by Roh Morgon
He froze.
A white woman stood a little ways from him up the trail. He noted her filthy ragged skirts, threadbare overcoat covered in bloodstains, and matted honey-colored hair. But most of all he noted her blue eyes staring at him with the predatory gaze of a mountain lion.
Red sparked within their depths, turning the blue a bright crimson.
Machaya, he thought. Alarm rippled through his gut. Demon.
Trace fought the panic rising in his throat and tightened his grip on the knife.
The woman moved. Fast.
When she crashed into him, it was as though he’d been kicked by a mule. He flew backward, then slammed into the ground beneath her weight, his breath exploding from his chest. His head slammed as well, and while he fought to keep from blacking out, he felt her grab his hair and yank his head to the side.
Her teeth tore into his throat and he screamed.
Trace could feel the life being drained from him, being sucked from him. His muscles no longer responding, he slowly succumbed to soul-stealing pain and a darkness blacker than the surrounding night.
~ ~ ~
Red. His world was red. It filled his mind, filled his nose, filled his mouth.
Trace gagged and tried to turn away from the pressure bearing down against his lips and teeth. Something jerked him by the hair, pinning his head to the ground, and he had no choice but to swallow the thick, metallic fluid choking him. He tried to lift his arms and couldn’t. His weak struggles beneath the weight on his chest were just as useless.
But as he fought to breathe around the stuff running down his throat, a strange passion began crawling through his body, and he felt himself harden. His reluctant swallows turned less so, and then shifted to greedy gulps. He pressed his mouth upward against the source of the liquid pleasure, drawing in mouthful after mouthful.
Trace forced his eyes open as he swallowed, and blinked several times in an effort to understand what was happening. The weight on his chest belonged to the white demon sitting on him, the pressure on his face was from her arm, and the wetness filling his mouth was her blood.
Shock escalated into terror, then withered and died beneath the ecstasy building within him. She smiled, her crimson-colored eyes glowing with triumph. She released his hair and her hand trailed across the long scar on his cheek to caress his mouth still latched onto her arm. Her fingers tightened around his chin, forcing his jaws to open even wider. She withdrew her arm, stroked his face again, stroked his lips. Her fingers came away red and she licked them clean.
Still caught up in the pleasure filling his body, he didn’t object when she bent to kiss him. She sat back and shifted her knees, releasing his trapped arms, then began unlacing his breeches. His eyes widened at her touch, and when she bit his neck a second time, he didn’t fight her at all.
~ ~ ~
She sat next to his body, noting that she much preferred his muscular build to that of the soft city dwellers. As she listened to his uneven breaths, she was glad she hadn’t killed him. His willingness to face her and fight rather than run had stoked her other passion, the one that yearned for more than just blood, and she was pleased that he had lived up to her expectations.
The weeks of shadowing him while he was traveling had kept her amused. It had been especially challenging to creep into his camp each night without waking his horse, whose snorts of alarm would’ve aroused the man from his slumber.
She’d enjoyed watching him sleep and had tormented herself with thoughts of them moving together, tearing at one another in ecstasy. The night she'd laid next to him, wanting him but forcing herself to wait, had been the most exquisite torture she’d felt in a long time. She’d come so close to taking him then.
Pride rushed through her as she thought about how well she’d controlled herself these past weeks. She’d wanted to know where he was going, what was fueling the bright fire in his eyes, what new adventure he was seeking. She’d promised herself she couldn't have him until her curiosity was satisfied.
But her fascination had given way to gnawing frustration, and she’d taken him before discovering his secrets.
It wasn’t really her fault. He’d been at the cabin for a week and showed no sign of further travel. She thought back on how her disappointment had mounted each day, along with anger that her nights toying with him on the trail had come to an end once he began sleeping in the cabin. She’d tried to sneak inside several times, but the sound of the latch and the creak of the door had woken him and the others with him.
She’d fled, furious. She’d wanted him alone, and though she could easily kill the man and the woman with him, she’d known he wouldn’t want to love her if she did.
And so her little stalking game with him had come to an end. But since he was still breathing, she’d get to play a new one with him—one that would satisfy so much more than her curiosity.
And his willingness was the most important part of this game. She smiled down at the sleeping man, remembering how his fear had turned to lust. Yes, he was worth the wait, and his strength should give her many nights of pleasure before it faded away.
~ Day 2 ~
Trace woke to morning sunlight filtering through the trees. He rolled over to clutch her supple body to his once more, but she was gone.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows and tried to clear both his eyes and his mind. His clothes lay in a heap next to him, the deer just beyond. A blanket of frost covered the ground and surrounding forest. He realized he was freezing.
What the hell happened? he thought. Was that a dream?
One look at the blood covering his hands told him otherwise.
He reached up to feel the wounds on his throat. The skin was smooth and unbroken.
Trace staggered to his feet. His body felt strange, weak. But the weakness was hidden beneath something else, something . . . not him.
Shivering, he looked down at his naked body and frowned at the dried blood smeared on his chest, his thighs, his groin. Shocking memories of sharp kisses tracing the lines of his body pierced his hazy awareness, yet his skin bore no marks.
His frown deepened, remaining while he slung the deer over his shoulder and collected his clothes, bow, and quiver. He walked back to a creek he’d passed during his hunt, washed off in the icy water, and quickly dressed.
Trace hoisted the deer onto his shoulders and started down the trail. His mind was a jumble of images that refused to make sense.
There was a woman, a white woman. She made me . . . do things.
He felt the flush of embarrassment crawl over his face.
He was no virgin, but at twenty-four, he’d only lain with women a few times. All but one had been paid for, and each time it was over almost as soon as it started.
Blood. She made me drink her blood.
The acrid taste of bile rose in his throat, followed by a sense of terror as he recalled how she’d fed on him, over and over.
And I liked it.
He stopped in the middle of the trail, stunned by his memories. The crisp morning air, the brightness of the sun playing hide-and-seek with the trees, the sound of birds chirping and rustling through the brush—all seemed no less a dream than the bloody, passion-filled nightmare of the evening before.
Trace plodded on, struggling against the weakness weighing down his limbs. He gritted his teeth and focused on the trail in front of him.
As he neared the cabin, he heard the harsh sounds of his father’s voice echoing down the small valley, cursing in French. He sighed and shook his head.
He’s as mean and ornery as he always was. Just like a damn wolverine.
He thought back to his boyhood days, when his father was off in the mountains trapping, and it was just him and his mother at the trading post with the other trappers’ families. She was happier then, surrounded by tribeswomen from all over the Northwest. He was too, spending his days with the other boys, hunting and fishing and playing the white man’s games they’d learned from the traders.
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Trace inwardly cringed as Father Dugan’s image separated itself from the other memories of those days. Stern, yet kind, the Catholic priest was like a second father to him and the other half-breed children while their own fathers were gone. He taught them to read and write, believing it was his mission from God to civilize the “heathens” and teach them Christian ways.
What would he think of me now, lying with a demon?
Trace swallowed.
He paused outside the cabin, listening to his father’s curses and his mother’s clipped responses. Their voices quieted as he stomped loudly up the step and onto the rickety wooden porch to announce his presence. He turned and hung the carcass of the deer from a hook anchored in the eave of the roof, then took a deep breath and opened the door to the now-silent cabin.
His father stared at him from the pile of furs covering his chair, his broken leg propped up on a stump. The bandages securing the splints around his lower leg looked freshly changed.
That might explain the cursing—this time.
Pierre Johannes Tasman was a big man, with his Dutch father’s size and his French mother’s coloring. His light brown eyes peered at Trace from beneath bushy eyebrows. A fleshy rounded nose perched between full cheeks, and his lips were buried in a thick, brown beard. His stubby, calloused fingers fussed with his pipe, and he turned his attention to it and grunted.
Trace’s mother leaned over the stewpot hanging from a hook in the stone fireplace. Her slight frame was covered by long, tan, cotton skirts and the new pink blouse with the beaded collar he’d asked his uncle’s wife to make for her. She clutched her shawl with one hand and stirred the pot with the other. He noted the grey that was creeping into her black braids.
A small cookfire beneath the pot kept the morning chill from seeping into the log cabin, and the warmth felt good to Trace. He watched his mother straighten, and as she turned around, he felt ashamed to be in the same room with her after what he’d done last night. She looked at him, anger fading in her dark, nearly black eyes. The tight set of her mouth softened and she frowned.
“My son, are you ill?” She moved toward him, raising her hand as though to check his forehead for a fever.
Trace stepped back. He felt . . . unclean, tainted.
His mother stopped, her frown deepening. Her hand drifted down to her side.
“Oh, leave the boy alone, woman! He’s a grown man. Don’t need no fussin’ over.” His father ran his hand over his beard. “And where the hell you been anyway, boy? Yer mother was caterwaulin’ sumpthin’ fierce about you being gone all night. Thought you’d been kilt!”
Trace fixed his father with a cold stare.
“There’s venison hanging outside. I’m going up to North Creek to check the trapline. If there’s enough light left, I’ll check the Little Creek sets on my way back.” He looked at his mother and gentled his tone. “Don’t hold supper.”
Trace grabbed his buffalo robe hanging next to the door and turned to leave, but not quick enough to avoid seeing the concern and disappointment on his mother’s face. Guilt stabbed his chest.
“Don’t you want to eat before you leave?” The worry in her voice cut him even deeper. “At least take some food with you.”
The thought of food turned his stomach. Still facing the door, he shook his head and stepped outside. He took a big breath, grateful to be free of the emotions thickening the air in the tiny cabin.
Trace felt anxious to get away from this place where he no longer belonged—he’d left it behind many years ago. He picked up his bow and quiver, grabbed his rifle from where it rested against the wall, and walked around to the stock pen behind the cabin. His horse and his father’s two mules snorted and moved to the other side of the small corral as he leaned his weapons against the fence and opened the gate.
This has been the sorriest trip of my life, he thought.
A week ago, he was on his way to meet the trapping party at the Green River. The stop at his folks’ cabin was only supposed to be for a day or two. But he’d found his father laid up with a broken leg and his mother hunting small game to keep them fed, and winter would soon be upon them.
He’d resigned himself to staying until his father was on his feet again. He knew his mother was happy to have her son back, but his father . . . well, he was the main reason Trace left at age sixteen to live with his mother’s Cree relatives.
Trace thought back to those years. He’d found he wasn’t cut out for village life and had remained with the Cree only a short time before striking out on his own. Joining up occasionally with other white and half-breed fur trappers, he’d been wandering the mountains and trapping ever since, dreaming of the day he’d finally make it to the ocean.
A wave of exhaustion shook him out of his memories and brought his attention back to the job at hand. He took a deep breath and closed the gate and hung on to it for a bit. Mustering the last shred of his strength, he walked toward the gelding and the mules.
All three animals snorted and shied away from him, their eyes wide. Trace scowled.
“C’mere, you!” He strode toward the light brown mule. Its head held high, it started backing up as the other two animals scrambled out of the way. Just as it spun around, Trace lunged and grabbed its halter.
It brayed, its eyes wild, and tried to back away. But Trace held on and, with the other hand, stroked the mule’s nose and softly spoke.
“Easy, now. Easy.” The mule stopped, but still appeared frightened of him.
It’s like they can smell the demon blood in me.
The mule started to relax, finally lowering its head and snorting. Trace rubbed its neck, then led it across the pen and tied the halter to a rope hanging from a fence post.
He opened the door to the small shed built against the cabin wall, hauled out a pack saddle and blanket, and saddled the mule. Picking up another rope, he stepped toward his horse.
“Easy, ol’ pardner. Nothing to be afraid of. It’s just me.”
The gelding snorted and tossed his head, his blond mane flying and his eyes wide, but he stayed in the corner as Trace approached. He tossed his head several more times, then lowered it and allowed Trace to take hold of the halter.
When he started to lead the horse over to the shed, he saw his mother standing at the gate with a deerskin bundle in her arms.
His jaw flexed as he tied the horse next to the mule and began saddling him. Slapping the stirrup leather back into place, he turned to his mother and frowned at the lines of worry etching her brow.
Trace reached out for the bundle, and she smiled and handed it to him.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes.
“Don’t be angry with your father. His leg . . . this is hard for him.”
He nodded and turned to tie the bundle on the back of the palomino’s saddle, then leaned down and picked up his robe and weapons. As he slid the rifle home into its scabbard on the saddle, he looked over at his mother again.
“You remind me so much of my brother,” she said, her eyes shining. “But bigger.”
He gave her a wry smile. As much as his father complained that Trace bore no sign of Pierre Tasman, looking “jest like another damn Cree,” Trace’s height and light brown eyes revealed otherwise.
He untied the horse and mule and led them toward the gate. His mother opened it, watching him as they passed by, then closed it behind them.
Trace stopped and tightened the cinches on both saddles. With the mule’s rope in hand, he gathered the horse’s reins, stepped into the stirrup, then swung his leg over and settled in. The palomino shifted beneath the creaking leather and tossed his head, anxious to go. Trace eased back on the reins and looked down at his mother.
She rested her hand on Trace’s knee and another blast of guilt shot through him—guilt for the wall between them, guilt for leaving her with his father, guilt for whatever happened to him last night.
“Be careful, Son.”
He nodded and patte
d her hand. His horse danced and snorted, and she moved back to allow them to leave.
Tugging the mule in behind him, Trace set off up the trail. He looked back once to see his mother still standing there, watching him. She raised a hand in farewell and he waved back.
He turned his attention to the rocky path ahead. As the forest sounds closed around him, accented by the scuff of hoof, creak of leather, and occasional snort, Trace’s thoughts drifted back to the horror of the previous night.
But the most horrible part of it was the way he wanted the Machaya to do what she did to him. Again and again.
And, God forgive me, I hope she finds me tonight.
He swallowed back the guilt choking him, realizing it was the white man’s teachings, Father Dugan’s teachings, that were making him so miserable. They were responsible for much of the conflict between his two sides—because inside his Cree skin, he felt more white than he cared to admit.
Trace cursed under his breath.
Sometimes I wish I’d never met Father Dugan.
The priest had showed him the world beyond the plains and forests through the written words in books and newspapers. He’d fostered a yearning in Trace to see that world with his own eyes, to hear the many languages with his own ears. Trace was fluent in three—Cree, English, and French—and knew enough of a half-dozen other native tongues to get by. His exceptional skills as an interpreter and tracker kept him employed by the fur companies, and what he earned from trapping was a bonus.
He shook his head again as he thought about his plans. The group of free trappers meeting at the Green River intended to trap their way west, hole up somewhere for the winter, then continue on westward before the spring thaws made travel too difficult. They had a buyer all lined up for their pelts when they got to the coast.
They’ll be long gone by the time the ol’ man’s back on his feet.
Trace cursed at the thought of wintering and traveling through unfamiliar country alone. All he’d needed was one more good trap run. That would’ve made enough to buy passage on a ship once he got to the coast.
