Gods and Mortals: Fourteen Free Urban Fantasy & Paranormal Novels Featuring Thor, Loki, Greek Gods, Native American Spirits, Vampires, Werewolves, & More (141 page)

I nodding, thinking about the possibilities.

“So even if I don’t have a gift for healing, I might be able to learn to do it?”

“Definitely. People who aren’t gifted healers can still learn to do healing work. Their abilities will probably be much more limited than those of a gifted healer like Kara, but it would still be useful.”

We pulled into the parking lot at the top of the mountain. Our car was the only one there. It was too late in the year for skiing, snowshoeing, and other winter sports, and too early to do much else besides slog through cold mud.

That last seemed to be what Graham had in mind. He got a backpack out of the trunk, and we headed into the woods. I think we covered less than a mile, but it took the better part of an hour, since there was no trail to follow.

I realized at one point that Graham must’ve been telling the truth about the sound-containment thing. I could certainly hear us crashing along through the dead leaves and brush, but nothing else seemed able to — several times we startled wildlife at close range.

At least I wasn’t the only one who suffered. About half an hour into our hike, Graham tripped and fell in a pretty substantial mud puddle. He stood up, brushing pointlessly at his pant legs, which were drenched and muddy up to the knees. Then he shot an annoyed look at the snag he’d tripped over.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah. Darned rock.”

We continued on. Finally, Graham motioned to stop. He stood still for about a minute with his eyes closed, concentrating on something. Then he nodded to himself and said, “This is good.”

He opened his backpack and got out two large trash bags, which he unfolded and laid on the ground. We each sat on one. My butt instantly got very cold.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m going to test you for some common gifts. If nothing shows up, that’s no big deal. It just means you haven’t hit the second stage, yet.”

“Is there something about this place that makes it good for testing?”

“Yeah. This mountain’s made out of very hard rock, so it’s much older than the surrounding land — approaching two billion years. Its essence has been worked and reworked so many times that it’s thick with all the echoes and remnants. That makes it a place of power for people like us — the essence is easier to grasp, and sometimes you can build on the remains of someone else’s working, which increases what you can do.”

“So, the older things are, the more powerful they are?”

“Age is often associated with thickness, but it’s not consistent. Sometimes relatively new sites can get pretty thick. It depends on how much working has been done there and how much of it sticks in the essence. Some places seem to be naturally sticky.”

Graham spent the next two hours trying to figure out what I could do. He had me see if I could turn myself into mist, which involved trying to “feel transparent,” in his words. That didn’t go anywhere. He had me try to change into an animal by visualizing it. I remained stubbornly myself.

From that point, the list of failures just grew. I couldn’t communicate with him telepathically. I couldn’t heal a tiny cut he made on his finger. He pricked my finger with a pin, and I couldn’t heal that, either. I didn’t seem to have any effect on water or fire or stone or metal or the weather. I couldn’t move things with my mind. I wasn’t unusually strong or fast. I couldn’t speak or understand foreign languages. I couldn’t go invisible. And I couldn’t fly.

Which of course made me ask if they really had people who could fly. Graham’s response — “none living” — wasn’t particularly encouraging.

At the end of the session, he sat back with a sigh. A few moments passed.

“Remember, just because you aren’t demonstrating a particular gift now doesn’t mean you won’t be able to do it later.”

“Yeah, okay.”

I told myself that was good — the less I could do, the less interest this group would have in me.

“Are there other kinds of abilities people have?”

“Yeah, sure, there are lots of different gifts. The stuff I’ve been testing you for is big — the things that tend to be too impressive to go unnoticed. But there are tons of subtler, more unusual gifts. Sometimes you hear them called ‘quirks.’ The word’s considered pejorative, though, so I try not to use it. Really, every gift is a gift.”

I nodded and wondered if he had a so-called quirk himself. I sensed it would be rude to ask, so I kept my mouth shut.

“At any rate, I suspect you just haven’t come into your gift, yet. There’s a rule of thumb for figuring out how long someone’s going to keep developing: you take the person’s age at the time they enter the first caste and divide that number in half. Then you add the two numbers together. When the person reaches that number of years, they probably aren’t going to develop much more raw power, though they could keep learning and refining their skills.”

“So, if you start sensing workings at age ten, you keep developing up to age fifteen?”

“Yes, exactly. There are certainly exceptions, but it holds true for most.”

“So if I’m starting at twenty-three …”

“You have a lot of developing to do,” Graham finished. “It’s possible you’ll be able to fly, but not until you’re thirty,” he said, and winked.

Great
. It was all well and fine to develop slowly, but if I could do something now, I’d like to know it. I felt like a guppy who’s just realized its aquarium is full of piranhas.

“Is there a way to test for the more unusual gifts?”

“Not specifically. There are literally thousands of them, and some of them are pretty hard to pin down. It’s possible that many of us have one or more that we never find out about. For instance, one guy I knew could put anything up his left nostril, so long as he could pick the item up and push it in that direction. But he didn’t know about it for the longest time. I mean, who really tries to put a chair up their nose, right?”

“Yeah. Wow.”

I hoped that if I had any quirky gifts, they didn’t involve bodily orifices.

“Anyway, this last test is open-ended. It might allow an unusual gift to show up. What I’d like you to do is just open yourself to the energy of this place and see what might come to you.”

I sat there, feeling dull. “I don’t know how to open myself to the energy of a place.”

“It’s a bit like meditating. Have you ever done that?”

“Nope.”

“Well, try closing your eyes and relaxing all your muscle groups one at a time. Then allow yourself to focus on your surroundings — what you feel, what you hear, what you smell. If your mind wanders, just bring it back to those things. Try to notice as much sensory information as you can, but don’t think about it. Just notice. That’s all you have to do, really.”

I sighed and closed my eyes, certain the exercise would be pointless and boring. I tried to focus on my senses. My rear end was going numb, and that occupied all my sensory input at first. Slowly I began noticing other things — the sound of the wind in the bare tree limbs came first. It actually was quite loud, though it had been background noise a minute earlier. The breeze touching my face was obvious, but I found I could also feel colder and warmer spots on my legs, depending on how the wind was striking them. The smell was what I think of as not-quite-spring. It was wet, and that was springlike, but it was still dead, like old leaves. When spring really came, in a few more weeks, it would start to smell like fresh dirt and earthworms in a place like this. Far off I heard a bird call, though I had no idea what kind.

I sat there, just taking those things in. It actually wasn’t boring at all. It was interesting and sort of stimulating. I felt energized, more awake to the world than I had in ages. My hands grew warmer, and I could feel my pulse beating in them, which was weird.

After a while, I felt sure there was something in front of me that I needed to pick up. My internal editor immediately pointed out how dumb that was, but I shushed it. Graham was trying to teach me. I’d always been a conscientious student, and that wasn’t going to stop now.

Without opening my eyes, I reached down to the ground in front of me. For a moment, it felt strangely slick, as though all the texture had gone out of things. Then my fingers found the dead leaves, dry on top and damp beneath. I brought my hands together in the leaf litter and felt something soft and warm in them. I raised my hands and opened my eyes to see what I had.

It was a small golden-brown mouse. It crouched in my cupped palms, then sat up on its haunches, looking at me and sniffing. It had impressively thick whiskers on its snout. They quivered charmingly. It didn’t seem scared at all.

I’d never been afraid of little critters — even snakes and rats and spiders were fine by me. I actually thought this little guy was really cute. Was it a “he”? I checked the back — yep.

“Hi, buddy. What’re you doing out this early in the year, huh?”

I looked up at Graham, half expecting him to be repulsed by the fact I’d picked up a rodent. Instead he looked … well, it was hard to describe. There was an element of surprise there, but the word didn’t do it justice. Maybe it was a mixture of several feelings. He looked from the mouse to me and back, and didn’t say anything at all.

“Um … so, I can tame wild animals?”

He kept staring at me and the mouse, apparently at a loss for words.

Finally he said, “That’s really unusual. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone do that.” He paused. “It’s definitely a good ability. Very good.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Definitely. Just think how useful it could be.”

I was dubious. I mean, what was I going to do, sic a hoard of mice on Williams the next time he came to kidnap me? Maybe Graham was trying to make me feel better about a not-very-useful gift. Come to think of it, maybe the mouse wasn’t wild at all. Sometimes people dumped their unwanted pets in places like this.

He got up and opened his back pack to put his trash bag back in.

“You’d best let Mickey there go back to what he was doing.”

“Okay.” I set my hands down in the leaves, expecting the mouse to hop off, but instead he ran up my arm and into my hair. Like I said, I wasn’t afraid of creepy-crawlies, but a mouse in my hair was a surprise, even for me. I reached up, then hesitated. If I dug around in there, he might bite me.

“Graham …”

The mouse wiggled his way inside the collar of my coat and curled up against my neck. He was so warm and soft. Suddenly, I really wanted to keep him. He just had to be someone’s pet — he was so friendly.

“What? Did it take off?”

“Yeah.”

I just didn’t say where. I got up and handed him my trash bag, and we headed back to the car. The mouse seemed content to sleep all the way home.

W
hen we got back
to my house, Graham walked me up to the door and gave me a kiss on the cheek. When he started bending over to do it, I was a bit worried he’d touch my neck and squash the mouse, but he touched my shoulders instead.

It turned out to be sort of lingering, for a kiss on the cheek. I felt my body sit up and take notice, against my better judgment.

He pulled back and looked at me, then leaned in again and brushed his lips against mine once, twice. His breath touched my lips, and I tipped my head up to him. He kissed me slowly, tracing a fine line along my lower lip with the tip of his tongue. I opened my mouth, and he deepened the kiss gently until our tongues were stroking together. His hand slid down to my lower back and pressed my body into his. I could feel the hardness in his groin, and felt a warm tightening deep in my belly in response.

It had been a long time.

It would have to be a little longer.

My hormones shouted and waved angry placards, but I pulled back anyway. Getting together with Graham right now just wasn’t a good idea. He leaned his forehead against mine and gave me a little smile. Instead of pressing things, he looked pleased I’d let him kiss me at all. That was a nice ego boost. Made me want to kiss him again, actually.

I needed a cold-shower line of thought.

“Do you think Williams will come back?” I asked.

“Not a chance,” Graham said firmly, giving me a little hug and then letting me go. “They know I’m onto them.”

He looked completely confident on this point, so I accepted what he said. Still, I wish I’d managed to tame a wolf instead of a mouse.

He gave me a warm smile, then said he’d come by that night at about dinner time, if that was okay. I said it was, then immediately thought,
Why did I say that?
I was going to get myself in trouble.

I stepped inside and leaned against the door for a few minutes, gathering my wits.

F
rom the silence
, Ghosteater watched the male and female humans kiss. He could smell their arousal. It brought back ancient memories from the time before his difference truly emerged, the time when he still ran with his pack, hunting the great lost beasts of that age, the time when he still hungered to breed and make young. But no she-wolf would have him, even then. They feared him.

He didn’t realize, at first, that he was different from the others — bigger and stronger, perhaps, but not truly different.

At some point, though, the hunts began to bore him. Leaping from the tall grass upon a bison or sloth — such creatures presented no challenge. They smelled of rank terror and tasted of it too. When his kin would not follow him against other, more equal creatures, he left them and wandered alone, hunting the great cats and bears. When he returned at last, his kin ran from him, as terrified of him as any other animal would be.

He grieved, then, afraid he would always be alone, a terrible thing for a wolf. And so he had been, mostly. But he had been wrong to fear it. Solitude had its rewards. And he wasn’t a wolf — not really. Not anymore.

Still a beast, though. Always that.

He scented the air again.

The male was unfamiliar, but he recognized the female as blood kin to the other humans the wind had shown him. That made sense — it was this young female the wind had brought him there to see.

The wind spoke incessantly, and it liked to be heard. Few things could understand it, so it often sought him out. Usually it simply told him about what it had touched, of late — a months-dead doe just emerging from melting snow, cold drops of water falling toward the forest floor, the line of harder rock protruding from an exposed peak.

But now, for the third time in just a few days, the wind spoke not of what it had touched, but of what it might touch in days to come. When he gave it his attention, it fractured into a thousand competing voices, each running down a different path. Rapid and fleeting, the whispered stories avalanched over him like mist, there and gone before they could be grasped. In the end, he understood only their common thread.

She-pup, she-pup, she
.

Intrigued, he crept closer, watching as the female disappeared into the house.

He turned his attention to the golden-haired male, who was walking down the path to the car. The man smelled of anxiety. He got into the car and sat for several minutes, drumming his fingers on some part of the interior. Ghosteater could tell his anxiety had to do with the female — it was blended with lingering notes of desire. Perhaps he feared for her. But why? She whom the wind had named.

Finally, the male came to some decision. He smelled of risk and purpose.

He brought the car to its strange, lifeless form of life and pulled out.

Ghosteater followed him. He loped through the silence behind the car, but only so far as the eastern edge of town. He could not run fast enough to keep up on the highway. Curious, he settled down to see if the male would return.