Dead Sexy (18 page)

Regan nodded. That made sense. In addition to the food, Santiago tossed a small sack of tobacco into the cart. "Also a gift."

When the clerk at the check-out counter found out they were going into the Hills, he admonished them to be careful, warning them to be on the alert, not only for wild animals, but also for wild Indians.

"The Sioux don't take lightly to trespassers these days," he said somberly. "It's almost like we're back in the eighteen-hundreds, when a man was putting his life on the line every time he entered Indian territory. I've heard things." He shook his head, then, after looking around to make sure they were alone, he whispered, "There's been some killings up in the Hills. It's all hush-hush, but word gets around, you know?"

"Thank you for the warning," Santiago said.

The man nodded. "You, ah, might want to think about buying a gun, if you don't have one already."

Santiago smiled faintly. "That will not be necessary." Regan already had a pistol. He knew she carried it with her at all times and slept with it tucked under her pillow. The scent of the weapon was a part of her, a very tiny, rather disagreeable part which, perversely, added to her allure. He had never been with a woman who possessed not only the knowledge but also the means to destroy him.

Gathering their purchases, Regan and Santiago left the store.

"Hope to see you again," the clerk called after them.

A sentiment with which Regan heartily agreed.

At the car, Santiago stowed all the food into his backpack, so that all Regan had to carry was her sleeping bag and her extra clothing, and the six candy bars she had added to the cart at the last minute.

"Comfort food," she had told Santiago with a shrug, thinking that on a trip like this one, chocolate was the one thing she didn't want to be without.

Bathed in the light of the moon and stars, the sacred Black Hills rose up from the plains like some mystical mountain of legend. It was here that the Sioux and Cheyenne Indians had roamed for hundreds of years, here that General George Armstrong Custer had found gold, thereby sealing the fate of the Indians who had lived there at the time.

The Hills belonged to the Sioux now, and members of the tribe from all over the world had come home. Large herds of buffalo foraged in the Hills again. Deer and elk grazed in the deep grasses, bears roamed the timbered hills, wolves and coyotes stalked the land, birds nested in the trees, fish filled the rivers and streams, beavers built dams, and the spotted eagle again soared over the tops of the sacred mountains.

Santiago drove as close to the Hills as he could and then he pulled off the road and parked the car. He shouldered his backpack, helped Regan with hers, and started walking.

Regan followed close behind, hoping she could keep up. She considered herself to be in pretty good shape, all things considered. She worked out from time to time, and she jogged around the department track on a regular basis, but she was afraid hiking to the top of the Black Hills was out of her league.

The landscape was beautiful and eerie in the darkness. Regan knew it was her imagination, but as they started their trek up the mountain, she was certain she could feel the spirits of all those who had inhabited the Hills in years gone by hovering nearby. Their voices called to her, muffled by the evening breeze, so that she wasn't sure if the mountain's ghosts were singing a welcome or chanting a warning. She listened to the sounds of the night—the rustle of the leaves on the trees, the lonely wail of a coyote, the cautious hoot of an owl.

Beside her, Santiago swore softly.

"What is it?" she asked.

"The owl," he said, and she heard the faint note of self-mockery in his voice. "The Apache believe the call of an owl is a harbinger of death."

"Maybe he knows there's a vampire nearby," Regan said with a wry grin.

"Perhaps."

"You can't be afraid of dying," she remarked, "since you're already dead."

He looked at her, his eyes glowing like a cat's in the darkness. "But you, my lovely little mortal, are not."

His words sent a cold shiver racing down her spine.

They walked for hours, steadily climbing higher and higher. When Regan grew weary, Santiago carried her. At first, she protested, but then, seeing how effortlessly he managed it, she rested her head on his shoulder and went to sleep.

Santiago gazed down at the woman in his arms. Seeing her, holding her, only seemed to emphasize how empty his life had been. For centuries, he had been content to drift through his existence, always keeping his distance from those around him, never becoming involved in the world or its affairs.

But Regan… there was something about her, an air of strength and vulnerability he found endearing. Of course, it didn't hurt that her skin was smooth and baby soft, or that her body was young and supple, or that her hair was like a shimmering river of gold where it fell over his arm.

He loved her. And he wanted her, wanted her with a single-mindedness such as he had not known since he became a new vampire drunk on the scent and the taste of blood. He ached with wanting her, not just her blood, but her love, as well. How had he existed all these centuries without her? And how would their relationship, new and tenuous as it was, change when she did?

He rubbed his cheek against her hair. No doubt she would make a beautiful wolf.

He walked until he sensed the coming dawn, then searched for a place where Regan could spend the day. He settled on a small clearing surrounded by tall trees. Holding Regan in one arm, he shook off his backpack, then unrolled her sleeping bag and spread it on the ground. He removed Regan's backpack and gently lowered her onto the sleeping bag, drawing half of it over her. When that was done, he dug a pit and laid a fire.

His skin tingled, the minor discomfort turning to pain as the sun began to climb higher in the sky.

"Regan." He shook her shoulder. "Regan, wake up."

With a sleepy sound, she opened her eyes. "What's wrong?"

"It is morning. I must go find a place to rest. Stay here until I return."

She glanced around. There were trees everywhere. The sky was still dark, though a faint light glowed in the east. "Where will you stay?"

"Do not worry. I will find a place."

"But where…"

"I do not have time to explain:" He kissed her quickly on the cheek, then vanished from her sight.

Yawning, Regan sat up, wondering if she would ever get used to his coming and going so quickly. And where the heck was he going? As far as she could see, there was no place where he could hide from the sun. Reminding herself that he had existed for hundreds of years, she slid back into her sleeping bag and closed her eyes.

The sun was high in the sky when next she woke. Rising, she stretched the kinks from her back and shoulders, wondering what she was going to do while Santiago slept. He had told her to stay where she was, though there was little need, since there was nowhere to go. A glance at her watch told her it was almost two o'clock. How was she going to pass the hours until sundown?

Rummaging in her backpack, she found a box of matches and lit the fire Santiago had laid, then filled a blue-speckled coffee pot with water and put it in the coals. While waiting for the water to heat up, she found a convenient tree to hide behind while she relieved herself, though she didn't know why she was hiding. There was no one to see her.

Breakfast was a cup of instant coffee, a peach, and an enormous piece of coffee cake, which she figured she would walk off come nightfall.

When she finished eating, she put out the fire, brushed her teeth, changed her underwear, again behind a tree, and then, with nothing else to do, she decided to take a short walk. Taking her gun from her handbag, she dropped it in the pocket of her jacket.

The scenery was breathtakingly beautiful. The hills were covered with trees and shrubs and wild-flowers. The sky was a clear, brilliant blue. There were birds and squirrels and chipmunks everywhere. She spent the better part of an hour watching two gray squirrels chase each other from tree to tree. Must be nice, she thought, to be so carefree, with nothing more worrisome than finding your next meal.

Returning to her campsite, she fixed a quick lunch; then she sat down on her sleeping bag and turned on her MBox, hoping that listening to some soothing music would help relax her. With her back against a tree, she gazed at the countryside, trying to imagine what it must have been like back in the 1800s, when the whites were moving westward and the Indians were fighting to hang onto their land and their way of life. She had never been much for old Western movies, but she had watched a few in her time. Her favorites had been films like
Wind-walker and Dances With Wolves
and
Winterhawk
, and even the more contemporary
Thunderheart
, movies where the Indians had been portrayed as real people who were trying to survive in a harsh environment instead of mindless savages who killed indiscriminately and spoke in broken English. She had to admit, most of those films had also featured darkly handsome heroes, like Michael Dante in
Winterhawk
. She had watched that one over and over again, imagining herself as the innocent young white girl who had been kidnapped by Winterhawk and had refused to be rescued when her uncle found her.

With a sigh, Regan closed her eyes, imagining Santiago as a wild savage and herself as the young white girl he kidnapped. For a time, she let herself get lost in the fantasy. She could see it all so clearly, the two of them riding across the sunlit prairie, stopping beside a ribbon of blue water, making love on a buffalo robe under the stars, standing on a high bluff to watch a herd of horses running across the plains. It took her a moment to realize that the sound of hoofbeats growing ever closer wasn't in her mind.

With a sense of foreboding, she opened her eyes.

Three mounted warriors clad in breechclouts and carrying bows and arrows stared down at her.

Regan looked up at the Indians, her heart in her throat. Was she dreaming? Please, she thought, let me be dreaming! She blinked and blinked again.

They were still there.

A warrior with an eagle feather tied in his long black hair urged his horse forward a few steps. "Who are you?" he demanded. "What are you doing here? This is Lakota land. The
wasichu
are not allowed. To cross our border without permission is punishable by death."

Fear knotted in the pit of Regan's belly, and with it the urge to laugh. Mortals who strayed into You Bet Your Life Park did so at their own peril. Apparently that was true for whites who wandered, uninvited, into the Black Hills, as well.

"I'm… that is…" What should she say? That she was lost? That she was looking for a shaman? She slipped her hand into her jacket pocket, her fingers curling around the butt of her gun, and then, slowly, she withdrew her hand. She couldn't just shoot them, not when she didn't know if they meant her any harm. Besides, she had a feeling any one of them could put an arrow into her before she could draw and fire her own weapon.

The three warriors spoke to each other in a language Regan assumed was Lakota, then Eagle Feather dismounted and stalked toward her.