“Mick is a big boy, and he has help now.” I laid Mick’s flashlight, still lit, on top of the boulder and took Fremont’s arm. “Come on, let’s get you inside.”
I let Fremont into the hotel and told him to lock the doors and stay put. Fremont, still white-faced, tried to get me to stay with him, but I declined. Mick was out there fighting, and even with Coyote and Jamison helping him, I had no way of knowing whether they would prevail.
I also had no way of knowing what Coyote would do with Mick once they were alone. We’ve tangled in the past, Coyote had said. I didn’t know what “tangled” meant, but I didn’t like it.
I rummaged in the drawer of my nightstand until my fingers closed on the smooth round ball that was the last of Mick’s spells. I stuffed that into my pocket, took up the metal pipe Fremont had laid down, and went outside, retracing the path toward the boulder on which I’d placed Mick’s flashlight. Fire raged in the darkness, flames licking the night.
I hurried through the wash, stumbling on loose rocks. Swearing under my breath, I trudged out the other side and scrambled on toward the light I’d left to guide me.
Janet.
The word whispered on the breeze, and I froze. Oh, damn her.
I stood on the top of a hill, looking down the slope. At the bottom was another wash, a black streak in the middle of shadows. A pale light slid against the ground, marking for me and any magical person who might see it, a vortex.
They’re closed, I reminded myself. Closed for eternity. “This is as far as I’m coming.”
Be with me, she whispered.
My skin prickled. For all my bravado, I was terrified, and I bet she knew it. I swore I could feel her gloat.
“If you sent the skinwalkers to scare away my friends, you don’t know my friends,” I said clearly.
They are not your friends. They want to destroy you.
“Why should they?”
Because you are powerful, more powerful than they will ever be. They fear you.
“I don’t think so.”
Low laughter. They pretend. They know you are the key.
I had a sudden vision of myself standing at the bottom of this hill, lightning streaming from my hands. It filled the crack of the wash and the earth buckled, heaving upward, opening . . .
“No!” I shouted. “Never.”
When the time is right, you will open the door.
“Stay away from me!” I screamed.
The wind picked up, but it was natural wind, cold air pushing from the desert floor and meeting pressure from the mountains. I stood there for a long time, starlight and the half moon playing on the ground, leaves of bushes outlined in black.
I stood still until I heard an owl swoop past me and the squeak of some hapless creature as it struck. I said a prayer for the mouse, grabbed Mick’s flashlight from the boulder where I’d left it, and made for the flames at the top of the ridge. Cold penetrated my bones, and I felt exhausted. I wanted a cup of hot coffee, a shower, and a bed, no more skinwalkers, vortexes, or evil goddesses calling my name.
But I couldn’t leave Mick and the others to fight the skinwalkers alone. I hurried on, willing the distant storm to come in, but I knew it wouldn’t listen to me. Storms have minds of their own.
The glowing nimbus surrounding the coyote flared in the darkness. The skinwalkers retreated from him, but Jamison, the mountain lion, didn’t have that defense. Mick fought next to him, my boyfriend stark naked, fire streaking from his hands.
Coyote fought easily, but more demons kept coming at him, drawing his attention from the other two. Mick fried one, and Jamison tore out another’s throat. That creature should have died, but it reared up, Jamison’s jaws still closed on it. It shook Jamison like a cat shaking a mouse, until I feared the mountain lion’s head would snap. I hefted my piece of pipe and ran toward the skinwalker, beaning it on the back of the skull.
Mick turned. His eyes were no longer black but orange red, as though flames danced inside them. He conjured a fist-sized fireball and threw it at the skinwalker that had attacked Jamison. The skinwalker screamed as it burned alive, the stench gagging me.
Jamison and Mick immediately turned to deal with more. The damned things kept coming, as though the earth belched them out. If my mother wanted to eliminate the strongest help I’d have, she was doing a good job of it.
I reached for the lightning again, but still it eluded me. Ducking behind Mick for protection, I wormed my hand into my pocket, drew out the silver ball, and tossed it into the air.
“Burn!” I shouted.
The ball exploded into light. The flare of a thousand fires burned the sky, and by the incandescent glow, I saw at least a hundred skinwalkers in that little valley. They flinched and screamed, but they didn’t flee.
Coyote gave a howl of glee and launched himself into the middle of them. Jamison retreated, panting, his muzzle covered with blood. Mick walked forward, fire dancing in his hands, the dragon tattoos seeming to slither around his arms.
Mick threw fire right and left. The noise, the smell, the smoke made tears stream from my eyes. A skinwalker got behind Mick, ready to take him down. I lifted my trusty pipe and hit the thing behind the knees. I’d hoped to make it fall, but the skinwalker swung on me. I tried a round-house kick, but he caught my ankle and threw me onto my back. I rolled to my feet before he could jump on top of me, not wanting to be in a clinch with a skinwalker.
I ducked, came up under him, and smashed the pipe into what passed for his elbow. He howled and punched me. I felt my face open, blood drip down my skin. The skinwalker hit me again, and I landed on the ground again, my head banging into the dry earth. The skinwalker came at me, drawing back a thick-booted foot, preparing to kick the hell out of my ribs. I tried to roll away, but my bruised body moved slowly. His kick came down.
Before his foot reached me, the skinwalker exploded into fire. As I watched, wide-eyed, his body disintegrated, held firmly by two hands that glowed with flame. The skinwalker faded to a stream of ash, and then Mick was grinning at me through the falling powder.
“Sorry I took so long,” he said.
I hesitated to touch the hand he held out to me, the one that had been outlined in flames a second ago. Mick grabbed me and hauled me to my feet, his palm surprisingly cool.
Jamison had returned to human form, a tall, nude, well-muscled Navajo, breathing hard and wiping sweat and soot from his face. Coyote leapt over the smoking remains of the skinwalkers, changing to human form as he landed.
Jamison, more modest than the other two, morphed back into the broad-shouldered mountain lion as I neared them. Neither Mick nor Coyote seemed worried about their lack of clothing, standing casually naked in the middle of the desert night, the light from the spell gleaming on their sweaty skin.
“Ya’at’eeh, Janet,” Coyote said. “Nice light spell.”
“Mick gave it to me,” I answered, trying to catch my breath.
“Impressive.”
Mick shrugged modestly. “Light magic concentrated into a transportable object. Simple to make but takes several hours of intense focus. I’m surprised you kept them,” he said to me.
“Why wouldn’t I have?”
The look he gave me was warm, too warm. I had the feeling that if Coyote and Jamison hadn’t been there, Mick would have carried me off to a comfortable boulder and showed me how touched he was that I’d kept the spells.
“Good fight,” Coyote said. He cracked his knuckles and laughed.
Around us, little fires sparkled where the skinwalkers had burned, the smoke oily and disgusting. Too much for me. I hobbled a little way away and retched into the dirt.
Mick’s large hands came to rest on my shoulders. “You okay, sweetheart?”
“No. I am very certainly not okay.”
Mick turned me around to him, his skin smelling of sweat and smoke. I was suddenly angry with him, and Coyote, and even Jamison, for standing around complimenting one another and feeling good about the figh
t. “Damn it, this is dangerous. My mother seriously wants to kill you.”
“I know that, sweetheart. But I’m not leaving you to her mercy. I told you that.”
“How do you think I’d feel if you stayed to get killed for me?” I demanded. “Do you think I’d get a warm glow and sing ballads about how brave you were? No, I’d be sick with it. I’d rather know you were elsewhere. Safe.”
“Leaving you alone?”
“Coyote can protect me.”
Mick glanced at the god-man who gazed out over the dying fires, hands on hips. Jamison, still in his mountain lion form, stood at Coyote’s side.
“Coyote can’t be trusted,” Mick said. “He does what he wants, and if you had to die, he wouldn’t care.”
“Not really true,” Coyote remarked without turning around. “I’d care.”
“You’re powerful,” I said to Mick. “But not powerful enough.”
“She’s right, you know,” Coyote put in.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass,” Mick said. “And I don’t give a rat’s ass what you say, Janet. If you’re staying near the vortexes, I’m staying. Got that?”
I was too tired to argue anymore, at least not tonight. I flicked on my flashlight, my heart burning. “Tell Jamison to go home and be safe. I’m heading back to the hotel.”
I walked away, not waiting for Mick, not saying good-bye to the others.
As I reached the railroad bed, I heard sirens, Magellan’s two fire engines hurrying to discover what was burning out in the desert. What they’d make of the remains of the skinwalkers, or whether Coyote would make certain they found nothing, I didn’t know.
Mick caught up to me before I reached the hotel, dressed again, his T-shirt damp and dusty. He took my flashlight, threaded his fingers through mine, and led me inside.
Twelve
Fremont had fallen asleep on top of my bed. Mick showered, I woke Fremont, and he called a friend to come and pick him up. Once he was gone, I raided the kitchen, finding an unopened package of cookies. Fights to the death always made me hungry.
I stuffed down about a dozen double-chocolate-chunk cookies before I got tired of them and dumped the rest into a plastic container in the pantry. Mick was pulling on a clean pair of jeans as I walked back into the bedroom. His wet hair left beads of water on his shoulders, a look that I found sexy as hell.
I suddenly wanted more than anything to get on Mick’s Harley with him and tell him to take us wherever the road led. We’d done that before, riding all day, making love all night, sleeping in some hotel in the sunshine until we got hungry enough to get up and find food.
I wanted to taste that life again.
“Fremont get a ride home all right?” Mick asked me.
“Yeah, he’ll be fine. I think we cured him of going after skinwalkers.”
“Good.” Mick’s eyes were blue again, not the solid black or fiery red they’d been during the fight.
The way he looked at me brought back every reason I’d fallen in love with him. I was sweaty from running, had reddish dust creasing my skin, and my hair was tangled. I probably had chocolate on my lips too. And still he looked at me as though he wanted to devour me.
“I’m not leaving you, Janet,” he said softly.
I didn’t want him to. I selfishly wanted him to stay and make me feel safe, protected, wanted.
“I’m too tired to argue about it.” I rubbed my hand through my hair, feeling it dusty too. “We can argue some more in the morning. I need a shower.”
Mick caught me before I’d taken two steps. He cradled my face in his hands, thumbs softening on my skin. “You are so beautiful, Janet. I don’t think you understand how beautiful you are to me.”
My heart beat faster. I was exhausted and angry, afraid and unhappy. My mother wanted me, and she wanted to kill my friends to get to me. But right now, with Mick in front of me, I just wanted to bury myself in him and forget.
I smoothed my palms down his wet back, sliding fingers beneath his waistband, following the tattoo around his waist. “I don’t mind you telling me,” I whispered.
He smiled, lips curving sinfully, then our mouths met.
I let him ease my shirt off over my head, open my tiny lace bra. He flicked his thumbs across my areolas, making them rise to points, then he leaned down and took a nipple gently between his teeth.
I wanted to make him feel good. He’d fought hard out there, done everything he could to protect me, killed a skinwalker with his bare hands for me. I popped the button of his waistband and slid my body down his leg.
I crouched there in my dusty jeans and boots, naked from the waist up. He hadn’t put on underwear after his shower, leaving his arousal for me readily obvious and accessible.
Mick made a raw noise as I took him in my mouth. I loved the familiar way he tasted, loved the gentle tug of his hand fisting my hair, loved the heat of his skin.
I moved my tongue over his shaft, gratified when he shifted in response. His skin smelled like soap and warm water, a scent I could bury myself in. I reached between his legs and gently cupped his balls, finding his scrotum firm and tight. His hand in my hair moved in answer.
“Janet,” he murmured. “I promise you, I never stopped loving you.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. He’d break my heart again if I let him, and I was in danger of letting him. I answered by speeding up my feasting on him, and he groaned.
I stayed down on him until he couldn’t stand it anymore, and then Mick lifted me, took me to the bed, and made love to me like a wild thing.
In the morning, Maya didn’t show up. Neither did Fremont. Fremont I understood, and I hoped he was resting. Maya being AWOL irritated me. I needed my electricity finished so I could get my appliances and hot water up and running.
What I did get was a bunch of painters sent by the decorator, who started painting the finished walls. Nice, bright colors, none of the “Southwestern” pastels the interior designer had tried to push on me. I wanted yellows, red oranges, blues, greens—bright colors that warmed and soothed at the same time.
Mick had been gone from the bed when I woke up and seemed to find plenty to do so that we didn’t have a chance to talk alone. I didn’t mind, not really wanting to continue arguing with him.
The painters and carpenters pretty much took over, so I told Mick I had a couple errands to run in town and got out of the way. Taking my rented SUV, I dropped in on Fremont to make sure he was all right. He was exhausted and a little groggy, and he didn’t want to talk about the night before. I asked if there was anything I could do for him, and he said no. He looked so sad and tired that, after making him coffee, the best I could do was leave him alone.
Next I went to the decorators to talk about furniture. I chose pieces designed for comfort and decided to use my own framed photographs as artwork. I could commission other Native American artists like Jamison to create art-works for the hotel as well, which I could also offer for sale to the tourists. I liked the idea of providing a way for people who needed the funds to get through the freezing winters the high desert could throw at us. Even these days many Diné had to rely on wood-burning stoves as their only source of heat.
The problem with my decision was that I’d sent all my photos not in galleries and gift stores back home to Many Farms for storage. I’d either have to ask someone to drive them down to me, or I’d have to fetch them myself. The thought of walking into the long, low house outside Many Farms made me cringe. Home. Why did I fear it so much?
Next I went to the little phone store outlet and got a replacement for the cell phone that had gotten smashed in the accident. They let me keep my phone number, and I got a phone with more functions for the same price, so at least that worked out.
After that I headed for Paradox, which was somewhat busy today. Tourist season hadn’t officially begun, but visitors had already started arriving in Magellan in search of magic. Several gray-haired women in light-colored clothing wandered through the aisle
s, staring in curiosity at the packs of tarot cards and displays of crystals, while a woman wearing a pendant of the triple moon of the Goddess calmly filled her shopping basket.
I discussed spells with Heather Hansen, the owner, a witch with a solid grasp of magic and the ethics of it as well. We talked about protection spells and spells to enhance aura reading as I bought more smudge sticks and candles.
Next in my rounds was Hansen’s Garden Center, run by Jamison and Naomi. Naomi, busy in the greenhouse, greeted me with a smile and told me Jamison was in his art studio.
The hogan-like studio in Naomi’s backyard was new, the old one having been destroyed last Christmas during a battle with a skinwalker. Inside Jamison was chipping away at a black stone, but he put aside his tools to greet me. Naomi’s ten-year-old daughter, Julie, had been watching Jamison with great concentration, but she broke off and waved to me when she saw me come in.
“Jamison’s teaching me to sculpt,” she said out loud and in sign language. Julie had been born deaf, but had learned to speak as well as sign.
“What I’m allowed to,” Jamison amended. “Nothing involving sharp tools, or Naomi would take my head off.”
I smiled with Julie, then the three of us chatted for a few minutes about comfortable, mundane things, while Julie taught me a few signs. The little girl thought me backward because I’d never learned sign language, so she made sure to teach me something new whenever she saw me. In return I taught her a couple of Diné words, which she learned with quick precision.
By tacit agreement, neither I nor Jamison mentioned the fight last night in front of Julie. I asked Jamison if I could commission some of his art for my hotel, and told him of my plan to feature the art of local Native Americans. He liked the idea and said he’d work on something special.
That pleased me. Jamison was a well-known sculptor, and his works commanded high prices. Having his art in my lobby could be a nice draw. The highest compliment I’d ever received was when Jamison attended a showing of my photos in a gallery in Flagstaff. The art patrons had gaped to see such a famous artist at a novice’s exhibit, but once Jamison had given my artwork his nod of approval, people lined up to buy my pictures. I’d made a nice pile of cash on that show and gained the confidence to try more.
Stormwalker Page 12
