Runner: Book II of The Chosen

by Roh Morgon

He’s like nothing I’ve ever known.

  FRIDAY

  CHAPTER 45

  It’s late afternoon when my eyes drift open. I listen for movement from the bedrooms, but the house is silent.

  We’d ridden until almost sunrise, wandering aimlessly it seemed. After we got back to the house, there’d been no further discussion—about Chia’s escapade in the alley or my origins. In fact, the three of them sounded like some kind of creepy Walton family as they headed toward their bedrooms with comments of “’Til the morrow, Chi” and “Catch ya on the flip side, Redd.”

  Well, two of them, anyway. Taz’s only input to the exchange was his customary grunt as he closed his door.

  It was even weirder when Redd included me with a “Fare thee well, lass.” It made me want to respond with, “Good night, John Boy.” But, afraid they might not understand the reference to the old TV show, especially the volatile Chia, I kept my reply to a simple, “G’night.”

  I can be such a chicken sometimes.

  However, this afternoon I feel brave enough to chance a shower. The bathroom cabinet reveals clean towels, and the well-stocked laundry room even includes enzyme cleaner—a Chosen staple for removing bloodstains.

  Grabbing my shirt from the garage, I strip off the rest of my clothes and dump them in the washing machine. Though my black jeans don’t show evidence of yesterday’s hunt, one leg is stiff with dried blood and they stink of deer. The idea of putting them back on after my shower sounds disgusting.

  I mull over last night’s events beneath the cleansing spray, perplexed by Taz and his efforts to blend in with human society. Something, or someone, is obviously keeping him on his best behavior when around people, because I’m not sure he’d care otherwise. I finish up and get out, no closer to solving his puzzle.

  With the towel tucked around me, I transfer my clothes to the dryer and head back to the bathroom. I’m picking the tangles from my wet hair when a bedroom door opens.

  Taz pads into the bathroom, barefooted and shirtless, apparently not realizing it’s occupied. He stops and steps back, nonplussed, then a smile creeps its way across his face. Slowly stretching his arms upward, he hooks his fingers on the top of the doorframe, his gaze traveling up and down my towel-wrapped body.

  I focus on my image in the mirror and try not to look at his, at his washboard abs, his sculpted arms and shoulders. My hair snaps as I jerk on a stubborn knot.

  “Nice. I like waking up to a naked woman.”

  I want to rip the smirk from his face, but instead, I clutch the towel, half-afraid he might yank it off. Before I can think of a retort, the dryer buzzes, giving me a reason to escape. Taz shows no sign of moving aside at first, but relents when I shoo him back with a wave of my hand. Grabbing the comb, I slip by him, holding on to the towel for dear life, and duck into the laundry room.

  “Wanna come wash my back?” he calls from the bathroom. He waits a half moment, then laughs and shuts the door. The sound of the shower triggers an image of him beneath the water as I retrieve my still-damp clothes. I slam the dryer door in an attempt to chase him from my head and focus on getting dressed before anyone else catches me half-naked.

  Taz is such a Jekyll-and-Hyde. I don’t know which one is worse—the tortured, angry monster with violence in his veins, or the teasing schoolboy yanking on my braids. But both are beginning to get under my skin, and I don’t like it.

  I’m on the couch finishing my hair when the bathroom door opens. I resist looking in his direction and nearly fall out of my seat when he silently looms over me, wearing nothing but a towel wound around his powerful hips. Which happen to be at my eye level. I tear my gaze away from that towel and look up.

  Two hundred-plus pounds of bare-chested, muscled Indian completely scrambles my brain. All I can do is stare.

  The smirk returns to tap dance across his lips. Taz pushes back his wet, tangled hair, hanging nearly to his waist, and I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

  “Done with my comb?” he says, his voice low, seductive.

  “Uh. Sure.” I fumble for it on my lap, but end up knocking it onto the floor. It lands between my feet.

  As I reach for it, so does he. I get a closeup of beefy shoulder and bicep as his hand darts to the floor between my knees. His clean, masculine scent fills the air around me, and if he were to grab me right now, I… I don’t know what I’d do.

  But he only grabs the comb. Then he looks up at me, just inches away. His golden eyes glowing, his eyebrows arch in invitation, then he smiles and stands up. Smug self-assurance drifts lazily across his face. He steps away and tosses his hair back, then with a quiet laugh, he leaves.

  “Sonya.”

  It takes a second to register he’s talking to me.

  “Yeah,” I croak.

  “Close your mouth. You look like a baby bird waiting for a worm.”

  Mortified, I snap my jaw shut.

  Asshole.

  Taz re-emerges from his bedroom, but I ignore him, focusing instead on the biker magazine in my lap. Yet I can’t help being interested when he leaves through the back door in the laundry room.

  The musky smell of deer on him the night before last still has me reeling. An unwelcome thrill runs through me at the thought of hunting with him.

  This has to stop. I need to get away from him and his damned animal magnetism.

  A possible solution to my problem announces itself when a bedroom door opens and Redd shuffles into the room, his wild, coppery hair sticking out in all directions. He stops, looses a noisy yawn, then scratches his belly. He’s still wearing the denim shirt with the pea-sized bloodstain from the bar last night, rumpled from his daytime slumber. A wide grin breaks through his beard.

  Maybe Redd will give me a ride back to my hotel under the guise of picking up some clean clothes. If I can’t convince him to take me to Alina, I’ll ditch him and come up with a new game plan. But at least I’ll have my car.

  “Evenin’, lass.” He thumbs back down the hall. “Is Taz up?”

  “He went out back.”

  Redd nods, but before I can propose my idea to him, he heads out the laundry room door.

  Crap. Getting him alone might be difficult.

  As usual, his diminutive sidekick isn’t far behind him. Chia’s door opens and, suppressing a groan, I brace myself.

  “Shit. You still here? What the fuck is Taz thinking?” She glares at me, then an evil smile lightens up her face. “Oh, wait. That is what he’s thinking. Fucking. You. Wish you two would get it over with so we can get rid of you.”

  “I’m not interested in—” I start to stand, the magazine crumpling in my fist.

  “Eh, save it. I don’t give a rat’s ass. I just hope he lets me use you for target practice before he kills you.”

  Little bitch.

  But before I can voice a response, she disappears into the garage.

  I fling the magazine across the room. I have no idea why she’s so hostile to me, but it’s beginning to tick me off.

  Following Redd’s path into the laundry room, I step outside through the back door into near total darkness. A tall, wooden fence, its sun-bleached boards exposed between ragged patches of peeling brown paint, encloses the expansive yard. Rusty frames and parts reveal a motorcycle cemetery in the far left corner. A dead lawn, its pale brown grass dotted with dried weeds and patches of bare soil, occupies the central area. And to the right, what looks to be a small workshop, stray slivers of light escaping its blanket-covered windows. An older black pickup truck bearing South Dakota plates is parked beside the building, and next to it, a camper shell on extended legs and a motorcycle trailer.

  Voices drift across the darkened yard from the shop. Curious as to what they might be talking about, I quietly close the door and step nearer to listen.

  “Taz, we’ve wasted enough time tailing her. She seems harmless enough. Why don’t we just take her in and be done with it? Get back to business as usual.”

 
; “I’ll take her in when I’m damned good and ready. We still know nothin’ about her. There’s too much that doesn’t add up, Redd. I’m not letting an assassin slip through on my watch.”

  “You sure that’s all it is? I mean, who wouldn’t want a taste of that?”

  A deep growl, punctuated with the sound of something heavy crashing against the floor, jars me back from the door.

  “Hey, bro. Calm down. She’s all yours. Wouldn’t touch something you already claimed. You know that.”

  His? He’s claimed me?

  I’m no one’s property, least of all his.

  Seething, I reach for the doorknob.

  It starts to turn from the inside and I suddenly panic at being caught eavesdropping. I dart back to the house, then pivot as though I’m just coming outside.

  The shop door opens and fluorescent light frames Redd’s bulk in the doorway.

  “Just be careful, bro. We got a good thing goin’ here—don’t mess it up.”

  He shuts the door and looks up as he heads in my direction.

  “If you’re lookin’ for Taz, lass, he’s in there. Knock before you go in—he’s a bit testy tonight.”

  I nod. But as he starts to walk past me into the house, I touch his arm. After what I heard, it’s doubtful that smoky seduction will work, but sweet and innocent might.

  “Wait, Redd. There’s something I want to ask you. A favor.”

  Copper eyebrows arch over his russet eyes as he stops.

  “What is it, lass?”

  “I’d like to pick up some clean clothes from my motel. Can you take me?”

  His smile softens and a warm light shines from his eyes.

  “As much as I’d like to, that’s up to Taz. You’ll have to ask him.”

  He pats my hand and heads into the house.

  Shit.

  Don’t know if that line will work on Taz, but one thing’s for sure.

  I suspect getting away from that hawk-like bottled violence will be a lot harder than running from laid-back Redd.

  Sounds of hammering from the shop disrupt my inner debate, and the chance to learn more about my captor—because it finally sinks in that’s who he really is—puts my game plan on hold. I just hope what I learn will help in my escape.

  I take Redd’s advice and knock on the door first.

  “Come in.”

  Lulled by the unkempt state of the backyard, I’m once again surprised to find a refuge for cleanliness and order. Yet that external order is belied by the internal chaos of emotions in his eyes when he looks up at me.

  His jaw clenches and he turns back to the workbench in front of him. He adjusts a small silver ring around a conical form and begins hammering again with a leather-headed mallet, the silver cuff on his wrist flashing beneath the work light. Long braid bouncing against his back with each blow, his muscles ripple beneath his black tank top and my earlier indignation evaporates.

  It occurs to me that perhaps he’s having as difficult a time maintaining his distance as I am. Maybe anger helps him keep that distance.

  I wander slowly around the shop, noting the bars covering the inside of all the blanketed windows. Music from the ’60s band The Doors quietly drifts out from ceiling-mounted speakers. To my right, a small bookcase squats against the far wall in one corner, fronted by several large floor pillows on a dark brown fur rug similar to the one in his bedroom.

  The titles focus on craftsmanship, like silversmithing, drum and flute making, and welding. One shelf is dedicated to books about various Native American tribes and their customs. Another is devoted to spiritual-based works, with subjects such as vision quests and shamanism. A lone book on dreamwalking lies on top of the bookcase.

  Along the same wall, a second bookcase holds a collection of Native American flutes in all shapes and sizes, and in the other corner rest several hide-covered tribal drums and a short wooden stool.

  The wall opposite the entrance is home to a shiny, blood-red Harley with a wide back tire and cannon-sized exhaust pipes. As I look closer, I realize the inky black frame forms a skeleton. Bony feet anchor the rear tire, and skeletal arms and hands hold the front. The red tank and single seat rests on the skeleton’s back, and the headlight emerges from the fanged mouth of a grinning black skull.

  It looks like something the Devil would ride.

  Creeped out, I turn back to where Taz is working. Most of the wall is lined with a single long workbench and built-in cabinets beneath. Tools, many of which I don’t recognize, occupy pegboard hooks between more cabinets above the bench. The end closest to the door seems to be devoted to leather working, and at the other end, near the bike, is a mechanic’s wheeled tool chest.

  As I survey the bench top around Taz, something shiny catches my eye. I glance at him and step over to get a better look at it.

  It’s a silver necklace. My necklace.

  My hand flies to my throat, and of course the necklace is not there.

  I remember taking it off before I got in the shower, and forgot about it when I fled the tiny bathroom filled with too much Indian.

  “Why do you have this?” I pick it up by the chain. The filigree pendant flashes beneath an overhead work light.

  “Here. Give me your right hand.”

  I hesitate, then tuck the necklace into my pocket and hold my hand out.

  Taz slips the ring onto my middle finger. It catches on the knuckle and barely goes past it. It’s really too tight, but before I can say anything or even get a good look at it, he tugs it back off. He slides it down a tapered metal rod, taps on it a few times, then grabs my hand again.

  His total concentration on his project reminds me of how he was last night dealing with Chia’s near-murder of the young biker.

  When the ring fits perfectly the second time, he nods, then starts putting away his tools.

  I take off the ring and examine it. The top, where stones would normally be mounted, is a round disk, about the size of a dime and slightly domed. A paw print of a mountain lion is cut out in the middle, the toes and central pad forming separate windows into the hollow, blackened interior of the ring. Engraved deer tracks lead halfway down the tapering sides of the band. The smooth, flat underside of the disc bears a capital T with two round dots below the base of the letter. Like fang marks.

  When I look up, Taz is watching me. I need to be careful here—I’m not sure about the meaning of his gift, and I don’t want to encourage him. I would like to keep my head attached, though, so refusing the ring is probably not a good idea. I opt for light-hearted sarcasm.

  “Does this mean we’re going steady?”

  He snorts and takes the ring. Picking up a small amber vial topped by an eyedropper, he unscrews the lid and squeezes several golden drops into the interior of the ring, then hands both vial and ring back to me.

  “This’ll be easier than fishin’ for that necklace.”

  Closer examination of the interior reveals a small piece of black suede covering the bottom. I take a quick whiff of the ring, expecting a noxious smell. But the earthy scent, with hints of sage and something else I can’t identify, smells good. I hold it closer and breathe in deeply. An immediate sense of calm descends over me, releasing some of the tension that’s been building since I hooked up with these three Chosen.

  “What’s in this?” I smell it again, and my muscles relax a little more.

  “Desert herbs and oils. An old Hopi medicine man helped me with it.”

  “Wow. Thanks. It feels like it’ll work way better than stinky clove oil.” I slip the ring back on, then raise my knuckles to my nose several times. Taz is right. This will be much easier than dealing with the necklace. “The design style… it looks familiar.”

  Then I realize why. It’s the same style as the wide silver cuffs encircling his wrists, though his designs are different. Eagles soar across his silver in various flight positions, alternating with jagged bolts of lightning on one arm and flat-bottomed clouds with slanting lines beneath them on the ot
her. All are windowed cutouts above a black interior, like the paw print on my ring, and finely crafted. An image of Taz with his arms folded, a position he favors, suddenly takes on a different meaning. It would bring the cuffs with their calming scent that much closer to his nose.

  “It’s a Hopi technique that I adapted.” His voice startles me and I look up into his sharp gaze.

  “It’s beautiful. Are you Hopi?”

  “No.” But he offers nothing further.

  “Well, you do nice work. Thank you.”

  “Can’t have you fangin’ out like a newborn when things get a little tight.” But his dismissive tone doesn’t hide the pleased expression on his face, nor the confident pride in the set of his shoulders as he ushers me out the door.

  My footsteps slow as a memory surfaces of the last time I was given jewelry. The images flip by like a slideshow, ending with round blue sapphires and petite white diamonds bouncing across a polished hardwood floor. Their brittle sound as each one hits echoes in my head.

  Nicolas had given me that bracelet. He’d said the sapphires paled beside my eyes.

  I broke it.

  And then a bear broke me. And my life changed forever. Again.

  “Sonya.”

  Caught up in the past, I look up to see Taz waiting at the open door into the house.

  “You comin’ in?” He’s frowning, aggravation replacing his earlier pride.

  “Uh, no. Not yet. I… I’ll be in shortly.”

  His frown deepens and he shuts the door hard behind him.

  The cool night breeze reminds me of Colorado and I hug myself.

  Nicolas had the bracelet fixed, adding emeralds for his emerald green eyes. The precious gems nestled against one another.

  Green emerald. Blue sapphire. Green. Blue. Him. Me.

  I didn’t break it.

  I broke us.

  Nicolas . . .

  The slideshow continues, each image hinting at a future which I’d so carelessly thrown away. A future—though it bore its own set of challenges—in which I was not alone.

  Fighting the pressure building in my eyes, I turn around and step back behind the shop, hoping no one’s watching from the house. Silent sobs rack my body as I hug myself tighter and try to imagine his arms around me once again.