by Trisha Telep
“I am sorry for you,” Hana said then. “I wish he was a kind man, like Isuke.”
“It will help the village. I am only one woman, after all. And if I die in Kenzo’s care, Father will have a legitimate grievance. The Tanaka will owe him blood money, so my death may serve better than my life.”
“All the same,” her stepmother said. “It is not my wish for you.”
“Nor mine. But we cannot have our dreams come true.”
If she could, a golden-haired godling would come to smite her enemies and carry her away to his palace in the sky. Instead she sat still while Hana finished her hair and pronounced her ready. “There has never been a prettier bride.”
Untrue. But she forced a smile; she would not wear her misery openly. She was the only living daughter of Isuke of Nakamura, and she would honour him by going to her fate with courage. As Kenzo’s wife, she would not live long. She had antagonized him and shown she had too much spirit, too much of her own mind.
It was hard to contemplate her own death. Rei stood, raised her chin, and followed Hana out of the hut. But as she trod the petal-strewn ground, she heard the call for the second time, like a flute inside her head and trilling in her veins.
He had come. Against all odds, he had come. If she fled with him, the village would suffer. They needed her to seal the peace with Tanaka. Rei shook her head; she had never craved the role of martyr. Then she lifted the hem of her wedding robe and began to run.
Nine
Death. In an agonizing eternity, Camael felt all he was cease to be. The cessation of his divine self hurt more than he could have imagined; as though Seraphiel had rammed the Sword of Judgment through the middle of his soul and he’d come away lesser and smaller. That might be an apt comparison.
Covered in blood, he pushed shakily to his feet. As before, he was naked, and it was cold. But this time, he felt it. The flesh he wore felt heavy and awkward, a meat cage that housed his spirit. Camael took stock of his surroundings, and with some amazement, he realized he’d Fallen beside the river, where he first saw beauty. Of the others, he found no sign. Were they to be punished then by spending an eternity of exile alone with their sins? He longed to see the rest of his host and beg their forgiveness for what his desire had cost them.
He had no way of knowing how long it had been, how long he had suffered in earthly terms. It might have been years, again. She might have forgotten him. He knelt beside the water and washed as best he could. That done, he knew he could not leave this place without learning the truth. Rei was the reason he was here. It was unthinkable to go into exile without knowing.
Now, he needed a fire for warmth instead of comfort, but time might be short. Closing his eyes, he sent the call. While he waited, the chill sank in, raising bumps on his flesh. How he wished he had something to cover himself. He had once thought humans did it to hide their shame, but now he saw there was a more practical reason.
The waiting seemed endless.
And then he heard the soft crackle of dry plants crushed beneath running footfalls. Camael was in no condition to fight, but he recognized her movements even before she burst into sight around the bend in the river. Rei wore a complex robe, layered in sashes, and her hair had been intricately arranged.
“We must go quickly,” she said, breathless. “I will be missed soon.”
Go where? She knew more about this world than he did. Camael had no idea where they might be safe from her pursuers. The only place he could find readily would be the cave where they had sheltered together and made love. Though he was vague on the concept of distance, that would not be far enough away. His whole body burned with cold, and he could not think.
She drew up, staring at him with furrowed brow. Her dark eyes raked him head to toe, taking in the differences. “You’re real this time.”
“Yes,” he said. “I will not be leaving you again.”
Rei froze, terror dawning on her lovely face. “I need you to take me away from here. They will kill you. And me.” But it was clear from her expression, she feared more for him.
Camael went to her then, his uncertainty easing. He took her in his arms. “Fear not. Though I have Fallen, I am not powerless.”
In his heart, he sensed the scales Seraphiel had inflicted on him, weighing the generosity of her spirit against the circumstances surrounding her. The verdict was clear; Rei deserved to be happy – and she was not. Camael sensed the bruises on her back, more serious than the ones he’d healed on her arms. Someone had hurt her and would do worse, if he permitted it.
But he could make her happy. Perhaps he twisted the spirit of the intent, but the Seraphim had given him room to make his own judgments. And so he would.
But before he could make any plans, he heard the sounds of pursuit. These footfalls were unfamiliar to him, but Rei stilled in his arms. Her upturned face reflected pure dread; she thought him helpless.
“Run,” she begged.
The man who burst into sight carried a curved blade. Like Rei, he was dressed in formal regalia, his long black hair upswept. And Camael knew he was also the monster who hurt her. Guilt and fury bled from him in red-black rays, surrounding him like a tainted sun. This one did not deserve joy – and Camael had the power to sever him from all possibility of attaining it.
“I knew you had taken a lover,” the angry beast spat. “And he is not even of our people. You shame your father, Reika.”
She glared at him. “Do not call me that, Kenzo! You have no right.”
“How will you stop me? I have all the power. I am the Tanaka’s firstborn, and I have been wronged. No one will speak a word in protest when I order the two of you executed. See how your beloved cowers.”
Camael stepped away and gently set her from him. He spoke to Kenzo. “You have brought nothing but misery, even to your father. Your mother died bearing you. You are the very soul of grief.”
For the first time, the other appeared shaken. But he rallied, raising his sword. “Words. You have only words.” And Kenzo charged.
Camaek raised his arm and plucked the air with his fingers, latching on to the immortal part of the man who hurt Rei and took pleasure in it. Instead of silver or gold, his life-thread unravelled black and red like the aura blazing around him. This was the right thing; the scales in his heart agreed. It was a fair judgment. With one final tug, he drew the soul out and set it wafting in the air. Its weight would decide its final destination. As with all mortal spirits, it tried to soar, but sin weighted it down, and Kenzo’s soul drifted down into the earth and beyond his knowledge. His body fell, empty and lifeless. The sword clattered to the ground.
“There will be war.” Rei sounded numb. Not with grief, but shock. “What magic have you that you can slay a man with a turn of your wrist?”
“Only that of judgment. He stood in the way of your happiness.”
“And you think his murder will bring me contentment? What manner of monster are you?” She backed away, her slippers sliding on the damp grass.
“Did you love me better when I was not real?”
“I think I did not know you at all.”
“Yet I Fell for you. I gave up everything. You said you would do the same. Did you lie, Rei?”
A sob broke from her. “I – no. No matter what you have done, no matter what it costs me, I love you still. My heart beats for you, whatever dark thing you are.”
Camael smiled, aching for her. She was still – and always would be – the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. “It will cost you nothing. Watch.”
He knelt beside the dead man and touched his fingers to his face. It was a simple task, hardly more than a flicker of energy. When he stood, he was Kenzo. He stripped the robes, dressed, and took the man’s sword, and then he nudged the body into the river. The water claimed it.
“You will take his place,” she breathed. “There will be peace.”
“None will ever know but you. Does this bring you joy?”
“Yes. I never imagined I
could keep my home and be with you. I thought there would be a terrible choice.”
There was, Camael thought. And I made it for you.
She kissed him with all the passion she had given him before. Now he could have it for a lifetime. Her lifetime. He would accept the consequences later; he knew now what punishment Seraphiel intended for him. His damnation would be deferred. In centuries to come, he must find the rest of his host – and possibly Gabriel as well – but he would make her happy while he could. Such a short time. How diabolical the leader of the Seraphim – and how clever. But today was not for suffering. Not today.
“Let us marry,” he said aloud to Rei. “I think that is why we are dressed so.”
Her smile nearly blinded him with its delight. Taking his hand, she led him towards the village and their life.
Spirit of the Prairie
Shirley Damsgaard
R.J. Baxter stood on the bluff overlooking the waving prairie grass and cursed fate. A reporter for The News Courier in Michael’s Creek, South Dakota, her editor had sent her out to do yet another “fluff” story. The opening of a cultural center on the Talltree Reservation stretching out before her.
She’d done her research. She knew all about the “lost generation” of Native American children – children who had been rounded up back in the 1940s and carted off to schools run by white missionaries. It had been an attempt at forced assimilation into the white culture and had failed. Its victims were left with feelings of not belonging to either society. When they were finally allowed to return to their people, they knew nothing of their heritage or language. Alcoholism ran rampant. Now their grandchildren were trying to change all that by instilling pride in the next generation, and the new cultural center was the means.
R.J. didn’t need another human-interest story. She needed a juicy murder, a natural disaster, a political scandal – anything to get her out of the bush leagues and bring her work to the attention of a major newspaper. She had talent, but it was wasted writing endless stories about church bazaars and one-candidate elections whose outcome was long decided before the first vote was ever cast.
Ambition sizzled through her as she looked to the heavens and raised her fist. “Give me something, anything,” she cried to the endless stretch of sky.
A crack of thunder drew her attention to the far horizon. Boiling clouds rolled across the prairie as lightning flashed sideways. If she didn’t get back to town and the motel that she’d spotted nestled amid the pawnshops, the bars and the convenience stores, she’d be caught in the rain storm.
With a hurried step, she turned then paused. Her scalp tingled. Someone watched her. Whirling, she searched the landscape. Nothing. Empty except for a lone pine tree to the right of the bluff.
Suddenly its branches trembled, and a huge white owl emerged from behind the thick needles. Unblinking yellow eyes glowed across the distance. Seconds ticked by as it stared at R.J., then with a screech, it lifted its massive wings and launched itself skyward. The storm forgotten, R.J. watched while it soared higher and higher, becoming smaller and smaller, until it disappeared completely into the dark clouds. Shaking herself out of it, she rushed to her Jeep and sped off down the road while the clouds chased after her.
When she reached the town sitting at the edge of the reservation, she whipped into the only motel in sight, bouncing across its empty parking lot. Not the best place she’d ever stayed. The neon sign flickered hypnotically – on and off, on and off, on and off. The doors to each unit looked like they’d recently received a coat of new red paint, but the rest of the building was faded and peeling. With a shrug, R.J. grabbed her purse and ran into the motel office.
A young man sat at an old desk located behind the counter. Holding some kind of computer game in his hand, at first he was oblivious to R.J. When he did notice her, a flare of expectation lit his face only to die instantly.
“What do you want?” he asked in a surly voice, taking in her dark brown hair and brown eyes.
“A room, please,” she replied, approaching the counter.
With a frown, he returned his attention to his game. “We’re full,” he said while his thumbs moved quickly over the keyboard.
Smacking her purse on the counter, R.J. leaned forward. “Then where are all the cars?”
“Sorry.”
Great, the storm was almost upon them – the kid wasn’t going to rent her a room. What did she do now?
She hadn’t reached a decision yet when a door at the back of the tiny office opened. An older man strode out. He took one look at the kid, one at R.J., then noticed her Jeep visible through the office windows. His hand shot out and he gave the kid a whap on the back of his head.
“Put that thing away,” he said, glaring down at the young man. “Can’t you see we have a customer?”
“But Gramps, you said not to rent rooms to—”
Another whomp to the kid’s head silenced him. “You idiot. They don’t drive Jeeps with out-of-county plates.” The man looked at R.J. and gave her a toothy grin. “Sorry about my grandson,” he said, sidling up to the counter. “He’d rather be playing that damn game than doin’ what he’s paid for. Go fold those towels in the back room,” he called sharply over his shoulder.
Without a word, the teen stood and shambled out the back door.
“Need a room, Missy?” the older man asked hopefully.
R.J. thought about telling him he could take his rude grandson and his seedy motel and shove it, but another crack of thunder changed her mind. The idea of searching for another motel during a deluge was less appealing than staying here.
“Yes,” she replied, pulling out her driver’s license and credit card.
The man studied it, comparing the picture to R.J. “Ruth Baxter from Michael’s Creek, hey?”
“Actually, I go by R.J.” She picked up a pen and read the form. “I’ll need it for at least three nights, maybe more.”
Avarice shone in the man’s eyes. “Three nights?” He swiftly ran her card and handed it back to her. “What are you doin’ in this neck of the woods for three nights?”
“I’m a reporter for The News Courier,” she said quickly, filling out the form.
“A reporter, huh? What’s around these parts worth reportin’ on?”
Man, this guy was chatty. But what could it hurt letting him know why she was here?
With a sigh, she handed him her registration. “The new cultural center.”
A frown crossed his face. “Yeah? Would’ve been better for everyone if old Jon Swifthawk and that grandson of his would’ve left well enough alone and let them build a casino.”
Her reporter’s curiosity perked. “A casino?”
“Yup. A casino would’ve brought a lot more tourists than some ratty cultural center. But oh no, Swifthawk had to convince the Council that gambling would only corrupt the young.” He gave a mean snort. “Like they need any—” He suddenly broke off and handed her a key. “Number nine, the one clear at the end.” His eye twitched in a wink. “That way you won’t be bothered by all the comin’ and goin’ next door.”
She wasn’t interested in the bar in the next building, whose parking lot, unlike that of the motel, was full. No, she wanted to hear more about Jon Swifthawk. Taking the key, she glanced down at it, before giving the man a speculative look. “Tell me more about this Jon Swifthawk? Is he someone important?”
“Humph, thinks he is,” he exclaimed, “And his grandson. If you ask me . . .” He paused and a look akin to fear crossed his face. “Hey wait a second – you’re not goin’ ta quote me are you?”
“Not if you don’t want me to,” R.J. assured him. “You were saying – Jon Swifthawk’s grandson?”
He turned away from the counter and crossed back to the rickety desk. “Never mind. None of my business about what goes on out there,” he said firmly. “Enjoy your stay.”
Giving up on quizzing him further, she hurried out the door and to her Jeep. She had just parked in front of her room
when the first raindrops hit. She reached in the back seat, jerked out her laptop and ran to the door. Once inside, she placed the laptop on the small desk and flipped on the light. Her heart dropped. This was worse than she’d expected.
The room smelled musty and unused, and the floor was carpeted wall to wall in avocado green. Several suspicious dark stains stood out against the putrid color. R.J. refused to let her mind contemplate what might have caused them. A mismatched bedspread was flung across what looked like a very uncomfortable mattress. Above it hung a reproduction of some Frederick Remington print. If the picture had been meant to give the room a touch of class, it had failed miserably. Cheapened by the rest of the décor, it only looked sad.
With a shudder, R.J. crossed the room to take a look at the bathroom. A stool, a shower, a sink in a vanity scarred by cigarette burns met her gaze.
“Won’t be any chocolate mints on the pillow in this dive,” she muttered to herself.
The sudden ring of her cellphone startled her. Crossing to the bed, she pulled it out of her bag. Her lips twisted in a frown. Mom. With a sigh, she flipped it open.
“Hi.”
“Where are you?” her mother asked without preamble.
“I explained last week,” she answered, trying to hide her exasperation. “I’ve been assigned to write a story about—”
Her mother broke in. “You’re going to be home in time for your sister’s baby shower, aren’t you?”
“I’ll try.”
“Trying isn’t good enough. You know how important this is to Dee.” Her voice took on a distinctive whine. “Do you realize how disappointed she’ll be if you’re not there? And the neighbors? What will they think if—” She stopped. “What did you say?”
“Nothing,” R.J. mumbled into the phone. The truth was Dee could not care less if she attended her shower, and R.J. had inadvertently said as much, but thankfully her mother had been too busy with her rant to catch it.
