by Roh Morgon
Stretching on the branch that was my bed, I automatically test the air for whatever might be nearby. I hop down out of the tree and walk to the lake at the bottom of the slope, then slip off my shoes and dive in, clothes and all. I’ve found this is the easiest way to wash them. I swim halfway across the lake, then turn and head back to shore. Getting out, I strip and lay my ragged and soggy clothes on a flat rock to dry.
I find a neighboring rock and stretch out to do the same. The sun feels good and I marvel again at why I do not burn now. I don’t know if it’s because I’m closer to finishing the Change, or because of his blood. And I immediately cringe away from that thought, from any thought of him.
Jumping up, I run back into the lake, this time swimming all the way across to the other side. I climb out and begin walking along the shore, casting for scent.
I don’t know why I bother. I’ve lost track of how many days, or maybe weeks, I’ve been out here, and lost track as well of how many deer, elk, and other assorted forest creatures I’ve killed. I’ve drained every one of them, and no matter how much blood I take, it never seems to quench the fire of my hunger.
But I keep hoping. I keep hoping I can reprogram my system, to make it forget the human blood it so easily became addicted to. Sometimes, like now, the hunger is just a mild burn. But other times I’m nearly overcome with waves of flaming agony, and I’m reminded of how I felt after the attack by the bear.
I’ve thought about looking for him. I can take that one-eyed brute now. I’m not weak from the hunger, just unsatisfied. But I am far from home, and not quite ready to head back to it. I don’t know when or if I ever will be. Part of me is afraid of whom I might find there, and the other part is afraid I won’t find anyone at all.
God. Not again.
I run and dive back into the lake, embracing the freezing water as my body slips through it. I welcome the numbness it brings to my head and my thoughts, and swim ever downward into its black depths.
The mountain lion snarls and hisses at me, and I drop the deer and snarl back. I crouch, arms spread and nails ready, and growl again. I can see he’s calculating whether or not he can take me, or at least my deer. I stand a little taller and let the beast roar at him. He cringes and hisses, then turns and runs.
Smart cat. I pick up the deer, finish draining it, and drop its lifeless body.
I laugh. You should’ve had more patience, cat. You can have it now.
Testing the air for the direction of the pond I passed earlier, I head back to it to clean up. I walk out to a rock on the shoreline and bend down to rinse off the stag’s blood.
I figure I’m only a day or so from home and am looking forward to a hot shower. And some clothes that aren’t falling apart.
Then I’m going to pack up the car and head west to the Rockies. Think I’ll try some mountain goat, maybe some moose.
But first I have a score to settle. I’ve been looking for his scent for two days now, and won’t leave this mountain until I find it. I’ve already started laying bait by leaving carcasses next to well-traveled trails, which is why the cat and I had a little face-off.
It’s getting close to dawn and I start looking for a suitable tree to bed down in. Spotting a high branch, I scramble up the trunk of a big pine. As I stretch out on the limb, I think about my bed, and how good it will feel, and fade away into sleep.
It must be late afternoon, I decide, opening first one eye then the other. Stretching, I shift slightly and have to grip the branch as I slip a little. I have no idea why I don’t fall off while asleep. Just another mystery I’ll never figure out.
Clambering part way down the trunk, I drop the last twenty feet and land lightly on my feet. I stretch again, glance up the mountain, and start climbing.
I reach the top just before dusk. As I take the last few steps, Pikes Peak looms into view, as do the memories I’ve been suppressing since returning to the wild. Pain and emptiness whisper in my belly, threatening to grab hold, and I take off running down and across the slope. I hit the tree line and the Peak disappears from view behind the tall pines. I stop a moment and close my eyes, my breath shuddering, and focus on the hunter’s coldness, then continue through the trees.
It does feel good to be on my mountain again. Crossing the familiar trails, I follow one as it angles west. I’m so focused on searching for tracks and other animal sign that I almost blow right past it, but a particular tree catches my eye, and I come to a dead stop.
This is the clearing where I fought the bear.
Glancing on the ground, I spot a couple of sun-bleached ribs, all that is left of the deer I nearly died for. I look around me, but there’s nothing unusual about this particular clearing.
Except that this is where my life was forever altered, forever torn open, just as my body was. My body healed, became whole again. I fear my life never will.
With a growl, I taste the air, seeking him, but it holds nothing of interest. I resign myself to methodically crisscrossing the mountain, hoping to stumble across his scent, and start working my way across the slope.
I’ve been hunting for sign of the bear most of the night with no luck. My constant hunger sharpens as the scent of deer drifts through the forest, and I veer off to follow it. But as I track it, the smell of blood permeates the air and I leap forward to its source.
I stop at the edge of a meadow, and down near the pond, a bear is feeding on a freshly killed fawn as its mother watches in terror from the safety of the forest. When he looks up, he has only one eye.
Everything in me freezes.
He’s bigger than the last time I saw him, more filled out. Must be getting his weight back after hibernation.
I watch as he feeds, noting his proximity to the trees. Fading back, I slowly creep around the meadow, hoping a breeze doesn’t pop up and carry my scent to him.
Now I’m about thirty feet from him and the beast is yowling in excitement. I give it full rein, take a quiet breath, then explode from the trees, leaping, and leaping again. The bear whips around at my first impact and rushes open-mouthed toward me. My second leap carries me over his back and I land behind him. Before he can turn, I slash his rear legs with my nails, trying to hamstring him. But his fur is too thick to get deep enough, and he spins, howling with rage. I am already in the air and land back toward the trees. He charges and I dart into the forest.
Roaring, he crashes through the underbrush and downed limbs as I spring up the trunk of a medium-sized fir. He loses me for a moment, his vision handicapped by the loss of his eye from our first encounter.
I drop down onto his back, and he tries to shake me off, then throws himself upward to stand on his hind legs. My hand slides beneath his throat, and I grip tight and squeeze, penetrating the thick hide. He slings his head around and slams backward into a tree, and I vault off just in time to avoid being crushed. Leaping into a gap between the tree trunks, I pause and growl, taunting him.
He drops to all fours with a snarl and charges, and as he nears, I step behind a tree and come up behind him. I slash at his hindquarters and he roars as he turns. I hop backward, and he rears up and lunges forward. I dive under his front claws and hit his midsection, hard. His breath goes out in a whoosh, and as I flip away, I drag my nails through the soft skin and fur of his belly, and draw the first real serious blood. The beast in me gets frantic at the sight and smell, and I fight to maintain my head as I regain my feet and leap away.
The bear doubles over briefly, then straightens and blindly charges in my direction. I dance easily out of range, noting the trail of blood he’s leaving. Spotting a large pine, I stay just out of his reach as I work toward it. The last twenty feet, I turn and run, and can hear him running behind me.
I launch myself up the trunk and start scrambling upward. He is right on my tail. I keep going, staying just ahead of him, and listen to his breath grow shorter as he tires. About fifty feet up he stops, and I reach down and slash his face. With a roar he climbs up higher, trailing me by only
a few feet. But he’s worn out, and he stops again. The tree trunk below him is coated in blood, and he’s weakening by the second.
Starting to slip, he tries to climb back down. But he’s too tired and has lost a lot of blood. He stops, apparently focusing on just hanging on. I feel a little sorry for him, as this has not been as quick or noble a death as I would’ve wished.
I reach down and slash at him again. As he tries to swipe back at me, he slips, then loses his grip entirely. He slides downward a few feet, then topples backward and falls, seemingly forever, before finally crashing onto the rocky ground. The forest shudders with his impact, and he doesn’t move.
I scramble down the trunk and leap to the forest floor, then cautiously walk up to him. But he is unmoving, still. I watch his blood begin to pool beneath him.
You son of bitch. You owe me this for the way you helped destroy my life.
And I reach down, yank his head back, and open up his throat. I kneel down and bury my face in it, and drink until I can drink no more.
A warm haze washes through me, and for the first time in weeks, the hunger quiets, the fire in my veins goes out, and the beast is satisfied.
FRIDAY
CHAPTER 54
It’s near dawn, and I’m coming down the trail above my house. As I exit the trees, I stop.
His Jag is parked next to the BMW.
Oh God.
The wild part of me wants to turn around and run back up the mountain. Instead, my body slowly sinks to the ground. The emotions I buried in the wilderness claw their way to the surface, and I’m helpless as they rip my chest apart. The tears start and I know they will never stop. I will lie here and cry out my lifeblood until I’m nothing more than a dry husk and the wind carries away my paper-like flesh.
As the rising sun puts me to sleep, I feel him gather me into his arms and pick me up. He starts walking, and my body softly rocks as he moves down the hill.
He shifts me into one arm and I hear the familiar sound of the back door opening. The forest noises dim as we move inside, then he gently sets me down. He tugs off the rags that were once my clothing, and brushes my tangled and matted hair back from my face.
“Sunny. Open your eyes.” His warm and gentle voice caresses my very soul.
I can’t, because I am asleep. This must be a dream, and if I open them, he won’t be here.
“Are you injured anywhere?” he asks.
I can’t talk in my dreams. I try to shake my head no.
The sound of the shower startles me. Cradling me like a child, he lifts me up and steps in. The warm water is soothing as he shifts my body, his hand running over my skin and through my hair. I crack open an eye and watch the water-borne dirt and bear blood flow down the drain.
He finishes washing me, and then stands there, holding me in the comforting spray. I drift back off to sleep, or maybe I’m dreaming that I drift off to sleep. A pleasant coarseness strokes away the moisture on my skin, then I fade again to the sound of his quiet footfalls as my body sways in his arms. I hear rustling, like the brush of leaves against one another, and he releases me to float on clouds. My body sinks deeper into their cushiony surface and I sink deeper into sleep, and as I lose the last of my awareness, I hear my dream say, “I love you.”
The first thing I become conscious of is that whatever I’m lying on is not hard. I cautiously reach out, expecting to feel air, but instead touch softness and fabric.
I open my eyes and lift my head to look around. A bed, my bed. Not a tree branch.
Or maybe it is still a dream, I realize, as I turn and see Nicolas stretched out next to me, leaning on his elbow with his head propped up on his hand.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice low, musical, his emerald eyes shining.
As before, words stick in my throat, unable to escape. So this must be a dream after all.
He reaches out and brushes back the hair from my face, then softly strokes my lips.
But that felt pretty real.
He shifts, then leans over and kisses me on the mouth.
Oh, this is definitely real.
And I feel my body respond, and then he crushes me to him. He holds me tight for a long moment, then slowly releases me and leans back. He reaches out again and starts working the tangles from my hair with his fingers.
“I was unable to comb all of these out earlier, as you were sleeping on this side.”
“You carried me off the mountain,” I croak, my voice finally breaking free.
“I did,” he says quietly as he continues to pick at my hair.
“You are here.”
“I am.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since the night you left. A month ago.” The pain in his voice is unmistakable.
“A month? I’ve been gone a month?”
It’s all a blur of mountains and forests, lakes and meadows, blood and more blood.
He purses his lips, but does not answer. His face, his green eyes, fade away as the wilderness sings in my soul, calling me, seducing me with its untamed melody.
He touches my cheek, jarring me back to the present.
“You waited here,” I whisper. “All that time. For me.”
“Yes. I could do . . . nothing else.” Again I hear the pain, accompanied by loneliness, and wonder how he survived.
Because the only way I did was to give myself to the blood and to the wild.
Once more it calls, and I shut my eyes and remember the colors and smells that caressed my senses, and the wind that softly brushed my skin. Life is so simple out there. Hunt and run and swim and sleep. No complicated emotions to manage, no one to argue with, or be disappointed in, or be embraced by, or be loved by.
My eyes grow damp as tears begin to well up beneath their closed lids.
“Sunny.” His voice is calm and soothing. Feather-light fingers again touch my face.
Startled, my eyes fly open. Yes, he is still here. This is not a dream.
But my body needs to move, to stretch, to run. It’s not used to being so still for so long. Slipping out of the bed, I back across the room, watching him. He gets up as well, and part of me starts to panic. I turn to the closet, take out a pair of jeans and a sweater, and slip them on.
“I need to go,” I whisper to the floor on my way out.
“Will you come back?” he asks, his voice strained.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I take a long, slow breath. “Yes. I just need . . . a little more time.”
The back door is before me. As I open it, I hear him behind me.
“I’ll be here,” he says.
I step outside and breathe in deeply, inhaling the pine and other scents that make up the forest, and take off up the mountain at a dead run.
It’s nearly dark when I walk down the trail to the back door. I take a last breath, then open it and walk in.
He’s watching me from the chair by the fireplace, its low flame casting shadows over his face. Closing the book in his lap, he sets it on the table as I walk over and take the other chair.
“I have questions that need answering.” My voice is hoarse from lack of practice.
“I will answer them.” His voice is steady.
“Do you kill people?”
“On occasion.”
“Do you care anything about any of them? Marie? Charlene?”
“Some. The ones I have become . . . acquainted with. I will protect them from any harm.”
“Is that because you care or because they belong to you?”
He is silent.
“And how do you keep all these people from revealing what you are?”
“The same way I manage my lineage.”
“With your blood.” I get up and start pacing the room.
“For humans, only small amounts are necessary, and it can be from any Chosen.”
“So if you can control your lineage and your . . . humans with your blood, why should I think that you don’t control me with it.” Fighting t
o stay calm, I turn and stare at him.
“Because the control always belongs to the dominant Chosen, which is what I am to my lineage. You are not of my lineage, and you have little human left in you. Your Maker was a very powerful Old One, and he somehow passed a great deal of that power on to you.
“In many ways, you and I are evenly matched. I discovered this when I took your blood the first time. You had a rather significant influence over me, and I was not prepared for that.”
I turn to hide my involuntary smile as I think about the times I drove him crazy with my longing for him.
“It was only when we took equal amounts of each other’s blood that some sort of balance was reached,” he continues.
And it felt so right.
“In Chosen society, the most successful matches are between equals. If one is more dominant than the other, it is difficult for the pair to find any kind of true harmony.”
“So you gave me your blood to see if I was a suitable mate.” I turn back to him, frowning.
“I gave you my blood because I love you, because I wanted you to know it, and because the sharing of blood is a consummation of that love.”
My throat tightens as wisps of emotion threaten to escape their tomb. I focus on the hunter’s stillness, trying to snuff them out.
But then another thought occurs to me and coldness returns. I watch him carefully and ask my next question.
“Éva said you take the Elders’ blood so you can monitor them. Is that why you took mine?”
A look of embarrassment crosses his face.
“Ah, no. That happened because I was going insane from wanting you, and I, ah . . . lost control. Several times.”
Oh.
My resolve crumbles and heat starts flickering though my veins.
“And it is with great restraint that I am still in this chair, watching you, the way you prowl, with that wild look in your eyes.” His darken, then blaze into smoldering crimson.
