In less than a minute, it seemed, Hunting Hawk made a gesture and Ian’s arms were yanked behind his back and he was struck across the head before he could even stammer out a protest. And now he was waking up in some hot, stuffy dungeon of a room where his feet stuck to the floor and the only light came from a thin, barred window in the corner.
Following the red and purple beam, Ian saw Whisper lying on her side in a shallow layer of muddy water, her back to him. From across the room, he couldn’t tell if she was breathing. Slowly he crept over, craning his neck as he strained to see her face, which was hidden behind tresses of black hair caked with dirt and blood.
“Whisper?” Ian knelt down in front of the young woman, frowning as he gently brushed the hair away from her face and inspected her condition. A trail of blood from her nose had dried on her upper lip, and a dark purple bruise had formed just above her right eye. Her arm was marked with impressions of hard, rough hands, and he turned it over to make sure the blood caking the skin wasn’t from a laceration. The wide band of leather tied to her left wrist was stained dark red, and when he wiped away a patch of drying blood on her inner arm he saw a small tattoo he’d missed before. This one was a symbol of sorts, two triangles on top and bottom of a jagged square, with a black diamond in the center. There was no time to wonder what it meant, though, especially when his mind was more concerned with the fact that all the weapons on her belt were gone.
A red bug crawled up her thigh, and he brushed it off before shaking her again. Her skin was slick, glistening with a thin layer of sweat. “Whisper, wake up.” The fatherly side of him crept back up, the part that worried over a cold, dreaded an emergency. He never would have thought the tough young woman was capable of being captured. Her strength must be waning, her steadfast determination dissipating into the darkness.
“Hey, there you go,” he said gently when her eyes opened slowly. “How’s your head?”
Groggy and slightly confused, Whisper rolled over onto her hands and knees, cringing at the pain searing across her forehead and throbbing in both temples. When she’d demanded Hunting Hawk make their capture look genuine, he’d certainly listened. Her hand went to the pouch at her belt, and she wasn’t surprised to find it missing. Not that it mattered, though, for the gold dust had done its purpose.
“What the hell happened?” Ian asked, scratching dried blood from his cheek, mildly irritated that he had traded one wound—the cat scratches from the Bridge of the Dead—for another. “Why are we here? And what was in that bag?”
She couldn’t tell him the truth, so she racked her pulsing brain for an answer. The truth was that Mole had deceived them in the Barren Plains, which she had expected. The Raven-Eater had sent the witches to kill them, but they killed them first. Guards, led by Hunting Hawk, were then likely ordered to cut off their heads and bring them straight to the Raven-Eater, again something Whisper had anticipated. She had prepared for that by arming herself with adequate leverage—passage into the Spirit World. After all, the Raven-Eater was not one to take prisoners. He had neither the time nor the desire to deal with them, so she had to guarantee their capture, rather than their destruction. The gold dust ensured the guards wouldn’t be punished for their disobedience—they would be long gone before the Raven-Eater knew what they had done.
Their capture had to be authentic, though. No one could simply walk into the Fire Tower, and she couldn’t tell Ian that she had planned their imprisonment. He wouldn’t understand, not yet.
“The guards were sent to kill us,” she said honestly. “I offered a bribe, for them to keep us alive in exchange for passage into the Spirit World. They kept us alive and took the passage. The Raven-Eater would have them killed for bringing in prisoners, and so they escaped before he could find out what they had done.”
He could have guessed that much. “So…your bribe worked, kind of.” He glanced around with a frown. “So, where are we?”
“The Fire Tower.”
“The…” Realization and understanding suddenly set in. “This is the Raven-Eater’s home?”
“Yes.”
“Then this is where Cole is?”
“It is likely.”
Excitement crept into his gut, and Ian couldn’t help but smile, despite his condition and surroundings. He was close, so close. His son was somewhere nearby, waiting to be saved.
Whisper ignored his grin and managed to pull herself to her feet. She sighed and lifted a hand to her head, gritting her teeth in pain. They were nearing the end of their journey, but this was only the beginning of her fight.
She walked over to the only barred window in their dungeon room, peering outside. They were high up, probably in one of the actual towers. Through the narrow hole she could see the Weeping Forest, the Barren Plains, and parts of the Fire Mountains. With the red and purple lights soaring overhead, the sight was almost picturesque, except for the army of dead souls still awaiting their orders on shaking legs too bony and rotted to carry their weight for long.
Ian came to her side, stomping on a pile of slimy creatures. He looked out across the Land of the Dead, his joy in finding Cole disappearing into depression. It was so gloomy, so disheartening.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a mass of people in the distance. They were walking in groups, clutching their personal belongings close to their chests, heads hung low. Every so often one of them would stumble and struggle to pick themselves up again. Even from the tower he could hear the children crying, the women weeping over their lost loved ones. The men were lean and weak, struggling to keep a strong lead but tripping over their own feet. “What are they doing?”
Whisper stared at them for a moment, then averted her eyes. “Walking the Trail Where They Cried.”
Her answer, so soft and thickly accented, made no sense to him. “What does that mean?”
“The Trail of Tears, as the white man says.” Whisper lifted her arms to the window ledge and rested her chin on her hands. “They are the men, women, and children who died on that walk, forced to suffer their massacre for eternity.”
He couldn’t watch such horror. “Another gift from the Raven-Eater?”
“Yes. Although he is of Cherokee heritage, he blames our people for not being strong enough to stand up against the white man. He believes that those who died on that walk deserved their fate, as they did not fight back like he did.”
Sickened by the window’s views, Ian lowered himself to the floor and leaned against the wall. Exhaustion racked his body, whether from the head injury or simply the culmination of his entire journey. He wanted nothing more than to hold his son in his arms, kiss his wife, spend an entire year doing nothing but making them laugh and showering them with the love and attention he had been hoarding for himself lately. He missed his wife’s laugh, the sound of his son’s young and inquisitive voice.
“It’s so quiet,” he said, immediately feeling stupid for the comment. “I mean…ever since we’ve been here, there’s no background noise. No people talking, no singing, no birds chirping. I used to hear birds all the time at work. I miss that.”
Whisper had turned her attention back to the Trail of Tears. Nostalgia filled her soul at Ian’s words as she watched her people struggle to continue their walk. She too missed the sound of birds. “Do you know why the birds sing, and the butterflies are silent, Mr. Daivya?”
“No.” Ian looked over at Whisper, once again desperately wanting to know what that word on her back meant. “Why?”
She took in a deep breath, taking in the sights of the Land of the Dead as she held back a cough brought on by the boiling air. She lifted her wet hair off her neck to cool her skin. “Many moons ago, Creator was watching the children play. He was saddened by the elders, who were watching from their seats, too old to join their family in games. So he decided to conceive a creature that grew younger as it grew older, from a wrinkled worm to a smooth, winged soul….Kamama, the butterfly.”
“Kamama,” Ian repeated, figuring by t
he way Whisper touched the tattoo on her upper arm that the symbol meant Butterfly.
“Butterfly soon became the favorite creature of the world. So beautiful, so colorful, with wonderful songs that inspired dance and love, everyone treasured this new creature. But the birds were jealous. They believed that the gift of song belonged to them, that their voices deserved to be heard, and that it wasn’t fair for Butterfly to be beautiful, young, and full of music.”
As she spoke, Ian pictured her story in his mind. He imagined a village, with children dancing around swarms of rainbow-printed butterflies and blue jays, cardinals, and mocking birds watching sourly from the treetops.
“The birds went to Creator and stated their case, claiming that Creator made Butterfly too perfect. He had given song to birds first, and now had taken away the gift that made them special. Creator agreed, and took song away from Butterfly. That is why they are silent today.”
“Huh.” He didn’t know what else to say. Whisper seemed to truly believe the legend, and he didn’t want to offend her any more than he already had on their quest by stating his own disbelief. Besides, she didn’t seem to be finished.
“Some say that the butterfly is the symbol of transformation and everlasting life. It is said that if you have a secret wish, you can capture a butterfly and whisper your wish to it. Because they have lost their voice, your wish is safe, and when you release the butterfly it will carry your desire to Creator, the only one able to understand the thoughts of butterflies. By setting the butterfly free, you restore the balance of nature, and so you are worthy of having your wish granted.”
Whisper shifted then, bracing her bad shoulder against the wall as she looked across the room at Ian. “Butterfly is my Spirit Guide.”
Ian paused, eyes narrowing. It seemed like she was trying to tell him something, or, at the very least, offering a story that revealed some secret. But he didn’t understand. The woman wasn’t a butterfly. Crazy, that was a possibility, but a butterfly? Not a chance in Hell.
“Okay.” He blew out a breath and rose to his feet. “Well…I have two questions for you.”
“So ask them, Mr. Daivya.”
“My first one is, why is the butterfly your Spirit Guide?”
Whisper considered the question with a small smirk. “A Spirit Guide is not given or assigned, Mr. Daivya. They simply are. They are inspired by your character, your heart, and your soul. And your second question?”
“What does that word on your back mean? Ayohuhisdi?” When her face darkened, he knew he had struck a nerve. The fact that she was so unwilling to tell him only reinforced his suspicions. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Mr. Daivya, some things are not—Ah!”
Whisper crashed to her knees with a piercing shriek when a fiery fist of flames gripped her heart. Her body convulsed as she clutched her chest, her breath coming out in heaving gasps. Ian hesitated, shocked at the outburst and not knowing what was happening.
Searing pain pumped through her blood, traveling in surges up her neck, slamming into her brain. She clutched her head, screaming as explosive waves crashed against one another. Then she heard the Elder’s voice urgently invade her thoughts and project a violent eruption of images on the screen behind her eyes.
She saw herself standing on the riverbank, watching from a distance as the Raven-Eater claimed his last victim, the one who would finally cross beyond the Western Sun. She saw the boy tumble into the water, frantically gasping for air, his foot catching on something and dragging his body beneath the rapids. She saw her own hands securing the limp body between two thick boulders deep in a swirling eddy.
Then the world shifted, and a strange fog covered the land. Men and women were combing the woods with huge flashlights and rescue dogs sniffing for tracks. Julia filled her vision, the distraught mother confronting Smoke Speaker, flipping through a journal, stomping through the woods. Her face was contorted with grief and fury, fear and determination, hate and hope. This was a mother who would give up her life for her son, a woman who would never give up.
Kanegv, the Elder’s voice ripped into her thoughts, I fear I am weakening…I fear I have failed you. Hurry. You must hurry.
Without warning, the fog lifted and she was back on the river. The sun shone down beautifully and the water sparkled in the light. She couldn’t hear Ian’s frantic questions or feel his hands on her shoulders. All she could focus on was the river, the churning of rapids, Julia’s desperate struggle on the bank, and the deputies pulling Cole’s body from the water.
The vision faded, replaced by black dungeon walls. The pressure in her head lessened and her heart finally returned to a regular pace. Taking a moment to catch her breath, she stayed down on her knees while Ian continued to ask what was happening.
“They have found your son,” she said shakily, still holding her chest. “We have little time left.
Chapter 27
Julia’s foot shook as she waited for Ray Forbe in his office. The sheriff had called her only an hour ago, requesting her presence at the coroner’s, but she didn’t have the strength for that just yet. Pulling her dead son out of the water, then having to identify the slightly bloated body, took every ounce of life out of her. Her heart was ripped into a thousand pieces, her eyes were permanently swollen, and her lips were scabbed from thirty days of nervous chewing. It was hard to believe that only yesterday had Cole been found.
She didn’t remember much of yesterday afternoon. There were flashes of the day’s events, her father’s voice urging her to stop, Duff’s look of utter depression, a flicker of blue reflecting in the sunlight. And Cole’s eyes…Ian’s eyes…the spark of joy and childhood completely washed away. There was no going back from that, no reason left to live. She had lost her son, her husband, and her will to continue. The only thing keeping her going was her parents’ support. Even her sister had gone home, claiming she couldn’t be around the sadness any longer. As far as Julia was concerned, Lisa was also dead to her. She couldn’t take the flightiness anymore, the selfishness. Lisa was a spoiled flirt, and wasn’t worthy of Julia’s love.
“Hi, Julia.” Forbe entered his office slowly, closing the door behind him. Today he truly felt his age, and he would have done anything to avoid a confrontation with Julia Daivya. “Julia….I’m not sure how to say this.” He sighed and sat down at his desk while the woman across from him merely shrugged. She was beaten down, and he knew it. “The coroner…he has no explanations.”
Julia looked up at that. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” Forbe held up his hands in exasperation. “He can’t explain what happened to Cole. We originally thought that because of his appearance, he hadn’t been killed until a few days before we found him. But the coroner, Dr. Hessy, seems to think that Cole was killed a month ago, according to the autopsy. On the outside he looks like he was gone only a few days, but on the inside….”
She didn’t understand. “Then why didn’t he look like it?”
“No one knows. There are ancient…ways, “ he felt like a moron for saying it, but it had to be revealed, “that are passed around the few remaining tribal members along the Rockies. Beliefs about preserving bodies for ritual purposes…thing like that.”
When Forbe fell silent, Julia scoffed and felt nothing but derision. “It doesn’t matter, Sheriff. It doesn’t matter that no one could find my son in time. It doesn’t matter that your Dr. Hessy can’t do his job right. It doesn’t matter that my husband has abandoned me. And it doesn’t matter what stupid beliefs you have about tribal shaman. All that matters is that Cole is dead.” The hatred in her voice was tinged with sorrow. “I’m taking him home and giving my son a proper burial. He deserves that much.”
She desperately wanted to rush out of the office before her tears started flowing again, but Forbe stopped her at the door. “Julia, there’s more.”
“What!” she shouted, silently pleading for all of this to be some horrible nightmare. “What more could there possibly be
?!”
The sheriff loosened his grip on the angry, distraught woman and crossed his arms. Julia shrank back, looking small and timid in the harsh light of his office. He worried what she may do to herself when she got home, after Cole was buried. A part of him knew that there was no life left in her, and with no life, there was a very big possibility that she would cause a great deal of harm to herself.
Regardless, it was better that she heard it from him, rather than see it blasted across the six o’clock news.
“Julia…Ian has been listed as the prime suspect in Cole’s murder. A manhunt has been issued to find him and bring him in.” If his words registered with Julia, it didn’t show in his eyes. “If he tries to contact you in any way—”
“Ian stopped caring about me a long time ago,” she cut in coolly. “He proved that the day he walked away with that Cherokee bitch.” She cocked her head to the side sarcastically. “How about you start a manhunt for her too?”
“We have.” Forbe nodded. “We already brought Elder Smoke Speaker in. We found him sitting at a lake about thirteen miles from Howling Vines. He’s in one of our holding cells if you’d like to speak with him.”
A strange, eerie expression crossed Julia’s face. “I have nothing to say to that murderer. Let me know when I can take my son home, then I’m done with every last one of you.”
From his cell, Smoke Speaker heard every word Julia spoke. There was terror, anger, sorrow, hate, and, worst of all, a lost will to live filling her words. The woman was crushed, spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and he couldn’t fault her for her feelings. But at the same time, it was necessary. Cole was a vital part of this war, as were Ian and Whisper. This was the burden Julia had to suffer for the sake of the world. If his apprentice succeeded, all her pain would be erased. She would never remember this misery. Smoke Speaker hoped for the end to her pain, but he prayed for Whisper’s success more.
Beyond the Western Sun Page 21
