Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set (40 page)

She saw Sebastian glaring up at her from the floor, his
handsome wolf face ravaged almost beyond recognition, but the punishing throb
in her leg dulled the shock of such a sight. Praying he'd injured her only
slightly, she let her eyes drift to her leg . . .

Blood had once been her life — she should have been prepared
— but the sight of the crimson geyser spurting from her thigh tore another
scream from her throat.

Then Sebastian was above her, growling threats, swearing
he'd make her an outcast for all her hundreds of remaining years. Her head
swam, but still she struggled to reach the jacket. Her limbs were so heavy,
though. She could barely lift her arm.

The jacket . . . it was almost within her grasp. Almost.

A screech filled the room. Initially thinking she'd cried
out again, Lily strained to lift her head and saw the hawk soar through the
open balcony doors, speeding toward Sebastian. Diving at the werewolf, the bird
attacked with deadly beak and talons. Sebastian swatted back in rage.

The holy water had clearly taken its toll. Patches of
blistered skin showed beneath his tattered, natty clothes, his melting fur. His
blows became clumsy, often missing altogether. But one titanic lunge met its
mark. He clamped a hand over the hawk's wing and hurled the bird toward the
bed. Reeling, struggling for purchase on the flimsy canopy, ripping the fabric
with its sagging weight, the bird finally managed to right itself. This gave
Sebastian the time he needed. Before the bird regrouped to attack anew, he
bellied toward the exit and slid out onto the balcony.

"Remember, Lily, you cannot escape," he threatened
weakly. Seconds later, a soft thud resounded from the sidewalk below.

With one final angry cry, the hawk settled on top of the
canopy. Then all was silent. How odd, Lily thought, that the creature who'd
plagued her so horribly should now come to her rescue. Then the creature faded
from her vision. She wondered where it was, and found she didn't care. Darkness
had settled over her eyes and she didn't quite understand why.

She was safe, she supposed. Although for some reason safety
no longer seemed important. Nothing could harm her. She was floating, wasn't
she? An unusual feeling. Almost like being in a hot air balloon, rising, rising
. . .

To where, she didn't know.

Suddenly a figure stood above her. A hard, angular,
suntanned man with a sculptured face and unforgiving golden eyes.

The shaman, she realized hazily. The one who'd so sadly lost
his wife. She stared up and found herself untroubled by his presence, although
she knew he shouldn't be there. Then her head fell to one side, and she stared
blankly at the plush white carpet, saw stains, seeping stains, darkly red and
indelible.

The last thought she had before closing her weighted eyelids
was how horribly Doris would berate the poor maid for being unable to clean up
the mess.

The last words she heard came from the shaman's lips.
"You will not die, Lily," he said with chilling harshness, "At
least not now."

He should have let her die
.
Unconsciously flexing and unflexing his hands, Tony White Hawk gazed down at
the unconscious woman in the lower berth. Beneath his feet, the train vibrated,
its muted rumbles the only sound in the compartment.

Moaning gently, the woman stirred, arching her slender neck
and giving Tony a view of her softly throbbing pulse. His hand dropped to the
hunting knife sheathed at his waist and rested there.

He stared down reflectively for a long moment, then turned
away to a desklike alcove and picked up a small basin and a box of bandages.
Returning to his sleeping captive, he lifted one of her hands. Although he'd
done his best to wash off the blood, the creases of her knuckles still
contained dark flakes, and a dried trickle from beneath her bandage streaked
her skin to the elbow.

As he stripped the old bandage from her wound, he found it
hard to equate this fragile creature with the monster who had killed Tajaya.
Pity speared his heart, angering him because it was so undeserved. The irony
didn't escape him. For years he'd rued his hateful impulses toward the
she-wolf, now he rued his lack of them.

He ripped off the bandage unnecessarily hard, and a pained
grunt escaped Lily's throat. She flinched slightly, then settled back into
slumber.

Beneath the bandage was a poultice, which Tony discarded.
Running his finger along the closed gash, pleased with how well the Medicine
had worked, he then dipped a eucalyptus leaf into the bowl and plastered it to
the skin. Next he moved to her leg. This gash, the potentially fatal one, went
deeper, but it was also healing well. She should have regained most of her
strength by the time they reached Flagstaff.

He tended to her wound, still dazed by what had happened in
Lily's room. No one would blame him for failing to save her from her
werewolf
 
lord. He'd have fulfilled his
duty.

His thought-form had intervened instinctively, he told
himself, roused by the sight of his charge's blood spilling on the white floor.
Hawks were fighters to the core, and he could expect no less of this one, just
because it was a product of his mind. But it wasn't the bird's ferocious
protectiveness that shook him, it was what happened next.

One moment he'd been roosting on the frame of the frilly canopy
watching the she-wolf's blood stain the carpet. The next moment he'd been in
human form, standing over her, torn between the hawk's protectiveness and his
own malice.

For years he'd struggled with shapeshifting, and though he'd
had some minor successes, they'd been few since Tajaya’s death. Yet the moment
this unworthy creature needed him, he'd shapeshifted instantly, effortlessly.

Why had he been blessed with the gift to save this unholy
one? He didn't understand.

Finished with the poultices, Tony put adhesive bandages on
both wounds, then returned the bowl and package to the desk. A leather satchel
leaned against the wall and he opened it to collect a smaller bag. From this he
removed an abalone half shell, a packet of sage, and the feathered wing of an
eagle. Crumbling some of the herb into the shell, he lit the leaves with a
match. As spirals of smoke wafted up, he moved back to the berth.

Sweeping the wing across the shell and directing the healing
smoke over Lily's body, he recited a prayer in the language of the Dawn People,
thanking the Great Spirit for delivering Lily from death so she could face her
crimes, and asking for relief from his shameful hatred.

And while one part of him delivered the words
wholeheartedly, another part meant them not at all.

He should have let her die
.

* * *

Lily felt a gentle sway, as if she were in a cradle or a
womb. Her mind drifted through her life, moving from place to place, event to
event, every scene so vivid she felt she was actually there.

Was she dead?

How odd she could hear a faint and rhythmic thump beneath
her ear, or even be aware she had an ear. She wiggled her toes, amazed to find
them working just as she remembered.

Then her thoughts went adrift again. She found herself in
the distant past . . .

Paris, at seventeen, giggling near the entrance to the
Eiffel Tower with her classmates. The sky above was slightly gray, promising
another spring shower, and Lily was wearing her new Dior jacket.

"Have you ever seen one?" Jolene, always the
boldest among her friends, was revealing the details of her first sexual
encounter, secrets of experience glowing in her young eyes.

"No!" cried Christine. "And I never will. Not
until I'm married."

"Only on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel," Lily
said with a half giggle. "Are they really that little?"

Christine's head whipped in Lily's direction. "You
didn't look at those parts! Not in the Sistine!"

Laughing at her friend's shock, Lily twirled around. Just as
she was about to turn back, she saw him. Dressed in a dramatic black cloak
lined with crimson that flapped around the legs of his white suit, he had an
aura of power about him. His hair was silver, but his face was unlined,
youthful, and cruelly handsome.

Emboldened by her voyeur's journey into sexuality, Lily
returned his stare and instantly felt a powerful tug on her psyche.

Should she approach him?

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, the man nodded.

Lily took a couple of steps forward.

"Where are you going?" asked Jolene, clearly
annoyed by Lily's straying attention.

"That man . . ."

Lily moved dreamily toward him. When she came to stand
before him, she felt his startling blue eyes caress her. With a flourish of his
arm, he bowed. "
Bon jour, me petite
.
 
Sebastian at your service."

Although it normally would have felt silly, Lily curtsied
without self-consciousness. "
Bonjour, mon
ami.
"

"Ah. You are fluent in French?"

"Not really."

"So what is your name, dear one?" He touched both
her temples. "No, don't tell me," he said, closing his eyes
theatrically. Freed momentarily from his compelling gaze, Lily viewed him
objectively. Everything about him was larger than life. His height, which
towered better than a foot above her five-foot body. His movements, which were
large and sweeping.

"Your name is Lily." He opened his eyes, holding
her in his sight again. "Lily Angelica DeLaVega. Both of your Christian
names denote purity. You must possess it in abundance."

Lily's eyes widened. "How did you know?"

 
"Just by
chance."

And though his uncanny guess made her slightly nervous, she
felt drawn to him anyway. During the many lonely days and nights in her
parents' home, she'd dreamed of her destiny. Somehow this man made her feel
he'd help her find it.

"Come, dear one." He slipped a hand beneath her
elbow. "Let me treat you to an ice."

They drifted away from the shadow of the Eiffel Tower to
search for a vendor, Lily barely hearing Jolene and Christine's loud
objections. Afterward they strolled around the plaza, and Lily lapped up a
raspberry ice that tasted better than any she'd ever had. Throughout their walk
he treated her with an old-world courtesy that contained no hint of
lasciviousness. By the end Lily felt she'd found the doting father she'd always
dreamed of. Completely without shyness she turned to tell him this.

Suddenly the raspberry flavor on her tongue turned pungent
and bitter. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

"Drink," said a harsh voice from somewhere outside
her dream.

A large hand supported her head, the touch rough and
uncaring. Although she wanted to spit out the liquid, Lily swallowed, more out
of surprise than obedience.

"White Hawk," she said weakly, certain she hadn't
died. Even the Devil wouldn't be so cruel as to deliver her into this man's
hands.

She saw she was in a kind of box. White Hawk was outlined in
light, and his wide shoulders blocked everything behind him. Her body felt
leaden, and painful throbs came from her wrist and her leg. She wanted to seek
the source of the pain but her captor was already forcing another sip of the
fluid past her lips.

She swallowed involuntarily. "This tastes like hell.
What is it?"

"A tonic." He tilted the cup again, silencing her
for the moment. "It rebuilds the blood and will make you strong for
traveling."

Downing the dose quickly, she raised her hand against the
next one. "Where are we?"

White Hawk hesitated. When the silence continued, she
repeated her question.

"On a train to Arizona. I'm taking you back to Ebony
Mountain."

"Nooo!" Lily levered up on her elbows. Her head
instantly spun. Spots danced before her face. "Sebastian . . ."

". . . cannot help you. Don't even hope for it."

"You fool . . ." Too tired to manage more than a
whisper, she made one last effort to warn him. She supposed she owed him that
at least. "You'll only draw more danger . . . to your people."

He stared at her a moment with narrowed eyes, then moved the
cup back to her lips. "Take another sip."

He didn't understand and she was too weak to make him. Nor
did she truly care that much. After taking her last dose of bitter medicine,
she collapsed onto the bed and returned to her dreams.

She lost all track of where she was. Between her sojourns to
the past, White Hawk poured the bitter brew down her throat. On a few occasions
he urged her to eat a bite of pear or peach, once a banana. Then Lily would
drift off again, remembering . . .

The day of Gwen's tearful departure finally woke her. Such a
small transgression, really, buying Lily yet another dress that her mother
thought was too frilly and flashy. But Doris had fired her. Later, when Lily
stared up at Gwen in the luggage-cluttered entry foyer and listened to her
teary-eyed explanation of why they wouldn't be together anymore, she only knew
she was losing the one person who'd ever made her feel wanted.

Although her parents often told Lily she was too big for
tantrums, she'd thrown one anyway. It had done no good. Gwen was gone for good.
The hard-faced Mrs. Preston arrived the next day.

Lily had been five, and the morning Gwen left was the last
time she'd ever been held with love.

Now feeling the pain as acutely as she had that day, she
lurched upright, a sob caught in her throat.

"Are you in pain?"

"What?" Lily asked, startled by the unexpected
voice.

"I asked if you were in pain."

On a bench opposite her bunk sat White Hawk, holding a
newspaper in his hand. His loathing tone added to her misery, and when he got
up and reached for her hand, she flinched. "Don't!" She shoved her
arm beneath her covers.