Dream Stalker Page 3

  He drew away. “I must return you to your people.”

  Her people, what did that mean—the doctors and psychiatrists? The in-patient facility that they urged her to seek? “They can’t help me.”

  “Of course not.”

  He glanced at her shoulder. As if triggered by his stare, the searing ache returned, burning into her consciousness and growing like a flame touched to dry tinder.

  She gaped at the damage the bear had wrought. The ugly gash began at the top of her shoulder and cut a ragged course down her biceps. The unnatural black edge looked as if she had been burned rather than bitten. Inside the wound, instead of torn muscle and tendon, there emanated an unnatural yellow glow. Panic seized her, and perspiration beaded upon her forehead. She staggered up, making it only as far as her knees.

  “What in the world?”

  “Not from this world, nor the next, but of the shadowy place between.”

  The blazing pain now brought suffering with each shallow breath. “Can you help me?”

  “Remember that you asked for my aid.” He reached, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. “And do not question the manner in which I give it.”

  She gritted her teeth to keep from screaming at the agony tearing through her, as she huddled in her protector’s arms. She prayed for deliverance from the pain as he strode over uneven terrain with fluid grace, coming to a halt on the first patch of level open ground he encountered. There he laid her down.

  She clutched at her arm, rolling from side to side and gnashing her teeth to keep from screaming.

  He pressed a hand to her shoulder. Even the gentle touch of his fingers made her arm burn. She inhaled sharply and clamped her jaw shut. He closed his eyes. Unnatural heat and a definite feeling of calm permeated her as if he drugged her.

  She regarded him with suspicion. “What are you doing?”

  “Hush now.” He closed his eyes.

  “How do you take the pain away?”

  One eyelid popped open and he squinted at her. “How do you see Spirits?”

  She gaped. “Is that what it is?”

  He nodded. His light touch and penetrating calm made her relax back into the grass. He inspired unwarranted confidence in her and it troubled her more than the pain.

  “You see them?” she asked.

  “Not often.”

  “I see them all the time. It used to be just when I slept, but this morning I saw him while awake and then that bear bit me.”

  “It wasn’t his fault. He was possessed.”

  He said it so matter-of-factly, as if creatures were regularly possessed by Spirits. His words rendered her temporarily speechless.

  But now that she thought of it, that did explain the yellow eyes. But not how this man had escaped both bears and the ghost to deliver her quite literally from evil.

  “My mother believed in ghosts.” She gave him a look, waiting for him to smirk or look away. He did neither. It suddenly seemed important that he understand she did not fall prey to superstitious nonsense. “I don’t.”

  “You know best,” he said, removing his hand from her arm.

  The pleasant warmth was replaced by a definite chill. Her unease grew. She felt as if she was shuffling farther and farther onto a sheet of very thin ice. But it was all that supported her from the cold, dark nightmares that lay beneath.

  She sat up. “You believe in them?”

  He nodded. “Of course. But this was not a ghost. It was a Superior Spirit.”

  The list of Spirits her mother made her learn popped up in her head like the answer to a test question. The Sioux legend was full of Spirits, superior, inferior and even subordinate. She scanned her memory, hardly believing she was even considering this as a possibility as she cradled her injured arm.

  She stared at the wound in horror as tendrils of panic choked her. She could not even draw a breath as she studied the iridescent yellow glow pulsing from her open wound. It looked like some movie special effect.

  “What is it?” she gasped.

  “A Spirit Wound. He has branded your flesh with his mark, like a snake bite, only worse. The poison eats into your flesh until it kills you.”

  She grabbed her wrist and pulled as if to keep her own arm away from herself. Her gaze flashed from him to the deadly gash. “You have to take me to a doctor.”

  “No human can heal this.”

  What did he mean, no human, and what did that make him?

  “Can you?”

  “I have only succeeded in slowing its progress.”

  “Then I’ll die.” She knew it as surely as she knew the earth turned. Another idea came to her, nearly as terrible as death. “Amputate. They could cut off the arm.”

  “This will not stop it.”

  “Oh, my God.” Tears welled in her eyes and she stared up at him, pleading for help.

  “I know of one who may know how to heal this. If anyone can, it is she, for this Supernatural is very powerful. I will take you to her.”

  She stared at him in horror. Surely she had lost her mind and was trapped in some kind of waking delusion, peopled by all the creatures from her mother’s stories.

  “This can’t be happening.”

  He said nothing as he stared with eyes that seemed wise and sad all at once.

  Michaela glanced again at the unnatural wound, as if to assure herself there was no mistake. But instead of reassurance, the sight of the ugly puss and gore stole her breath way. Her skin went clammy as a buzzing began in her ears.

  He touched her. She made an attempt to avoid him, but his hand pressed across her chest, below her collarbone. Her heart pounded in her ribs, and she felt the heat once more and the sense of calm that came from outside herself, seeping into her being like tea into warm water. Her eyes grew heavy.

  She had just enough will to grasp his wrist. “Stop it.”

  He lifted his brow. “I am only removing your fear.”

  “It’s my fear and I’ll keep it, thanks.”

  He cocked his head again, as if he did not know what to make of her. “Very well.”

  He drew back his hand until it rested gently on her shoulder. He folded to sit beside her like a yoga instructor meditating on reality.

  Left without his magic, she was slammed back to earth like a seesaw that had lost one partner. Either she was mad or she had stepped into a place she did not belong.

  “The second.”

  She stilled as a nasty suspicion formed. “What?”

  “A place you do not belong.”

  Chapter 4

  M ichaela’s eyes widened as her heart galloped once more.

  “You can read my mind?”

  “A bit.”

  She looked at his hand resting on the bare skin of her neck just above her collar and slapped it away.

  He smiled. “How did you know I must touch you to hear your thoughts?”

  How did she?

  “What are you, little one?”

  She did not know what to say.

  He slid an arm beneath her shoulders and knees, lifting her effortlessly into the air.

  “Perhaps Kanka will know what to make of you,” he said, and turned his face to the sky.

  Michaela followed the direction of his gaze, uncertain what to expect, and immediately wished she had not. The sense of surrealism swept her up as her new fractured reality continued to shatter.

  Dark swirling clouds swept in and then gathered with unnatural speed. They spiraled ominously, opening at the center to create a dark, gaping mouth. She pointed, stupidly, with her good arm, as if he had not noticed the funnel cloud descending straight at them.

  He made no attempt to run. An icy blast leveled the grass in a perfect circle.

  Suddenly they began to spin, slowly at first, then faster. Michaela felt them leave the ground and she screamed. But the roaring wind tore away the sound of her voice as they tumbled through space.

  She could not breathe, could not see, could not move.

  Sebastia
n felt her struggles but did not relax his grip. To do so was to release her to the Thunderbirds and they did not take kindly to any travelers except the Inanoka.

  When her body went slack he grew worried, calling to his friends.

  “Take me to my home on the lake, Great Spirits.”

  Almost instantly he was falling. He knew they were not trying to be rough, but the difference in their size made them clumsy at times. He landed so hard, his knees buckled, but he did not lose his grip. He was almost glad the woman was not conscious, for the jolt would have been agonizing to one with so grievous a wound.

  He glanced around and recognized that the Thunderbirds had released him not ten feet from his back deck. He glanced toward the lake, noting that his Cessna 172 remained safely tied to the dock. The royal-blue-and-white body gleamed in the sunlight, completely untouched by the Whirlwinds. He smiled in admiration at the scalpellike precision of their touchdown.

  He made for the log house. It was a luxury to have such a place in an isolated area of the Canadian Rockies, but worth the expense to insure his privacy.

  He had hoped to reach the old sorceress, but that journey would do little good if the woman was dead. Even Kanka had her limits. Sebastian gazed down, glad to see the woman’s slow, steady breaths.

  He took her up the back steps and laid her down at last on a large brown leather sofa. It annoyed him how reluctant he was to release her.

  Reaching for the fur blanket on the couch, he tucked it beneath her chin. He stopped himself before he yielded to the impulse to stroke her cheek.

  Her skin was softer than the wolf pelt that now brushed her chin. She was a weak and tiny human, yet somehow she had fought the ghost and lived and, according to her own words, not for the first time. He wondered how such a little creature could survive such an onslaught. This human female had a Spirit so formidable that she had staved off the great Nagi himself. Perhaps she was like the wolverine, small but mighty.

  He inched closer from his perch on the coffee table, studying her delicate frame. The urge to watch over her only grew as he neared. Her scent rose all about him. Verbena and heather, she smelled like a field of wildflowers. He wanted to roll in her fragrance, bask in that which was only hers. Another odor reached him, putrid and stinking. The ghost wound reeked of death. If he could not heal it, the injury would take her life. As a Spirit bear, he was among the greatest healers but he wondered if even his sire would know what to do with this unnatural wound.

  He glanced at her serene face. Her courage called to him, singing a song that only his heart could hear. Such a fearless creature deserved to live. So he would face this battle with her, but first he must fight this invasion.

  Michaela blinked open her eyes. She stared up at high cathedral ceilings of warm, blond wood, crisscrossed with massive natural log beams, reinforced with steel joints. Huge smoothly polished rocks formed a massive fireplace that touched the ceiling, dividing the room. Above the mantel hung an oil painting of a grizzly attacking a cowboy. The style reminded her of Remington, one of her favorite artists, but she did not recognize the picture. She stretched, trying to place the unfamiliar. The pain in her arm caused her to stiffen.

  The throbbing of her arm made her gasp, and it all came crashing back. She inspected the crisp white gauze bandage circling her upper arm, trying to recall how it got there as she sat up. The action caused the fur blanket to fall to her waist, exposing her naked torso.

  It was at that instant that she recalled the man. A strangled sound came from behind her. She glanced over the back of the couch toward the huge bank of windows. There stood the man gripping a dish towel and standing as motionless as if she had stunned him. He stared at her breasts.

  A jet flame of mortification fired through her as she grappled with the blanket, shielding herself.

  “What are you doing?” she said, her voice sharp with accusation.

  He hoisted the dish towel in answer. “You blacked out.”

  “What did you do with my clothes?”

  He pointed to the pile on the coffee table. “Had to dress the wound.”

  He handed her the wet towel and stepped back as if she might explode.

  “Where am I? How did I get here?”

  “Don’t you recall?” His voice was gravelly, as if from disuse. She found the alluring sound disturbing.

  A wild image of clinging to him, as the tornado tried to tear her from his arms, flashed in her mind. Their feet had left the ground. The cold air had seemed devoid of oxygen, and though she’d gasped and choked, it did her no good.

  “Ah. I see you are remembering.” He lifted a hand and reached for her.

  Recalling the peculiar effect of his touch, she scooted away, coming to a stop against the armrest.

  The cold apprehension was back, numbing her until her skin tingled. She longed to ask him to take the panic away. She had never felt a coward, but this wound, this man and the unnaturalness of her situation all rose up to make her feel as dizzy as a trauma patient. She pressed the cool cloth to her eyes.

  It was too much to absorb. But she would face this, just like she had faced her mother’s death, just like she’d faced her nightmares. She refused to fall to pieces.

  Michaela drew back the cloth, staring at the man who had somehow moved soundlessly around the couch and now sat on the edge of the coffee table, elbows on knees and hands clasped between his legs. He wore a clean white T-shirt and a pair of jeans that emphasized the musculature of his thighs.

  She met his steady gaze. “What was that thing that attacked me?”

  “Nagi.”

  She recognized the name, of course. The Ruler of the Circle of Ghosts, the Spirit who kept watch over evil souls. She narrowed her eyes as she studied her savior for signs he teased her. There were none. No hint, no gesture, just the steady gaze of his intent eyes.

  Everything about him relayed his seriousness. Terror ricocheted down her back, straightening her spine.

  “Nagi is a legend,” she said, babbling her denial more to herself than to him.

  She could not think of a more daunting foe. Nagi had touched her. She shivered right down to the center of her being.

  Her protector reached out and clasped her hand.

  She felt her panic recede like the tide. She was able to think now. The thumping throb of her arm diminished with each beat of her heart. She scowled at him.

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “I need to see to your wound.”

  She slipped her hand free of his, reclaiming her pain. The panic was slower to return, giving her a moment to recall that he had stolen her shirt.

  “Give me those.”

  He exchanged the wet towel for her clothing. She used two fingers to lift the camisole, which was surprisingly free of her blood.

  “Turn around.”

  He scowled, assuring her that he did not take orders often—or at all. She held her breath, recognizing she really did not know who or what she was dealing with. He waited long enough for her to doubt he would do as she bid, and then stood so quickly she gave a little cry. His frown deepened and he turned. In the moment it took to gather her clothing to her, he crossed the room and now stood, one hand lifted to the mantel, motionless, as if he had been waiting there a long time.

  She didn’t like the uncertainty squeezing her belly.

  Michaela slipped the lace top over her head, but pain prevented her from jockeying her injured arm through the ribbon strap.

  “I’m stuck.”

  He turned, assessing her. His touch was gentle as he maneuvered the strap into place.

  Without asking, he lifted her denim shirt, frowned at the tattered sleeve and then rent it away as easily as one might tear paper. Then he did the same thing on the other side.

  Her fear coiled within her as he held the garment for her for her inspection, smiling benignly as if nothing whatsoever was out of order. His smile faded at her expression.

  “It was torn,” he said by way of an apo
logy. He wiggled the shirt, holding it open.

  She turned to accept his help, stifling a gasp at the pain that came with the motion of lifting her arm.

  His strong hands now rested on her bare neck. She dipped her head, allowing the relief, grateful for his comfort.

  “I’m taking you outside for the ceremony.” With that preamble he scooped her neatly from the sofa, fitting her to his chest and striding away with her.

  The momentary indignation at being dictated to dissolved with the sense of power that exuded from this man. His arms were strong, his step sure, and he carried her as if she weighed nothing. For the first time since this madness began she felt safe, because of him. Her mind told her to be wary, but her body believed in him completely.

  It’s some trick. He’s making you feel this way.

  “I’m not,” he assured. “Hush now, you’re distracting me.”

  He swung open the French doors and strode out onto the deck, walking sure-footedly down the stairs toward the lake. She blinked at the bright sunlight that shone down upon them. It made his dark hair shine with golden highlights, as if he spent all his time out in the sun. She stared at the long columns at his throat, the corded muscles making his neck thick and strong like a linebacker’s. At the hollow below his Adam’s apple, there was a necklace on a simple leather cord. She remembered seeing the lovely turquoise nugget and the wicked-looking tooth before. She lifted her hand to touch it, but before she could, he leaned away.

  She dropped her hand.

  “It’s incredible.”

  He glanced down at her with a grimace, as if he could not wait to be rid of her.

  “What kind of tooth is that?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You do not know much of animals, do you?”

  “I lived in a city. Or I used to.” She pointed, refusing to be distracted. “The fang?”

  He smiled and shook his head in disbelief. “Claw of a grizzly.”

  She thought of the bear fight she had witnessed. “You killed it?”

  “No, he—ah, he gave it to me.” He stepped into a circle constructed of smooth river rocks and lowered her to the middle. She recognized the medicine wheel immediately.