Below her the Hellhound bayed for blood as her fiery fur melted under Frankie’s dripping tears. The bitch’s first impulse to rid herself of the blistering teardrops had turned to renewed fury. Her central neck began to grow even longer, and the head and jaws ever larger.
Frankie did another circuit. Found no opening. Stifling her overwhelming desire to cough, which would have expelled her precious egg, she performed another impossible, lightning transition. This time from greater to lesser phoenix. She slipped easily through the crack and flew upward while behind her the infuriated howling of the Cerberus diminished.
The rest of her journey to the surface was comparatively uneventful. Comparatively. The crack was narrow enough that it caught her flight feathers and she left bits behind as she made her slow upward progress. And then without warning the chimney bent sideways. To keep going she had to stop flying and waddle, bent double, wings tightly folded.
And all the while, the biting, acrid smoke stayed with her. Her lungs burned. Her throat ached. She longed to cough. Her hollow bones filled with pulsing pain so sharp she could barely keep moving. The gas was slowly filling the spaces that should store oxygen. She was slowly suffocating.
Cam. Cam. Cam. He needed her prize. Cam was waking, wondering where she was. She had to return to him.
Doggedly, head down, she scratched her painful way forward. One more stinging breath. One more step on legs that were made of lead. On talons broken to the quick. One more suppressed cough from lungs that burned. She felt the trickle of sunlight before she breathed fresh air with no taint of hell.
She longed to rest, but she was as certain as she had ever been of anything, that she had used up all her luck tonight. She had run out of options. She had to get above ground before she could stop moving.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Cameron~
The sun was hot on his back. Not steamy hot like a Georgia springtime. But hot all the same. He rolled over and wallowed blissfully. Let the sun warm his belly, while the plants cooled his back. The crushed greenery sent up a sweet, peppery smell. Overhead, leaves danced in the breeze.
He stretched and enjoyed the sensation of muscles effortlessly elongating. One more wriggle to scratch that place at the base of his neck that was otherwise unreachable, and then he would go hunting for his mate. He scratched his nose and froze, riveted by the great paw at the end of his arm.
Cam brought the other forearm up and gazed at that too. How had he come to be in bear? He rolled cautiously to all four legs and shook. His movement disturbed a blue jay which flew out of a nearby bush scolding loudly. But that was all. He flexed his left hind limb. It moved fluidly. As did the right.
Hadn’t he had pain in his right shoulder last night? He distinctly recalled waking in agony. Twice. He tried walking. His left ankle articulated smoothly. As smoothly as the right. He moved through the grass, pacing slowly. Boring. A paddock beckoned invitingly. Close-cropped grass indicated that the horses had been moved to fresh pasturage.
He jumped the fence. Landed on his forefeet, pushed off with his hindfeet. Hit a gallop in three strides. He raced back and forth the length of the field until his sides heaved and his haunches ached from overuse. When he was done, he still had enough energy to spin in delighted circles.
George Washington. Surely he should remember shifting? When he had come into his talent at twelve, he had more than once woken up to find himself in bed in bear. Mama had been understanding about the ripped sheets and torn mattress. But Dad had been sterner.
Dad had explained that a bear shifter needed to remain in charge of his talent. First, to keep the secret of shifting from mortals who would be frightened and angry. Second, because with great power came great responsibility. Starting with self-control. That meant only shifting when you meant to.
He had quickly learned to keep his bear under control. To only shift if and when he consciously decided to. He had reveled in his growing talent. Worked on his strength and endurance. Trained his bear to a high degree of athleticism and speed.
The greatest blow of being wounded, had been realizing his bear was dead. The loss of his bear had been worse than the prospect of permanent brain injury or losing his leg. Discovering that his bear was not dead after all was wonderful. But it was also frightening that unaware he had turned in his sleep.
Where the hell was he anyway? Texas for sure. Smelled like Texas. But he didn’t recognize any landmarks. Hopefully, he was still in Grape Creek on D’Angelo land. Shift and damn. If he was going to start sleepwalking in bear, he was going to be a danger to himself and to everyone else.
He raised his snout to the breeze. Caught the smell of the D’Angelos’ stable. Picked out Princess’ cheerful scent and turned for home. He needed to find Frankie. Danger followed her. Every freshly woken instinct told him so. Besides, it was springtime and he needed his mate.
If he was still a bear shifter, perhaps he could once again dream of marrying Frankie. Three years ago he had asked her. She had accepted flatteringly fast. And then dropped her bombshell. She wanted him to become a phoenix.
He was used to taking orders. How not in the military? But he was damned if he would be a junior officer in his own home. Or give up the prospect of bear shifter sons to carry on the family name and genes. He was his father’s only son. He had a duty to his clan to make bear cubs. Tasha was adopted and didn’t come into it. But his was a proud lineage, and he had always expected to carry on the bear genes.
He had expected Frankie to see reason. To marry him without expecting him to become a bird of paradise. They had had one of their blazing fights followed by even more blazing passion. And then she had stormed off after pointing out his faults – all of them.
He was too big. Too hard-headed. Too in love with danger. A control freak. A sexist, chauvinistic bear. Obsessed with the importance of Special Forces. Insufferably macho. He had been angry. And, yeah, he could admit it now. Hurt.
What had he said to Frankie in return? Horrible things, probably. He had been livid with rage. They had exchanged insults. But this time there had been no passionate reconciliation. He had put her out of his heart and concentrated on his assignment to Special Forces.
He had believed he was over her, until last summer, when she had roared up her parents’ driveway for Fourth of July. As if. Bears weren’t made like that. Frankie D’Angelo with all her flaws was his mate. And he, with all his faults, was hers.
Would she be willing to compromise now? To marry him and let him remain a plodding bear? There was only one way to find out. He had to track her down and ask her to break his heart, or heal it. Despite his sense of impending danger, he did not expect any trouble in finding her.
She would be at the cottage. And if she was not, he would return to human, put on some clothes and look for her at the main house. He padded along as he thought, following the ever-stronger smell of Princess. The stream interposed itself between his nose and the scent trail. He would have to cross it to return to the stable side.
A memory of catching fish returned. He cannonballed into the water and began to paddle downstream. The cool water felt excellent on his hot fur. Using his limbs without pain felt even better. His head was a trifle muzzy still, but the blinding pain in his skull was gone.
He just hoped that when he took human, things stayed that way.
* * *
Frankie~
The sun was setting when she emerged into the desert. Frankie sought a roost. Without the energy of the sun, she was incapable of flying back to Texas in lesser phoenix. And after the day’s endless adventures, she was toast. Besides, she had never before remained this long in phoenix. Did that time in the hot spring as a woman count?
Eating huge amounts of lava had worked wonders, given her the power to transition between lesser and greater phoenix. But she had serious misgivings about flying further without resting. The area around the volcanic vent was black and rocky, decorated with bright yellow deposits of sulfur. Plumes of gray smoke an
d a strong smell warned that this was no safe place to sleep.
She was hungry and thirsty, but with her precious bit of lava in her beak, she could neither eat nor drink. The lava had to stay in close proximity to her body. Grant had carried his in a chamois bag in his breast pocket so that the heat of his body would keep it alive until he was ready to transform his wife.
A solitary juniper, bent and twisted from years of growing in the fierce wind, marked a rocky seep where water pooled. Frankie perched among the short, deformed branches, allowing the thick, stiff needles to shelter her from the worst of the wind and the cold desert night. All night long the smell of that water tormented her.
The first pale rays of sunrise roused her. She took stock. Cameron’s steady sensible voice spoke low. “What are your claws for, Phoenix?”
Great. Just what she needed. To channel her inner bear. But what were her claws for? Grasping. She transferred her glowing rock to her left foot. The heat instantly soothed the torn skin. With her beak free, she could herald the dawn and groom herself.
She began to sing a song of triumph and of love. She let her serenade ripple out in the clear, cool air. Perhaps this time it would soften her bear’s hard head and stubborn heart. The fool loved her. Why couldn’t he admit it?
After a while, she let her right foot enjoy the welcome radiation from the lava while she preened her right wing. Her feathers were in rough shape. Frayed, dusty and broken. She had only one fully intact tail feather. Her plumed crest dangled in front of her eyes. She was a sad, bedraggled version of a phoenix shifter.
She kept singing for Cam as she tried to disentangle the worst of the damage and clean the mixture of pumice and acid from her feathers. Once again she thought she heard his voice. “Wash yourself.”
Duh. There was water right below her. If she held the egg with one claw while she splashed and drank, the lava would remain alive.
What in the name of Taft was he doing walking in and out of her mind without so much as a by-your-leave? She began to understand what Cameron had feared about the phoenix bond. How was it possible for them to be so intimately connected, anyway?
How could they be bonded enough for telepathy? She was holding the lava that would transform him into a phoenix and create that transcendent bond. And yet it certainly felt as if her bossy, practical lover was giving her orders.
Orders she clearly needed if she was ever to get back to him.
The water that had collected in the shallow seep barely wet her legs. But she held tightly to her blob of rock while she dipped her head as far as it would go and drank all she could. She squatted in the water and washed her breast feathers. Spread her wings and splashed water underneath. It wasn’t the bath she needed, but it would have to do.
Then back to the juniper to preen some more before she took wing. By then the sun was heating the desert floor and the thermals were rising strongly. Since she had not eaten, even the sunshine did not give her the confidence to take greater phoenix. She had to be careful if she was to return safely to her bear.
Cradling her treasure in her beak she headed for home.
* * *
Cameron~
He had spent a chilly and uncomfortable night outside the cottage waiting for Frankie. No matter how hard he tried he was unable to return to his human form. It was ridiculous. Getting stuck like this was a part of growing into your bear. An adult who could not return to human was just childish.
Despite having gorged on brook trout and bass, and filled in the nooks and crannies with wild greens and roots, his belly had grumbled all night. He was thirsty even though he went twice to the pond to drink. He was cold too. On a mild evening, dressed in a bearskin, he was shivering. Weird, weird, and weirder.
He had hoped he was healed. But it didn’t look like it. He was plagued with anxiety over Frankie – probably because he hadn’t been able to take his anti-depressants. It was true that in between being hungry, thirsty and cold, he had slept, but he was unable to shift back into human. He had lost the knack.
Where was Frankie? He was really getting worried now. Warrior Woman should be over her temper and back to ream him out and boss him around. He resolved to wait until he heard Gen. D’Angelo going for his run. He would go up to the house then. In bear, if he could not make his change happen. Embarrassment be damned.
In the meantime, his dad had always said transforming was a concentrated act of will. Damn straight. He had willpower for twenty. It was his concentration that could use a little sharpening. He set his beleaguered brain the task of focusing on becoming a man.
Because, one way or another, his mate needed him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Frankie~
There he was. Outside. Buck naked. Sleeping pressed up against the porch steps. Great. She left for a couple of days, and he lost what remained of his tiny bear mind. Frankie perched on the porch rail, transferred her precious egg to her right claws and opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind.
His brain waves were less erratic than they had been, but still not back to normal. The reveille she had intended to bugle at him, became a tender melody that mellowed the sharpest waves and gently roused the abnormal dips. His aura had cooled down to normal. Her song settled him completely. He sighed gustily in his sleep and beneath his lids his eyes moved as he began to dream.
Whatever Cam was dreaming about did not disturb him. This was good. Everyone needed to dream. It had never been her intention to suppress his dream time. Just to regulate it so that the terrible recurrent nightmares stopped. When the horror of his dreamscape brought him awake, night after night, he was robbed of the healing powers of sleep. It was little wonder that his recovery had been stalled.
He looked good in his bare skin. Better than good. The scars on his knee had faded to pink and there was considerably less swelling. He even looked more muscular. That seemed oddly rapid. But the proof was in his burly shoulders and chest. And in his hard butt and thick thighs. The left one was just about as big as the right. Ditto the calf.
Clearly she had a talent for healing. Or make that, for healing Cam. She would let him finish his nap outdoors. And take one herself – after she showered and ate. After New Mexico, she was starving and distinctly ripe.
Frankie fluttered down to the porch floor and returned to human. The egg pressed hard into the arch of her foot and she retrieved it and held it safe in the curve of her palm.
Cam bounced to his feet, took the stairs in one great bouncing stride and picked her up. “Where the hell have you been, Frankie?”
She clutched his arms. His thick strong arms. Surely in two days he could not have regrown so much muscle? “You’ve been in bear!”
“Yeah.” He nuzzled her neck as if she didn’t stink. “But where have you been?”
“New Mexico.”
“What?” His nose was buried in the sensitive juncture between neck and shoulder. He nibbled as he spoke. His question made a pleasant buzzing that set her whole body vibrating.
Her fatigue vanished. “I went to get you a present, Bear Boy.”
“That’s nice.” He got the screen door open, juggled her and opened the outer door.
“Should you be carrying me?”
“I like carrying you.” He elbowed past the door and headed for the living room. “How come you’re naked?”
“I was flying. You?”
He laid her gently on the couch but ignored her question. “Don’t move,” he ordered. “I’ll be right back.”
Frankie watched in bemusement as Cam disappeared into the kitchen. He was moving easily. No cane. No walker. No limp. It was nothing short of miraculous. She looked sadly at the egg still cradled in her right hand.
She had endured so much, and he had healed himself. She had no illusions about her stubborn lover. If he was back to normal, she had about as much chance of getting him to swallow the Egg of Immortality as of persuading him to run for President.
He came back with a tall bottle. A wolfish
grin splitting his face. He hadn’t shaved today. Probably not yesterday either, for his square jaw was covered with ragged, honey-colored curls that matched those on his chest. He looked wonderful, although he smelled faintly of pond.
“It should be rose blossom oil,” he said apologetically. “But the best I could find was grapeseed. Figured you wouldn’t want to smell of olive oil.”
“Huh.”
“Lube,” he said. “I don’t want to chafe you. Spread ‘em, D’Angelo.” He waved his bottle at her legs.
“Romantic. Not so much.”
“You want romantic? I can do romantic.” Reynolds of Special Forces accepted his mission.
He slammed the bottle on the coffee table, leaped over it and knelt beside the couch. His lips found hers in a gentle kiss. Barely brushed them and pulled back. His blue eyes were sparkling.
“Is that the best you can do?” she taunted.
He chuckled richly. A merry noise that reverberated through her chest to her heart. “I thought you wanted romantic, Phoenix?”
“Maybe I mean passionate.”
“You can have both.” His deep voice was confident. “I’ve been thinking about the other night,” he confessed. “I let you down. Let’s have a do-over.”
“Huh?” What was he talking about?
“Uh huh. Open up, sweetheart.”
“Shouldn’t we start with kissing?”
“I have every intention of doing some kissing, D’Angelo. But I don’t want to get distracted here.” He leaned over and ran his big hand over her belly, dipped into her navel, gave it a little swirl and slid down to cover her bush. “Don’t be shy, open up.”
Shy? He had to be kidding. She let her thighs fall open, tucked her arms behind her head. Let the egg nestle in the hollow of her neck. “Bring it on, lover.”
He carefully poured a puddle of oil into her belly button, lubed his forefinger and retraced his path to her bush. Everywhere he touched, rousing heat followed and spread in waves. Deep inside she began to boil. He searched in her curls until he found her clit. Tapped it twice and returned to the oil.
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