Savage Nature

by Christine Feehan

  The night had been warm and humid and she hadn't been able to sleep. She was so upset at the way her family treated her--as if she didn't exist, as if she was beneath notice. She'd cooked and cleaned and taken care of their father, but like him, her brothers must have blamed her for her mother's slow sink into depression and then death. She hadn't known her mother when she was the vibrant woman they all remembered; she'd been too young when she'd died. At ten, she'd been resentful of their relationships when she felt as if she didn't quite belong. She had gotten up and opened her window to let in the comforting sounds of the swamp--a world she could always count on, one she loved. The swamp beckoned to her.

  Saria hadn't actually heard her brothers leave the house, they all moved in eerie silence--they had most of their lives--but when, resentful and hurt, she'd gone out her window to find solace in the swamp as she had hundreds of nights, she caught sight of them slipping into the trees. She followed, staying well back so they wouldn't hear her. She had felt so daring and a little superior. Her skills in the swamp were already impressive, and she was proud of herself for being able to track them without their knowing.

  That night had turned into a surreal nightmare. Her brothers had stripped. She'd sat up in a tree with her hands over her eyes wondering what they were up to. Who would take their clothes off in a swamp? When she'd peeked through her fingers, they were already shifting. Muscles contorted grotesquely, although later she'd admitted they'd all been fast and smooth at it. Fur covered their bodies and they were horrifyingly real as leopards. It was just--scary gross.

  They had made those same noises as she heard tonight. Chuffing. Rasping, sawing coughs. They'd stretched tall and raked the trees with claws. The two smallest had gotten angry and erupted into a furious fight, swiping at one another with claws. The largest roared in fury and cuffed both hard enough to send them rolling, breaking up the fight. The sound of that ferocious roar had shaken her to her very core. Her blood went ice cold and she'd run all the way back to the house and hid under her covers, her heart pounding, a little afraid she was losing her mind.

  Leopards were the most elusive of all large cats and the true shifters were more so, keeping the knowledge even from family members who couldn't shift--such as Saria. She'd tried to find out about them, but there were only obscure references in the library. She had convinced herself she'd made up the entire thing, but there had been other signs she couldn't altogether ignore, now that she had seen them.

  Her father often rambled on in his drunken state, and she had listened carefully to the strange references he made to shifters. Surely they couldn't really exist, but sometimes her father made random remarks about running free as he was meant. He'd stumble off to bed and then next morning there would be rake marks on the side of the house, or even in his room. He would be sanding the wood down and resealing it when she woke up. If she asked about the scratches, he refused to answer her.

  Sitting in the swamp with only the night to protect her, she knew a leopard was a cunning predator and once on the hunt, he would find her. She could only hope he hadn't noticed those first few flashes of her camera and come looking. It seemed like hours before the natural rhythm of the swamp began to come back to life, insects humming and the movements reassuring if not comforting as creatures once again began to carry on with their lives.

  She stayed very still while the terrible tension drained out of her. The ghost cat was gone. She was certain of it. She immediately left the safety of the cypress swamp and made her way to Fenton's Marsh. Her mouth was dry, her heart pounding in terror at what she might find, but she couldn't stop herself.

  The body lay half in, half out of the water, right at the edge of the marsh. She didn't recognize the man. He appeared to be between thirty and forty, now lifeless and bloody. He'd been stabbed in the stomach, but he'd died from a suffocating bite to his throat. She could see the puncture wounds and the raking claw marks clearly on the body. Blood leaked into the water all around him, drawing insects and interest from alligators.

  She pressed her fingers to her eyes for a moment, sickened that she didn't know what to do. She couldn't go to the police. Remy was a homicide detective. He was the police. And could she turn in her own brothers? Would anyone even believe her? Maybe this person had done something terrible and given one of her brothers no choice.

  Saria made her way home slowly, dread filling her as she tied up her boat and stepped onto the dock. She stood for a moment, observing her home. The bar was dark, as were the house and store, but she knew with that strange warning radar she always seemed to have that she was not alone. She circled the house, determined to avoid her brothers. As she reached for the back door, it jerked inward and her oldest brother filled the doorway, towering over her, a handsome, dark-haired man with serious, watchful green eyes. Startled, she stepped back before she could stop herself. She knew he would catch the fear flickering in her eyes before she had a chance to cover it up.

  Remy's eyes narrowed, inhaling, as if drawing her fear into his lungs. He swallowed whatever he'd been about to say, concern replacing impatience. "Are you hurt?" He reached to take her arm, to draw her into the house.

  Saria stepped back out of reach, her heart pounding. Remy frowned and raised his voice. "Mahieu, Dash, get out here." He didn't take his eyes from her face. He didn't even blink. "Where have you been, cher?" His tone demanded an answer.

  He looked so big. She swallowed, refusing to be intimidated. "Why would that suddenly matter? You never wanted to know before." She gave a little casual shrug.

  There were no footsteps--her brothers moved silently, but both Mahieu and Dash stood shoulder to shoulder behind Remy. She could see their eyes moving over her, taking in every detail of her no doubt pale face.

  "Were you with someone tonight, Saria?" Remy asked, his voice gentle--too gentle. He reached out and just as gently caught her arm when she shifted as if she might run.

  She wanted to cry at the gentleness in his voice, but she knew Remy could go from gentle to lethal in moments. She'd seen him handle suspects on more than one occasion. Nearly all of them fell for his gentle routineished he was really all that kind and caring with her, but until recently, none of her brothers had noticed her.

  She scowled at him. "That's none of your business, Remy. Nothing I did mattered to you while I was growing up, and there's no need to start pretending it does now."

  He looked shocked. She saw it on his face right before he went all Remy on her, no expression whatsoever. His eyes went flat and hard, kicking her accelerated heartbeat up another notch. "That's a hell of a thing to say to me. We practically raised you. Of course we're goin' to be concerned when you stay out half the night."

  "You raised me?" She shook her head. "No one raised me, Remy. Not you. Not Dad. I'm a little too grown for any of you to suddenly decide you're goin' to start wonderin' what I'm doin'. And just for your information, since you know so damned much about me, I go out into the swamp nearly every night. I have since I was a kid. How the hell did you possibly miss that with all your concern?"

  Dash studied her face. "You tangle with somethin' out in the bayou, Saria, or someone?"

  Her heart jumped. Was that a taunt? She didn't know if there was some double implication. She took another step back. "If I had a problem with someone, I'd take care of it myself, Dash. Why are you all suddenly interested in my life?"

  Remy rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We're famille, cher. If you're in trouble . . ."

  "I'm not," she interrupted. "What's this all about, Remy? Really? Because none of you have ever questioned where I've been or whether or not I was capable of takin' care of myself. I'm at the bar alone for days at a time. None of you ever questioned whether that was dangerous or not, although I was underage runnin' it."

  Her three brothers exchanged long, sheepish looks. Remy shrugged. "Maybe we didn't, Saria, but we should have. I was sixteen when you were born, feelin' my oats, cher, burnin' through my youth. You were a babe. So maybe I did
n't pay attention the way I should have, but that doesn't mean you aren't mine. Famille is everythin'."

  "While you all were out feelin' your oats, I was takin' care of our drunken pere every night. Paying bills. Runnin' the store. Makin' sure he ate and had clean clothes. Orderin' for the store. Fishing. You know. Grown-up things. Keepin' the place runnin' so you could all have your fun."

  "We should have helped you more with Pere," Remy admitted.

  Saria blinked back unexpected tears. Remy could be so sweet when he chose, but she didn't trust his motivation. Why now? She risked a quick glance at her brothers' faces. They were all watching her intently. They were utterly still. Their eyes had gone almost amber with the pupils fully dilated. It took every ounce of courage she possessed not to turn and run.

  "Now I'm grown, Remy. It's a little too late to start wonderin' about my life now. I'm tired and want to go to sleep. I'll see you in the morning." Not if she could help it.

  Remy stepped aside. She noticed they all inhaled as she walked by, trying to read scents off of her. She smelled like the swamp, but she hadn't touched the dead body, just went close enough to shine her lit on it and see.

  "Sleep well, Saria," Remy said.

  She closed her eyes briefly, just the simple gesture giving her another attack of nerves.

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  THE wind moaned softly, an eerie, lonely sound. A snake slid from the low-hanging branches of a tupelo tree and plopped into the water, swimming away, no more than a ripple in the dark water. Overhead, dark clouds, heavy with rain, boiled in the evening heat.

  Saria stepped from the pirogue to the rickety dock, pausing to inhale deeply while she cast a careful look around, studying the shore and grove of trees she had to walk through. Years earlier, one of the farmers had planted a Christmas tree farm that had never quite taken off, although the trees had. The town, small as it was, had grown to the edge of the farm, and the variety of cedar, pine and spruce trees were beautiful but had grown thick, creating a forest effect behind the cypress grove on the water's edge.

  Moss hung in long silvery webs, swaying gently from the twisted cypress branches lining the river. The grove was fairly large, and with the gray mist spreading like a fine veil, the cypress trees lining the water appeared spooky and ghostlike. Behind that, the thicker farm trees loomed, a silent dark forest. Icy fingers crept down her spine as she stood there on the wooden planks, a good distance from civilization.

  Night often came fast to the river, and she had waited for her brothers to leave, checking on the fishing lines and crab pots before she took off to come to the mainland. All the while, she'd had the feeling someone was following her. She'd stayed in close to the banks of the river as much as she could. Someone--something-- could have kept up with her and certainly could be ahead of her now. Her brothers had gone out in the bass boat, leaving her the old pirogue, which was fine with her as a rule, but something unseen in the night made her wish for speed.

  Lately she'd been uneasy and restless, her skin too tight as if it didn't quite fit over her bones. Itching came in waves as something seemed to move beneath her skin. Her skull felt too large, and her jaw and mouth ached. Everything felt wrong, and perhaps that contributed to her gathering fear that she was being watched.

  Saria sighed, moistened dry lips and forced herself to take that first step toward the farm of trees. She could bypass it, but it would take time she didn't have. Her brothers were going to be back and they'd be angry if they caught her going off by herself again. They'd been as edgy as she was, and to her dismay, had taken to checking up on her continually. The last couple of weeks the attention had grown worse until she felt as though she were a prisoner in her own home.

  She began walking, touching the knife strapped to her belt for reassurance. If someone--or something--truly was stalking her, she was prepared. She walked in silence, along the narrow path through the grove, toward the old church.

  Behind her and a little to her left a twig snapped, the sound overloud in the silence of the grove. Her heart began to pound. The mist thickened with each passing moment, slowly drawing a veil over the dark clouds and sliver of moon. The fog turned the crescent a strange, ominous red. She quickened her pace, hurrying through the variety of trees.

  Saria erged from the grove of Christmas trees straight onto a sidewalk leading through the small town just off the Mississippi River. A large holding wall helped to prevent flooding. Most of the land had been built up to help with the flooding as well. She walked quickly down the walkway along the river. The wind sent waves lapping at the wall and piers. She took another cautious look around but didn't slow her pace. The church was just ahead, and she felt a pressing need to get inside.

  In spite of the night, the air was very hot and heavy with moisture, promising rain soon. She felt sweat trickle down between her breasts, but wasn't certain if it was the oppressive heat or sheer fear. She breathed a sigh of relief when she gained the steps to the church. Deliberately she paused there, covering her hair with the lace wrap that had been her mother's. While she did, she turned and surveyed the street. Quaint gaslights lit the street, glowing a strange yellow in the mist. She felt the weight of eyes watching her, but she couldn't spot anyone overly interested in her.

  She turned her back to the street and walked up the steps to the church door. Right between her shoulder blades she felt an itch, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. She pulled open the door and slipped inside, her heart pounding. The interior of the church was dimly lit. Shadows clung to the walls and created dark valleys between the empty pews. She dipped her fingers in holy water and made the sign of the cross as she walked slowly toward the confessional. The statues stared down at her with empty, accusing eyes. She had been here several times since she'd found the first body, but she couldn't bring herself to confess, not even to Father Gallagher, not even now that there had been two more.

  She felt guilty, no doubt about it, although she'd tried to get help and that had only put her in danger. Now, the priest was her only hope--if she could get up the courage this time to ask him. She waited her turn, closed the confessional door and knelt on the small padded bench provided. She bowed her head.

  THE darkness and privacy screen of the shadowy confessional prevented Father Gallagher from identifying which parishioner had just entered the small booth. He knew it was a woman by the faint fragrance of lavender and wild honey. The scent was extremely subtle, but, in the stifling heat of the confessional, the fragrance was a welcome change from the sweat that sometimes was faintly sickening.

  "Father," the voice whispered.

  He leaned closer, alarmed by the note of desperation in her tone. Over the years he had learned to recognize real fear.

  "It's Saria," the voice continued.

  He knew Saria, had known her since she was a toddler. Bright. Intelligent. Not given to flights of fantasy. He had always known her to be a cheerful, hardworking girl. Maybe too hardworking. She came from a large family, like many of the Cajuns attending his church, but she had stopped coming to mass and confession years earlier. About six months ago, she had returned to confession--but not to the service--coming faithfully every week, but not confessing anything of importance that might have made her suddenly need to come back to the church. Her whispers made him think perhaps there had been another reason for her once again coming to the confessional.

  "Is everything all right, Saria?"

  "I need to slip a letter to you. It can't be mailed from this parish, Father. I've tried, and the letter was intercepted. I was threatened. Can you get it out for me some other way?"

  Father Gallagher's heart jumped. Saria had to be in trouble if she was asking such a thing, and he knew from long experience that the people in the bayou as well as up and down the river were hardworking, large clans that often kept troubles to themselves. She had to be desperate to come to him.

  "Saria, have you gone to the police?"

  "I can't. Neither can you. Please F
ather, just do this for me and forget about it. Don't tell anyone. You can't trust anyone."

  "Remy is a policeman, isn't he?" he asked, knowing her eldest brother had joined the force years ago. He didn't understand her hesitation, but he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. His comment was met with silence. He sighed. "Give me the letter."

  "I need your word as a man of God, Father."

  He frowned. Saria wasn't dramatic either. This strange conversation was completely out of character for her sunny personality. She feared very little. She had five very large brothers who would probably skin someone alive if they tried to hurt her. They'd grown up rough, big strong boys who had turned into formidable men. He couldn't imagine why she wouldn't go to Remy. He had been head of the family since her father's death some years earlier.

  "Should I be afraid for you, Saria?" he murmured, lowering his voice even more and pressing his ear to the screen. The situation would have seemed surreal and dramatic had it been someone else, but Saria had to be believed.

  "Somethin' bad is happenin' out in the bayou, Father, but I can't call the police. We need someone else. If you can get this letter out without anyone from here knowin', he'll do something. Please, Father Gallagher, just do this for me."

  "I give you my word I won't tell anyone, unless," he emphasized, "I think it is necessary to save your life."

  There was another small silence. A rustle of paper. "That's fair. Please be careful, Father," Saria whispered and pushed the flat envelope through the opening. "No one can see you with that. Not in this parish. Not in this ward. You have to take it far from here to mail it."

  Father Gallagher took the envelope, noting it was sealed. "Say three Hail Marys and the Lord's Prayer," he whispered, reminding her to keep up the charade of confession if she wasn't actually going to confess any sins. He waited, but she stayed silent, and he blessed her, tucking the envelope into his robes.

  Saria crossed herself and left the confessional, going up to the front pew to kneel before the altar. There were several people in the church and she took a slow, surreptitious look around, trying to see if anyone could have followed her. She didn't see anyone suspicious, but that didn't mean anything. Most of the people she knew attended the church and could pretend, as she had done, that they had legitimate business there.