Shifting (27 page)

“They're gone?” Bridger asked, standing.

“Yes,” Mr. O'Connell replied. He cleared his throat and looked down at me again, dark eyes studying me like I was a pebble lodged in his shoe. Unable to hold his gaze, I focused on the ceiling and tried not to cringe. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Mr. O'Connell said, “She's safe. Move her to a guest room. But give me fifteen minutes to clear out. And I need a quick word with you, son.”

Bridger followed his dad from the room and pulled the door shut behind them. Their voices barely resonated through the stone-walled room, completely indecipherable. Call it Shifter instinct, but somehow I knew they were talking about me. I closed my eyes and tried to make sense of their words. When I couldn't, I concentrated on my ears, focusing on making them work like a cat's. Slowly, my ears adjusted, shifted the tiniest bit, and the conversation taking place on the other side of a closed door changed from deep echoes to a conversation that might as well have been being held right in front of me.

“… because I don't love Angelene! I tried. I really did, Dad, I swear,” Bridger argued. “But there's nothing left between Angelene and me.”

“You didn't try hard enough,” Mr. O'Connell insisted. “Sometimes you have to fan the coals to make a flame.”

Bridger groaned. “There aren't even coals left! Just a pile of cold ashes.”

“But this other girl—”

“Her name's Maggie Mae.”

“She's so ordinary. So unlike us! I don't understand how you formed an attachment to her in the first place. Why you
chose
her,” Mr. O'Connell snapped.

My stomach dropped. I'd known all my life how insignificant I was, but it hurt to hear it stated so confidently by someone who didn't even know me.

“I didn't
choose
her! I fell in love with her!” Bridger said, voice tight with anger. “And she's a lot less ordinary than you give her credit for. If you weren't such an elite snob, you might actually be able to see the good in people from other social classes.”

“Just don't tell your mother until you're certain this girl is the one,” his father replied, voice weary. “It will break her heart.”

“I already am certain. Nothing is going to change.”

His father sighed. “Move her to a guest room in fifteen minutes.”

“I will. And … thanks, Dad. For coming.”

“It's what we do. Why don't you come upstairs with me. See me out.”

Footsteps echoed on the cement floor and faded away.

I snuggled down in my sleeping bag and closed my eyes, content in the knowledge that Bridger loved me no matter what his dad said.

If Bridger came for me fifteen minutes later, he didn't wake me. I spent the whole night in the basement and didn't wake up once.

38

Two days later, we drove to the deserted mine. Bridger pulled his SUV to the side of the dirt road and we got out. I squinted against the hot afternoon sun and followed him through a sparse copse of trees to a round, fathomless hole in the ground—another place where the parched earth had been swallowed by the mine. Icy air oozed from the hole and crept down my spine.

“Bridger, why did you bring me here?” I asked, rubbing my hands over my arms. The mine was the last place I wanted to be.

Bridger looked at me. A shadow of fear danced in his eyes. “There are
Yea-naa-gloo-shee
here,” he whispered.

Dread turned my legs to mush and I grabbed Bridger's arm to keep from falling.

“They're dead, Maggie,” he said gently, wrapping his arms around my waist. “My father killed the Walkers that stayed to see if you were dead. Their bodies were disposed of in this sunken mine shaft.”

I shivered in spite of the hot afternoon. “Who was the woman at the gate? Is she dead, too?” The woman from my nightmare.

“When the Skinwalkers need to communicate, they have a designated Speaker—someone who keeps her human form. She was gone before my father arrived, but I described her to my father. He believes she's the Speaker for a Skinwalker named Rolf Heinrich.”

I gasped and dug my nails into Bridger's arm. “Did you say Rolf Heinrich?”

Bridger's eyebrows rose. “Do you
know
Rolf Heinrich?”

“He was one of the tigers—the men I told you about—who were hunting me here. I killed him.”

All color left Bridger's face. His hands grew clammy against my back, so clammy I could feel them, like ice through the fabric of my T-shirt. “Are you certain he's the man you killed?”

“Yes.”

“You killed the Skinwalkers' leader—their most formidable fighter. If I had to guess, I would say the ability to survive against impossible odds is one of your natural instincts.” He looked at my hand and began prying it from his arm. My nails had made four half-moon indentations in his skin, right above three wolf-inflicted scars on the back of his wrist.

I thought of Rolf Heinrich's naked corpse lying atop the tiger pelt. “If a Skinwalker dies in the shape of an animal, does he turn back into a human?”

“No. If you kill them instantly, they don't have the power to change back. They are dead animals. If you wound them, they can change back to their human shapes, but they're not like us. They don't heal. Sometimes they still die.”

That made sense. Rolf Heinrich didn't die instantly. He shifted back to his natural form and bled to death. My stomach churned and I peered over my shoulder, toward the distant dirt hill topped by a faded red flag.

“What is it?” Bridger asked, his hand slowly moving up and down my back.

“There are three bodies in the mine shaft over there, the one below Evening Hill,” I whispered. “Two are animals, but the third one's Rolf Heinrich.”

He pulled my head against his chest and ran his fingers through my hair. “He'll never be found. My father is destroying the mine. He wrote an article for the local newspaper claiming it's too dangerous to leave the abandoned mine as it is, which is true, but that isn't the motivation behind his decision. He's disposing of your hunters.”

I looped my arms loosely behind his back, content to rest my head against his chest. “How many died?”

“Only a few. Most of them left after you were shot.”

“How'd he … kill … them?”

“My father …” I looked up when he didn't continue. His lips were pressed together, as if he couldn't speak another word. He looked at me and took a deep breath. “He had a lot of help—other Shifters.”

“Oh. Who?” The house, Bridger's house, had been silent for the two days I'd been holed up in the guest room.

“They left as soon as the bodies were disposed of. While you were still bunking in the basement.”

“I would have liked to meet them. To thank them.”

“You can't meet them, Maggie.”

“Why?”

“Because they don't want you to know who they are. Only Shifters know other Shifters.”

“But I
am
a Shifter, Bridger. Why didn't you tell your dad?”

He slowly raised an eyebrow. “How do you know I didn't tell him?”

Heat flooded my cheeks. “When I was lying down in the basement, I could hear your conversation,” I admitted, too ashamed to meet his eyes.

“Huh. You could hear our conversation through a soundproof door?”

I shrugged. “I guess I have good hearing.”

“Good hearing? You're such a liar,” he said with a laugh.

“But seriously—why
didn't
you tell your dad about me? Is it because I'm a mirror? Because my father was a Skinwalker? Would he think I was evil if he knew?”

Bridger's arms tightened around me. “No! Who your parents are doesn't make you good or evil. It's how you choose to live your life that does.”

“But”—I pulled back and looked right into his eyes—“if my mom was a Shifter, why didn't you guys know her? How did you lose track of her? And me?”

“Every once in a while, a Shifter goes rogue and severs all ties with us. Maybe that's what happened. Or—” Doubt filled his eyes and he looked away from me.

“Or what? Tell me. I have a right to know,” I said, putting my hand on Bridger's cheek and turning his face so he had to look at me again.

He took a deep breath and continued. “If a Shifter joins the Walkers through marriage, we sever all ties and erase the Shifter from our records—like they never existed. Maybe that's what happened to your mom—she fell in love with a Walker, got married, and got erased. But she must have loved you a lot, Maggie, because somehow she got you away from them—probably died for it. And because of that, you survived. Love is a pretty powerful thing.”

I rested my head back on his chest and stared unseeing at the deserted mine. For the first time in my life I felt close to my mother, a woman I never knew.

“One day my father will know the truth about you,” Bridger said, tilting my chin up so he could look at me.

“And then he won't care that you … like … me so much?” I asked.

The corners of Bridger's mouth turned up. “I don't
like
you Maggie. I am in
love
with you.
Madly
!”

A grin flickered across my face. “I do believe I am in the right ‘social class' to be your girlfriend.”

Bridger kissed my forehead. “Nothing can keep us apart.”

Nothing? I hoped that was true. “The Walkers think I'm dead, right?” He nodded. “What happens when they find out I'm not?”

He glanced at the mine shaft. “Hopefully that will never happen. But now that you're with us—the Shifters—they'll think twice about coming after you. Before, when you were alone, you were a prime target.”

I stepped out of the safe embrace of his arms and looked down into the depths of the mine shaft again, staring at the impenetrable blackness. Without thinking, I willed my eyes to be those of a cat, made them change, expand, improve, and then, like a movie coming suddenly into focus, the bottom of the mine shaft blurred into view. Dark shapes against darker masses solidified into grotesquely twisted and broken animals.

A gasping intake of breath startled me, and my eyes jerked from the shaft to Bridger. He scrambled away backward, as if I were a demon, and lost his footing. Orange dust swirled as he fell heavily to the ground. I burst out laughing. I'd never seen him trip before—didn't think it was possible.

Slowly, not taking his eyes from mine, he stood and brushed off his pants. A smile crept over his startled face.

“You are definitely a mirror! You have the eyes of a freaking cat,” he said, walking back to my side. “But you're
my
cat.” He framed my face with his hands and peered down into my eyes. “Even if I'm a bird of prey.” Then he kissed me.

EPILOGUE

The house felt like a place from my distant past. I hadn't been back since the night Bridger had shot me, four days ago, yet everything seemed different, as if in a matter of days I'd outgrown the place.

Bridger turned off the SUV and I pressed my nose to the window, studying the familiar orange-and-pink-framed skyline—mountains, not skyscrapers—before getting out. As my door slammed shut, Mrs. Carpenter's front door opened.

“Is that you, Maggie Mae?” a deep voice called. I walked toward the front porch where Mr. Petersen stood with his arms folded across his chest. As I approached he smiled and opened his arms and something deep inside of me seemed to wake up. I ran to him and threw my arms around his chest, thinking this must be how it felt to be reunited with a family member after a long time away. He hugged me back, extra tight, and then held me at arm's length. “I think you've grown since I saw you last,” he said, eyes twinkling. His hands tightened on my shoulders. “You made it, kiddo. Survived the hardest part of your life and lived to tell!”

My eyes grew round and I wondered how he could possibly know this. “Wait … what do you mean?” I asked, hoping he couldn't hear the near-panic in my voice.

“High school,” he said with a chuckle. I smiled and laughed a weak laugh. The gravel crunched behind me and Bridger walked slowly up the porch steps. “Bridger O'Connell,” Mr. Petersen said, holding his hand out to Bridger. Bridger shook his hand. “Nice to see you, son.”

“You, too,” Bridger said.

“There's someone inside dying to see you,” Mr. Petersen said, looking at me again. “Not
literally
dying, mind you, but she heard the car on the gravel and insisted I get you inside as soon as possible.” Mr. Petersen looked down his nose at me, the same stern look he'd give when he found out I'd been caught out on the streets nude.

And all of a sudden I couldn't take a step forward. I'd talked to Mrs. Carpenter every day that she'd been in the hospital—called her from the phone in the O'Connells' guest room—but talking wasn't the same as seeing her. I couldn't help but worry that she'd blame me for everything that had happened—like I blamed myself. What if she hated me?

Bridger looped his arm around my shoulder and put his lips on my ear. “Stop worrying,” he said quietly. “She's as eager to see you as you are to see her.”

I relaxed a bit and walked through the front door.

“Maggie Mae,” Mrs. Carpenter said with a warm smile on her thin face. “How are you, dear?” She lay on a reclined hospital bed in the living room, an IV tube leading to a purple vein in the back of her frail hand.

“I'm good,” I answered. She held a hand out to me and I crossed the room and grabbed it, gently squeezing. “How are you?”

“Better than a woman my age with a broken hip should be. They put a couple of pins in there and now I can practically walk,” she said with a smile.

“Not yet, Mother,” Mr. Petersen warned in his no-nonsense voice.

Looking around, I felt a sudden pang of homesickness. Things had been put back to normal, thanks to Mr. Petersen—the hole in the ceiling plastered and painted over, the chunks of ceiling swept up off the floor, as if none of it had ever happened.

“John, I need a word with Maggie Mae,” Mrs. Carpenter said. “Why don't you go outside and talk to Bridger for a while?”

I looked out the window. Bridger sat on the porch swing, face pointed toward the setting sun, hair glinting black and gold. Mr. Petersen scowled at his mother but said, “Whatever you say.”

When the front door shut behind him, Mrs. Carpenter turned to me. “I can see your plans written all over your face,” she said with a sad smile.

Tears seeped into my eyes and I nodded. “It's what's best,” I explained, wiping my tears away.

“I know it is. Funny thing about doing what's right—it's always the harder road to follow. But you already know that.” She sighed. “Now tell me, are you and that O'Connell boy
finally
going steady?”

I blushed and nodded, grinning.

“It's about time! I knew the moment I saw him look at you that there were sparks there—that first day of school.” She chuckled. “He's a fine-looking boy, and noble, out there sitting on the swing so that you and I can have a moment alone.”

“Mrs. Carpenter?” I hung my head and swayed against a sudden surge of guilt that racked me from my scalp to my toes. “I need to tell you something.”

“Well, tell away. I'm not going anywhere.”

I looked up into her encouraging, forgiving face. “I broke the ring of protection. I didn't mean to—I thought if I moved it closer to your house you'd be safe.” Miserable with guilt, I looked away again and stared down at my shoes. “It was my fault you broke your hip, my fault Duke died and Shash ran away. And I am so, so sorry.”

“Maggie?” I looked up at her, blinking against a sheen of tears. “You did nothing wrong. Those creatures—have you figured out what they are?”

I nodded and bit my lip.

“Whatever they are—and I don't want to know the details—they acted of their own will. You had no hand in what happened. The most important thing—are you safe?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Something thumped on the front porch and nails scratched the front door. My eyes met Mrs. Carpenter's fear-filled eyes and a silent question passed between us.
Are they back already?
I turned and faced the front door.

A low growl echoed outside, the door handle turned, and Bridger poked his head inside. “Someone's here to see you two,” he said with a mischievous grin. He opened the door wide and Shash, fur dusty and tangled with twigs, slunk inside.

“Shash!” I fell to my knees and clapped my hands, and he trotted across the floor, putting his massive front paws on my shoulders and licking my face until I toppled backward.

“Can I come in now?” Mr. Petersen asked from the doorway.

“Come in, son,” Mrs. Carpenter said. At the sound of her voice Shash climbed off me, put his nose on the side of her bed, and whined. “You miserable mutt,” Mrs. Carpenter said with a smile. “You're filthy! And I can't vacuum!”

“Maggie, come outside with me for a few minutes,” Bridger said, helping me to my feet. I followed him out the front door. “Will you help me rebuild the ring of protection before it gets too dark?”

“I don't think that's a good idea. Why didn't my ring of protection work?”

“Are you Navajo?” Bridger asked. I shook my head. “Did you bless it after you made it?” I shook my head again. “Did you use sage and an eagle feather to strengthen it?”

“All right, I get it,” I said. “I don't have the magic touch.”

“Exactly.”

“Mrs. Carpenter won't need the ring of protection anymore,” I said quietly, stepping off the porch.

“She won't?” Bridger asked, surprised.

“Not because of me, at least. There's no way I'll put her in danger again. I'm moving out.” I took Bridger's hand and we walked toward the back of the house where the skulls had been piled. A warm breeze blew, stirring the boughs of a crooked pine and blowing my hair away from my face.

Bridger pulled me to a stop. “You're moving?” he asked, slipping his hands around to the small of my back and looking at me with curious eyes. “Won't Mrs. Carpenter need you around to help her out?”

I shook my head. “When I talked to Mrs. Carpenter this morning, she told me her granddaughter is moving into the upstairs bedroom to take care of her. Her granddaughter's a nurse. It's time for me to move on.”

“Where are you going to go?” he asked. I could hear the real question in the concerned tone of his voice.

“Don't worry—I'm actually moving
closer
to you,” I explained. “Naalyehe has a studio apartment above the restaurant. He says he'll give me a good price on rent if I want to fix it up a bit—paint the walls and clean it up and stuff. I gave him a deposit during my shift today. I can move in tomorrow. If …” I put my hands behind Bridger's neck and ran my fingers through his hair.

His eyes narrowed. “If what?” he asked suspiciously.

I shrugged. “If someone with a car can help me move my stuff?”

He frowned and shook his head. “Too bad I own an SUV and not a
car
. Otherwise I'd have been just the guy for the job.”

I laughed and shoved him, but his hands tightened on the small of my back and pulled me closer. He rested his forehead on mine. “You've got to get over this inability to ask people for help,” he whispered, his nose bumping mine. I closed my eyes and brushed my lips over his, inhaling his exhaled air. He sighed, his body melting into me, his heart drumming against mine.

“Bridger, will you help me?” I whispered against his mouth, opening my eyes.

He took a deep breath and, without opening his eyes, nodded. “Always and forever. Whatever you need, I'll be here.” His lips started moving against mine, gently insistent, making my brain swirl and my heart explode. I smiled against his mouth and kissed him, adjusting my body to line up with his like we were constructed for each other, two halves of a bigger whole.

I closed my eyes, and in that instant, my world seemed to shift, as if all the screwed-up crap I'd gone through over the past years clicked into place, locking together to form a bigger picture than I'd ever seen before—me, right here, right now. Every day, every minute, leading to this moment, bringing me to this point in time where everything was all right.

This place where I'd never be alone again.