“How do we get to the Otherworld?” I asked.
“I can open the door anywhere. All I need is a hill.”
He turned and slipped into a nearby yard. I reached for Jimmy’s hand, figuring I’d have to drag him, but he lifted both arms, as if in surrender. “I’ll come.”
I motioned for him to go ahead of me. I wasn’t stupid. I turned my back, and Jimmy went poof. He’d done it before.
But he followed Quinn without complaint. Jimmy’s hangdog behavior was bugging me more than his usual bravado. I almost wanted him to slug me, if only so I could slug him back.
In the yard a slight mound of grass made a pathetic hill, but Milwaukee wasn’t exactly rolling in them. I think the closest knoll was a good twenty-minute drive.
“Lie down,” Quinn ordered, and we did. From his pocket he drew a cloth bag.
“Dirt from the Otherworld,” he explained, then dipped his fingers within. “Only those who have been there possess it.”
He sprinkled the dirt over us. The falling specks felt like cool sand against my face. The scent of moist earth surrounded us. The sky appeared to be receding.
“Crap,” I said. But it was too late; we sank, the dirt streaming in on us from above, the ground sinking away below.
I reached for Jimmy’s hand again, managing to link our fingers together right before we were buried alive.
CHAPTER 8
I never thought it would end like this—suffocating as earth filled my mouth, my nose, blocked the starlight from my eyes. No, I figured I’d go down in a blaze of glory—sword slashing, blood everywhere—perhaps during the final battle called Armageddon.
Jimmy’s fingers tightened on mine, and the panic that had threatened receded. At least we were together. At least he hadn’t pulled away again.
Then we landed with a thud in a cool, gray, misty world, and Jimmy did pull away. I blinked and dirt cascaded off my lashes. I scrubbed it from my face, my eyes, my hair, then glanced up. The sky was brown; the earth beneath our feet swirled like a cloud.
“Upside down,” Jimmy murmured.
We stood. The mist was so thick we couldn’t see anything but each other.
“Now what, Sherlock?” Jimmy asked.
“We find the Dagda.”
“By wandering around blindly, dropping off the edge of time and into a hell dimension?”
Music flowed on the mist; it sounded like a—
“Harp.” I smiled. “They don’t play harps in hell.”
“How do you know? If I were a demon—”
“You are.”
“Do you really want to throw that stone?”
Good point.
“If I were a demon,” he continued, “I’d use harps to lure the unwary right into the pit.”
“I’ll remember that.” And I would, because he was probably right.
The harp music drifted closer, became louder. Jimmy and I pulled out our silver knives. I always felt better with something sharp and shiny in my hand.
From the fog stepped a tall, broad man with a huge club slung about his waist. In one arm he held a harp made of glistening, polished, intricately carved wood, with strings of gold that he plucked with large yet nimble fingers.
His hair was the sun and his eyes the sky. His teeth when he smiled were as white as winter ice and his lips the shade of a sunset in the west.
He was huge—everywhere. About eight feet tall, several feet wide, probably three hundred pounds. How could he walk on the clouds? Big feet, big hands and a codpiece—who wore those anymore?—the size of a dinner plate, which appeared to barely contain his impressive package.
At the sight of us he paused. The harp disappeared, as did his smile. The silence that descended when the music died seemed to pulse in my ears like thunder.
He reached for his club; the thing detached from his belt and flew through the air into his hand. “How did you get in?”
“Quinn.”
He relaxed somewhat, though he didn’t put the club back.
“Are you the Dagda?”
He stared me up and down, the perusal as blatant as any I’d received while tending bar at Murphy’s. “Who wants to know?”
“Elizabeth Phoenix.”
His smile returned. “The leader of the light.”
“Word travels,” Jimmy said.
“I am not completely cut off from your world. My people come here for rest, for protection, for . . .” He grinned again. “Vacation.”
“Seems like a real rockin’ place,” I said.
“It is peaceful. No one can enter the Otherworld who has not been here before. Or who is not given entry by one of us. This is not bestowed lightly.” He swung his club, one slash right and then left, and the displaced air nearly blew us off our feet. “If I am displeased by those granted entry, they die. Badly.”
“People always say that,” Jimmy murmured. “But really, what is ‘dying goodly’?”
The Dagda scowled, seemingly annoyed by the mere sound of Sanducci’s voice. “Silence your pet, light’s leader, or I will silence him for you.”
“You can try.” Jimmy stepped forward.
I elbowed him back. “This is not a pissing contest, Sanducci.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Behave,” I muttered. “We need him.”
“You come to convince me to join your fight,” the Dagda continued.
“Eventually,” I agreed. “But first things first. I’d like you to remove a spell.”
“From your collar?”
I reached up and fingered the jewels. “No. From him.”
The Dagda’s gaze turned toward Jimmy, and he took in a deep breath, tilted his head and frowned. “Plenus luna malum,” he said, reciting the name of the spell. “His vampire is beneath the moon.”
“Yes. I was told that you could release it.”
“It will not be easy for me. Or comfortable for him.”
“But you can do it.”
“I can do anything.”
Jimmy snorted, and I sent him a glare before returning my attention to the Dagda.
“Will you?” I asked.
The Dagda’s gaze slid over me. “For a price.”
“No,” Jimmy said. “She’s mine.”
The words “since when” were on the tip of my tongue, but Jimmy narrowed his eyes, and I kept them to myself.
“Sacrifices must be made,” the Dagda murmured. “You know that. Nothing is for free.”
“What, exactly, are we talking about?” I asked.
“A boon. A favor.”
“Could you be more specific?” I didn’t like promising what I didn’t understand.
“I don’t know now what I might need later.”
“No,” Jimmy repeated. “It’s too dangerous.”
“You wish the spell reversed; I am the only one powerful enough to do so.” The Dagda shrugged. “I wish for a boon from the leader of the light. It’s simple. Say yes and get what you came for, or say no and go back where you came from. And good luck winning your battle without the proper—”he lifted a brow—“equipment.”
Ruthie had said we needed to be as evil as they were to win, and I’d seen the truth of this myself when I’d fought the Naye’i. She’d had no humanity, no compassion, no restraint. She’d killed horribly and often and without remorse. I would never have been able to best her without the physical strength and the inner fury of my demon. With the Grigori loose, creating Nephilim by the minute, we needed more power than mine. We needed Jimmy’s.
Since the Dagda appeared to be the only one who could remove the spell and release Jimmy’s demon, the choice was even simpler than the fairy god had made out. Because I didn’t have one.
“Just to be clear . . . You’ll release Jimmy’s demon and you’ll join our side,” I stated. “In return, I’ll do something unknown for you at a future date.”
“Both the spell and the choosing of sides,” the Dagda mused. “This will have to be a very great favor.”
>
“I figured that.”
He smiled. “So did I.”
“Don’t I have anything to say about this?” Jimmy asked.
“No,” the Dagda and I answered at the same time.
“How long will it take?” I asked.
“Plenus luna malum is not easily cast. I will do my best to be quick, but removing it is not simple either. You must leave him with me.”
“But—”
“You have work to do, light’s leader. You cannot tarry here.”
“You’ll let me know when he’s—” I stopped, uncertain what to say. Not better. Not cured or healed. More like worse. Cursed and possessed and insane with a lust for blood and death, destruction and chaos.
“Yes,” the Dagda agreed. “When we are finished, I will contact you.” I opened my mouth to ask how—he was underground—and the Dagda held up a hand. “I have ways. Do not worry about that.”
“You’ll have to bespell . . . something.” I traced the collar around my neck. “Or he’ll be—”
“I know what he’ll be, and I will take every precaution. I prefer my own blood right where it is and not soaking into the ground of the Otherworld.”
I took a deep breath, glanced at Jimmy, whose face was tense and pale, but I nodded, and Jimmy closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at me anymore.
“The deal is made,” the Dagda said. “Now it must be sealed.”
“With blood, I suppose.”
“A kiss is so much more binding.”
“You want me to kiss you.”
He tilted his head. “Is that a problem?”
“I can just imagine what the ‘favor’s’ gonna be if you’re sealing the deal with a kiss,” Jimmy muttered. “But then that’s right up your alley.”
He was angry, hurt, betrayed. I couldn’t blame him for lashing out. So why did I?
“I could use more power.” I lifted one shoulder, then lowered it. “Why not his?”
Jimmy stared at me as if he’d just realized something and he didn’t much like it. “You’ve changed.”
I laughed. “You think?”
“No more talk.” The Dagda reached for me. Jimmy made a move, as if he’d put himself between us, and the fairy god sent him to the ground with one sharp glare from his ice-blue eyes.
“Stay,” the Dagda murmured, and then he kissed me.
As kisses went, it wasn’t so bad. A mere brush of his lips, soft and almost sweet—not even a hint of tongue. Unfortunately, at the first touch I saw the truth of what he’d do to Jimmy.
It was going to hurt.
I jerked back, my lips forming “no” but my voice too bound by horror to set the word free.
The Dagda’s intent gaze bored into mine. “Do you choose to spare him even if it means the end of the world?”
And that “no” I’d been choking on flew free.
CHAPTER 9
The next instant I was on top of the hill instead of below it. I laid my hand against the cool green grass and murmured, “Sorry.”
Then I got to my feet and I left Jimmy behind.
Quinn had disappeared. I assumed he was making like a statue in Megan’s garden again, which was where he should be. I should be—
Anywhere but here.
I got in the Navigator and headed for the airport. The only place I could think to go was New Mexico.
Eight hours later, I stepped off the plane in Albuquerque—flights from Milwaukee to the Southwest were few and far between—then rented a car and drove north.
Sawyer lived at the very edge of the Navajo reservation near Mount Taylor, one of the four sacred mountains that marked the boundaries of Navajo land, known as the Dinetah, or the Glittering World. In that world, strange things happened. Especially around Sawyer.
I drove through flat, arid plains that would eventually give way to mountain foothills dotted with towering ponderosa pines. Canyons surrounded by high, spiked, sandy shaded rock shared space with the red mesas immortalized forever in the westerns of John Ford.
I was still a few miles from Sawyer’s place when a lone black wolf appeared next to my car. Most wolves wouldn’t have been able to keep pace at 60 miles per hour, but this wasn’t most wolves.
I pulled to the side of the road and stepped out. The beast paused in the mesquite scrub and stared at me, tongue lolling, spooky gray eyes fixed on my face.
“How did you know I was coming?” I asked.
He tilted his head, didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Sawyer might be more than a wolf, but he still couldn’t talk.
“I’ll meet you at the house.”
I made a move to get back into the car, and he let out a low woof, then pawed at the dirt and shook his whole body as if he’d just climbed out of an icy cold bath.
“Why don’t you shift back so we can talk?”
He lifted his upper lip and showed me his teeth.
“Oookay.” I stared at him for several seconds. “You didn’t get yourself cursed again, did you?”
Sawyer had been cursed by his mother, the Naye’i, or woman of smoke. For years, centuries, millennia—who knew?—he’d been unable to leave the Dinetah as a man. But since I’d torn her to shreds, the curse was broken.
I contemplated Saywer’s fuzzy ears and bushy tail. Unless it wasn’t.
I sighed. Sawyer obviously had no desire to return to his human form at the moment, and since making a wolf do anything, especially this wolf, was damn near impossible, I’d have to compromise.
“If you can’t beat ’em.” I opened the trunk of the rental, then pulled a silk robe from my duffel. “Join ’em.”
A gift from Sawyer, the robe had been fashioned in every shade of midnight—blue, purple, black with sparkles of silver—the image of a wolf flickered in the folds. Skinwalkers can shape-shift, but they need a little help. Sawyer, in human form, had tattoos everywhere. They depicted mammals and birds and insects—every single one a creature of prey. To shift, he touched a tattoo and became whatever lay beneath the stroke of his fingers. I could do the same. Touch him and become them.
However, sometimes, like now, touching Sawyer’s tattoos wasn’t an option, so I used the robe.
Quickly I lost my clothes. The jeweled collar around my neck had been bespelled, which allowed it to shift shape along with me. A good thing, since a vampire werewolf was something I really didn’t want to be.
I swirled the garment around my shoulders and embraced the familiar bright flash of light that heralded the change. A blast of cold, followed by heat, then the fall from two feet to four, the shift from human to wolf. It didn’t hurt, not really, but it freaked me out every single time.
Phoenix.
Sawyer’s deep, melodious voice echoed in my head—the telepathy that existed between shifters in their bestial forms.
What’s going on? I asked. The curse should be broken.
It is.
He circled closer, slid along my body, rubbed his face against mine, and I let him. While human, I didn’t trust him. He kept too many secrets, told too many lies. But in this form we were pack, joined in a way no one else could ever understand. Animals don’t lie. I’m not sure they’re capable of it.
If you can leave the Dinetah as a man, then why are you furry?
He whirled and took off across the deserted terrain. I hesitated, but only for an instant. In this form certain things called to me, and running was one of them.
True wolves can cover 125 miles in a day and run 40 miles per hour. Shifters are much faster, and skinwalkers can move so quickly they seem to disappear in one place, then appear in another. Part of the reason we excel in this area is that we love it. Running frees us.
I chased Sawyer until I caught him; then I jumped onto his back and we rolled onto the ground, tussling and snapping, nuzzling and nipping. But all too soon, he sidestepped and ran away again. Sawyer wasn’t much for play, unless it was sex play. The man was a sexual god.
Maybe that was hyperbole. But not by much. He’d had cen
turies to hone his skills. He could seduce anyone, was comfortable doing anything. Unfortunately, sex meant nothing to Sawyer but a means to whatever end he was after at the time. That didn’t make the sex any less spectacular. But the aftermath was a bitch.
I understood why he was the way he was. His mother had screwed him up. Didn’t they always? However, Sawyer’s mother had screwed him up by actually screwing him. The federation had helped to make Sawyer a head case to rival all head cases by using his talent as a catalyst telepath—he could free blocked supernatural abilities through sex. He’d certainly unblocked me.
That he’d drugged me and slept with me to do so was still a matter of contention between us, but since I’d discovered the truth about his mother, I was a little less likely to plunge a knife into his back when he wasn’t looking. I still hadn’t forgiven him, but I kind of understood why he’d thought it was okay. His boundaries were as fucked up as he was.
We ran for miles. It felt so good just to be out in the fresh air, with the wind in my fur and nothing else to do but be.
Night hovered at the edge of the horizon. Mount Taylor loomed ahead, towering and beautiful. Full of mystery and magic. It was on that mountain that I’d become who I was right now. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
There was destiny and this was mine. I hadn’t wanted it. Still didn’t. But we very rarely get what we want. We move on and we live or we die, but we deal.
Sawyer headed away from the mountain, across the scrabbly land. Just when I was about to ask where we were going and why, he paused, crouched and seemed to disappear from the earth.
I let out a surprised woof and his head popped up as if he’d been buried in the dirt. Come, his voice commanded me.
I followed more slowly and saw that the dry ground had crumbled away into a fairly deep hollow, one side open to the steadily descending night and the other trailing back into a twisting cave beneath a rock outcropping the shade of sand. Sawyer stood with his head inside the cave and his tail dappled by the shadows of the setting sun.
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