by Sharon Sala
At the same time, his phone began to ring. It was bound to be Hicks. He already knew he didn’t want to hear what the man had to say.
“Hicks?”
The man’s voice was shaking and hoarse, as if he’d been screaming for hours. “Goddamn…. Goddamn…we’re coming in the back way. Unlock the fuckin’ doors!”
Bourdain dropped the phone and ran toward the back of the house. By the time he got there, there were three men coming toward the house at a dead run, dragging another between them, while birds dived at them from all directions, pecking at their faces, ripping their clothes with their claws, tearing out chunks of their hair. He could hear them screaming from where he stood.
When they were fifty feet from the door, a massive California condor came out of nowhere in a full dive, hit the man next to Hicks with its massive talons and took off his head. A geyser of blood sprayed up into the air a second before the man dropped to the ground. His body was still kicking, but he was undeniably dead.
“Sweet Mother of God,” Bourdain whispered, and began backing up.
“Open the door! Open the door!” Hicks screamed.
Bourdain stood there long enough to see a huge bird diving toward the windows, then bolted. The sound of shattering glass followed his retreat. Seconds later, he heard the door bang against the wall, then screams and curses followed him as they all ran toward the inner rooms of the mansion.
Windows shattered as they ran past, showering them with broken glass and filling their ears with the infernal shrieks and calls of nature in a rampage.
Bourdain hit the floor just before his face was peppered with glass, then covered his head with his hands.
The other men were in the room with him now, screaming at him, telling him that he had to let the Indian go or they were all going to die.
Birds were diving at him now in wild abandon, flogging him with their wings, nailing him with their talons and beaks. Like the others, he began screaming and cursing. He rolled over, then grabbed a cushion from the sofa and put it over his head.
“Turn him loose! Turn him loose!” he screamed.
“He’s already loose. Make him leave!” Hicks screamed back.
Bourdain turned, and then everything seemed to happen in slow motion as he found himself staring into the eyes of the man who’d saved his life.
The birds were everywhere, flying so close together that it seemed as if all the air had gone from the room.
“Get out! Get out!” Bourdain shouted, then dropped the cushion and covered his face as birds clawed at his eyes. “Make them stop! Oh God…make them stop!”
The Indian didn’t move, didn’t speak, and then, to Bourdain’s horror, seemed to levitate right off the floor.
The man’s long black hair suddenly billowed off his shoulders and flew out behind him as if he’d walked into a strong wind. He lifted his arms over his head and then turned in a circle, speaking words that the other men couldn’t hear. Within seconds, the room was empty. Outside, the sky was clear, and the silence that fell over them was now more frightening than the noise that had come before.
The Indian looked at Bourdain.
“You murdered my father.”
Bourdain shuddered. “I didn’t…it wasn’t supposed—” He took a deep breath and then started over. “I’m worth millions. I can pay—”
He watched an expression of disbelief spread over the younger man’s face.
“You think your money will make my father’s death okay?”
“No. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t mean for—”
Jonah Gray Wolf pointed a finger in Bourdain’s face. “You caused this,” he said, then started retracing his steps toward the exit.
“Wait! You can’t just—”
The Indian turned, then pointed a finger straight at Bourdain again. The fury in his eyes made Bourdain take a step back, but it wasn’t far enough. A visible spike of electricity shot out from the Indian’s finger and hit Bourdain in the chest, knocking him off his feet.
Bourdain was still trying to catch his breath when the Indian disappeared. He motioned to Hicks and the other two men, but they ignored his demands and ran in the other direction. They wanted out, and there was no way they wanted that Indian to think they were coming after him as they escaped.
Bourdain cursed helplessly, then lay back on the floor and stared up at the chaos left behind.
His hands were shaking as he touched his chest; then he pushed up his shirt and looked. There was a burn right above his heart. He didn’t want to think about how easy it would have been for a hole to burn all the way through him.
“God,” he muttered, then crawled under a desk, laid his head on his knees and closed his eyes.
Bourdain gasped and sat up in bed, shaking and covered in sweat. Cursing, he crawled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom.
The digital readout on his clock registered 3:00 a.m.
He wanted this night to be over.
Five
T he chill cut through Luce’s clothing as she opened the door to let Hobo out for his morning run. She noticed that the fog she’d seen last night was already dissipating, and as soon as he cleared the porch, she quickly closed the door.
The fire was burning brightly, but she hadn’t been the one to add the wood. She glanced toward Jonah’s door. It was slightly ajar, as if he’d left in a hurry without pulling it shut. So it seemed that Jonah had added wood to the fire before taking his leave. She sighed, surprised by the disappointment she felt at knowing he was gone. Once more she was alone and still in fear of the unknown stalker who threatened her life.
Her steps were slow as she moved to the kitchen side of the room and filled the old coffee pot with water, then began measuring coffee into the strainer.
“Got enough for me?”
Luce jumped, accidentally scattering coffee grains on the counter, and she quickly swept them into the sink. She was shocked by the surge of joy that filled her as Jonah came out of his room.
“You’re still here!”
Misunderstanding, Jonah frowned. “Is that not okay?”
Luce started to touch him, then remembered what had happened before and clutched her hands together instead.
“Oh…no…that’s great. I’m mean, it’s fine. I just thought—” She sighed, then made herself look away from his long legs and broad shoulders. He didn’t need to know what she was thinking. For that matter, she didn’t need to be thinking it. “I’m going to start over now.”
Jonah grinned, unaware that the smile changed his face from interesting to irresistible.
“Then so will I. So…Lucia, did you make enough coffee to spare a cup for me?”
Luce’s smile slipped. This was the second time he’d called her that. No one had called her Lucia since her mother’s death, but the way it came out of his mouth seemed familiar, as if she’d known him for years. She took a deep breath, trying to get past this attraction and back to the daily business of breakfast.
“Yes, there’s plenty.”
Jonah heard nervousness in her voice, and he’d seen the glances she gave him when she thought he wasn’t looking. But discussing their attraction to each other was a bridge he couldn’t afford to cross.
“What can I do to help?”
“Nothing,” Luce said, as she began breaking eggs into a skillet. “I’ve got it covered.”
“Did you sleep well…I mean, after you went back to bed?” Jonah asked.
Luce nodded as she chanced another glance. “How about you?”
He thought about the nightmare. It had been hell, but sleeping indoors during a thunderstorm had been an unexpected luxury.
“Yes. A warm room and a soft bed are luxuries for me. Thank you very much.”
Luce shrugged. “After what you did for Hobo, it was the least I could do.”
They looked at each other, waiting for the next uncomfortable topic of conversation to be introduced. When neither one of them offered a subject, Luce went b
ack to cooking, and Jonah chose to watch.
Her movements were sure and measured, just like the woman herself. He couldn’t imagine how difficult it would be to be female and alone in the world, and he still wondered who was threatening her.
“Lucia…?”
Luce set her jaw and gripped the spatula a little tighter. The way he says my name… She inhaled softly, then pasted a smile on her face.
“Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking about that trap.”
Luce frowned. “What about it?”
“Do you have any idea who set it?”
She glanced at him, then looked away. She wanted to tell him what had been happening but didn’t know how to start.
Suddenly, he knew this wasn’t the first incident.
“Who is doing it?” he asked.
“Doing what?”
“Threatening you.”
All the color washed away from her face. “How on earth do you do that?” she muttered.
Jonah frowned. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that someone has made you afraid.”
“I’m not afraid of anyone. Now give me five more minutes and breakfast will be ready.”
Jonah felt the skip in her heartbeat. She hadn’t told him anything, but she had ended the conversation, so he didn’t push it. What bothered him was why she felt the need to keep what she knew to herself.
He watched her until he ached from wanting her, then turned away. He gave the burning logs in the fireplace a couple of sharp pokes, added a new log, then stepped back and dusted off his hands.
It was strange how awkward this felt—being in someone’s home, performing ordinary chores. He’d been on the road for so long that he’d forgotten what it felt like to belong anywhere. With nothing left to do to help, he turned and went outside.
Last night’s thunderstorm and ensuing fog had left the air still and chilly. He stepped off the porch and walked a ways out into the yard, testing the ground. It was soft, but not muddy. He shoved his hands in his jeans’ pockets, toed a loose rock up from the ground, then turned toward the break in the trees to his left.
The last remnants of morning fog swirled restlessly just above the ground, pushed about by a rising breeze. As he stood, a magnificent buck walked into the clearing, pausing long enough to give Jonah a look.
“Good morning to you, too,” he said softly.
Clouds of condensation from the buck’s warm breath formed and held in tiny orbits around his nose. He wore the sixteen-point rack on his head like a crown, with droplets of dew clinging to the tips like so many diamonds. A fitting accoutrement to the king that he was.
Jonah heard the animal’s heartbeat, felt the blood pulsing through its veins, and knew the strength of its powerful body.
“Walk safely, brother,” he said.
With one giant leap, the buck disappeared. Moments later, Hobo came trotting out of the trees from the other direction.
“Hey, boy,” Jonah said, as the big dog’s tail began wagging. “You missed that squirrel, didn’t you? That’s okay. Maybe next time.”
Hobo was panting softly as he stopped at Jonah’s feet, then licked Jonah’s fingers in a gentle greeting. The rough surface of the dog’s tongue was raspy and wet against his fingertips as Jonah leaned down and tickled Hobo under the chin.
“You’re a good boy,” Jonah said.
Hobo whined, then looked up past Jonah’s face to a red-tailed hawk that was coming toward them and flying below treetop level. When it lit on Jonah’s shoulder, Hobo woofed a greeting.
Jonah felt the impact but had no fear, as he turned and held out his hand.
“Good morning to you, too,” he said.
The hawk fluttered, moving from Jonah’s shoulder to light on his outstretched arm. Then the hawk’s talons curled into Jonah’s arm as it screeched.
The sound cut through Jonah’s soul like a knife. It was a warning, and all the warning he was going to get. By the time the hawk lifted off his arm to fly away, Jonah was already on his way to the house. He hit the door running, grabbed his coat from the bedroom and was on his way back out when Luce stopped him.
“Hey! What’s the hurry?”
“An old woman has fallen. She needs help.”
Luce turned off the burner and shoved the skillet full of eggs to the back of the stove. Her mind was racing, wondering who was hurt and how he’d found out.
“I didn’t hear anyone drive up. Who told you?” she asked, as she grabbed her coat.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jonah said.
Luce frowned. “Wait! If someone drove up here to tell me, then why didn’t they help her instead of wasting time coming here? What aren’t you saying?”
He sighed. There was no reason for not telling her the truth. She’d already seen what he could do.
“It was a red-tailed hawk who told me. If you’re coming with me, you’ll have to hurry. The hawk said she’s dying.”
Luce knew her lips had parted, but for the life of her she couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. This man was scary. Maybe scary crazy. Maybe not. But to her credit, she didn’t argue.
“I’m coming with you,” she said, buttoning up her coat as they hurried out the door.
But when Jonah started up the mountain instead of going down toward Little Top, she panicked. The only person who lived farther up the mountain than she did was Bridie Tuesday, her landlord.
“Wait? Aren’t you going the wrong way?”
Jonah glanced back at her. “No. I’m going to have to run now.”
Luce’s heart sank. It was Bridie.
“Go. Go. I’ll catch up when I can.”
Luce struggled to keep up, but the man’s legs were far longer than hers, and the road was slippery from last night’s rain. With Hobo at his heels, Jonah quickly disappeared. Luce didn’t understand what was happening, but she’d witnessed Jonah’s affinity with animals and the magic in his hands. All she could do was pray that, if what he said was true, they wouldn’t be too late.
Bridie Tuesday had gotten up with a headache. At the age of eighty, she knew her own body better than any doctor, and she figured all she needed was her breakfast and her usual two cups of black coffee. But the meal hadn’t set things to rights like she’d expected. Still, there were chickens to feed and a cow to milk, so her morning malaise would just have to wait.
Knowing that the morning would be not only cold but damp, she bundled up warmly, then picked up the milk bucket as she walked out the back door.
As she’d expected, the fog and the chill hit her squarely in the face, but they had no impact on her intent. Molly needed milking. The chickens needed feeding. Life went on, whether she felt like being a part of it or not.
Within the hour, the old cow had been fed, milked and turned out into the pasture. The chickens had been let out of the pen and were pecking at the feed she’d scattered on the ground. Bridie was at the nests, gathering eggs and thinking about maybe making herself a custard pie today with some of the milk and eggs.
Thinking of custard pies always made her think of her Franklin. Franklin used to say that he only liked two kinds of pies—hot pies and cold pies. Afterward, he would laugh out loud, as if he’d said something original. Bridie always laughed with him, although she’d heard the joke countless times before.
She had loved him something fierce and had wanted to die with him when he’d passed over, only she hadn’t been able to figure out how. Doing herself in was against her way of thinking, so she’d wasted a good month or two of her grief being pissed off at Franklin for leaving her behind. Once she’d gotten past the disassociation with life that often comes with powerful grief, she decided to make the best of what she had left. So here she was, ten years later, tending cows and chickens, and still making custard pies to be eaten alone.
She closed the door to the chicken house as she left, then gingerly made her way across the muddy yard to the house. By the time she got there, she was unusually breathless, and her hea
dache was getting worse.
She broke into a sweat as she entered the kitchen, and just as she set down the basket of eggs, she was suddenly sick to her stomach.
“I’ve just gone and let the house get too hot,” she muttered, and turned and walked back out onto the porch, thinking all she needed was some cool air.
The last thing she remembered was seeing Franklin, smiling at her from across the fence.
Almost ten minutes had passed since the hawk had brought Jonah the message. He was running as fast as he could, with Hobo matching him stride for stride, but he was concerned that he would be too late. By the time he came upon the house at the end of the road, he was mud-splattered and winded. This had to be the place, but without sensing life, he couldn’t be sure. He looked up. The red-tailed hawk was circling overhead. It must be right. A few yards farther up the narrow driveway, he saw the old woman crumpled on the ground at the foot of the front steps.
He took a deep breath, and with the oxygen came a sense of her life force. It was as weak and faint as the unsteady beat of her heart, but it was still there. He hadn’t been too late, after all. He sprinted the rest of the way, then dropped to his knees at her side.
Hobo whined, then licked the old woman’s cheek as Jonah ran his hands over her body, searching for the source of weakness and pain.
“Get back,” Jonah said sharply, and the dog immediately dropped to his belly, motionless and waiting.
Jonah knew almost instantly that there were no broken bones, but he could hear the gush of blood pouring through a tear in her brain. Her pulse was thready and her heartbeat almost nonexistent. She was so tiny and so old, and he sensed she would gladly pass over, but it wasn’t in him to let her die. He needed to get her inside the house and off the cold, wet ground, but her life force was too weak to delay any longer.
Instead, he rolled her over, laying her flat on her back, then took a deep breath. Within seconds, the air around them charged. The hair on Hobo’s body stood on end. The dog whined nervously, but couldn’t have moved if he’d tried.
Jonah felt the power in him growing. He had never understood it, but he knew how to use it. The only way he could have described it was that, in his mind, he focused on the part of her that had come undone and then put it back the way it was supposed to be. He knew there was blood in her brain. Something had broken in there. Doctors called it an aneurysm. He called it a challenge. With a soft, whispered prayer, he laid his hands on Bridie Tuesday’s muddy forehead and closed his eyes.
