He raised his intense eyes to mine. “Here I am, Livia. I ken to your pain and I’ll do my best to off any demon and kill any flesh and blood fecker who lays a hand on you. But I need a good strong body for the work at hand, and that’s not easy to come by, like I’ve said, so I have to make do with this hateful one, and you do, too. It’s a man’s flesh, Livia. It’s hung with a big stick and clackers the size of apples and a mind for horning up every time it’s near you. Don’t take that as a threat or a sign of evil lingering under the skin. All that you’ll find inside this skin is love.”
Silence. A challenge. I looked down at his crotch. The long, thick penis that had torn me up now gently pointed my way. A dick is just a dick, yeah. It’s only a weapon if it falls into the wrong hands. But my stomach rolled at the thought of that penis ever sliding inside me again. The body carries memories of its own. And mine rejected Ian’s.
I gagged and put a hand to my mouth. I backed further away from him, and turned my gaze aside.
His big shoulders sagged. He stood there with his hands hanging helplessly, the palms open, his bare feet braced apart. His bawdy hard-on instantly faded.
Sarah stepped past me. “Charles, get my kit. That wound has to be treated. It’s infected.”
My eyes darted to Ian’s left thigh. My stab wound. Pus seeped from under a large bandage on the meaty outer muscle. Several sinister red streaks already radiated from the wound.
Dante straightened ominously. “Sorry, Ian, but I put a small bane lure on her knife.”
Ian nodded to him. “A smart thing, man. No apology needed.”
Gigi eeeked. “Oh, yes, that looks like a bane at work. I’ll get some fresh herbs and make a poultice. The farmer’s market just got in some fresh cilantro. The healing boons love it.”
“You’re not going outside alone,” Dante put in. I’ll take you.”
“Do you think it’s safe to leave him unguarded?”
“Yes, I do. Besides, Sheba’s here. She’ll keep an eye on him.”
As they hurried outside Sarah dropped to her heels beside Ian’s leg. She was earthy and practical. She didn’t seem to notice the naked man-junk twitching just inches from her face. “This may hurt when I pull it off.” She plucked at the bandage’s corner.
Ian stared dully at me. “Go ahead, mum. I’m not in a mood to care.”
I dragged my hand across my mouth and took a deep breath. “All right. You’re not a demon. I’ll keep telling myself that your name is Ian, that you saved my life, that you haven’t said or done anything to deserve being hated by me, and that I should give you a fair chance to do what you say you’ve come here to do. All right. But just . . . stop talking as if you’ve known me before. I don’t remember you, not in this life or any other. Why do you think I should?”
The bandage made a wet, slurping sound as Sarah peeled it from the gooey flesh of his thigh. The puncture made by my knife had swollen on the edges. The wound resembled an obscenely pursed mouth. Pus and blood dribbled down to his bare knee. My stomach lurched again. I bent over, forced the bile back into my stomach, then straightened wearily.
All he saw was more revulsion. He slowly furled and unfurled his hands. “I didn’t expect you to remember me, but I wish to God’s heaven you did. You’d at least remember that I belonged to you, heart and soul, and that you did not hate me, though you were heartbroken with me the last I held you, and you’re the same now. I suppose ’tis something to be said for more’n two hundred years of a woman’s unchanging bad mood.”
“Why do you think you know me?” I repeated hoarsely. “Who was I?”
A long breath shuddered out of him. “My wife,” he said.
*
Shadows flitted across my mind that night, half-formed and mysterious, then vanishing. Ronnie Bowden disappeared in a grisly plume of fire and spurting blood. Every time I jerked awake I thought I saw creatures and human faces in the air around me. And I thought they saw me.
And always, always, a chant went through my mind: His wife. The soul hunter’s wife. No, Greg Lindholm’s wife. Pig Face’s “wife.”
No, Ian’s wife.
Ian Thornton. That was his full name. His brogue pronounced it Tornton.
“When you’re ready to know the whys and wherefores . . . ” he had said grimly.
I wasn’t ready. Not even remotely.
So now I slept badly in a deep, pillow-filled window seat in the second story of Sarah and Charles’ gallery. The window overlooked the gallery’s gravel parking lot. I hugged my knees to my chest, wrapped in one of Sarah’s protective bird quilts. Each time I woke up I craned my head to check a pair of massive industrial doors that led in and out of the big room. I’d rolled them shut and locked their thick iron latches. I checked the doors again. Ian slept on a futon Sarah and Charles set up for him on the floor of another room. My skin crawled.
This part of the gallery was big and airy, the ceilings twenty feet high. It had good vibes. It featured my Bible-verse infused mountain landscapes. I felt safe with my scenes around me. Sometimes I meditated on them, trying to absorb myself inside their blue-green mountains and deep creek coves. Imaginary places. Imaginary happiness. When I dozed I could hear the distant rhythm of the looms, and the mountain songs of weaving women.
I tilted my head against a cool window pane. A full moon glowed over the woods across a narrow paved road and the French Broad curled in wide, lazy darkness beyond those woods.
Asheville was built on a high plateau surrounded by three Appalachian ranges, all of them bedrock towers of earth, stone and sky. At the bottom of the plateau the river district’s deep, flat cove was home to factory buildings, most of them more than a century old and abandoned. A few had been renovated by artists with a need for large loft spaces. They squatted like dark-eyed sentinels guarding the waterway.
Guarding. That’s how it felt, yes. Because there really were demons everywhere, large and small. A fucking infestation of boogie men and ghouls and things that went bump in the night. I’d been happier when I thought I was just crazy. But there were angels, too. Some so small they didn’t mind working in disguise as houseflies.
That bizarre thought did me in. Exhaustion loosened every muscle. My neck throbbed with Ian’s fingerprints. I mean, Ian’s body’s fingerprints. I wanted to forget the feel of his hands on my throat.
I slept. I dreamed.
*
I walked down a steep path pocked with deer tracks and something larger. I stopped and studied the marks. Buffalo. Somehow I recognized buffalo tracks. I was in a time when small bison still lived in the Appalachians. I looked around in wonder. Tall mountains rose on either side, and through the vast green umbrellas of majestic chestnut trees—long before a blight killed every single one of them in the 1930’s—I glimpsed blue vistas. Feeling a little bewildered by my time traveling, but not scared, I kept walking down the path, moving deeper into fairytale woodland scented with earth and water.
I came to a boulder as big as a house. I could hear water gurgling. I clambered over thick tree roots that twined around the base of the enormous rock. A rotting tree trunk lay in the way, a remnant of a chestnut tree so big my head barely crested the trunk’s side. I dug my fingers into the soft bark, braced a foot on the boulder, and climbed up on the tree trunk.
Now I could see in front of the rock. At its base was a deep mountain spring. Water trickled from that beautiful pool into a rocky creek bed, frothing and giggling as it slipped along a fissure down the mountainside. I studied the rock in awe. Carved on the rock’s smooth face were symbols. Stars, circles, and strange lines that intersected each other in no obvious pattern. I didn’t know what the carvings meant. They were even older than the Cherokees who lived nearby. I knew this much, somehow: This is the Talking Rock.
Very ancient and very wise. It drew beings from the other worlds.
Ahah. Now I knew where I was. A portal. I let out a breath of relief.
“Hello, soul catcher,” a voice said in Cherokee. “It is good to s
ee you again.”
I looked up to my right and there, on top of the rock, lay a huge version of Nahjee—a purple, striped snake as thick as a man’s body and at least thirty feet long. Its head was V-shaped and fierce but its eyes had a soft lavender glow, like a sunset sky at the rim of the mountains. Ahah. An uktena. One of the spirit animals.
Standing beside the uktena was a perfectly shaped miniature Cherokee woman, no more than knee-high to me, with beautiful white hair that hung to the ground. Her clothing was old-school: a deer leather shawl that would flash her bare boobs when she lifted her arms, a wrap-around leather skirt, and moccasins. Her hair was decorated with rows of small songbird feathers.
She smiled at me. “Hello again, Mele. Or are you always Mary now?”
“I go by either name, thank you, Bird Mother.” I knew her. One of the Little People. A fairy. No introductions needed.
“You’re looking happy, Mele. It’s not easy for a soul catcher to be happy. So many battles to fight.”
“Yes, that’s true. But I’m doing well these days, thank you.”
I looked down at my reflection in the pool. My skin was a light golden brown. My eyes were still green, but now my face had Cherokee features. My hair was inky black. It hung to my hips and was braided with colored ribbon. My ears were pierced. I wore thick gold hoop earrings so heavy they pulled my lobes down. My long calico shirt was belted with a woven leather sash, and the sash was decorated with rough crystals, some clear, some green, some blue. I wore a long leather skirt rubbed soft and faded at the thighs and knees.
And I wore handsome, black boots.
“Very pretty boots,” the snake said.
“They’re from my father’s trading post. Brought by ox wagon all the way from the Carolina coast, and before that they had traveled on a ship all the way from Philadelphia, where they’d been made by the finest boot smith, especially for me.”
“A gift?”
I smiled. “Yes. My husband gave them to me.”
“Is he one of the People?”
“No, he was born across the big water, like my father. But he’s a very good man. I love him with all my heart.”
“Good in bed?” Bird Mother asked, grinning. Cherokee fairies weren’t shy.
“Very good.” I grinned back
The uktena tilted its head. “He must be a brave man, to marry a soul catcher.”
“Yes. Very brave. I’ve tried to explain the spirit world to him, and he’s trying hard to understand. But he doesn’t realize how dangerous it is.” A lie. He didn’t believe me at all. But he was polite about it.
“Ah. Yes. So you’ve come to ask us how best to protect him?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Hmmm. Let us ponder it.” Bird Mother sat down next to the snake and pulled a trio of long clay pipes from beneath her hair. Fragrant tobacco smoke rose in the air. She handed a pipe to me, then tucked one in the uktena’s mouth.
The three of us smoked, watching eddies in the deep pool as minnows came up to visit. Then Bird Mother took the cold pipes and tucked them in her hair again. She and the uktena looked at me grimly.
Bird Mother said, “He does not remember, but he is a soul hunter.”
I went very still and silent. My heart sank. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. There is a lot of blood on his hands, and he has not lived out a long, contented life since many ages ago. He dies in violence, every time.”
“Because of me?” I asked sadly.
“Yes. Always in your service, and . . . always doomed by his love for you.”
“You will never be happy with this man,” the uktena added. “And he will never be safe with you for long.”
I stiffened proudly. “What can I do to save him?”
“You cannot. It is your path and his.”
“Help me try.”
They sighed. Bird Mother said finally, “Do not live in the village. Do not live beside your father’s trading post. Build your cabin deep in these woods near here. The white light of the Talking Rock will protect you and your husband as long as you live nearby.”
The uktena eyed Bird Mother. “What if she can’t keep her husband from wandering? You know how soul hunters are.”
Bird Mother shook her head. “Then his fate is cast in sorrow again, and so is hers.” She shook a finger at me. “You should not have gotten married, you know. You have many enemies among the demons. They will separate your husband from you. You will always have to search for him. And him for you.”
I stood. “I won’t let him wander from here. It’s as simple as that.”
The uktena and Bird Mother clucked their tongues at my arrogance. “Whatever you do,” the uktena said, “keep his name close to your heart. Then you will always recognize him.”
I nodded politely. I wouldn’t lose my husband. I’d cast spells to keep him at home, and I’d ask the good spirits to help me.
Bird Mother sighed. “What is the name of this fine, doomed husband?”
I lifted my head. “Ian,” I said.
*
I woke up sweating. The air of the gallery felt heavy on my chest. I was hyperventilating. I fumbled for a window lever. At the bottom of each towering window were sections that could be opened with a simple hand crank. My fingers closed on the lever’s cool metal.
A child said loudly, “Oh, don’t do that, Miss Livia!”
My blood froze. Breathing hard, I turned my head toward the voice.
In a shaft of moonlight, just a few feet away from me, stood a red-headed little girl. She was about ten years old. She wore a simple shift dress. She had a small bow in her hair. She appeared to be as real as I was. She wrung her hands. “Miss Livia, don’t dare open that window, please, don’t.”
I wet my lips with my tongue. “I’m sorry, but I need some fresh air.”
“There’s a bane outside that window, Miss Livia. It’s trying to get you.”
My hand convulsed on the lever. The vent popped open just an inch.
Something hissed. A wet tentacle slithered through the opening and wound around my wrist. On the other side of the glass, just inches from my face, a dark shape clawed the window.
I exploded—yelling, kicking, fumbling for the knife I’d tucked by one knee. I braced my feet against the sill and lurched backwards. The bane held on and jerked hard. My hand rammed into a window pane. The thick glass made an ominous, crackling sound.
The phantom child uttered a shriek. “He’ll slam-bam you until the window busts! Then he’ll pull you through the broke glass!”
The creature pulled so hard that I hit the window like a limp doll. Stars exploded in my vision. I began to slump.
Suddenly, feet thudded on the wooden floor behind me. A strong hand snared me by my free arm and dragged me off the window seat. The tentacle stretched but didn’t let go. I stared woozily at it in the moonlight. It was gray with shimmering scales.
Steel flashed above my head. I saw Ian in the light. He was shirtless; his face was carved in deadly concentration. He braced his feet apart, drew back his right arm and brought an ax down. The tentacle severed with a gush of stinking fluid.
The thing outside the window shrieked and disappeared.
Everything got very quiet. All I heard was the chattering of my teeth.
Sarah, Charles, Gigi and Dante rushed into the room. Charles flipped a light switch.
I lay in the floor at Ian’s feet, wearing only my t-shirt and panties. He wore nothing but his trouser pants, which hung halfway down his taut, hairless belly, since the snap was still broken at the waistband.
The window pane stood open, and the ax was embedded in the window sill. Stenciled on its handle was AFD, for the Asheville Fire Department, and also ONLY FOR EMERGENCY USE.
I wondered if that included attacks from tentacled demons
As my head cleared I frowned at the sill. No chopped-off tentacle, no spattered bane blood, and no other sign that anything I’d seen or felt had been real. I looked around shak
ily. No little red-headed girl, either.
“The Pig Faced bastard’s found himself another servant already,” Ian said grimly. I looked up at his half-exposed belly, his muscled stomach, his broad chest. He looked down at my pale, bare legs, scarred feet and heavily tattooed arms, and his frown softened to a tender wince.
I wanted to crawl away. He sees how ugly I am. I’m not the beautiful Cherokee wife in the dream.
“Why is there no evidence of what happened just now?”
“’Twas not real, not exactly. The banes mostly work by playing with your ken of what’s possible. A few are powerful enough to harm the body—like ol’ Eight Toes did—but most just feck with your mind. This one would have had you throw yourself out the window and t’would look like you did it all by yourself.” Ian pried the ax loose, hefted it by the handle, and tested its balance with a slow chopping motion. “I’ll need better than this the next time.”
“The next time?” I rasped.
Dante walked over and eyed the ax with expert scrutiny. “I can get you something more agile, or would you rather make one yourself?”
“I’d druther make it myself. Is there a forge hereabouts?”
“Up the road there’s a sculptor who does metal work. You can use his equipment.”
“Good, then. I’ll draw more powerful boons by my own smithing.” Ian looked down at me wearily. “G’night, Livia. Stay away from windows, you ken?”
“Ian, I—”
“I’m your bodyguard. Think o’ me that way and nothing else. It’ll be better for the both of us.” He offered me a hand up, but I shook my head. He squared his shoulders and walked out of the room. Dante and Charles followed him.
“Are you hurt?” Sarah asked with a tone of motherly concern, as if I’d just fallen off my bike. She and Gigi huddled beside me. I held up my arm. A pale pink welt rose on the skin of my wrist, next to a tattoo that circled my arm like a bracelet. Stars, circles, and intersecting lines. I’d copied them from the symbols Granny Belane drew for the tattoo artist when I was a child.
Suddenly I realized what they were. My skin prickled.
The symbols from the Talking Rock, in my dream.
Soul Catcher Page 9
