by Jenna Kernan
He realized she was now serious. She had no idea what to prepare. “Generally, in human form, I eat what you eat, though I don’t much like vegetables. Mostly grains and red meat, fish and poultry. When I was in Paris, I grew fond of wine sauces but never could get used to escargot.”
“Paris?” Jessie couldn’t even verbalize her shock. She had assumed this wolf lived in the forests, taking down sick elk or moose trapped in deep snow. The idea that he had been to Europe, spoke six languages and could read was all blowing her mind.
“You don’t think much of us, do you?” he asked.
“I just…” Just what, have been misinformed her entire life? Everything she’d learned about Inanoka was tossed on its ear by this lone wolf.
Since she’d been old enough to understand, she had heard about his kind. About the tricksters who had nearly annihilated her race. Brutish, illiterate savages, killers with a dangerous propensity toward unpredictability and viciousness.
Now she stood beside a man who seemed to have tastes more refined than her own, and he’d showed amazing restraint when she threatened him. He could easily have killed her but didn’t.
She bit her lip before asking the question, fearing his answer already. “What do you read?”
“I like nonfiction. For a time I read everything I could on ancient Rome. But lately I’m interested in the Middle East and North Africa. Fascinating people there, such dichotomy, but the culture is ancient. I’d like to go there next. Trying to learn Arabic. The written language is a challenge, but…” He smiled. “I’ve grown another head, haven’t I?”
The magnitude of her prejudice was only now becoming evident. “I’ve, it’s just… You are not what I expected.”
“Likewise, except for the pillow. That’s more in line with what I’m used to.”
She felt a moment’s shame.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
His gaze flicked to her and she stood transfixed again, thinking the hunger she read was not for food.
“Maybe just something to drink.”
“I’ll get you some ice chips. If they don’t bother your stomach, I’ll make you some broth.”
“Sounds good.”
She fled the room, anxious to escape this disturbing man. She needed to collect her thoughts.
Jessie hurried to the combination dining room/kitchen that held a large maple table with eight matching chairs, only one of which she ever used.
Jessie exhaled a long shuttering breath, still feeling anxious and uneasy. Was she making a mistake?
The phone, mounted on the wall by the front door, rang, nearly causing her to jump out of her skin. She gave a shriek and then pressed her hand over her mouth as she dashed across the room and lifted the handset.
“Hello?”
Her mother’s voice added instantly to her anxiety.
“I just got off the phone with Phyllis Darby, whose son runs the kennels at Dr. Brand’s. He said you brought in a sick wolf.”
Jessie closed her eyes and tried to think. Her mother hated wolves above all else.
“Jessie?” The clipped, angry tone of her mother’s voice forced her to speak.
“Not sick. Injured.”
“What were you thinking? Have them put it down.”
Jessie’s stomach cramped. “Can’t. They stitched him up and I let him go.”
“He’ll be back after your horses. You best put out some poison.”
“That’s illegal, Mom.”
She heard her mother make a harrumphing sound. “If your father were here, I’d send him over with his rifle.”
Thankfully, her dad was away at a community building project until Thursday and her mother did not drive.
“An injured wolf is more dangerous than a healthy one. If he kills your neighbor’s stock, it will be your responsibility. You’re supposed to help protect your neighbors, not cause them more grief.”
“I know, Mom.”
Her mother gave her the silent treatment for a few moments. Jessie clenched the phone, refusing to explain further.
“I’ll call you when Daddy gets home. Call me if that wolf comes back.”
“Okay. Bye, Mom.”
Her mother’s goodbye was as cool as November breezes. Jessie pressed the button to disconnect, then hit it again and dialed the veterinarian’s office, as she promised, reporting that the patient was awake, doing fine and that his master had picked him up.
She returned the handset to the cradle, then sagged against the counter before the kitchen windows. It took a moment to put the conversation with her mother behind her. When she pushed off from the counter and lifted her attention to the window, she was met with the sight of her horses, grazing peacefully in the pasture across the road.
Everything looked the same, except for the debris scattered by her guest’s landing. Small branches, still holding their leaves, and dead wood littered her yard. The blue plastic tarp had blown off her woodpile.
But Little Biscuit, Custer and Apple Blossom all belied the whirlwind her life had suddenly become. They nipped at the grass as they moved steadily on, pausing only to whisk their tails to brush off a particularly persistent fly.
Seeing them usually calmed her spirit, but not today. They could not draw her from the realization that her neat little world seemed suddenly to be listing badly to one side. Like a boat taking on water, everything she believed now seemed in danger of capsizing and taking her along to the bottom.
But if the teachings were wrong about the Skinwalker’s intelligence, illiteracy, lifestyle…what else was wrong?
Jessie had believed everything her mother had told her—until now.
Now she was uncertain, confused…lost.
Chapter 7
Nick watched her approach. She crept forward, arm extended, as if offering an unfamiliar dog a bone. He had an irrational impulse to growl at her. It was hard not to be in full possession of himself. When had he last depended on another soul?
Never. All his one hundred and twenty-eight years life he had lived by his wit and his strength. Until now. Now he wasn’t even strong enough to leave.
Not that he wanted to. He found Jessie Healy fascinating. She was not at all the kind of woman he pursued. She was too bright, too dedicated to her work and far too disenchanted with him. But there was something beyond her lovely face and beautiful honey-colored eyes that made him wish he was healthy enough to make a move. After all, he was injured, but not dead. Any man with breath still in him would find her attractive. She was slim and curvy with flaring hips that swayed as she crossed the carpet to him. She dressed to hide her breasts in a loose-fitting blouse, but the tight jeans, Maka be praised. They did improve the view.
She stood over him now, seducing him with her fragrance. He could smell everything, from the floral dryer sheet she used on her blouse to the spearmint breath mint now in her mouth. But mostly he smelled her, spicy and floral all at once. She did not douse herself in perfume, as many women did. Her personal scent was far more arousing than such creations.
He accepted the cup of ice, lifted a fractured cube and sucked it. Her reaction told him he hadn’t lost all his charm. She stared at his mouth with wide eyes and open mouth; then recalling herself, she glanced away. But it was too late. The chemistry of her body changed, her flash of desire as tangible to him as the fragrance of roses.
Her reaction did wonders for his outlook. He continued to suck on the ice, letting the cold water he extracted cool his dry throat. He rested for a time, feeling the heat of her gaze upon him, listening for the slight rustle of her clothing as she retreated.
He opened his eyes to find her already at the door, clutching the knob, as if she might need to slam it during her retreat.
“How’s your stomach?” she whispered.
“Perfect.”
“That’s good. If you’ll excuse me. I have to go see to the horses.” She turned tail and fled.
“Horses, my ass.” Nick smiled. “Run away while you can, lit
tle rabbit.”
She left him a long time, poking her head into his room after the daylight was nearly gone. He could tell from the way she cocked her head to listen that it was too dark for her to see him. But he could see everything, including the slight dampness of sweat clinging to the skin visible at the opening of her blouse. She smelled of sweet hay and the musky tang of horses.
“Are you awake?” she whispered.
He liked the sound.
“Yes.”
She startled. “How’s your stomach?”
“Growling.”
She lifted her eyebrows and then flicked on the light. “I’ll fix you something.”
He watched her hasty retreat. She’d have to venture near to bring him food, wouldn’t she?
A few minutes later she returned, she carried a tray with chamomile tea, broth and toast. He kept his eyes closed to encourage her approach. When she reached his bedside, he opened his eyes. She froze and the tray tipped dangerously. She righted it before dousing him with hot tea.
He pushed himself to a sitting position, stifling a groan. Instead, he inhaled, smelling the lemon soap she used to wash her hands. “Smells good.”
She lowered the tray to the side table, being careful not to get too close to him, and then retreated to the opposite side of the room as swiftly as possible.
Nick’s smirk told Jessie he knew she was skittish as a colt scenting a coyote. Now that he was alert, he scared her. And until she knew the truth, she’d keep her distance. He was wounded, but his earlier stunt proved he was still far stronger than she was.
Nick reached for a slice of toast. The medicine seemed to be working, but still he took shallow breaths, which made him seem as much wolf as man.
Why then did she have trouble taking her eyes off him? Curiosity, she told herself. For with his face swollen and discolored, he certainly wasn’t easy on the eye, except for that perfect mouth. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. The sensual curl, the full lower lip and the slight indent in the skin below it. It was the most tempting mouth she’d ever seen and one of the few places not damaged by the attack.
She could leave now, but she sat rooted to her place, fascination battling with her survival instinct.
He chewed the toast and took a swig of tea and made a face.
She smiled. “It’s chamomile to settle your stomach and it’s herbal.”
He eyed the yellow liquid suspiciously, then took another tentative swallow. He was an oddity, a real Skinwalker, and she had him here, captive, after a fashion. She could ask him things that had always puzzled her.
Just don’t expect him to tell the truth. She heard the voice in her head as clearly as if her mother had spoken the words and wondered again if her mom had already picked up some vibe about her houseguest.
“Tastes good.” Nick popped the last crust of toast into his alluring mouth and then hoisted the soup bowl, glancing around. “No spoon?”
She felt her cheeks heat as she realized she had assumed he wouldn’t know how to use one.
Nick seemed to recognize her oversight was not an oversight at all. But he smiled. “I’m also housebroken.”
“I’m so sorry. I just never… I don’t.” She rose. “I’ll be right back.”
She made it to the kitchen, where she rested her head on the cool refrigerator door. His voice did something to her and that teasing… Why did he have to be charming?
She retrieved the silverware and a linen napkin and returned to him. “I don’t have many houseguests.”
He accepted the spoon.
She watched him and realized he had better manners than she did, dipping the spoon from the front of the bowl and moving it away from him before bringing the mouthful to his lips.
He finished what he could but did not lift the bowl to drain the last drop, as she often did.
Nick raised his attention to her and grinned. “Expecting me to lick the bowl?”
She felt her neck and cheeks grow hot. “Not at all.”
He lifted one brow, showing his disbelief, and they shared a smile. Hers died first.
“You weren’t there, were you?” she asked.
“Where?” he asked.
“The war?”
He flinched as if she had slapped him and glanced into the empty bowl as he slowly shook his head. Why wouldn’t he meet her eye?
“I was a child then. With my mother.”
“Was she a…”
“A Skinwalker? No. Human. Fleetfoot’s exception to the rule. He hunted humans but somehow mated with one. A mistake that cost him his life.”
“Never heard that.” Perhaps because it isn’t true. Jessie leaned toward him, feeling the tension between them and something else. Why did he follow her every move with such interest? “I don’t know if I should believe you.”
“Truce was signed by both sides. The war is over.”
“Not to some.”
Nick set aside the tray and stifled a yawn.
“You should rest. Do you want something to help you sleep?” She did not wait for his answer but brought him two bottles. “This one is your pain medication and this one is one of mine, to help you sleep.”
He didn’t like her sudden animation. What was she up to?
“Thanks.”
“Call if you need me.”
She scooped up the tray and practically ran from the room.
Nagi finished with the woman and left her in the tangled sheets. He was not certain what would come from the night’s work. Unlike his fellow spirits, his body lacked a certain corporality. Bedding the woman required possession, and he was not sure if the offspring would be his or his host’s.
Time would tell.
Now he would seek another womb that was ripe and fertile and then another. After all, a farmer does not sow one grain of wheat.
When his race of Halfling ghosts was born, he would be unstoppable. His race would rule them all.
But first, he needed to find replacements to guard the wolf. He had many able ghosts in his circle, but if he released them, Hihankara, the old viper, was sure to sound the alarm. Evil souls never left his circle once they crossed unless it was to enter the Spirit World and then out if they were redeemed by the prayers of the living, in any case, they could not cross to the physical plane without his help and the crone’s notice. Soon it would not matter. But for the time being, he had to keep his plans secret.
He abandoned his host and took to the sky, turning back just in time to see the man fall like wet cement to the floor of the garage. His purpose served, Nagi left him where he lay to hunt the earth for strong, ruthless ghosts clever enough to outwit a wounded wolf.
As he journeyed over the land, he kept an eye open for an Inanoka. If he happened upon one, he could try wounding it in hopes it knew the bear. He wondered if he could again stir the hostilities between Niyanoka and Inanoka. The two Halfling races hated each other and their truce was fragile. It would not take much to bring them to war again. On the other hand, the Inanoka might serve as allies if he left the animals alone. Perhaps they would see the elimination of man as a boon. After all, many had once thought so and the species had only grown more destructive in the interim.
Either way, he knew the guardians of humans would surely stand between him and his aim. It was the duty of every Spirit Child to protect man.
This was why he could not fathom the reason the Thunderbirds had taken a wounded Skinwalker to his born enemy. And who could have predicted a Dream Walker would shelter him. The Thunderbirds, obviously, he realized. Why hadn’t the Niyanoka killed him?
There was a reason, but he was missing some vital detail. What was it?
It did not bode well. If these two could set aside their old grievances, their people might do the same.
The wolf had found an unlikely ally. But his ghosts could remove the Dream Walker and that would leave the wolf with only two choices—seek the Healer or die.
The first ghost arrived alone. He traveled through the wall and
paused before the wolf. This one had strong sexual energy; it beat in a low throb even as he rested, calling to the female in a sweet song just below her hearing. But the woman felt it. Already her own pulsing beat began to change, answering his call, connecting them with invisible threads.
His predecessors had done their work well. The wolf’s body was broken and torn, but still he was a Skinwalker and not to be underestimated.
The Dream Walker had used Western medicine to heal him, instead of her own powers. Did she not know her gifts could heal more than the mind?
Not that it mattered to him that the wolf suffered. The ghost did not mind another’s torment. But he did prefer pleasure. He had lived as a hedonist, satisfying his unique tastes mostly with children, young ones especially, and had been so adept that he was never brought to justice, not to human justice, at least.
But now Nagi had found him. Instead of judgment, he’d been offered redemption. It was better than he could have ever imagined—a chance he would not squander.
He had been a voyeur in life. As a ghost, he found this habit much easier. The wolf did not perceive him. What about the woman? She had powers of sight, but was not a Seer. Still, he would keep clear of her when possible.
He would wait outside of her house, unless he sensed some disturbance.
Chapter 8
Jessie peered into his room before retiring and found Nick lying on his back with his eyes closed. His breathing was slow and relaxed and she noted the cap off the painkillers. What surprised her was the realization that she still found herself intimidated by him even when he was sleeping. She let her gaze wander from his thick black hair and over his brutalized face to the thick corded muscles at his throat. He had left his shirt unbuttoned and it was flipped back on one side, revealing his magnificent chest. Earlier she had been too embarrassed to look, but she did so now and felt her heart beat faster.
She had been around ranchers and cattlemen much of her long life and had had many opportunities to see young men shirtless as they went about their work. But never in all her ninety-seven years had she seen the chiseled perfection of this man’s chest and abdomen. The smooth skin and thick muscle were broken only by the blue and purple bruising over his ribs. She winced. That must have hurt. The center of the bruising was punctuated by a small white bandage over the incision.
