by Liz D. Marx
The chant changed to a faster tune. The drums led the way to an earthier, more rhythmic beat.
Suddenly, Chloe found herself knowing the words to a song she had never heard before; she moved with the women, without the need for guidance. The orange afternoon sun hung low in the sky, blinding her.
The pavilion suddenly vanished; the main house was replaced by a tall hut made of long grass.
Her fuzzy brain registered how surreal the sun had made the pavilion look, but her heart couldn’t care less.
Then her vision went blurry and she felt dizzy, but her body kept on dancing, flawlessly.
Chapter Fifteen
Mason walked silently along the corridors of the main building, passed by the classrooms and found the wing where the dorms were located. There were only two large rooms in total―one for the boys and one for the girls. Careful not to make too much noise, he scanned the several bunk beds that lay in rows.
Nothing out of the ordinary stood out; there were just the expected personal objects belonging to typical school kids. Mason didn’t even know for sure what he was looking for; he just knew that the teenager on the roof that morning had felt strangely familiar. Too familiar.
Running Bison told him that Johnny was found wandering on the mountains a few months before, and was brought to the center, since he couldn’t speak nor explain where his parents were.
“Johnny is a good kid,” RB had added. “He just doesn’t like people very much.”
Yeah, right.
Mason had a nagging suspicion of the reason why. The laminate flooring suddenly took on a different pattern, as if carved out by something sharp. Crouching down, Mason ran his fingers over the clear marks of claws that trailed all the way to the closest window. A large animal had been in that room and had fled in a hurry.
“A large mountain lion, I bet,” Mason said under his breath, then paused in surprise. Had he started talking to himself now? He was spending way too much time with Chloe.
He left the room and went back to the courtyard where the Turkey Dance was well underway. It was easy to spot Chloe among the other women, dancing along with the drums. She looked stunning in that leather dress. He had not lied when he told her how beautiful she looked, although he should have. He had to stay focused on what he needed to do. But at that particular moment, there were so many new pieces in this puzzle that he’d be quite happy to just enjoy the few last moments he had with her.
He leaned on a southern oak away from the crowd, crossed his arms and enjoyed the view.
Chloe had a glow around her that was simply hypnotic.
He noticed that her movements were actually more accurate than other women’s.
Interesting; she hadn’t mentioned any fondness to dancing before. Her arms flowed more gracefully than the others’; her body moved in perfect accordance with the beat. The afternoon sun must have been playing tricks on him, because her blonde locks seemed much longer now, her alabaster skin looked several shades darker. Mason blinked a few times, trying the clear his vision to no avail.
How bizarre.
Chloe crouched low and twisted on her heels, finishing a perfect circular movement, and Mason jumped in surprise.
Her heart-shaped features had become oval, her full body had gotten leaner and more muscular, her delicate lips thicker.
“Adsila?” he murmured in disbelief.
As if answering his call, Chloe turned around and met his gaze.
Ice settled in the pit of his stomach. Instead of electric green, dark brown eyes stared straight back at him. There was no doubt; the woman dancing with the others was not Chloe; she was his old friend who had died almost two hundred years ago.
Breaking off the dance formation, she walked toward him. Her stride was somber, confident and utterly sensual. He just stood by the oak tree, spellbound, unable to move a muscle or think straight.
Adsila crossed the field and stopped right in front of him. Her eyes were penetrating as if seeing deep into his troubled soul. Then, without ceremony, she lifted her hands and ran them up his chest slowly. Her touch was light yet certain.
“I’ve waited a long time for you,” she whispered.
Then, settling her hands on both sides of his face, she pulled his head down and locked her lips to his.
Her kiss was soft yet confident; her tongue entered his mouth and caressed his in a sensual dance. A delicious electric shock went up Mason’s spine. Unable to suppress his own desires, he enveloped her with his arms and returned the kiss.
An explosion of emotions overtook him. It was as if his body had been waiting all these centuries for this exact moment, this encounter. His soul felt full and hopeful again.
Before he drowned, Adsila gently pulled away from their kiss, then took Mason’s hand in hers and guided him around the buildings towards the back of the compound where the property boundaries met the river.
The sun was almost set now, but Mason could clearly distinguish the woman in front of him.
By the gods! This couldn’t be happening; his mind must be playing tricks on him.
But Adsila, his Adsila, turned around and smiled at him, and he saw it very clearly. He understood it. At that moment, her long dark waves turned back into short blonde locks, her long nose shrunk into a cute shape, and thin adorable lips appeared in front of him.
Chloe.
Nonetheless, the revelation startled Mason, so he retrieved his hand and froze in the middle of the dirt pathway.
What was happening? He must be going mad. This was Chloe, not Adsila.
But Chloe was not bold like that; she would’ve never kissed him in front of everyone, would she?
Mason closed his eyes, and shook his head, trying to clear his muddled up mind.
Bronzed hands cupped his cheeks, and once again Mason was spellbound by the beautiful native woman in front of him. He had missed her. He had grieved for all his fellow tribesmen, but Adsila had been the deepest wound in his heart. Having been ten years older than her, back in the days when he had been the prince, Mason had watched her grow from a petulant brat to a beautiful, magical woman. Too bad the Shaman, his father, would not let go of old traditions and consent to let her mature her spiritual powers. But Adsila had been defiant of rules, just like him.
He remembered those long ganu-gos, summers where they sat by her secret hot pool and watched her perform spells, change the course of Kan-sa’s blows or make it rain from a cloudless sky. Just the two of them, no worries in the world, no wars to be fought.
Mason’s soul ached with the memory. When his gaze met Adsila’s mesmerizing brown eyes, he decided to hell with it all. If this was just a cruel hoax from the gods, so be it.
He wrapped his arms around his long-lost friend and unleashed his hunger. He kissed her with a passion that had been locked up inside, suppressed for centuries. He felt her lean fingers slide along his skull, underneath his wide collar and caress his skin. Heat shot through his body. He was getting completely drunk on her essence.
But much too soon, she withdrew from their kiss.
So, opening his eyes, he found an electric green gaze, not brown, looking back at him, but Chloe’s smile was ancient and sad, as if she too had been grieving.
“I missed you so much, Kaye,” Chloe whispered in Tulan―a language no one in the world could have known, not even his talented historian.
Chloe’s words brought a lump to Mason’s throat.
This couldn’t be happening. The gods were brutally merciless for mocking him this way. She could not have known his true name, yet it felt so real. It felt right.
Fair fingers stroked his temple, and Mason had to close his eyes to stop the hot tears from falling. Then suddenly, the light caress was gone and cold air enveloped Mason’s body. Frowning, he opened his eyes again to see a determined and stern looking Chloe glaring at him. Her fragile manner had taken on a stiff, imposing stance.
“Storm and thunder are coming,” she announced somberly.
“Wh
at?”
Mason was completely baffled. The woman in front of him was wearing Chloe’s body, but was neither Chloe nor Adsila. This new aura was definitely someone else’s―someone powerful, and very, very ancient.
What the hell was happening here?
The uwetsi in him that had been dormant for so many years, was awakened in full throttle. Bringing his noo-hi forth, Mason tried to reach the being’s soul and got knocked out immediately. A mighty magical wall hit him so violently that he had to take a couple of steps back to steady himself.
“Who are you?” he asked, almost too scared to hear the answer.
“You must protect her, Uwetsi Kaye. She cannot be lost.”
“What do you mean?” he asked again, but got no answer.
For a split second, her stern gaze became sad again, and then it was all over. He managed to catch Chloe just before she hit the floor, unconscious.
He tried to wake her up, to no avail. Her skin felt unnaturally cold.
Sensing that time was of the essence, he lifted Chloe in his arms and rushed to the dorm room. Once he reached her bed, he laid her down carefully and tucked her in under the covers. The evening was unusually warm for fall, but he didn’t want to take any chances, so he covered her with two quilts made of thick wool and rubbed his hands on hers, attempting to give her some of his own warmth.
After a while, his heart started beating normally again as her breathing became even and color returned to her pale cheeks.
Thank you, Dai-mo.
Mason sat on the foot of the small bed and stayed there, watching over her for a long time. All the while, he could not make any sense of what had happened.
Whoever had taken possession of Chloe’s body must have been a deity of some kind, but he had no idea which one. Being the son of the shaman with no blood link with the chenesis, Mason had never been given the chance to develop his psychic talents. Uwetsis were encouraged to build up their fighting and leadership skills, not their connection with the gods. And now, just like for the past two hundred years, he was left completely in the dark.
Come to think of it, his last week had been a ridiculous, blind, pitch black roller coaster with a new loop at every corner. First, he was murdered―too bad those morons didn’t know he couldn’t be killed―then he met the petite blonde tornado and was introduced to a magical stone supposedly from Mantaka, and now this.
Mason rubbed his temples with his fingers. There were so many loose ends that it was giving him a headache. Why had the deity told him she could not be lost? She, as in Chloe. Shouldn’t she have meant the stone could not get lost instead? If not, why was Chloe so important when “storm and thunder” came?
Mason shivered. The last time he heard such a premonition, his entire tribe was annihilated in one night.
He just wished that this time around, things would turn out differently.
Chapter Sixteen
This job was getting thornier than a rose bed, Pamela thought. Sure she had taken part in other, let’s say, questionable jobs before, like that photographer/film producer who specialized in “glamour nude”, and by some coincidence all of his work ended up in the “Adults Only” section in video stores. She had no problem with forging some documents here, opening a few nameless accounts there, but kidnapping? That had gone a little too far for her liking.
Pamela watched Dwayne punch Randolph―no, Foster―across the face.
The real Randolph Hussey was an old, decrepit retiree who could barely make his rent. This man, tied to the wooden chair, was Foster, an ex-cop who had been dismissed from the force for unlawful assault.
Thank goodness, Dwayne was not as useless as she had thought him to be. As soon as she managed to text him from the French restaurant, he went through the IRS online files, courtesy of his cousin who worked at the department, and found the real Mr. Hussey. With that information, to reach the conclusion that the bastard worked for Mason was just a matter of using her brain.
Despite popular belief, she wasn’t just a pretty face with fake boobs.
“Tell us where your boss is and I’ll think about not serving you to my dogs,” Dwayne growled in a horrifying Clint Eastwood voice, but Foster didn’t look fazed. He didn’t even look at his assailant. His gaze was fixed on Pam.
Damn it.
“Just tell him what he wants to know, Hussey. It’s best for all of us,” Pamela said from the door.
She hadn’t exactly come into the room. She didn’t need to, right? She could watch and manage the situation from the threshold just fine. Yeah, no need to step in close, see his blood spill, his skin break, or hear his ribs break.
The roar of an airplane caught her attention and made Dwayne pause with his fists in the air for a second. They had found this three-bedroom house for rent a couple of months ago when her boss decided to go ahead with his real estate investments in Arkansas. Her base of operations was then transferred from Washington D.C. to Hot-freaking-Springs.
Yippee.
She hadn’t understood why her boss chose this shithole―Dwayne’s suggestion, of course―instead of the lovely three-story townhouse she had spotted just a couple of blocks from Central Avenue.
Well, now she knew why, didn’t she?
Foster’s low grunt called Pamela’s attention back to the cold reality.
He was a mess. Blood stains marred his designer shirt and pants, his lower lip was cut and his face was already swelling up. But he hadn’t said a word, even though over an hour had passed since Dwayne started the Gestapo session. The ex-cop just withstood it all with tight lips, his deadly eyes locked on her. Pamela turned away and focused on the holes in the bad carpet.
Foster was probably deciding what the best way to break her neck would be. Well, that is if he got out of here, and she would make sure to be far, far away when that happened.
“Do you really think they’ll let me go, Pam?”
Pamela jumped in surprise at Foster’s first words in hours. Their gazes met once again.
Her insides churned, and she swallowed dry. Was he freaking psychic?
No, Pam, he is not, and you know what he is trying to do.
She composed herself and gave him a little smirk. He was trying to psych her out and make her snap like a rookie.
Well, not this redhead, honey.
This baby had been cracked a long time ago and had survived. It had taken a lot of strength to get back up, dust herself off and start again. But she did it, and at that moment she had promised to never let any man in the world take her down again, no matter how charming and irresistible he turned out to be.
“Of course, darling,” Pamela replied to Foster’s question as she crossed her arms under her breasts. “But the real question is, do you want them to let you go in one piece? It’s really your call, my dear.”
Her move worked, and the sweet feeling of victory engulfed her heart when she saw his eyes divert down to her large bosom. He was a male specimen after all.
But her satisfaction only lasted for a split second.
The way his gaze stripped her down would make even the most experienced of whores blush. It was as if he was using the memories of their passionate lovemaking from the night before to prevent him from cracking, as if the night he had spent with her had been significant enough to be his psychological shield in battle.
The bastard.
That was another trap she was not falling into.
Granted, Hussey―or better yet, Foster―was a hell of a lover. She hadn’t planned on sleeping with him. Her invitation to go to his room was only to give Dwayne time to track her down. She had suspected something was off with Mr. Gazillionaire since the beginning, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Maybe it was the fact that he was way too charming, too handsome, too rich, too everything―and like her mother used to say, “Pumpkin, when it looks too good to be true, it’s because it is.”
As soon as she sent Dwayne that first text message asking him to check Hussey’s background, she started notic
ing Hussey’s change in attitude. He became more cautious, more eagle-eyed. He would accompany her everywhere and that got all of her alarm bells ringing, and their tune had been something along the lines of “get the hell out,” but she had dived right in the deep end instead, hadn’t she?
Well, not that she regretted spending the night with a man who knew how to please a woman; it was just a shame it had to end so soon.
Her cell’s ringtone echoed in the kitchen. Glad to have an excuse to leave the room, Pamela climbed up the basement stairs, two steps at a time. Checking the caller ID, she prayed for it to be good news.
“Tell me you found him,” she barked at Dwayne’s second-hand man.
“Well, more or less,” he answered from the other end of the line.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I found out where they are, but then they turned off the road and now I lost them again.”
Seriously, where did her boss find these clowns?
“Where?” she asked, trying to retain her last ounces of patience.
“At the Ouachita National Park,” the waste-of-space replied.
“Meet me in Norman in two hours,” she said, then hung up.
Pamela’s hopes lifted her spirit as she recalled the day one of her contacts reported that Mason made regular donations to a Native American cultural center in Norman, located right on the edge of the same national park where that moron had lost them. Mason and Chloe were probably heading that way.
Pamela looked out of the window. The first rays of sun lit up the purple sky. Dawn was approaching. In less than five hours, her boss was going to land in Hot Springs and demand answers. For some reason, he wanted Mason and the blonde historian. Period.
And she was running out of time and excuses.
Foster watched Pamela talk to the caveman called Dwayne in a quick hush-hush mode by the door, then leave. He couldn’t catch what it was about, but she looked to be in better spirits than earlier, so it had got to be good news for her.