Dream Under the Hill (Oberon Book 8)

by P. G. Forte

  Gregg nodded toward Cara. “So all this… emotion… must be rather overpowering for you?”

  Liam sighed wearily. “Yes.”

  Gregg studied him for a second or two longer, and then turned to Cara. “Stop crying, pet. You’re upsetting Liam.”

  At his words, Cara lifted her head. Tears beaded on her lashes, her eyes flashed, Liam nearly groaned aloud. Damn, she was pissed. He was sure she was about to blister the air with her fury.

  But, before she could say a word, Gregg added, “and you’re boring me.”

  The room went still. Liam shivered as something passed between Gregg and Cara; something more than just a look, something cold as death. She gulped back a sob and turned her head away, squeezing her eyes shut as she did, clenching her hands into fists.

  Gregg lifted her chin to make her look at him again. “D’you understand me?” he asked.

  She started to nod, but he was holding her chin, making the motion impossible. “Yes,” she mumbled, instead.

  “This is part of what we talked about this afternoon.”

  She mumbled again. “I know.”

  He searched her eyes for a moment longer and then, seemingly satisfied, he let go of her chin and pressed a kiss against her forehead. “Good girl.”

  Cara settled her head on his shoulder. Her breathing was still shaky, and the emotional upheaval within her continued unabated, but she no longer sobbed. Liam stared, unsettled by the iron will she was exerting to keep her tears in check.

  Gregg turned back to Liam. “Now, tell me about last night. And don’t leave anything out.”

  * * *

  The redwood grove that marked the heart of Oberon’s downtown park was very old. The small convocation of trees had been gathered there for a long, long time, much longer than the town itself, making it the logical place for Chenoa to choose for tonight’s ceremony. There, beneath the sheltering branches of the grandmothers and grandfathers she had made her prayers, her petitions to Creator.

  As always, the ritual left her with a feeling of peace and joy, and with senses that seemed to be heightened. And with the beginnings of the buzz of energy that would likely make sleep impossible for hours to come.

  There was little light here, under the trees, but that didn’t bother her. She didn’t need to see very much to pack up her things. The soft deerskin, the smooth wood; she knew each piece by touch now. The pipestone bowl was still warm as she detached it from its stem. It felt so right nestled in her hand, she was almost reluctant to put it away. She held it against her chest for a moment before slipping it carefully into its waiting pouch.

  As she made her way back toward her apartment over the bakery she felt confident, satisfied. Her prayers would be answered. But when?

  Soon... the cool night air seemed to whisper. The air was lushly scented with cedar, ceonothus and sage. Chenoa breathed it in happily, enjoying the sensual melange, thrilling to the soft breeze as it caressed her face and played with her hair. The park, and all the streets that surrounded it, was deserted tonight; dark and quiet, illuminated by the almost full moon. Come Saturday afternoon, it would be filled with kids hunting for Easter eggs. But tonight, she had the entire place to herself. She was alone.

  But, then, she was almost always alone. And thinking about that, she felt a little of the joy she’d been feeling wash away. Unwilling to focus her energy on negativity and self pity, she turned her mind back to the issue that had prompted tonight’s ritual. The vortex.

  That was the question she’d been praying over tonight; whether or not she and Chay should do something about it, and what that something should be.

  She was pretty sure the answer to her first question would be yes. Chay was unlikely to get this worked up over nothing. If he said they needed to do something about the vortex, then, in all likelihood, they needed to do something about the vortex. In that respect, tonight’s ceremony had been largely a formality.

  But she was a pipe carrier now, part of a long and proud tradition, and more aware than ever of the need for such formalities.

  Perhaps it was wrong to take so much pride in something that was an honor and a privilege. Would it not be more fitting for her to feel humbled by it, instead? But she couldn’t pretend, and why should she? After all, the pipe wouldn’t have come to her in the first place, if she weren’t worthy of it.

  The one thing that did surprise her, however, was how easily she’d adjusted to the responsibilities of her new position. There were lessons a pipe, a Channupa, was said to teach. The tests it was supposed to put its carrier through – trials of ego, of power, of money and sex – these had presented no problem for her. No problem at all.

  In fact, she had to wonder if their difficulty hadn’t been overstated on purpose, as part of an effort to increase the pipe carrier mystique. Perhaps it was just an excuse some people used to indulge in bad behavior. Or, maybe those who complained the loudest about the trials they’d gone through, were merely boasting their success at having come through them?

  Maybe they hadn’t even come through them yet. Maybe they were deluded, still mired in ego, and too stubborn to admit it.

  “Or, maybe it’s you who are stubborn, granddaughter... ”

  Chenoa smiled as she recognized the voice of her grandfather in the rustling of the leaves above her head. “Maybe I am stubborn,” she said, “but if the pipe has given me discernment, who am I to doubt what it shows me?”

  “Are you so sure it is discernment? Maybe what you are so quick to condemn in another, is what you refuse to see in yourself? Maybe you have not yet come as far as you think you have?”

  It’s possible, Chenoa thought, turning the idea over in her head for a moment, before dismissing it, but unlikely. She had learned so much in the short time since Paco’s death. And, yes, she was sure there was still more she would learn in the coming years, but it no longer frightened her. She no longer felt daunted by the path she had chosen. Instead, she knew an almost unbearable sense of anticipation as she considered her future.

  She shrugged. “I know what I know.”

  The wind seemed to sigh. It blew across her face with a touch like gentle fingers brushing against her cheek. Take care.

  “Never mind about me,” Chenoa said quickly, sensing the moment would not last much longer. “Tell me about the vortex. What happened there? What can I do to fix things?”

  The wind sighed again. “Beware. There is great evil at work... ”

  Chenoa frowned. Evil? What was he talking about? That couldn’t be right. Both her brother and grandfather had insinuated that Chay was at least partially responsible for the problems with the vortex. And, whatever else he was, Chay certainly wasn’t evil.

  “Evil,” the wind insisted. “From the past. He has returned. He is here. He is searching... ”

  Chenoa stopped in her tracks. “Who’s here?” The stars above shone brightly, but the wind had fallen still. Sadness touched Chenoa’s heart and she clutched the deerskin bundle to her chest. She missed her grandfather. In that moment she would gladly have traded the pipe – and everything that came along with it – just to have him back for one more day, one more hour, even.

  This time, buried beneath the chorus of tree frogs, Chenoa was sure she heard her grandfather chuckle. “An hour? Why, girl, that wouldn’t even give you enough time to fix us a decent meal. Better stick with what you have... ”

  Chenoa brushed the tears from her eyes and shook her head. “Crazy old man,” she murmured.

  “Take care,” the breeze seemed to whisper one last time, and then it was gone. A faint scent of tobacco and sage hung in the air a moment longer, and then that, too, dissipated.

  “Hey, just who’re you calling old, anyway?”

  Chenoa started as her brother stepped out of the shadows and fell into step beside her. “Chay? What are you doing here? Are you following me?”

  Chay smiled wryly. “Well, that’s a silly question, isn’t it?”

  Chenoa nodded. “I suppo
se.” Chay had been a teenager when their grandfather had first set him the task of watching over the women of their little family tribe; following them home if they were out late at night and basically keeping an eye on them. Spying, Chenoa had called it, on more than one occasion in the past. But she thought he’d more or less given up the practice several years ago, when he’d moved out on his own. “How’d you know I’d be out tonight?” she asked, as they left the trees behind them and headed across the lawn.

  Chay shrugged. “I was hoping you wouldn’t wait too long to ask about the vortex. And I knew you’d stay close to home, so this seemed like a likely spot.” He frowned slightly. “Here’s a better question. How’d you know I was here? I thought I was pretty quiet.”

  I didn’t know. The words were on Chenoa’s lips when the full impact of his question washed over her. He thought she’d been talking to him, when she asked who was here. He’d been there the whole time; watching, listening, but he’d heard only her and the frogs and the wind in the trees. He hadn’t heard Paco’s voice. That gift had been for her alone. The thought brought a secret thrill of joy – brighter than the silver-gilt grass of the lawn. But, he’d asked her a question, and, “I don’t know how I knew,” Chenoa answered, unwilling to admit her ignorance. “I just did, I guess.”

  She eyed her brother curiously for a moment, this made two nights in a row that he’d been out roaming the streets – and that was only what she knew about. “What does Erin think of you doing this?”

  Chay turned puzzled eyes in her direction. “Doing what?”

  “Being out like this. These nightly patrols of yours, or whatever you call them.”

  “Oh.” He was silent for a moment, but he picked up the pace, walking more quickly, as if suddenly anxious to see her to her door. “I don’t know. We haven’t actually talked about it.”

  Chenoa stared at her brother. “Doesn’t she wonder where you go?”

  Chay shrugged. “Yeah. Probably. I guess.”

  He guessed. Chenoa shook her head amazed as always by her brother’s inability to manage his love life. “You’re gonna lose that girl if you don’t learn to talk to her, Chay.”

  Chay heaved a heavy sigh. “Look, do you think it’s easy? How do you talk about this stuff?” he said, gesturing at the bundle she carried. “How do you make someone who wasn’t brought up to it understand what it’s like for people like us? You and me, Chen... it’s like we’re trying to live in two different worlds at once. It’s not easy to find your balance, you know. And then, to try and find it again, with someone else–”

  “Well, maybe if you didn’t always make jokes about it,” she replied, taken aback by his sudden vehemence. “Maybe she’d take you more seriously, and it wouldn’t be so hard for you to talk to her.”

  “If I didn’t make jokes about it,” Chay started, breaking off to shake his head. “Ah, Chen, what else am I gonna do, huh? Sometimes in life, you gotta laugh, or else you’d cry.”

  Chenoa nodded. Laughter was part of his medicine, his power, his gift. She knew that. She should never have brought the subject up, should never have disparaged what he did, who he was. “But, if you love her, if she loves you – how hard could it be to just... talk? Just the two of you. Just–”

  “Have you ever tried?”

  Chenoa’s jaw clenched; she glared at her brother angrily. He knew the answer to that, didn’t he? “No, Chay. I haven’t.” The last time she was in a relationship was so long ago– She’d been too young for it to become anything serious, and she was years away from finding her path. The pipe hadn’t even been an issue then. There’d been nothing to talk about.

  As they came to the edge of the park and she stopped, a foot away from the sidewalk, within sight of the bakery, unwilling to carry this conversation any further. “But I know other people have found balance, Chay.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Her brother’s face looked grim in the moonlight, as he turned to face her. “Like who, for instance? Paco couldn’t manage it.”

  Chenoa’s eyes widened. “Well, of course he did. What’re you–”

  “No.” Chay shook his head. “You’re wrong. It was the last time we spoke, practically the last thing he ever said to me. He told me hoped I’d find a way to do what he never could, to weave the strands of both realities together.” He shrugged and then added, “I’m not even sure there is a way. If there is, I haven’t found it.”

  “Have you tried?”

  A small smile flitted across Chay’s face and was gone again. “No. Not really. I chose not to risk it. I chose to be with Erin; to walk in one world, not two. You gave me that choice, remember?”

  Chenoa nodded. She’d given him the choice by claiming her right to Paco’s legacy. “You didn’t tell me about this conversation you had with Paco, though.” You didn’t tell me what I might be giving up.

  Chay sighed. “You seemed so sure of yourself, so clear about what you wanted. I figured you knew what you were doing.”

  Well, you thought wrong. Once again, the words were on her lips, but she couldn’t say them. “Come on,” Chenoa said, as she stepped onto the sidewalk; suddenly she was anxious to get home. They crossed the street in silence. She paused at the doorway to her apartment. “So, tell me something. You say you chose to be with Erin, so then why’re you spending all your nights out here? I think I’ve seen more of you lately than she has.”

  Chay laughed sadly. “Believe me, if it weren’t for this mess with the vortex, if it weren’t for all these animals being killed, if it weren’t my fault that things got so messed up – there isn’t any place I’d rather be. I can’t wait ‘til this is over.”

  Chenoa studied his face, noticing for the first time the lines of strain around his eyes. “So that you can get back to living in just one world, you mean. Back to being with Erin.”

  “She feels like home, Chen,” Chay said softly. “It’s taken me a long time to find that.”

  “But if you can’t share this part of your life with her, if you can’t even talk about it– What kind of home is that? It’s like you’re trying to live half a life.”

  Chay shook his head. “No. You’re wrong. Being with her is pretty much the only time I feel at peace with myself.”

  Chenoa nodded, wondering how it was possible that she could feel happy for her brother and sad, and jealous all at once.

  “I don’t want to lose her, Chen,” Chay murmured. “I nearly made that mistake once. I’m not willing to risk doing it again.”

  “That’s why you’re pushing to do this thing with the vortex?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “Okay.” She nodded again. “This weekend, then. Is that soon enough? I’m not sure what we’ll do yet–” And she had absolutely no idea what she could use to combat this great evil, Paco had hinted at. “But, we’ll try something.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Cara sat huddled on the bathroom floor, hoping the splash of water running into the sink could drown out the sobs she couldn’t quite hold back, wishing it would drown out the hum of voices from the other room, as well. She had never felt so small in all her life.

  There was a hole in the baseboard near the sink, maybe twice as large as the tip of her big toe; probably chewed there by a mouse, a hundred years ago. The way she was feeling right now, she should be able to fit inside it.

  Oh, how she wished that she could. She’d crawl right inside that hole, right into the wall there; she’d curl up in the dust and die. No one would ever find her, no one would ever look. They probably wouldn’t even notice she was gone. Or, if they did, they still wouldn’t care.

  No one would care. Except, maybe Gregg, and, oh, God, no. She wasn’t sure she could take any more of his attention.

  She slid down to lie on the floor as sobs crowded up her throat. She was practically swallowing her fist trying to hold back her tears, but she couldn’t. Her body shook, her chest ached and the voices in the next room continued talking.

  She slammed he
r fist against the floor in helpless fury. They were never going to shut up, were they? Liam was never going to leave. And she would never, ever be able to show her face again.

  If she could have died of embarrassment tonight, she would have, but you couldn’t really die like that, no matter how much you might want to. You couldn’t die of fear, or a broken heart, certainly she’d never die laughing. She couldn’t even cry herself to death. Although, maybe, if she cried hard enough, she wouldn’t be able to breathe? Maybe, she could scream ‘til her lungs collapsed, or smash her head against the bathroom’s tile floor ‘til it cracked?

  But, if she made that much noise, Gregg was certain to come in and beat her. She didn’t even want to think what that would be like.

  She didn’t want to think about what had just happened, either, but she couldn’t seem to stop. And the more she tried, the harder she shook, the worse the pain in her chest became.

  It was no use. Why couldn’t she have died six months ago, when Gregg first took her? Why couldn’t he have killed her then, like he’d threatened to do? She wished she could make those six months go away. She wished she could make the pain in her heart go away, too. But, most of all, most especially, most definitely, she wished Liam would go away.

  Just the thought of him was enough to start her crying again. Because she’d seen the way he’d looked at her. He hated her now, and nothing in her life would ever be right again.

  She dragged herself back up to sit again, with her back against the door as she thought about it.

  It had been bad enough being embarrassed and humiliated and put on display, but at least she’d known that was coming. It wasn’t the first time Gregg had done that to her, and she knew better than to argue with him when he was already pissed off. She wasn’t entirely stupid.

  No, that part was nothing new. And if that was as bad as it got, she wouldn’t be bawling her eyes out now. What was worse was to have Liam reject her again, with that look in his eyes and that tone in his voice and that sneer– Oh, God.