Later that night, she jerked awake out of a deep sleep, and it took a few minutes before the insistent knocking and voice calling her name registered.
“Healer!"
If someone came in the middle of the night, it was urgent. Throwing her shawl around her shoulders, she opened the door. The mother of a child treated for fever a bare two days ago stood hunched against the cold. The healer took a step back—the woman's aura was spiking purple and red with distress.
"Please, come," the woman begged. "It's Urco. He is sick with the fever again. It has come back and is worse this time."
Within minutes, the healer had grabbed a bag of herbs, and the two women scurried through the night's patchwork of moonlight and shadows.
At the woman's home, the healer examined the boy; his aura was a dull yellow, splotched with ugly gray smears, and his skin was hot to her touch. The child tossed and turned, not asleep, yet not awake.
Before the healer had dosed the lad with strong remedies to little effect and had to call the priest. Vachama said the demon was powerful and fought hard to stay, but he cast him out. Had the demon returned? She'd heard of such cases, but they were rare. Worrying thoughts niggled at as she looked at the boy. This would disturb everyone.
The healer laid one hand on the boy's head, and the other on his heart, and sent her power into the boy's body, checking the strength of his life force. His inner organs were burning. At that moment, the lad's eyes flickered open and staring out at her was the blue-eyed, red-gold haired demon who'd haunted her since childhood. She froze. Of late, his determination to taunt her had become almost unbearable.
He smiled at her and spoke words only she could hear. "I have searched for a long time," he said, "but soon, we will meet."
She trembled in terror. "Fetch Vachama," she whispered to the boy's mother. "The demon has returned."
After one sun and one moon had gone by, the village priest led the boy's funeral procession as it wound its way to the burial grounds. Drummers beat a slow, somber rhythm to accompany the ceremonial chant that guided the soul on its journey to the afterlife.
The healer followed behind in her traditional position, but even without seeing their expressions, she was aware people blamed her. Vachama said he'd defeated the demon, though she'd seen him in the boy's eyes. Yet the priest was more powerful, and if it was her word against his, the community would believe him. It was in his interest to encourage such rumors, as he'd always seen her as a challenge to his position, and stirring up her neighbors was simple work for him. The death of the boy implied her medicines were no longer potent, and the Goddess of Health, Quechua, had withdrawn her blessings.
The Keeper of the Graves waited for them outside the burial grounds. He was a strange man and lived as an outcast. Tall, with dark hair and golden skin, he shunned the villagers' company, preferring to dwell apart. The feeling was mutual, and the villagers avoided him if they could, making protective signs whenever they saw him. They never bothered him because they feared him. Yet he came to pay his respects.
The healer avoided eye contact with the man. He'd courted her more than once, and made several offers of marriage, but every time she refused, choosing instead a life of dedication to Quechua. Whenever their paths crossed, she sensed the weight of his intent, always conscious of when his gaze fell upon her.
The fare served at the feast afterward was simple, with the best offered to the priest. Poor or rich, young or old, celebrating and honoring the departing soul was an obligation laid on those left behind. None of the women sat near the healer and a barrier of cold silence isolated her. She accepted the insulting, paltry amount of food they placed before her without comment. If the Goddess was testing her, she would accept it. Every time she glanced up, the keeper's eyes were fixed on her. She smothered a sigh. In the past, his behavior had caused gossip among the women, with some even insisting she marry him.
Unable to sleep that night, she recalled each family in the village one by one. Didn't they remember how many healthy babies she'd birthed without a single death? How many bones had she set that mended straight? How many fevers, stomach, and head ailments she'd cured? Speaking out against Vachama was impossible. He was the Gods' representative, and the Gods favored him. How easy it was for him to rouse everyone's hostility toward her. A fearful presentiment shivered through her body.
After falling asleep, the demon appeared in a dream. She saw the gloss of his red-gold hair, and his blue eyes mocking her. He reached for her, but failed to touch her. She realized when he did, she would die. The fear of him was physical, a black mass that sat in her abdomen and spread throughout her body, weighting her limbs until she was incapable of moving. She'd always been able to call up glimpses of the future—now she saw nothing but his face and a dark curtain concealing what was to come. She woke, trembling, sweating in terror.
After the demon's visitation, the healer slept only in snatches. Her terror of the demon, the cruelty of his expression haunted her. She did her best to ignore and shut out the dread dark shadows of warning she saw everywhere. In the days that followed, it didn't matter where she looked; his face was all she could see.
Each time she stepped outside the shelter of her home she retreated, never going far as it became harder to pretend the looks given her were anything but malevolent, or that she didn't notice people making the sign of protection while children hid behind their mothers. Her house wasn't impregnable, but it offered a small refuge from the ill will around her.
After a while, she feared to venture outside her door. Yet, until the priest announced otherwise, she remained the village healer, and the sick sought her aid. She tried to ignore how depleted her store of herbs had become, but the day came when she knew she must restock her supply.
Peeping out at the small crowd that seemed to gather nearby, she panicked, invoked Quechua, and begged her protection for she'd been a faithful servant. Gathering her courage, she left home. Walking fast, she ignored the jeering insults and hurtful barbs filling the air. After leaving the village behind, she cut away from the path, and once out of sight of the village, collapsed on the ground, thankful they hadn't pursued her. A dull stupor filled with echoes of the demon's laughter fogged her mind, and she lay where she'd fallen, unwilling to move.
The Keeper of the Graves voice startled her. "You should leave here." He stared down at her, his brown eyes sad.
"Where would I go?"
He pointed east. "To the lowlands. You could start anew. Make up a story, any story. No one will care why you left here."
"They'll hunt me. They think the demon is in me."
"I've heard what Vachama says. Nobody believes it, but they are afraid of him. If they don't obey, he accuses them of conspiring with the demon. They have no choice." He reached out to help her.
"I must go." She flinched away from him and scrambled to her feet.
"Prepare food you can take with you. Make ready. You must leave tonight before you are cursed and banished. Or worse."
"Why do you care?"
The Keeper's eyes glinted with gold lights. His eyes were so different from everyone else’s. "In your heart, you know why."
She tried to gather the herbs she needed, but her efforts were pitiful. Everywhere she looked, the demon's face leered at her, his ill-omened words repeated themselves over and over. She wondered if the keeper was correct, but the thought of leaving the village where she was born and had spent her life to go somewhere unknown tore at her heart.
When the sun fell low in the sky, hunger drove her home. As she neared the village, children playing outside screamed, their little feet flashing as they dashed along the path shouting, "She's coming. The demon's here."
Her heart pounded. The keeper's words echoed in her mind. He was right. She must prepare to depart. But as the men, women, and children whom she had cared for poured out of the village toward her, she recognized it was already too late.
Dropping the herbs, she turned and took to her heels. She r
an, pumping her legs hard, her breath coming fast. She was fit, strong and with a head start. But it didn't take long before the first stones found their mark.
Ignoring the sharp burst of pain as one rock struck her neck, she cast a look backward and the sharp jagged edge of another stone sliced a gash above her eye. They were gaining. Blood dripped into her eye from the cut, and sharp shooting pains stabbed her calves and thighs, but flight meant a chance of staying alive. She had to keep moving. If she could just get to where the path forked, she might have a chance of making it to the tree line. Tracking her through the forest would be harder for any of those in pursuit.
More stones reached their target, and a large one punched into the small of her back, nearly knocking her off her feet. She staggered, gasping with pain, and struggling to stay upright. If they caught her, they'd stone her to death. She clung to one thought—she must keep moving. At that instant, her foot landed in a small hole, her ankle twisted and she stumbled, her breath whooshing out as she pitched forward, and the hard-packed dirt scraped the skin off her face as she skidded to a halt.
Winded, she lay gasping, as pounding feet closed the gap, and stones smashed into her body and legs. She tried to stand, fueled by the desire to live despite everything. But her ankle couldn't hold her, and she collapsed onto the path, landing on her hands and knees. The frenzied villagers howled louder, sensing victory over their prey.
She curled and huddled into a ball, protecting her head with her arms. Sending a last prayer to her protectress, Quechua, she pleaded for release and closed her eyes so she wouldn't see the faces of those she'd spent a lifetime healing as they murdered her. Silence. The end had come, and she was grateful to the goddess who had granted her request and was taking her to the next world without pain.
"Are you all right?" The Keeper leaned toward her, the gold in his eyes sparking furiously.
She stared up at the man, then peered past him.
Not a single person moved. Everyone stood motionless, with their arms raised, and faces frozen in grimaces of murderous hate.
Frightened, the healer scuttled backward, trying to flee. Could he be evil? After all, only demons possessed this kind of power. He touched her ankle, already swelling, and energy poured from his hand, healing her instantly. She gasped in disbelief. Maybe he was a God, not a demon. She would obey him.
The Keeper extended a hand and helped her to her feet. "Go." He pointed at the trees.
She cast a fearful glance at the living statues and fled. Taking the downward fork, she followed her instructions and didn’t stop even when she reached the forest.
The night air was bitter, and the healer watched the breath steam from her mouth. But the God had worked great magic when healing her. She didn't feel cold or tired, but the need to block off her mind's constant replaying of the afternoon's events forced her to stop. Slipping to the ground, her back against the rough bark of a tree, she rested her head on her knees and sought relief in sleep
"Healer." The Keeper's voice was soft, and now she knew he was a God, she waited, because you didn't address a God, and when the God spoke, you listened.
He stretched out a hand and pulled her to her feet. "I'm neither demon nor god."
He read her thoughts, another sign of his Godliness.
"Nothing I can say will convince you otherwise, will it?" He threw back his head and laughed, his amusement rippling through the night air.
She shook her head.
"Well, believe this, sweet healer. You are the beloved one of this God."
He would protect her from evil. She was at peace. A peace that shattered as the thin blade pierced her skin. She remembered who he was, and that yet again, he was killing her. She saw the wide sandy bay and cried out as the memory of their love surfaced. The knife sliced deeper, and she witnessed a ghastly bloody massacre and the soldier who killed her was the same man-god. The knife cut into her heart as a third memory, being beaten into submission rose before her mind's eye. These were real memories, not imaginings. She loved him. He loved her. He would always save her from the demon.
The healer's life bled out, her memories fading as the blue-eyed demon with the red-gold hair shrieked and howled across time. He'd searched for a thousand lifetimes without gaining what he desired, and he was letting her know, he would never stop till he did.
Chapter Eighteen: Unforeseen
Tatya jerked awake as the rage-filled shriek of a thwarted demon shattered her sleep. For a minute, she stood in a mountain forest gazing at Vanse wearing that same mournful look, and realized what he was going to do.
She cried out loud as the dream didn't fade, and the weight of that life—and more lives stirred from their centuries of slumber. She watched the film reel of her former lives play in her head: a Stone Age village by the sea where she’d loved Vanse, his death, and his return; the escape from her home with a dearly loved younger brother to an island sanctuary where she took part in a sacred ceremony; a stroll by a holy river that ended in a severe beating and imprisonment; being chased from her home, and a wild flight. Each time, Vanse–a lover, a soldier and a friend–embraced and killed her.
Was she those women? Were those memories hers? How could her past selves impinge on her present self like this? And, like the weft on a loom, Angelus, hunting her like prey, wove throughout each life. In a couple of lifetimes, he almost succeeded, yet each time Vanse had saved her—by murdering her.
How many times had she seen the sun rise and set? Time after time, she'd experienced immense happiness and awful tragedy. The loves and losses, affections and anguish of her former lives pressed in on her, a pitiless burden of identities. She didn't recognize herself anymore. How could she live, knowing the three of them were locked in an eternal pastime, and there would be no escaping Vanse or Angelus in this life, either? Did she have no other choice but to be the pawn sacrificed in every game?
A black despair settled into her bones. No wonder people weren't born with the knowledge of their previous lives. If you had to remember the suffering you'd lived through, you would be crushed before you started.
"Tatya?"
The battering weight of the past receded, reluctant and slow, a tsunami leaving devastation in its wake. Tatya rolled over to see Aunt Lil sitting up in bed, bright-eyed, and apart from the shadows under her eyes and translucent aura, her normal, cheery self. She and Aunt Lil had shared the guest suite's enormous bed, and not just because she wanted to enjoy the luxury of silk sheets, but because she would be able to raise the alert if any changes occurred in her aunt's condition during the night.
"Tatya…?"
Tatya burrowed closer and laid her head on her aunt's shoulder. The warmth of the present eased the pains of the past. She could never erase the hurt from those lifetimes, but they made her aware she had much to be thankful for in this life.
"I'm starving! Can you get me some breakfast?"
"Oh, Aunt Lil! I can't tell you how glad I am to hear you say that! Just let me shower and I'll find something for both of us." Tatya tried to hurry, but the power shower was a luxury and she let the hot water stream down her back and wash away the aches in her mind and body. Afterward, exploring the wardrobe and drawers hidden behind a sliding door, she discovered an array of designer jeans, T-shirts, sweaters, and even several pairs of boots in various colors, all in her size. She was flabbergasted because it meant Vanse had prepared for her arrival. The image of Vanse's female vamps picking through racks of jeans and sweaters to acquire a closet full of clothes her size was more than a little disturbing. Her budget range was Walmart, but these were Calvin Klein. A few minutes later, admiring herself in the mirror, she thought at least she was well dressed for Armageddon.
She emerged from the bathroom to find Vanse ushering in Sean, who carried a tray weighted with croissants, fresh orange juice, fruit, pancakes, cereal, with a large selection of Aunt Lil's favorite donuts on the side. but Sean avoided making eye contact with her. After he left, she figured he must still be bot
hered by yesterday's bizarre incident. Didn't he know her well enough to realize she didn't blame him?
Vanse brooded at the end of the bed.
His presence evoked a torrent of memories. Life after life of them. She barricaded them off. Now, she understood why he wore that forlorn expression when he looked at her. Did he also see the shadow of a ghost knife sliding into her heart?
Their host had provided a ‘you name it and it was on offer’ buffet breakfast, but Tatya just played with her toast. She enjoyed watching Aunt Lil relish every bite, and was glad her appetite had returned.
"Sean seems fine," Vanse said. "I've scanned his memory, and he remembers entering this room. You came in and ordered him to follow you, and the next thing he knows, we were standing over him in the storeroom."
Tatya pushed her plate away, sipped her coffee, and let him talk.
"It's difficult to tell if what he saw is a projection sent by someone or a hallucination caused by his own mind. And, if the first, is that somebody inside or outside the hospital?" His tone was neutral, and his expression distant, but knotted threads of unease about the situation slid along the link suspended between them; neither willing to voice their suspicions. As if the mere utterance of the name, Angelus, might summon him.
A knock at the door and Vanse blurred across the room.
She watched him, wondering if she’d ever get used to how fast vamps could move.
"A visitor for you," he said, as Changing Sky, his battered backpack in his hand, entered the room.
The agitation of the two vamp guards outside the door at the shaman’s proximity was evident. They gave him more than ample space, despite their master's presence.
"I have business to attend to." Vanse bowed, took his leave, and was gone.
"So good of you to visit," Aunt Lil told Changing Sky. "Tatya, get the man his coffee!" Aunt Lil's face beamed at the sight of the shaman.
After a while, her mood lightened by his company and Vanse's absence, Tatya listened to the conversation. The disturbances had been less frequent on the reservation than in Orleton and its outlying suburbs, though people were disturbed by sightings of beings such as wendigos, long thought of as pure folklore.
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