by Sharon Sala
The neighbor’s dog trotted out to the road as it did every time a vehicle approached, then inexplicably turned tail as quickly as it had come and disappeared.
George’s legs were shaking. Looking upon a Windwalker, even in human form, was frightening, but George was more afraid of losing Layla.
The rider slowed the bike as he rode through the street between the houses, rolling it to a stop only a few feet from where Layla was standing. The quiet that came when the engine rumbled then died exacerbated George’s panic, and yet as the man of the house he stepped forward.
The rider toed down the kickstand and dismounted. He was wearing old boots, denim jeans and a blue, long-sleeve shirt open halfway to his waist. Long hair fell out onto his shoulders and down his back as he removed the helmet and hung it on the end of the handlebars. When he turned, his gaze went beyond the old man in front of him to the woman behind.
Breath caught in the back of Layla’s throat. She was caught in the stare, like a mouse between an eagle’s talons. He’d been unforgettable in spirit, but in the flesh, he was formidable. Not until his gaze shifted, was she able to move. She watched as he approached her grandfather.
“I am Niyol.”
“Welcome,” George said.
He moved forward and put a hand on George’s shoulder. “Even though I will take your granddaughter?”
“Will she come back?” George asked.
“Do you know what’s coming?”
“I see things in my dreams,” George said. “Will they come to pass?”
“Prepare your people. Once again they will leave their lands. Tell them to bring hand tools and knives. They will be needed.”
“What is to become of us?” George asked, as Layla walked up beside him. When she slipped her hand into his, he gave it a squeeze, but wouldn’t look at her face. He couldn’t without begging her to stay.
Niyol’s gaze slid to Layla, like a snake watching its prey.
“She will save you. When she returns, you must all be ready to follow.”
George blinked.
One moment Layla was beside him, and then she was on the back of the bike, her arms wrapped around the rider’s waist. Tears were running down her face as she gave her grandfather one last look, and then she buried her face in the middle of Niyol’s back and they were gone.
***
Lydia Foster walked into her office carrying her briefcase and what was left of the skinny latte from lunch. A lock of her hair had escaped the knot she’d put it in earlier in the morning. She could feel it tickling the back of her neck as she crossed the threshold, then immediately frowned.
Someone was waiting for her in the outer office, which meant her assistant had gone off and left her office unlocked, something she did not appreciate. They would be discussing this at a later date.
“Hello? Can I help you?” she asked.
The man looked up from the magazine he’d been reading, and when he did, her frowned deepened. As she lived and breathed, Emile Harper, the Director of Foreign Intelligence, himself, was sitting in her office. She should have known he wouldn’t give up.
“Lydia Foster?”
“Emile Harper.”
Emile blinked. So she recognized him. Whatever.
“Yes, I’m Harper. I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time. It’s rather important.”
She sailed past him into her office, leaving the door open behind her. He followed without hesitation.
She laid her briefcase on the end of her desk, set her coffee near the phone, and dropped into the chair.
“Take a seat. I have exactly fifteen minutes to give you and then I’m gone.”
Harper sat. It was obvious she was still pissed, but he didn’t have time to be cordial.
“We didn’t get to finish our conversation the other day.”
“I was through.”
Harper frowned. “I was not. This isn’t about a pissing contest here. This is about national security.”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “You’re not serious. Since when is a Native American legend classified as national security? Surely you haven’t run out of terrorists to hunt down.”
Harper had the grace to flush. “Look, I’m getting flack from superiors. I need answers. I came to you for help and as a citizen of the United States of America it is your duty to—”
Lydia pointed a finger. “Do not preach at me! I don’t work for you, so don’t start pushing your weight around. I already told you what I knew about Windwalkers, which is what I personally believe was on that tape.”
Harper pinched the bridge of his nose; a gentle reminder to himself not to shout.
“I need more than a legend to—”
“Why? What do you think you’re going to do with this Windwalker if you find it? Surely you don’t think you can control it? I would have assumed even you spy-phobes would know human control of anything paranormal is impossible.”
Harper leaned forward. “And you seriously believe what was on that tape was paranormal?”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “In a word, yes. The spirit world and the entities in it exist in a different dimension, and when it suits them, they travel between this world and theirs. I live in a haunted house. Spirits tug the blankets off me when it’s cold just to hear me curse. They turn lights on and off to remind me they are there and ever so often, I hear them talking. I’m not psychic, but I darn sure believe there are people who are.”
“Crap,” Harper muttered.
Lydia wasn’t finished. “With regards to the legend of the Windwalkers appearing during times of crisis, there are actually legends in other cultures that are similar, and back up the possibility of a world crisis. You know how everyone has been freaking out about the Mayan prophecy since someone interpreted it as predicting the world end in December 2012.”
“Are you saying that’s not the case?” Harper asked.
Lydia frowned. “I’m drawing parallels in different ethnic mythologies, Mr. Harper, not making predictions about the end of the world.”
She got up from her desk and, once again, scanned the books shelves before pulling out another tome.
“This is a book of Gypsy legends. There is a similar prophecy written in here that predicts an event, similar to what might bring a Windwalker into this world.”
“What kind of prophecy?” Harper asked.
Lydia sat down and leafed through the pages until she found what she was looking for.
“Okay, this is from something called The Gypsy Chronicles written in the late 13th century, and predicting a catastrophic world collapse, although it does not date when it could happen.
It’s actually interesting to note that it was written around the same time that the Anasazi Indians disappeared.”
“The who?”
Lydia frowned. “Anasazi. A name given to Pueblo Indians who were supposedly as strong and vital an empire as the Mayans and Incans, and yet tens of thousands of them disappeared without a trace. No one has ever been able to do more than theorize as to what happened to them.”
“Well they’re already gone and I’m concerned about what’s happening now,” Harper said. “About that Gypsy prophecy, please read it,” Harper said.
Lydia nodded, and as she began to read, the words had a rhythm-like chant that made the prophecy quite eerie.
Sky turned dark.
Sun did die.
Earth was seared.
People cried.
Rivers bled out.
Mountains roared.
Trees shed leaves.
Heavens poured.
Run while you can
And don’t look back.
What was is gone,
You must make tracks.
Look for the cleft
Twixt earth and sky.
Go
far—Go deep
Or all will die.
Harper swallowed.
“That reads like some damn nuclear holocaust.”
Lydia looked up. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it? So are we hovering on the brink of a disaster of which only big governments are aware?”
Harper frowned. “Not that I know of.”
Lydia shrugged. “I shouldn’t have asked. You wouldn’t have told me even if it’s true, and your fifteen minutes are up.”
Harper swiftly shifted focus. “Look. This doesn’t help. It only adds to the confusion.”
“And that’s why it’s called a prophecy. It has yet to become a fact, Mr. Harper. Go tell the suits to leave Layla Birdsong alone. She can’t help you.”
“We’ll find that out for ourselves when we bring her in for questioning,” he snapped.
Lydia gasped. “You are seriously going to run down that woman and haul her into the nation’s capital as if she was guilty of some kind of treason? If they don’t laugh you out of a job, you’ll have the Bureau of Indian Affairs so far up your ass it’ll take a bulldozer to get them out.”
His eyes narrowed angrily. “Not if they don’t know it is happening.”
Lydia tapped her desk with the end of her finger. “Here’s something I do know. There is not one Native American living that is unaware of what just happened to Layla Birdsong. And the young ones, who might not know all there is to know about legend, have already been filled in by the tribal elders. If they know where she is, they’ll protect her. And, if the United States government sets foot on Indian land to look for her, you will have an uprising the likes of which you’ve never seen. A Windwalker is holy. Reservation land is sacrosanct, and the United States government has no authority or rights there.”
“But I thought you said the Windwalker’s coming was like a warning to the world?”
“Windwalkers are Native spirits. They help their people. We’re all on our own here.”
Harper’s eyes widened.
Lydia shrugged. “If you look at it from their viewpoint, it could be the ultimate payback for every treaty we broke, every acre of land that we stole, every innocent Indian who was killed in the name of progress over the past several hundred years. If you buy into the Windwalker theory, and if we’re about to blow ourselves up, then they’ll be the only ones who could ultimately survive it.”
Harper stood up. “This conversation will stay between you and me,” he said.
“Again, I am not your minion. Go play with your spies, Mr. Harper, and leave me to my students and my studies. If we’re all going to perish in the next few months, then we will perish. I just don’t want to know about it ahead of time.”
He strode out of her office, slamming the door behind him.
Lydia dropped into her chair, then leaned back and covered her face with her hands. She’d run a good bluff and he’d gone for it. But she was sick at heart and already making plans. She’d always wanted to go to Greece and had never taken the time. She’d given her entire adult life to the study of ancient prophecy, and after what she’d seen on that tape, she fully believed it was now or never.
***
Binini Island—West Indies
It was five minutes to midnight and Madam ReeRee had just walked naked out of the jungle into the light of the bonfire burning deep on the island. The flames were waist-high and roaring, sending a shower of sparks up into the air as she approached. Landan Prince was standing only a few feet away from the heat, waiting for the ritual to begin.
ReeRee knew Prince was as intrigued by her naked body as he was the power she claimed to possess, and she didn’t intend to disappoint him. She began to move, calling out to the dark ones as the weight of her breasts rolled from one side of her body to the other. It was a turn-on for Prince and she knew it. She was role-playing now, rolling her eyes and moaning and stomping, leading him to believe that’s what she did to bring up the dark ones. What he didn’t know—would never know—was how the true rituals worked. That was for her. This was for show.
Prince kept her in fine food and a house superior to any other locals on the island, so when he wanted to play with the spirits, she happily obliged. It was, however, her personal opinion that the man was a fool. Even though she had never called up the devil for him, Prince thought she did, and in a way he gave life to the promises he made to dark entities by simply speaking them aloud, without caution or care for the day when his reckoning would come.
Earlier today he’d shown her a video that was frightening and puzzling, even for her. She knew nothing of Native American spirits, but none of the spirits she conjured were remotely capable of this. This was big magic—magic she wanted no part of. And yet Prince was here, demanding answers for questions he had yet to ask. So tonight, a chicken would die. Beyond that, she made no promises.
***
Prince had a remarkable hard-on. It was a side-effect of the adrenaline surge he felt during these ceremonies and always wondered why he never thought of bringing a female with him until it was too late. Maybe his lapse was subconscious; knowing the personal power he gained would be sapped by giving it away through sex.
ReeRee was in fine form tonight, already communing with the spirit side. He wanted the spirits to tell him where Layla Birdsong was hiding. If he had her, he would have access to the entity that had spirited her away, and that would give him untold power.
He already knew she taught school on a Navajo reservation in Arizona, and that she’d checked out of the hospital in New Orleans and left with family. He also knew the United States government was looking for her, which meant he had to be careful. He got away with what he did because he made it a point to never be a physical presence at the scenes of his acquisitions or piss off foreign governments.
All of a sudden ReeRee shrieked.
Every muscle in his body tensed as she picked up a chicken and wrung its neck. When she swung the carcass toward him, lacing his clothes with fresh, warm blood, he froze.
She tossed the carcass aside. It was flopping in death throes as she flung its head into the smoke and began to move around the fire in a wild, frantic rhythm—stomping her feet in the blood and the dirt—chanting incantations in her native patois.
He closed his eyes and opened his mind; ready for whatever she conjured to come in.
***
Niyol liked the feel of heat and wind upon his face. With the woman’s breasts against his back and the tight grip she had around his waist—only inches from his manhood—it was a struggle to stay focused. It had been a long time since he’d walked in the human world, and he was hungering for all that it offered, including this woman. He’d already given her a taste of what their union would be like, but he was anxious to experience it as well. Much was riding on how well he prepared her for what was coming, and wasting time with bodily pleasures would have to be carefully paced.
She didn’t know, but he could hear her thoughts. He also felt the power of her energy. She had a warrior’s heart. It would be important that she stay strong when it mattered most.
A rabbit darted out of some scrub brush as they flew past, a narrow miss in becoming road-kill.
Niyol threw back his head and laughed. He’d felt the rabbit’s heart skitter to a stop and then thump forcefully as it leaped. Odd little creature, but he remembered they had a good taste.
The roar of the engine was loud in Layla’s ears, and yet she still heard the sound of his laughter and smiled without knowing why it happened.
You will love me.
Layla’s smile froze. Dear God. Was that a promise or a warning?
It will not matter. It will be what it will be.
Again, the simplicity of his answer was what calmed her. He was right. Like water, love found its own level.
***
They rode without stopping until almost noon. Layla was faint from pa
in and hunger when he suddenly aimed for a line of small trees down in the canyon and rolled the bike to a stop. After the roar of the wind and engine, the silence was startling.
She slid off the back of the seat and then staggered to the shade and dropped. He was beside her within seconds, water in one hand and food in another.
Layla was unable to read his expression and gratefully took what he offered. The water wasn’t cold, but it didn’t matter. It was enough to wash down a pain pill. The bread was fresh, the jerky smoked and salty. It reminded her of the deer jerky she and her mother used to make for family snacks when she was growing up.
He sat down beside her and ate like he was starving. All of a sudden he looked up at her and smiled. She forgot to breathe.
“Starving. Isn’t that what you say when it’s been a long time since you last ate?”
She nodded.
He laughed, his teeth white against his sun-toned skin.
“Then yes, I am starving. It has been at least five hundred of your years since food has passed my lips.”
Layla thought he was kidding until she realized not only had he commented on what she’d been thinking, but that meant he must have, once again, read her freaking mind. That was something she needed to remember.
“So how does this work?” she asked, as she tore off another bite of bread with her fingers and put it in her mouth.
“This? You mean us? Why I am here with you like this?”
She was about to nod an assent when all of a sudden her food went flying and she was flat on her back in the sand. His hands were around her neck and she could feel the heat from his breath.
“When you are good enough, fast enough, deadly enough, to not only see an attack like this coming, but defend yourself against it and kill your enemy, it will mean that you are ready for what comes next. It is then that I will leave you.”
Layla’s heart was hammering so hard against her ribcage that it was hard to breathe. She slammed her hands against his shoulders and pushed him back and then off, picked up her food and began angrily brushing off the dirt.
