Dark Warrior: To Tame a Wild Hawk (Dark Cloth) (33 page)

She flipped around so her back was to the wall, letting out a loud, frustrated sigh, then clapped her hand over her mouth when she realized what she had done. Sneaking a peek around the corner, she checked to be sure she’d not given herself away.

She had stepped out, not paying attention, had taken the three steps down the stairs and was halfway down the walk before she’d spotted it. Then, she’d done a fast sprint back to the side of her apartment, seeing that as the closest protection. Well, it wasn’t like you saw something like
that
walking down the street every day.

Working up the nerve for another look, she pressed her face next to her trembling hands on the cool bricks, digging her perfect manicure into the stone until pain shot through her fingertips, forcing her to ease up. Her mind warned her not to, but Mira never was one for caution. At this moment, she needed things
to make sense
more than she needed
caution.

Chewing on her lower lip, she peeked around the corner at the street—and fought to take another breath.

Sure enough—
there it stood!

Mira shook her head, pressing her face back against the bricks, squeezing her grey-green eyes shut in the kind of denial the mind takes on when something doesn’t fit. Her brain scrambled to make sense of what she was seeing. She stood there, her body uncooperative, and fought to breathe—fought to stay standing, her knees threatening to buckle. She opened her eyes, arguing with herself
not
to look.

She peeked again.

There, at the end of the street, stood a full-grown, black-as-midnight, live, man-eating, jungle cat—a jaguar to judge by her heavier frame, and a female to judge by her smaller stature.

She shook her head. She wasn’t having
this conversation
with herself in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, in the middle of St. Louis, where that cat could not possibly be.

The cat chose to defy her careful logic by letting out a loud cry, sending shivers skittering down Mira’s spine. Fine hairs rose on her arms. She froze and told herself not to move—if she didn’t move, she wouldn’t be detected. If she wasn’t detected, she wouldn’t be eaten.

She was doing it again.

She lost the argument and peeked again, if only to convince herself this
was
happening—and to be sure that thing was
not
headed her way—
which was exactly what it was doing
.

The cat was heading straight for her!

For a second Mira stood there, trembling lips compressed against a scream. Then, the force of her own ramming heart propelled her into action. Glancing down the barren alley, she fought a fresh wave of panic. No doorways, or stairways, lead out. The ripe dumpster, overflowing with garbage and cardboard boxes, sat against a brick wall, and a gate stood at the end of the alley, with an overly large padlock.

She saw no place to hide, no place to climb—no place to keep her from becoming that beast’s dinner, anyway.

She peeked around the corner again, in the kind of morbid torture the mind takes when it doesn’t want to look—and can’t seem to stop, holding her hand over her hammering heart. Blood pounded in her ears, drowning out all other sound. She let out a small cry. Scrambling for the cell phone in her pocket, Mira flipped it open, punching 9-1-1 with fumbling fingers. Peeking around the corner yet again, she dropped the phone.

There, not two-feet away, stood an old woman.

“Wha-at?” she said, trying to see around her.

The cat was not there.

She turned, swinging this way like a crazed thing, bobbing; then that, trying to locate the cat. The old woman watched her, skin crinkling around wizened, old eyes in what appeared to be patient amusement.

Without looking, Mira picked up the phone and went to press the call button when the old woman’s words stopped her.

“Dear, I wouldn’t do that,” she said, not unkindly. “I mean, what are you going to say? ‘Officer there is a large jungle cat outside my place.’?”

Mira had turned for another glance down the street when something about the hag snared her attention. She stopped now, staring at the old woman’s eyes. She knew she was staring, and rudely so, but couldn’t help herself. Nothing about tonight made sense. She looked down at her phone, not seeing anything, her ears buzzing. Somewhere out in the city a horn blared.

The crone actually smiled. Mira didn’t have to look to know she was smiling. She could hear it in her words.

“Actually, it would be quite amusing,” she said, drawing Mira’s attention back to her wrinkled hands, folded in front of her long, black dress. The dress itself, falling in folds of black and silver, was interlaced with what looked like—black fur. “Ma’am, did you say, jungle cat?” she mimed. “Yes, are you deaf?” She smiled again at her own joke. “Ma’am have you had something to drink?” She laughed.

No; Mira was sure it was more of a cackle.

Mira glared at her, shutting the phone with a snap, feeling coming back into her limbs as anger coursed its way through her. She took one more look down the street, before she met the crone’s gaze.

The woman’s eyes were as yellow and metallic as the cat’s. She’d swear that, for a moment, they’d been the
same shape
. Black hair with two large, silver streaks fell down the crone’s back. Black fur like that interlaced into the dress, the same midnight color of the jaguar, lay twined into her hair.

“Who are you?” Mira demanded, the last dregs of her fear giving way to anger, relishing the feeling. It gave her back her control. “You frightened me half to death. Or rather…,” she gestured with an erratic jerk in the direction behind the hag, where the cat had stood. No words could explain what she needed to say. Not giving the old woman a chance to speak, even if she’d intended to—which she appeared to be in no hurry to do—Mira finally blurted out, “
Where is that cat,
Old Woman?” She realized she had yelled the question, but that couldn’t be helped. She was certain she was about to do a lot more than yell.

The old crone smiled.

Mira frowned. Something about this woman was strange. One moment she appeared old; and in the next—she seemed years younger. She wrestled for several long seconds with a crazy thought. No, she was not going to pile
that thought
onto the already bizarre things she’d witnessed this night. She tried to block it out—and failed. “Who are you?” she demanded again.

“So many questions, child.” The old woman smiled at her. “I see…”

Mira cut her off. The crone’s amusement was too much, coupled with the other strange occurrences. “You see! What do you see? That you have frightened me half to death? Or that I am, incomprehensibly, about to accuse you of being a cat! So that now, not only am I seeing things,
I’m going crazy.
And to top it all off, I’m doing something I find reprehensible—I’m yelling like a banshee at an old woman.” Mira knew with every word that she was back to panicking, and a panicked state was never a good state in which to be. But somewhere—between being angry with the hag and voicing the impossibility that she’d
seen
a large jungle cat, more-or-less accused the old woman of
being
that jungle cat, she’d stopped caring that she was not making sense.

The old woman stepped forward and put a hand on Mira’s arm. “Calm yourself, child.”

Mira found the gesture strangely comforting, the fear and panic melting away, giving way to an odd feeling of familiarity.

The crone’s gaze narrowed on her. “I needed to know how
well
you see. You have advanced nicely. You saw the cat because of this.”

Mira frowned. “You still have not told me
who you are!”

“My name is Amar. I am of the Jaguar People. I have brought you a message.” She slipped her hand into her pocket and brought out a disk: an ancient-looking medallion. “And this…”

Mira reached out and accepted the disk. It felt cool beneath her fingers. She stood, tracing the ancient symbol. She had known this symbol before.

The old woman nodded as if she somehow approved.

Mira looked up at her. “I don’t understand.”

The woman turned to go. She turned back as if she had a thought. Looking at Mira, she pointed to the west. “You must go to a place that is a mile high, and so wide you cannot see the end from the tallest building there.”

Mira frowned at her. “Are you talking about Denver? Speak plainly, old woman! I mean—Amar.”

“Four await you there. They will help you find the answers you seek.”

“I don’t remember telling you I was seeking any answers.”

The old woman only smiled, as though she held some hidden secret. It irritated Mira. She looked back down at the medallion, so cool in her palm. And when she looked up—the crone was gone.

Lenore Wolfe writes dark fantasy, and paranormal & historical romance.

Lenore grew up in Montana, where her great-grandmother and father taught her about the real Old West—and Alaska, where she fell in love with the wild beauty of the Last Frontier. She currently lives in central US, where she finds that each day holds a lesson in the value and history of those who have walked before us—and what we can learn from their experiences while walking on our own unique path. Lenora holds a BA in Sociology with a minor in writing from the University of Northern Colorado. She is a student of earth based and Shamanic Studies.