Chaos Bites Page 14

  I teased them until the tips had tightened to pebbled peaks then taunted them with my teeth. His fingers clenched in my hair, cupping my head, showing me that he wanted me to go on and on.

  I ran my tongue down the ridge of his ribs, laid my cheek against the plane of his stomach. Felt his breath go in and out, lifting and lowering me, like the rock of the sea or the sway of the wind.

  My own breath brushed his erection and he leaped. My lips curved as I raised my head, pressed a kiss to the soft skin, pulled hard and tight over his pelvis. I hovered, centimeters away from where he wanted me to be, his penis rising higher and higher, nearly brushing my chin, and then I pounced, running my tongue over the vein in his thigh as he’d run his over mine.

  His back arched—pleasure or pain?—and his fingernails scraped the carpet as he clenched his hands. I rested my head against one thigh and smoothed my palm down the length of the other, swirling my index finger over the scattering of black hair. He had very little body hair, like most full-blooded Native Americans, or so I’d heard. There aren’t many left to ask.

  I explored his knees, pressing first my thumbs, then my tongue into the valleys. When I licked the seam at the back, then took a fold into my mouth and suckled, his breath caught as if he might come.

  I raised my head, a brow, and watched as he breathed deeply—once, twice, again—before some of the tension slid away.

  “Almost,” I said, and gave the same attention to his feet, pressing my fingers here and there, testing his toes with my teeth until he moaned.

  Then I shimmied my way back up his body and licked the rattlesnake tattooed on his dick. I’d never been sure if that was a joke—if so, it had Sawyer’s name all over it—or a way to keep a dangerous predator under wraps, so to speak.

  I meant to take more time, give him a reward for being so patient, but I’d waited too long, touched him too much, and after that one leisurely lick and a single dip of my mouth over the head, he grabbed me by the elbows and dragged my lips to meet his.

  He was wild now—his teeth nipping, catching, and pulling—first at my mouth, then at my neck, my breasts. The sharp draw on first one nipple then the next caused an answering tug much lower. I was so empty, and I desperately needed to be full.

  As if he knew, his hands slid from my arms to my hips, over the curve until they rested at the backs of my thighs, then he lifted and separated, sliding within the warm, wet place that waited.

  He stretched and filled me, claimed and completed me. Clenching my knees to his sides, I rode the tide. I reached for him and met his hands reaching for mine. We strove toward the place where we would splinter and then fall.

  Thrusting together—almost—sliding apart—not quite. Together, apart, almost, not quite. And then—

  At last.

  Our hands clenched palm-to-palm, fingers grasping, thumbs caressing. I collapsed onto his chest, pressed my face into his neck, breathed in the desert mountain scent of him, felt his warmth, his breath, his touch. Exhaustion hovered, my eyes so heavy, my limbs the same.

  “I don’t want to go to sleep,” I whispered, and shifted so his hair cascaded over me, shielding me from the world.

  If I slept, I’d wake up back there. I knew that as surely as I knew the taste of his skin. If I stayed awake would I remain here—wherever here was—forever?

  What about the other side of that mirror? The world I’d pledged to protect. The other man I loved. The child I’d sworn to keep safe. Both places pulled at me, increasing the exhaustion I felt.

  I resisted as long as I could. I listened to Sawyer breathing, focused on the steady in and out, the muffled thud of his heart—a heart I knew to be as silent now as Sawyer—beneath my own. I both wanted to stay and had to go.

  Eventually, consciousness slipped away despite my efforts to fight it. When I opened my eyes, I lay face-down on the empty, lonely, cold motel bed—my head at the foot, my feet near the head—my hands clutching the sheets, my face hot and streaked with sweat, my body still trembling from the orgasm only he could give.

  “Fuck,” I muttered, and turned over, my gaze drawn to the mirror.

  Was I here or was I there?

  But the mirror reflected this room exactly, the fading darkness behind the curtains, the coming dawn. I’d have thought the entire thing a dream, that I’d never gone into the mirror at all, except—

  Near my feet stood a wolf in every shade of midnight-blue and black and purple—with eyes of so light a gray they appeared to blaze like silver stars. A nonexistent wind ruffled his fur and whirled the scent of water and trees and earth through the room.

  He appeared as solid as I was. I couldn’t see through him; his paws made dents in the quilt; his weight lowered the bed below him.

  Holding my breath, afraid to believe that he would still be there when I took my gaze from the mirror and turned, nevertheless I did.

  The wolf remained—slick and solid as sin. I reached for him, and felt the silky sift of his coat, yet my fingers passed right through him.

  And as they did, his body became smoke and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 19

  I swore I could still smell him—on the sheets, on my skin. I passed my hand over the bed where he’d stood, hoping to feel the warmth from where he’d lain, though that could easily be explained as my own body heat. What couldn’t be explained was the tiny icon I found there.

  Flicking on the bedside lamp, I shoved my hand beneath the glow. In the center of my palm lay a coyote carved in turquoise—a totem, a fetish, an amulet, a talisman, who knew? But it hadn’t been here before, and I hadn’t brought it with me.

  My gaze fell on my laptop, and I was across the room booting it up before I took another breath. A few clicks of the keys and I was surfing for an answer.

  I’d encountered amulets before; they protected the wearer from trouble. Talismans brought good fortune. But totems and fetishes I knew very little about.

  I skimmed a few Web sites. Totems watched over a particular group of people—usually a family, a clan, or a tribe—and were carved to depict the animal spirit associated with them. Totems were most often used by the Ojibwe but had been found in European, African, and Australian cultures as well.

  I discovered that while the Ojibwe had once dominated the Upper Midwest from northern Michigan through South Dakota, and could easily have left something like this in the area, though doubtfully on my bed, they did not carve totems out of turquoise. Turquoise was found somewhere else.

  In the land of the Navajo—the Apache, the Zuni, and Pueblo, too, but considering I was dealing with a couple of Navajo skinwalkers, we’d just stick to Navajo carvings for the moment.

  Navajo didn’t carve totems but fetishes, ascribing mystical qualities to the inanimate objects. According to the light research I was able to do in ten minutes on the ’Net, a fetish gave the wearer increased powers. The carving was often kept in the medicine bundles of Navajo shamans and used in their ceremonies.

  A fetish made of turquoise was especially powerful, because the Navajo believed turquoise a sacred stone that increased communication between the wearer and the supernatural.

  I rubbed the tiny coyote between my fingers. “In that case, I’ll just keep you close by.”

  When I left the motel, the sun had just crept past the long navy-blue line of the horizon, turning everything from violet to molten gold. I tucked the fetish into the pocket of my jeans. Who knew why Sawyer had left it, but I was certain I’d soon find out. One thing I’d learned since becoming leader of the light—everything happened for a reason. I might not like the reason, but there was always a reason.

  Since I’d taken care of the necessities by having coffee in my room, I didn’t bother to stop for breakfast. All I wanted was to find the Old One and do what needed to be done.

  Less than an hour later I approached Inyan Kara. I’d seen the mountain on the horizon within minutes of leaving Upton behind. It wasn’t hard considering the land leading up to it was flat and cove
red with low, patchy grass. Buildings rose here and there—red, white, gray—and cattle dotted the landscape like flies.

  The mountain was surrounded by private land, and as the clerk had indicated, I’d need permission to climb it. So I followed the arrow on a hand-painted sign, knocked on the door of the house at the end of a dry and dusty lane, then politely asked the elderly woman who answered for her blessing.

  She pursed her lips and eyed me from head to foot. “You know the mountain is ’bout twelve square miles?”

  “Yes.” I hadn’t, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to examine every inch of it as she was examining every inch of me. I just wanted to find Sani.

  She stepped onto the porch, her steel-gray braid swaying across her thin back, then pointed toward the crest with a hand marred by age spots and raised blue veins. “Ridge is the shape of a horseshoe, with the peak in the middle. Real steep, that ridge. The peak’s thousands of feet high, bare of grass and trees, slippery as all get-out. Big old canyon in between. You be careful.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Best be back before dark.” She eyed my bare arms. “Gets cold on Inyan Kara when the sun goes down.”

  Since I did not plan to stay there after dark I had no problem agreeing.

  “Whatcha want up there anyway?” she asked.

  My mind went blank. For an instant I couldn’t think if I should tell her the truth or a lie, then I couldn’t recall what lies I’d told lately and to whom, which was the problem with lies. I decided to stick as close to the truth as I could.

  “I heard there were black coyotes.”

  “You another one of them cryptozoologists? Had one here last week looking for a new species.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Just so you know, none of them ever seen a black coyote.” She went into the house and shut the door. As I turned to leave, I murmured, “I will.”

  I drove as close to the mountain as I could get in the Impala then loaded a backpack with water, granola, crackers, and a jacket. I checked my cell phone, though I doubted I’d get much reception up there. Still, never leave sea level without it.

  I found it a little strange that no one had called—not Jimmy, not Summer, not Megan or Luther. Then again, two out of three had their hands full with the baby from—

  I paused. I’d been about to think hell but that was far too possible to joke about. At the back of my mind hovered the concern that Faith could be the daughter of the last leader of the darkness. For all I knew, she could become the next one. Or even something worse.

  I headed up the sharp incline that composed one arm of the horseshoe ridge. The Norway pines provided welcome shade as the sun climbed ever higher. On several occasions a quick grab for a branch saved me from sliding, maybe even falling.

  Reaching the top, I glanced into the gaping canyon then up to the peak. I really didn’t want to climb that, but I’d do whatever I had to do to find that damn skin-walker.

  If he was close by, if he even existed, he had to know I was here. I didn’t sense anyone, or anything, following me, but that didn’t mean they weren’t.

  “I’m supposed to be a sorcerer,” I muttered. “So sorcer.”

  Too bad I didn’t know how. I missed Sawyer for more reasons than one. He’d taught me a lot, but there’d been a lot still left to teach.

  However, most of what I had learned about magic involved opening myself to the power within, focusing on what I wanted, and believing it could happen. Which wasn’t as easy as it sounded.

  I closed my eyes, stilled my mind, fixed the image of a coyote in the center—a black coyote—then . . . well the only way to describe it is that I reached, sending my desire into the world and trying to pull that desire back to me.

  Nothing happened.

  “Sometimes you need a spell,” I said. “Eye of newt, sacrifice a goat.” I shivered. Sometimes a goat wasn’t a goat but a human. I’d seen both die for the sake of magic. I hadn’t particularly cared for either option.

  Since I was alone, with no goat and not a single eye of newt, I sat on a high, flat rock and drank half a bottle of water in a single gulp as I wondered what in hell I should do. When I lowered my head, a black coyote stared at me from a few feet away.

  Though I’d been hoping for just such an occurrence, the sight made me uneasy. I wasn’t Navajo, not by blood, but I was a skinwalker by magic. I hadn’t learned everything, but I had learned some things. Namely that the coyote is a bad omen as well as a symbol of black magic. Nevertheless, I needed his help.

  “Sani?” I asked.

  The coyote began to pant.

  As the motel clerk had said, he was big. Maybe he was part wolf; more than likely he was merely part man.

  “Can you shift? I don’t have access to a coyote . . .” I searched for a word to explain what I needed—a tattoo, a robe, something to spark the change. That I was even considering becoming a coyote showed how desperate I was. According to Sawyer, that just wasn’t done.

  The animal tilted his head so far to the right, he was nearly upside down. I sighed. When I was a wolf—or anything else—I could decipher plain English.

  “Do you understand me?” His head bent in the other direction.

  What the hell? Either Sani couldn’t or wouldn’t shift, or this wasn’t Sani.

  If I were a coyote, we could “talk.” In animal form talking was telepathy. But I’d have to become a coyote to do so. Tigers couldn’t talk to wolves and birds couldn’t talk to coyotes.

  “Wait a second!” I got to my feet. The sudden exclamation and movement had the coyote skittering backward. “Shhh,” I whispered.

  I tugged the fetish from my pocket, held it up to the shimmering, tree-shadowed sun. The coyote yipped and hurried forward.

  “Think this will work?” I asked, but I knew it would. Why else did I have it?

  If I was going to shift, I needed to lose the clothes. I narrowed my eyes at the coyote. “I don’t suppose you’d consider turning around?” He lifted his lip and showed me his teeth. “That’s what I thought.”

  In the past few months I’d become less shy about being naked, but I still wasn’t wild about stripping in front of strangers. However, I needed to get past that and there was—

  “No time like the present,” I said, then pulled my top over my head.

  Less than a minute later, I stood naked in the dappled light. The coyote seemed far too interested in my breasts for a coyote.

  Putting aside my unease, I curled my fingers around the coyote fetish, pressing the stone into my palm and waiting for the bright flash that preceded the change. The sun continued to flicker over my bare skin; the shadows made me shiver.

  I closed my eyes. Centering myself, emptying my mind, opening my heart, I reached for the change.

  “That isn’t going to work.”

  My eyes flew open. My gaze swept the tree line. Nothing there but the coyote. I spun around. Nothing behind me but the steep, forested ridge.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Who do you think?”

  The voice was deep and aged, with the odd cadence I associated with those who spoke English as their second language.

  I turned back. The coyote remained the only living thing besides me within earshot.

  CHAPTER 20

  “I don’t need to ask who sent you,” he said.

  A talking coyote. Terrific.

  “No?” I couldn’t seem to manage any more than that.

  The coyote glanced behind me. “Where’s Sawyer?”

  “Actually, Ruthie Kane told me to come.”

  “Ruthie.” His voice lowered to a caress. “How is she?”

  “Dead,” I blurted.

  The coyote yipped as if he’d been clipped in the butt with buckshot. “Impossible!”

  “Not really.”

  “Someone with Ruthie’s power never really dies.”

  “True that,” I muttered. “She is dead, but she still . . .” I waved my hand. “Speaks.”
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  “To you?”

  “Not lately.”

  The coyote tilted his head again, studying me. Then his gaze dipped to my breasts. “You should put your clothes back on. It’s been . . .” His head canted in the opposite direction, though his eyes stayed right where they were. “Decades since I saw a naked woman.”

  I glanced down. Crap. No wonder he’d been staring. Quickly I turned, earning a rumble of appreciation that I chose to ignore, and threw everything back on.

  “You’re Sani?” I asked as I faced the coyote again.

  “Isn’t that who you came here to see?”

  “Question with a question,” I murmured. “Not really an answer.”

  “I am Sani,” he said, and dipped his head in a bow that would have been Old World, if he hadn’t had a snout. “Now, where’s Sawyer?”

  “He’s also a little . . . dead.”

  Sani blew air through his nose derisively. “Impossible.”

  “Do you know what impossible means?”

  The coyote’s eyes narrowed. “Skinwalkers do not die.”

  “Unless they choose to.”

  That shut him up. For a minute.

  “Sawyer chose to die?”

  I nodded, afraid my voice would break if I spoke. “Must have been a woman.” He eyed me again. Again, I remained silent. “How did you come to possess the fetish if Sawyer’s dead?”

  “Magic.”

  Sani snorted.

  “You’re a talking coyote and you don’t believe in magic? By the way, why are you a talking coyote?”

  “Once, long ago, I trusted the wrong man.”

  “You and about a hundred thousand women a year,” I muttered.

  He ignored me. “My home was stolen from me along with my human soul.”

  “How do you steal a human soul?”

  “By stealing the icon where it rests when the human is in coyote form.”

  “This?” I held up the carved turquoise. “You’re saying Sawyer stole your soul?”