Chaos Bites (16 page)

I glanced at the sky. The sun was falling rapidly. There was no way I’d be able to find the Old One today. “You know of any motels nearby?”

“I don’t stay in motels.”

I lowered my gaze. “Ever?”

“Sometimes I wake myself screaming. Had the cops called a few times. Better to sleep in the van.”

Talk about sad, bad, and lonely. Poor guy. His life had not been easy. A weaker man would have gone stark, raving loony. But Bram had the confidence to believe in his dreams and the strength to do something about them. We needed more like him. The problem was finding them.

I might now possess Sawyer’s talent for detecting candidates. What I didn’t have was the time to troll the population waiting for a ripple.

Ruthie had used the social services system to discover kids turned out of foster homes again and again, often for very strange reasons. Weird stuff happened around breeds all the time—usually deadly, bloody, scary stuff.

But Ruthie was gone and the federation didn’t have the manpower to spare a member to run the group home that had been the salvation of so many. At Ruthie’s everyone was loved no matter what. Hers was the first place I’d ever felt like a girl and not a freak.

I stood, running my fingers over the dent in the hood. I wished I knew more about magic. I could probably fix that with a twitch of my nose. Turning, I stared at the empty road.

“You are definitely something more than human,” I said.

CHAPTER 17

Before getting into the Impala, I used one of the gallon jugs of water in the trunk to sponge off the draugar blood. I couldn’t drive around like this; I especially couldn’t drive into a small western town and check in for the night looking as if I’d spent the day as an extra in the latest Quentin Tarantino movie.

After removing my ruined lime-green tank top and bra, I changed into fresh ones—this time in power red. Maybe the shade would wake me up.

I bought shirts, bras, and underwear by the bagful at Wal-Mart. They rarely lasted long enough to wear out. I’d learned quickly to purchase dark-colored jeans that could disguise myriad questionable body fluids. I’d also bought black sneakers after my white pair had first become pink when I washed them, and then fallen apart when I bleached them.

I’d had high hopes for finding a motel in Osage, the next town up the road, but it turned out to have a population between two and three hundred and little use for a motel. Luckily I saw the sign for a family-owned establishment near Upton that promised an Internet connection and a free breakfast.

I paid cash. Too many Nephilim knew me by name. The federation did have a wide network in place—members in every walk of life and level of business and government—that could erase all trace of my transaction with a single phone call on my part. But they had better things to do with their time and talents. Besides, the Nephilim had a similar network. One never knew who might see the info first, or even intercept a phone call.

Though I was the leader of the light, I wasn’t exactly sure how many members the federation had, who they were, or even what all they did. Ruthie had died too suddenly to tell me much of anything, and I’d been a little busy sticking my finger in the dike of the Apocalypse to take an administrative crash course.

But Ruthie had trained her people well—except for me—and they were used to working alone. They continued to do so with no input or management on my part. As a result, the federation had kept chugging along pretty smoothly, considering.

The motel clerk appeared as if he’d just come in from a three-week fly-fishing excursion. His face and arms were fried the shade of an overripe strawberry. He had to have a hundred mosquito bites. He still smelled of fish, and I could swear there were a few entrails hanging off his seed cap.

He couldn’t stop staring at me. I wondered if I was the first non-Caucasian to walk through his door this year.

“Miss,” he began.

“I’m Egyptian,” I said in an attempt to stave off the usual questions about my nationality. Since I got them in Milwaukee—a town where around forty percent of the population was African American—I was certain I’d get them here.

“Oh. Ah. Well. Ain’t that nice? I was gonna say you’ve got something there behind yer ear.” He pointed.

I swiped a glob of draugar off my neck then casually wiped it on my jeans. “Deerfly,” I said, hoping like hell they had them here.

“Bastards,” the man muttered, and spit a brown stream of tobacco juice into a cup at his elbow.

I was a little embarrassed that I’d expected the guy to question if I was black. I’d been asked that all my life, and I hated it. Not because I didn’t want to be seen as African American. Ruthie had been, after all, and I’d wanted nothing more than to be exactly like her—until I was.

No, it had bothered me then because I hadn’t known who my parents were. I had no idea why I looked the way I did, and I hadn’t wanted to be reminded of that. Of course once I’d met my mother, I’d only wanted a return to my blissful state of ignorance.

“You doin’ some sightseeing?” the man asked.

“Mmm,” I said, eyeing the key in his hand. Why didn’t he just hand it over?

“ ’Cause if ye are, it’s good ye aren’t white.”

My gaze flicked from the key to his face. “Excuse me?”

“There are a lot of places ‘round here that are cursed for the white man.”

“Sure there are.”

He grinned, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. Why on earth would someone do that on purpose? “You can hardly blame the Sioux for being teed off.”

“Interesting position for a white man.”

“My great-great-great-granny was Lakota.”

My ears perked up as the curse got a whole lot more interesting. “Really?” I’d discovered that family legends often held the truth.

“Really. You know the government stole the Black Hills from the People.”

“I heard something about that.”

He grinned that terrible grin again. “They call the hills Paha Sapa, and they’re sacred. In the Treaty of Fort Laramie the Sioux were given ownership. But then gold was discovered.”

“And suddenly the land that was useless enough to give to the Indians wasn’t so useless anymore.”

“You’ve heard the story?”

“It’s common enough. They found oil in Indian Territory. Shazaam. Not so Indian anymore.”

The clerk nodded. “White men started pourin’ into the Black Hills. Custer even led an expedition in 1874. Carved his name right into the peak of Inyan Kara. You can still see it.
G. CUSTER. ’74
. According to my granny, the mountain was angry. Ever since then, any white man steps foot on Inyan Kara is cursed.”

“You believe that?”

“Didn’t work out too well for Custer.”

“That’s because he was a moron,” I muttered.

“That too,” the clerk agreed. “Split his force. Underestimated the enemy. Got hisself surrounded. Him a West Point man, too. Though he did graduate at the bottom of the class.”

My regard for the clerk increased. I should know better than to judge by appearance. This guy knew a thing or two.

“Despite the protests of the Indians,” he continued, “white men began to mine for gold. When the Cheyenne joined the Sioux and they all kicked some ass, the government said the Sioux had broken the treaty and took the Black Hills away.”

“What about a reparation lawsuit?” I asked.

“
United States Versus the Sioux Nation of Indians,
1980. Supreme Court ruled the Black Hills were illegally confiscated, and the Sioux should be paid what they were worth in 1874 plus interest—around a hundred and six million dollars.” His eyes actually twinkled.

“Go on,” I urged. I wanted to hear the rest almost as much as he wanted to tell it to me.

“Sioux refused to accept the money. Wanted their sacred hills back.”

“But most of it’s divided into national parks,” I mused.

“Few state parks, too. So them gettin’ back their land . . . wasn’t happenin’.”

“And the money?”

“Sits in the bank. Last I heard it had grown to over seven hundred fifty million dollars. And the Sioux won’t touch it even though they’re one of the poorest people in the country.”

“What about the curse?”

“Stays in force until the hills again belong to the People.”

“That could be a while.”

He nodded. “So it’s good yer—what did ye say? Ethiopian?”

“Egyptian.”

The clerk shrugged.

“You never answered me before. You believe the Black Hills are cursed?

“Maybe not all of them. But Inyan Kara . . .” His eyes got a faraway expression. “Yeah. I believe it.”

“Why?”

“There’ve been plenty of hikers gone up and never come back down. Weird storms blowin’ in from nowhere. Lightning blazing from a clear sky. Torrential rains and such. Probably been a dozen broken bones in the last year alone—legs, ankles, arms. Inyan Kara’s got a bad reputation, and the landowners are real touchy ’bout who they let walk through. Gotta ask permission, maybe even sign somethin’. Lawsuits, you know.”

The scourge of America. Lawsuits. And lawyers. The latter almost made demons look good.

Almost.

“Sounds to me like the place is in a bad-weather pattern, with a lot of dangerous slopes and stupid hikers. You don’t really think the mountain can bring up a storm, do you?”

I didn’t. But only because I knew what could.

“Guess not.” The man smiled again. If he was going to continue with the chew, he should really stop. “But it’s a good story, ain’t it?”

“It is.”

“Still goin’ to see Inyan Kara?”

“I am. According to you, the mountain oughta love me.”

“One more thing.” He sobered. “Folks say they’ve seen . . .”

An old man? A young one? A ghost? A wraith? A spirit?

“A coyote.”

I wasn’t sure what to say.

“It’s big,” he continued. “Some think it’s part wolf. It’s also black. No one ’round here’s ever seen a black coyote, though I hear tell they exist. Some claim it’s a medicine man who can change shape.”

I laughed, but the sound was forced. Because I thought it was a medicine man who could change shape, too.

But changing into a coyote was disturbing. To the Navajo it’s an insult to call anyone a coyote. In their folklore the animal is a disreputable character, one that does nasty things and cannot be trusted. They call the coyote
mah-ih,
one who roams. Which might explain how a Navajo shaman wound up in Lakota land.

“If you come across it,” he urged, “be careful. Thing’s been known to attack. Some thought the animal was rabid and went after it, but they never found a trace when they carried a gun. Smart bugger. People been seein’ it for more years than a coyote could live. Myself, I think there’s a pack of them up there.”

Well, at least I knew who—I mean
what
—to search for.

“I’ll be careful,” I said.

“You do that.” The clerk tossed the key onto the counter then retreated through a door to the rear where a television blared, “Wheel. Of. Fortune!”

Another night, another motel room,
I thought as I made use of the key. This one was little different from any other. Drab. Dank. Dark. The only color came from the god-awful painting of a pheasant that hung over the bed.

I suddenly realized how tired of it all I was. Or maybe I was just tired and being alone was making me depressed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d stayed in a motel alone. Maybe I hadn’t.

I considered calling Megan, but that would only make me more miserable. I’d wind up missing her, missing the kids, the bar, my apartment, everything I’d left behind and hoped to return to.

I was starting to suspect that I might never be able to stay more than a day or two in one place for the rest of my life. However long that might turn out to be.

The thought of sleeping with hidden draugar remains stuck in unknown places had me climbing into the water-stained tub despite my exhaustion. Who knew where more globs of blood and ash might lurk?

When I was done, I returned to the bedroom, which was far too quiet. In the mirror my face was drawn and pale—for me. For anyone else, the shade would be deep tan. My eyes appeared bluer than usual, probably because of the haunted expression that now lived there.

The jeweled collar that circled my neck mocked me. So pretty and bright, a complete contrast with the ugly darkness it controlled. I wanted that darkness gone, along with the damn collar, but I didn’t know if that were possible. I had a sneaking suspicion the darkness was a part of me now.

The turquoise that lay between my breasts seemed to pulse to the beat of my heart, calling me, mesmerizing me, and slowly I lifted my hand and touched it. In the glass just behind me, something moved, something low to the ground and dark.

My fingers clenched on the turquoise as I spun around. “Sawyer?”

Nothing was there.

My head hung, the disappointment far too deep. What would I have done if Sawyer
had
been in the room—as a beast or as a man?

I rubbed the greenish blue rock with my thumb, and it warmed—from my hand or from the magic? The stone was a conduit, or at least it had been when Sawyer was alive. Now it was simply a stone.

Turning back, I froze.

Sawyer stood in the mirror.

CHAPTER 18

I closed my eyes then opened them again. He was still there.

He wasn’t a reflection; he wasn’t in the room. I checked.

No, he was
in
the mirror.

I hadn’t seen him like this since he’d died. Make that since
before
he’d died.

I didn’t want to remember what he’d looked like trussed to a telephone pole with his heart torn out. Unfortunately what I wanted, I rarely got, and I’d seen it often enough both in my dreams and out of them.

His skin glistened bronze beneath a sun I couldn’t see. Muscles rippled in his stomach, his chest, his arms, causing his tattoos to dance. His hair shone black, sleek, and loose; it flowed around his shoulders, blown by a wind too far away for me to feel. His gray eyes burned wherever they touched. Since I’d left my clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor, along with the towel, my body responded to the brush of his gaze as fiercely as if he’d run his fingers everywhere.