Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set (52 page)

He took the seal off the urn and lifted it up.

"Great Spirit," he mouthed, slowly tipping the
urn. "Accept this gift. Absorb your child Delmar into the One from which
he sprang. Let him sit by your side until he is renewed."

The ashes slid from the urn, slowly at first, then streaming
down. Suddenly a breeze appeared, lifting the dark ash and swirling it into a
funnel that wove and danced as it made its way to the canyon floor.

Tony smiled, knowing Delmar had made an appearance.
Fittingly dramatic for one who'd lived life so lustily.

He stood on the rim until the funnel disappeared into the
scrub oak and cacti below, then moved toward the trail to the bottom.

He'd asked for a vision quest, and now that the time was at
hand he felt unprepared. By concentrating on the way Lily had hurt Shala, he'd
been fueling his hatred for her rather than trying to overcome it. Worse, he
didn't want to let it go. His hatred had sustained him for almost five
years—and bound him eternally to Tajaya.

But he was doubting the spirits. He'd chosen to do the sweat
ceremony because he was unprepared, not in spite of it. When the time came, the
appropriate guide would appear and show him the way to cleanse the stain from
his soul. They'd never failed him before. They wouldn't fail him now. And he
was ready.

Reassured, Tony slung his satchel over his shoulder and took
his first step down the steep trail. He was ready.

Sure he was.

Lily had started scratching lines outside her pueblo door on
her first day in the village. Since the encounter at the grotto, she'd added
seven new ones.

Except to add the markings and empty her waste in the lime
pits at the far end of her walkway, she seldom left her room. She lay around,
sleeping, staring at the walls, sometimes braiding and unbraiding her hair for
hours. Although she knew she should do something about it, the thought of
escape seldom entered her mind. Occasionally she remembered Ravenheart's offer,
but felt too listless to search him out.

Each mealtime, drink and food mysteriously appeared at her
door, but she never saw who brought it. Nor did she care. On her single
excursion, when the heat made her succumb to the lure of a cool bath, she
learned she was the object of renewed interest, but no one allowed their eyes
to linger or spoke to her.

Expecting Star Dancer to deliver news of the inquisition any
day, she told herself the information would spur her into action. Finally,
after a week of brooding without a word from the High Shaman, her restless
spirit reemerged and she decided to end her self-imposed exile.

A pleasant breeze greeted her when she stepped on the
walkway. It was nearly noon, but most people were in the fields and the village
center was relatively empty. As she watched the miniature bodies strolling
below, she had a devilish urge to drop the contents of the pot in her hands
upon their scornful heads. She let it pass, and walked along the railing,
staring below, feeling very isolated.

When she reached the catwalk that led to the lime pit, she
hurried on, eager to dump her smelly burden. She leaned over, turned the pot
upside down, and once it was emptied turned to go back to her room. That's when
her eyes brushed the slanting cliff, and she wondered why she hadn't noticed
how close it was to the catwalk wall before.

She glanced quickly down the walkway. Finding it empty, she
climbed onto the wall.

A daunting drop lay below, but the distance between the wall
and the cliff was an easy jump. A small scrub oak close to the rocky soil and
would give her something to grab at when she landed.

Footsteps sounded on the walkway, and she jumped from the
wall, feeling more hopeful. Not that she could just take off. She needed food
and water for the long hike back to civilization. Maybe, when no one was paying
attention to her, she could sneak into White Hawk's wickiup and search for a
parka.

It was time to find out exactly when the Tribunal would
convene. Did she have weeks to prepare or only days?

But clouds were hiding the sun, and the humidity was still
bearable. She'd eat a full meal, squirrel away some extra food, then take a
walk and enjoy the unusually mild weather. After that, she'd seek out Star
Dancer and possibly mention Ravenheart's offer to defend her.

But why? she asked herself. She didn't need his help, and
her werewolf instincts made her scorn traitors. A pack only survived through
loyalty. So did a tribe.

She returned to her quarters for something suitable to wear
while facing the cold shoulders she knew were coming. The silk blouse had fared
better than she expected, so she put that on, along with her denim jeans. Then
she braided her hair again.

When her feet hit the ground after the long descent down the
ladder, she inhaled the aromas from the hearths and her stomach growled. A
woman wearing a beaded tunic stood beside the nearest fire pit, stirring
something in a kettle hanging above the flames. Not far from her feet, a child
of about two or three guided rocks along the ground, chortling at the clouds of
dust they raised. People were gathering now, forming a line. Lily fell in
behind them, trying not to notice their furtive looks.

When the fire tender served her the fragrant stew with a
tight-lipped expression, Lily gave her a haughty stare, then moved on to a
piece of pork bubbling on the spit, thinking her body needed meat for the trek
ahead, despite her aversion to it.

Hotter than she expected, it burned her hand. She dropped
the meat on the plate and popped her fingers in her mouth. A man behind her
chuckled. She turned, recognizing him as the grandfather who'd protected the
rashly brave young boy. Since then she'd learned his name was Gerard, and that
he was a member of the council. His status meant nothing to her, though, and
she jutted out her chin, then clicked her teeth together. His amusement faded,
and he fell back a few paces.

Her fingers stung like hell, but she refused to pay them any
heed, and forced herself to finish filling her plate in a leisurely fashion
despite the grumbles she heard from behind.

Just as she turned from the hearth to find a place where she
could discretely plunge her fingers into cool water, the sound of whooping
laughter filled the village. A herd of older children rolled a giant hoop with
long sticks, each trying to gain mastery over it.

"Careful," Gerard warned. But they were too
engrossed in their game. One of the bigger boys raced by the fire pit, jabbing
his stick at the hoop. Suddenly, his foot struck a rock and he stumbled.

Arms whirling, he struggled to right himself by reaching for
anything to ease his fall. His hand found the end of the spit; his fingers
closed around it.

The weight of his body dislodged the spit from its
supporting forks. With a doleful creak of splintering wood, it crashed into the
fire. The heavy metal pot, which had been supported by the pole, wobbled, then
tilted, sending the steaming contents rushing toward its lip. The toddler still
happily moved his rock creatures along the dusty soil beneath.

Lily dropped her plate. Dipping low, she swooped the baby up
just before the boiling stew spilled on the spot where he'd been playing.

Trembling, she clutched him to her chest. He touched her
hair with his chubby brown hand, round eyes calmly unaware of the danger he'd
just escaped.

"Pretty," he said, or at least that's what Lily
thought she heard.

Then his mother tore the boy from Lily's arms.

"Joey, Joey," she babbled. Joey began to cry then,
apparently sensing his mother's alarm, and she rocked him gently, crooning in
her language. Lily heard the older boy beseeching a grandmother for forgiveness.

Rattled well beyond what the circumstances dictated, Lily
looked down. Chunks of vegetable and meat lay on the ground, their juices
already being sucked up by the dry soil. Her plate was upside down, it contents
covered by yellow dust. She bent to scoop up the mess.

Somebody touched her shoulder. Flinching, she looked up,
meeting Frieda's black-toothed scowl.

"Get up, wolf woman," she rasped. "We don't
need your help."

A sarcastic retort sprang to Lily's lips, but something in
the faded eyes made her stop. Lily had killed three of this woman's offspring,
who'd once been like the plump, happy-faced baby she'd just held. Soft,
accepting, defenseless — and so easy to love. Perhaps this ancient one had a
right to her hate. Perhaps it was the only thing that sustained her. Perhaps .
. .

Lily got up and walked to another hearth. No longer hungry,
she sat on the stone bench, not sure what to do next. Trembling slightly, and
unaccountably sad, she put her elbows on her knees and buried her hands in her hair.
After a time, she saw a shadow fall upon her feet.

The baby's mother stood in front of her, a plate in one
hand. "I am Kessa," she said, "mother of the boy you saved. You
may eat at my hearth."

Distress lined Kessa's attractive face, as if she feared
she'd fallen in with the devil, by took the plate anyway and followed her back
to the fire pit.

Lily had told herself she'd leave the hearth as soon as she
finished eating and go seek out Star Dancer. But Kessa had taken a protective
stance toward her, giving squelching looks to anyone who whispered about her or
regarded her with curiosity. So Lily stayed, sipping a sweet tasting tea and
staring into the flames which drew her gaze hypnotically.

Memories lingered inside those red-orange fingers, and each
time they flared, another emerged. She saw Dana Gibbs, arms stretched to the
sky as she recited her deadly verse. The fire sputtered and flared anew.
Another memory arose—Morgan Wilder, bleeding and half dead, crawling toward the
sanctified ceremonial ring.

The licking flames subsided only to arise again, this time
bringing images of Jorje. Fangs bared, poised above Morgan's throat, growling
murderous threats.

Repeatedly she'd told herself she'd slain Jorje only to
protect Morgan. But had that been her only choice? She'd been stronger than the
wolfling. Couldn't she have found another way?

Lily tore her eyes away, a mass lodged in her throat. All
this second-guessing was wasted energy. It was done. No matter how wise a
different course of action seemed when viewed after the fact, the pest couldn't
be changed.

To keep her mind off it, she turned her attention to the
men, women, and children around her. Only a handful stayed by the hearth now,
but they talked animatedly among themselves, joking, laughing, totally
relaxing.

Such a happy people. The only time she ever saw fear or
anger in their faces was when she somehow entered their awareness. Where they
found their happiness, she didn't know. They led such a boring life. Working in
the fields or with the livestock, eating, sleeping, protecting themselves
against the elements. And so ordinary—no operas or plays or shopping at
Harrod's and Neiman Marcus. Not even cinemas or Kmarts. No wonder some of them
looked forward to their journeys to the outside.

But many, she noticed, seemed perfectly content to be where
they were. With this thought she stood up, stretched her limbs, and went to the
hearth. Giving her cup to Kessa, she thanked her for the meal and headed off to
find Star Dancer.

She stopped abruptly.

Shala was coming her way. Lily didn't know if she'd been
spotted yet, but she expected that when she was the girl would turn away. Their
eyes met, but Shala didn't swerve. Although appearing small and frightened, she
continued in Lily's direction.

Lily walked forward slowly, afraid to make any sudden moves.

"Were you coming to see me?" she asked when their
paths met halfway between the hearth and the longhouse.

"Yes," Shala replied somberly. "Could we walk
together for a time?"

“If you like "

Shala led her to the river, which was full of life. Evening
was approaching and birds twittered excitedly. Insects made their various night
songs. Even the river sang as it rushed between its shores.

But Lily felt like death. Obviously Shala had something
important on her mind, which she wasn't sure she wanted to hear.

"Frieda Red Feather says you saved Joey's life this
morning," Shala finally said, glancing down at her small intertwined
hands.

"His life?" Lily replied, startled by the subject.
"No, I didn't save his life. Although he probably would have been badly
burned if I hadn't been there."

"No, no. The kettle was falling, Frieda says. It would
have squashed him."

"It was? I didn't notice."

"Well, if Frieda says so, it must be true." Shala
shot a glance at Lily. "She doesn't like you very much, you know."

Lily laughed. "She hates me, Shala."

"That is true."

Shala bobbed her head again and looked back at her hands. As
they continued walking, the sun danced on her blue-black hair, tempting Lily to
try to capture one of the shimmering highlights.

Instead she probed the girl's thoughts, which were still
open and unguarded. She caught fleeting memories. She doubted Shala herself was
aware of some of them. One, at age three, particularly caught Lily's attention.
She'd been playing with other children, and one by one they'd drifted to their
mothers. Shala had turned to White Hawk, and though she loved her father she
now understood he was the only one she had.

Even earlier — Shala, barely able to walk, screaming in
terror on a floor of ancient pine needles. Lily plucked images from the baby's
unformed mind — sharp teeth, blood, blurred and swiftly moving figures, a
woman's piercing cry.

The cry was cut short. Baby Shala screamed again.

As the horror of that moment flooded Lily's mind, she
suddenly felt Shala's love. Pure, undemanding, unwavering, and directed at her.
At her.