscuit, then another. His stomach lurched, but he forced himself to keep chewing, hoping his exhaustion and weakness were due to the fact he’d had nothing solid to eat since yesterday afternoon.

  His mind shied away from what he did have.

  But a biscuit and a bite of jerky were all he could swallow. He bundled up the rest, tied it to his saddle, and picked up the reins. His heels tapped against the horse’s sides, and the palomino started up the trail at a brisk trot, the mule following at the end of his rope.

  When they reached North Creek, Trace put aside his weariness and set to work checking traps.

  ~ ~ ~

  By the time he was done with the second line on Little Creek, the sun had dropped behind the surrounding mountains. Trace had worked quickly through the day, hoping to finish and get back to the cabin before dark.

  He’d decided he wanted no further part of the bewitching demon.

  Trace leaned his rifle against a cottonwood, then knelt and tied the small pile of beaver and muskrat pelts into a bundle.

  Pretty sorry take. Better move the sets over to Pierre and South Creeks next run.

  He picked up the furs and swung the bundle onto the mule’s back, tying it to the pack saddle. Grabbing the rifle, he slipped it into the scabbard on the palomino.

  The mule tensed, and snapping his head up high, stared off into the woods. The horse jerked his head and snorted, staring in the same direction. Eyes rolling, they both started dancing at the end of their ropes, their feet beating a crisp rhythm against the needles carpeting the ground.

  Trace made a grab for their lead lines, but he was too slow. The mule pulled back and hit the end of the rope and, with a couple of strong tugs and a terrified bray, broke free and took off down the trail. Trace spun around to grab the palomino just as its rope came loose. The horse bolted after the mule, taking all of his gear with it.

  “Damnation!” He drew his knife and looked wildly around him for whatever had spooked the animals, expecting to see a bear or a mountain lion.

  But he wasn’t surprised when the she-demon stepped out from behind a fir tree and smiled at him.

  “Damn it, woman! It’s a helluva long ways back to the cabin.”

  Her laughter trickled through the air.

  Trace fought back a surge of fear and warily studied her.

  He realized that beneath the matted blond hair and dirt, she was beautiful, with a small, slightly upturned nose, wide-set eyes, and full lips. But that made her no less dangerous.

  When she didn’t move, he turned and started down the trail after his animals. He heard no more than a whisper and she stood in front of him, only an arm’s length away.

  “I’m in no mood for you, woman. Leave me be.” He started to step around her, hoping his bluff would work.

  She blocked his path.

  “But, mon chéri, I’m in the mood for you,” she said in a thick French accent. She smiled.

  He frowned, his fingers tightening on his knife.

  An iron grip clamped around his wrist and he grunted. His other fist shot out, aiming for her face. She batted it away as though it were a fly, then stepped in closer. She squeezed his wrist, hard, and twisted his arm. He dropped the knife.

  She snarled, baring long, pointed fangs.

  “You have a choice, mon chéri. This can be either pleasant, or painful.” Her hand whipped out and sharp nails gripped his throat. She forced him to his knees.

  He took a deep breath, staring straight ahead, and said nothing. She released him.

  “I think a little appetizer is in order, oui?”

  Trace swallowed, the acid taste of fear burning his throat.

  She smiled and shrugged out of her ragged overcoat, then unbuttoned her blouse, exposing her perfect white breasts. Trace felt himself harden in spite of his fear.

  She dragged a nail across one, deep into the flesh above the nipple. Blood welled and began to run down, painting her breast red. She stepped close to him, leaned down, and, with her hand pressing against the back of his head, said, “Drink.”

  He drank.

  It only took one mouthful to make him lose his mind with desire for her.

  ~ ~ ~

  Trace woke to her fingers running across his naked chest. Their bodies lay entwined, her coat providing their bed. He hugged her against him and felt her lips on his throat again. Groaning, he tipped his head back as she bit down. He could feel his blood moving through his veins, responding to her incessant pull, and all he wanted was to be inside her in every way. As she released the hold on his neck, he rolled her onto her back, then lowered himself on top of her.

  “No. You must save your strength, mon chéri. You have a long walk, remember?” Her eyes reddened and she laughed that tinkling, musical laugh. He ignored her protest and once again lost himself in her cool embrace.

  When he’d caught his breath, he pulled her close and cradled her in his arms. Her skin felt so cold, and he tugged her coat around her and tried not to shiver himself.

  She played with his ponytail, combing it smooth where it lay against his chest.

  “What’s your name, woman?”

  Her fingers stopped. She didn’t answer right away.

  “No one’s asked me that in a long time,” she finally whispered.

  He waited.

  “You may call me Angelique.” She sat up and looked at him. Her eyes were the palest blue, icy blue, like the glaciers in the mountains up north.

  Angelique. My demon with the name of an angel.

  “And you, noble savage, what is your name?” She pronounced it sah-vahge and he smiled.

  “Trace. Trace Pierre Tasman.”

  “Trace. What an odd name. Is it your tribe name?”

  He snorted.

  “No. My father gave it to me when I was born.” Trace hesitated. He’d never told anyone the story of his name, though he’d been asked about it all his life. “He said he saw ‘hardly a trace’ of himself in me. His name is Pierre, and so he named me Trace Pierre.”

  She frowned, and red briefly flared in her pupils.

  “How could a father be so cruel to his son as to give him such a name?”

  He shrugged.

  “You need a new one. Your family name is Tasman?”

  He nodded.

  “Then I shall call you Taz.”

  Taz. He thought about it a moment and decided he liked it well enough.

  Leaning down, she whispered in his ear, “Taz, mon amo
ur,” then straddled him and ran a sharp nail along her collarbone.

  ~ ~ ~

  He’d asked for her name. Though she’d hoped they’d be able to share conversation, she’d been unprepared for his question. Ever since her human body had died, taking her given name and titles with it, she’d worn many others, changing them as her moods dictated. She’d had to think a moment about which to use with him.

  Angelique was one she reserved only for the most special of her lovers, and as he was rapidly earning his place among their ranks, she felt it was apt.

  She looked down at him and smiled at tonight’s work of art. His skin had taken on a wan hue beneath its deep copper, and the collage she’d created from his blood with each of her bites formed a pleasing pattern on his body. Her passions began to rise again as she studied his sleeping form, but the eastern sky was pale and she was out of time. Noting his periodic shivers and the goosebumps dotting his skin, she covered him with her coat, dressed, and slipped away.

  ~ Day 3 ~

  She was gone in the morning, as before. But she’d left her coat tucked around him, though it did little good in the early dawn chill. He walked over to the creek and rinsed off the patches of dried blood scattered all over his body. Again, there were no wounds. It puzzled him.

  Shivering, Trace dressed and pulled on his moccasins. He picked up her coat and started toward home.

  He had to sit down and rest frequently as he worked his way across the mountain. He chalked it up to little food and even less sleep, but something nagged him, telling him it was more than that.

  It took him half the day to get back, a trip that normally would take him only a couple of hours by foot and an hour by horseback. As he neared the cabin, he saw the mule back in the pen with the other one, but no horse.

  My saddle, my rifle. My bow . . .

  He shuffled onto the porch and went inside. His father looked up from his chair, scowling.

  “Yer mother’s out lookin’ for yer sorry ass, boy. When yer horse came back, she feared you was bear meat.”

  Trace stared at his father, then chucked Angelique’s coat into a corner of the small room, turned, and went back outside.

  He’d just finished saddling the mule to go look for her when his mother rode up on his horse. He opened the gate for her and she rode into the pen. As she passed him, he felt her critical examination. Trace took a deep breath and closed the gate.

  She dismounted and tied the horse next to the mule. When she moved to loosen the cinch on the saddle, Trace stepped up to her and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’ll do this, Mother.”

  She moved back, studying him for a moment, then nodded and left the pen. Trace unsaddled both animals, his arms and legs feeling as heavy as if they were filled with rocks. He was out of breath by the time he was done and had to lean against the fence to rest. When he’d recovered, he stowed his gear in the shed, grabbed his robe, rifle, and bow, and headed to the cabin.

  As he stepped inside, his mother was examining the bloodstained coat he’d tossed in the corner earlier. Concern clouded her dark eyes.

  He said nothing as he reached out for the coat. She was wordless as well, but the questions danced across her face. She handed it to him and he walked past her to the far wall where he usually slept. He set his weapons against the wall, then unrolled his robe, wrapped it around himself, and eased down to the floor. Using the coat as a pillow, he drew the fur over his head.

  Trace buried his nose in the coat, inhaling Angelique’s odd scent. It filled him with longing for her, and as he dropped off to sleep, images of her drifted through his head.

  Images of her naked, bathed in his blood, her crimson eyes shining.

  ~ ~ ~

  The smell of venison stew woke him. He stretched, feeling sore and still exhausted, then took a deep breath and sat up, rubbing his eyes. The cabin’s darkness was broken by a low fire in the fireplace and grey sky showing through chinks in the dried mud that sealed the log walls.

  Trace looked over and saw his mother at the hearth stirring the stewpot. His father was asleep in his chair, snoring loudly with his mouth wide open. His hand hung down to the floor, and next to it a tin cup lay tipped on its side.

  He frowned. His father’s fondness for whiskey seemed to have gotten worse since Trace’s last visit three years ago, if that was possible. He supposed being laid up didn’t help.

  His bladder aching, Trace crawled out of his makeshift bed, stood, and stretched again.

  “Did you sleep well, my son?”

  He looked over at his mother and grunted, nodding.

  “Supper’s ready. Are you hungry?”

  His stomach rumbled. Food sounded mighty good to him at the moment.

  He rubbed his face and nodded, then shuffled to the door.

  “Back soon,” he muttered as the smell of fresh sourdough bread filled the cabin, reminding Trace of better days.

  Outside, he took a deep lungful of the cool evening air and walked across the clearing to the edge of the trees to relieve himself. He stood, watching the steam rise, listening to the forest sounds. He finished and started lacing his breeches.

  “Leave them undone, mon amour.”

  He spun around, his heart hammering.

  Angelique stepped out of the trees and looked at him, a coy smile playing about her lips.

  Shaking his head, he finished lacing up, then turned his back on her and started toward the cabin.

  “My supper’s waiting and I’m hungry.”

  As always, the speed with which she moved shocked him. She stood in front of him, her red eyes filled with demand.

  “My supper’s standing right here and I’m hungry, too.”

  Trace sighed and stroked her tangled golden hair, seeking to pacify her.

  “Your supper won’t make it through another night if I don’t get some vittles in me.”

  Her lower lip pushed into a pout.

  “Lemme eat, and then I’ll come back out.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  He started to step past her. She stopped him, her body a wall.

  “Not yet, mon chéri.” She stood on her tiptoes and pulled his face to hers. Blood welled on her lips, and as she kissed him, the taste of it triggered a maddening desire to take her where she stood.

  He started to push her down, but she slipped out of his grasp.

  “I’ll be in the forest.” Her teasing laugh was all that remained as she disappeared.

  Trace looked down at himself.

  Damn fool.

  He let out a sigh and strode back to the cabin, trying to ignore the anticipation racing through him.

  That demon bitch’s put a spell on me.

  He stopped on the porch and turned around, peering into the trees on the other side of the small meadow. He could feel her out there, watching, waiting.

  Calling him.

  Trace took a deep breath and opened the door.

  The reek of the stew hit him as he walked in. He wrinkled his nose.

  What’d she put in that? Smells like something dead. A long time dead.

  His mother was normally a good cook. He looked warily at the tin cup filled with stew on the table and eased down onto the stump that served as a chair. His mother turned from the cookfire and, smiling, set a chunk of sourdough on top of the stew.

  He glanced over at his father still asleep in the chair.

  “He ate earlier, while you were sleeping.” His mother sat across from him, a piece of bread in her hands.

  Trace picked up his and took a bite. It tasted odd, and was too dry and chewy. He had trouble choking it down.

  He frowned, set the bread on the table, and picked up his spoon.

  “I’m gonna have to move the sets. Those creeks are done.”

  “Your father didn’t get much from them last fall either.”

  “Well, they ain’t buying a lot of beaver these days anyhow.”

  He scooped up a bite of stew
, hesitating.

  Damn, this stinks.

  Aware his mother was watching, he stuffed it into his mouth. It tasted worse than it smelled, and he ended up swallowing it without chewing. His stomach lurched.

  “Have you thought about heading out to buffalo country?” she asked.

  He grunted.

  “Naw. I seen what they’re doing. They’re just killing ’em for the hides, leaving the meat to rot in the sun. It’s not right. I’ll have no part of it.”

  She put her hand on his arm.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “After he gets back on his feet,” Trace said, gesturing with his chin, “I’ll head over to Salmon River, maybe winter down there. Then come spring, head out to Oregon country.”

  She nodded.

  “Your father’s talked about setting up a trading post along the Oregon Trail.”

  He grunted again. His father had been talking about setting up a trading post somewhere since the mid-’30s, when fur prices started dropping and beaver started getting harder to find.

  Trace scooped up another bite and, trying not to grimace, chewed it a couple of times, then swallowed. His stomach roiled and he broke out into a sweat as he tried to keep it down.

  “Are you all right, Son? You don’t look well.”

  She raised her hand to his forehead and he ducked away. A rush of anger tore through him at her meddling.

  “Leave me be.” He pushed himself back from the table and stood scowling down at the stew.

  What in blazes is wrong with me?

  He avoided looking at his mother. Lips pressed tight, Trace stormed outside and slammed the door. He paused for a moment, staring toward the forest, then strode across the meadow.

  Where the hell are you, Machaya?

  A white figure materialized out of the trees to his left. He changed direction and watched in disbelief as she melted back into the forest. Her laughter drifted through the dark.

  The anger seething through him quickly shifted into a deep ache in his groin, and he broke into a jog, ducking through the trees where he’d last seen her. Bubbling laughter drew him onward and he increased his pace, weaving through the underbrush. He caught sight of a pale movement to his right and leapt after it.