Ghost Stalker

by Jenna Kernan

  He threw his rasp back into the open five-gallon bucket. The young man lifted the handle and headed toward the door, waiting for Hal to drag it back.

  The tall grasses by the road now lay flat as if ironed, but beyond, her house remained standing. Hal’s truck, sheltered beside the barn, had been polished clean of dust by the scouring rain.

  She saw the black heap first and took a step in that direction. The object lay in the exact spot where she had been standing before taking cover. How odd.

  Jessie continued forward, away from the men who were congratulating themselves over her rescue, which was ironic as it was her duty to protect them.

  A leg became obvious first and then an arm.

  “What’s that?” asked Hal.

  She saw him clearly now. He lay in a puddle of water, dressed in gray slacks, a black leather jacket and matching dress shirt. His clothing was soaking wet and his dark hair lay plastered to his head.

  “It appears to be a man.” Her eyes narrowed as she peered at him. His aura was wrong, very wrong.

  “Holy hell,” cried Hal.

  He dashed forward and rolled the man to his back, revealing the deep gouges in his face, but Jessie focused on the aura.

  “Looks like he was clawed by a wild cat,” said the assistant. “Think it was that mountain lion?”

  “You idiot. It was the storm,” said Hal.

  His assistant pointed. “How could a storm do that?”

  “Right. Might more likely a cat attacked him and then the storm rescued him and dropped him here.”

  His assistant stopped arguing in favor of scratching his neck and staring down in puzzlement at the person in question.

  The man’s aura shone bright iridescent pink. That denoted sexual energy. The pale blue that encircled him like a bright bubble meant torture, and the black centered near his ribs, a brush with death.

  Hal stooped with his ear just above the man’s open mouth. “He’s breathing.”

  Jessie saw the dark brown aura. Now that was a color she recognized instantly, for she had seen it before. This was no man.

  “We gotta get him into the house,” said Hal.

  The barn would be more appropriate, she thought but could not reveal her revulsion without seeming a madwoman. He belonged in the woods, skulking about like the trickster he was. But she couldn’t say so, for her people’s law prohibited her from doing anything that would reveal who and what she truly was.

  “Miss Healy?”

  She glanced at the men to see them both staring at her with wary expressions. She did not want this enemy in her home.

  “Yes, of course.” She turned away, preceding them across the dirt road. Why would the Thunderbirds drop an Inanoka on her doorstep?

  For reasons of their own, Thunderbirds protected these dreadful creatures and knew full well that their races hated each other. She had never even spoken to one but had seen them, one still in animal form and the other walking down the middle of the sidewalk of Billings, Montana, fooling the men, but not her.

  Why, by the Great Spirit, would Thunder Spirits carry such treacherous creatures on their backs? No one had ever been able to answer that one to her satisfaction.

  She had the door open and led the way to her study, situated beyond the kitchen and adjoining her bedroom. Choosing this room simply because she did not think the men could make it to the second floor. Across from the computer and overstuffed reading chair stood a daybed overflowing with pillows. She began piling them on the floor, finishing just as the men carried in the creature. They had one of its arms draped over each of their shoulders. His shoes dragged along between them, trailing dead leaves onto her clean floors.

  They lowered him to the sunny yellow bedspread and all three stood over him.

  “Look at those cuts,” said the assistant.

  “You might be right, Chuck. Something or somebody did that to him. I’d bet my bottom dollar on it.” He turned his attention to her. “Real lucky for him he collapsed here, unless it wasn’t luck. You think he was trying to reach you, Miss Healy?”

  “How? I didn’t see any car or truck,” said his underling.

  Let them try and work it out, she thought, knowing they never would. Creatures such as this had preyed on men for centuries. It was the responsibility of all Niyanoka to keep mankind safe from creatures like this, but to do so without them knowing of her people’s benevolence.

  Hal scratched his neck. “Damned strange. Better call the state police, I guess.”

  “Or the volunteer fire department. My brother-in-law is right up the road.”

  She felt a burst of relief, as if someone had turned on a warm, sweet shower to wash away all her troubles.

  “Yes, let’s do that.” They could take him away. That would be best all around.

  Hal leaned forward to examine the Skinwalker and Jessie tensed, ready to defend him if the creature showed any sign of aggression. She could not see much of his face past the bloody lacerations, but his dark hair was thick and straight, cut short on the sides, which—coupled with what she could see of his nose, mouth and jaw—confirmed he had blood of the first people. He had to if he was a Skinwalker.

  “He’s bringing up blood. Gonna need surgery, I’ll bet.”

  Jessie went cold. Surgery meant anesthesia and that meant this damned thing would change back into a beast right there in front of a room full of doctors.

  She couldn’t let that happen. Jessie set her jaw against the bitter taste rising in her throat. She swallowed, knowing what she must do and feeling uncertain that she was up to the task. She had spent her entire adult life helping people and had never intentionally caused harm to any creature.

  Even one like him.

  Jessie fastened her gaze on the Skinwalker, pressed down by the weight of her responsibilities.

  Her voice trembled only a little. “Phone is in the kitchen.”

  Hal stepped out, but the assistant remained.

  She glanced at him, forcing herself not to fidget. “Get me a towel from the bathroom, Chuck.”

  As he turned to go, she nearly called him back but found her voice had deserted her. She adjusted her work gloves, pulling them over the cuffs of her long-sleeved shirt, before lifting a pillow from the floor, clutching it with trembling hands.

  She had to. It was her duty to keep the humans from discovering about them and her purpose to protect humans from all threats, including shifters.

  Her fingers sank into the soft foam and she hesitated. Her shoulders sagged. Then she held the pillow to her own face to stifle the sob. No matter what kind of monster he was, she could not kill him as he lay helpless before her. But she could not let him go to a hospital. What to do?

  Something grabbed her wrist. The pillow dropped from her hand.

  His crystal blue eyes glistened.

  “Let go, shifter,” she ordered, knowing he was the stronger.

  His eyes narrowed as he yanked her forward, bringing her to her knees. She fell onto the area rug as he reeled her in, stopping only when their noses nearly touched.

  He stared into her eyes for a moment, then snorted and released her wrist as if she posed little threat. She fell sideways onto the pillow that she had meant to use to smother him with just a moment before.

  Bedtime stories of the cruel Inanoka rose in her mind. Why hadn’t she killed him when she had the chance? She read the menace in his narrowing eyes, knowing with certainty she would never have succeeded. He was not as helpless as she assumed. His injuries served only to make him more dangerous, as lethal as any wounded animal. Even now, spitting blood, he was a threat.

  The safest course was retreat. She scrambled out of his reach.

  But she did not take her eye off him. When he did not attack, some of her indignation returned.

  “What are you?” he snarled.

  She lifted her chin. “Your better.”

  His smile was cold. “Such arrogance could come only from a Niyanoka.”

  She nodded
. “Why are you here?”

  “I don’t know.” He glanced about her room. “I asked the birds to take me to a healer.”

  “And they have done so. Is that all you asked?”

  “No. To lead them away from my friends.” His eyes fluttered and she saw them roll over white.

  She straightened, preparing to flee, but he roused himself, mastering the momentary weakness. His eyes snapped open, locking on her.

  Her heart hammered as she inched back.

  “Lead who away?” she whispered, suddenly afraid of the answer.

  “The ghosts. Nagi sent them to attack me so I would bring them to her.”

  The wolf must be deranged, because Nagi did not send ghosts to attack living creatures. He captured the evil ones after their death if they refused to walk the Way of Souls, forcing them to face judgment.

  “Her? The healer you seek is also female?”

  “Michaela. She’s Niyanoka, like you. The last Seer of Souls and Nagi wants her dead.”

  She fell back to her seat on the carpet as the possibility of this ricocheted in her brain. Could it be true?

  No—this was a Skinwalker. His currency was lies.

  “Why should I believe you?” But she knew why. His black aura, the part that said he had been touched by death. Only a ghost could do that. But it made no sense.

  Why would Nagi hunt one of her people and why would a Skinwalker want to protect her?

  His intent blue eyes pinned her. She felt her mouth go dry as she considered the impossible. Could the trickster be speaking the truth? Great Mystery, what evil was this?

  She stared in astonishment and knew that to learn the answer, she would have to heal him herself.

  Chapter 3

  Nick glared up at the haughty face of the beautiful Niyanoka and wondered again why the Thunderbirds left him here.

  He stared at her honey-brown eyes, lovely eyes—if they did not glare daggers at him. His gaze dipped to the full mouth and perfectly shaped upper lip, now stretched in a grimace as if he smelled of filth.

  She had been trained from birth to hate Skinwalkers, to consider them a threat. He could hardly blame her, given their history—though there had been no attacks in nearly a century. But Niyanoka had long memories. Of a time when his people had banded together in an effort to take back the world from the humans who threatened the balance, and they had begun with their protectors.

  It took everything he had to meet the accusation in her eyes without turning away. Shame flared fresh and sharp. His father had killed many of her kind and he felt the weight of responsibility at the blood he carried in his veins.

  “My ribs are broken,” he said, knowing he would gain no sympathy, for though they were both born of the union of human and Spirit, they were also born enemies. Yet the Thunderbeings had brought them together, placed him at the mercy of one without any.

  He thought of what his father would have done had an injured Niyanoka fallen at his doorstep, and cringed.

  She rose to her feet but came no closer. Her hands shook as she removed her gloves, but she clasped them before her quickly in an effort to hide her fear. She couldn’t, of course, for he could smell it as clearly as he could smell the lanolin in the transparent gloss that coated her lips.

  “If they take you to the hospital, they’ll see what you are.”

  “So you decided to smother me.” The words cost him greatly, but he would not let her see any physical weakness. He kept his jaw locked against the grinding pain of each breath.

  “A poor attempt. I’ve spent too much time nurturing creatures. It seems I can’t even kill the dangerous ones.”

  So she counted him no more than a stray dog. His mouth twisted in a humorless smile.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “You can’t let them take you.”

  “You think I would do better in your tender hands?” He managed to lift one eyebrow and found that even that hurt. The possessed females had mangled his face with their acrylic claws. He was surprised to see her face flush, almost as if she regretted her actions. Could she have a conscience, after all?

  “We have a duty to our races. Your identity must remain secret.”

  “How?”

  “Is there someone you can call, some family member or friend?”

  Nick glanced away. He had employees, scores of them, all over the country, working on various projects to reclaim land into the wild, funded primarily by his investment company, Wolf Investments, which was a lucrative collection of managed sustainable funds traded on the S&P 500. But he had no family or clan or mate. He purposely lived a solitary life by design to keep himself from dangerous entanglements. Up until a few hours ago, he had never needed help from anyone. But all that had changed.

  “There must be someone.” Her voice held incredulity, as if it was impossible to find him so alone in the world. He staunched the pain that was a familiar companion. It was better than the alternative. He glared up at her.

  She understood now. He saw it in the astonishment rounding her eyes. Still it took another moment for her to fathom. His way was so different than the way of her people, who lived in small tight communities.

  “Where are your people?” she whispered.

  “I have none.”

  She nodded, as thoughtful as a priest hearing confession. “All right, then. No one can force you to go to the hospital. Refuse treatment and I’ll agree to keep you here.”

  “I’d do better lying by the roadside.”

  She glanced toward the door, hearing the approaching footsteps, at last.

  “They’re coming. I swear I’ll do my best to keep you alive if you agree to stay here.”

  He did not trust her, but he did trust the Thunderbirds. They had left him here for a reason. And even though he did not understand their purpose, he accepted it.

  “Yes,” he said, cradling his fractured ribs. Damned if he’d let her see his agony. The world swam, and next thing he knew, two young men knelt beside him. One looked like a young Abe Lincoln, all sharp angles and homely hollows, while the other had oily, blemished skin that said he loved fried food better than a long life.

  “Relax, sir. We’re going to take you to the hospital.”

  “No,” he said.

  Fast Food leaned in, his breath smelling of onions. “Listen, buddy, your face looks like raw hamburger. Might get infected, plus the doc says you broke some ribs.”

  He glanced at his reluctant benefactor. Was she the doctor they spoke of? He kept his gaze pinned to her and said, “I refuse to go to a hospital.”

  She smiled her approval and his breath caught at the radiance of her beauty. The intake of breath cost him, sending him into coughing fits that brought up bubbly pink blood.

  “He’s got internal bleeding,” said Fry Boy.

  “It’s his choice,” said the Niyanoka.

  “Who’s going to take care of him?”

  “I am,” she said.

  The men turned to her. “He’s busted up, Doc. Not loopy.”

  “All psychiatrists are also medical doctors. Besides, he might be better here than bouncing over ninety miles of rough road.”

  The men exchanged looks.

  Young Abe held out a clipboard to Nick. “Sign here.”

  The woman looked concerned. Did she think he could not write? Nick lifted the pen and carefully scrawled his name, making certain the grace of his signature was clear. He glanced at her and saw her shoulders droop in relief.

  What had they taught her about his kind?

  She hustled out the medics. The two men who had carried him into the house followed them out. She closed the door firmly behind her without even glancing back at him. He let his head drop back to the pillow and closed his eyes, taking shallow breaths as blood dripped from the gashes on his face and into the soft clean coverlet. he wondered if he had just made the worst mistake of his life.

  No. The worst mistake was getting in that elevator with three ghosts.

  The room smelled
of lemon polish and wax. The bedding held a hint of bleach and detergent. Across the room a bowl of wood shavings released the scent of cedar into the air.

  Dr. Niyanoka’s life was about to get real messy.

  The click of the doorknob awakened him and he opened one swollen eye to watch her approach carrying a medical bag and a basin. The smell of soap and disinfectant rose from the warm water.

  He lay still when she drew up the chair beside him and set the bowl on the bedside table. She rummaged through her bag, drawing out two rubber gloves. How humiliating it must be for her to have to touch him.

  She uncapped a needle and plunged the tip into a vial and faced him with weapon raised. He prepared to fight and she drew to a halt.

  “It’s medicine, for the pain,” she said.

  “So was the pillow.”

  She held out the vial, then changed her mind and read the label to him. He took it and forced his good eye open enough to read the contents. Would she have switched the contents? He stared up at her. Her expression was strained, but her body held none of the hesitation or uncertainty she radiated earlier. He trusted his instincts and lay back on the bed. A moment later she had his hip exposed and swabbed. The prick was nothing compared to the stabbing of each breath.

  The drug burned into his muscle and his ears began to ring. His body grew heavy. Thoughts grew difficult to gather as the drug traveled through his system, but he breathed without pain for the first time since the attack.

  He grinned at her tight expression and felt an echoing twitch of pain, dulled by the medication. She looked grim as she wrung out the dish towel and then gripped it firmly in her clenched fist. She hesitated, the cloth hovering above him.

  “I won’t bite,” he assured.

  She sighed and then washed the blood from his face. Her gentleness surprised him. He knew the task could be accomplished with a much more punishing stroke, but she seemed to strive not to cause him additional pain, though she avoided touching him as well, as she plied the cloth with the gloved hand.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Jessie Healy. Yours?”

  “Nicholas Chien. Where am I?”

  “Freehold, Montana, two hundred miles west of Billings.”