Spirit Flight
Thunderbird Chosen
Jory Strong
Revised Edition of Spirit Flight
Copyright 2015 by Valerie Christenson
Smashwords Edition
A huge shout-out and thank you to Jennifer Kiziah for
her help!
Many, many thanks to Susan White who was kind enough
to read this story and offer insights from a Native American
perspective.
Cover design by Syneca Featherstone
* * * * *
* * * * *
Chapter
1
Marisa Lacoste doubled over as pain sliced
through her sides.
Run.
Keep running!
She sucked in air. She just needed a minute,
then she'd get moving.
Stupid! She'd been so stupid. So unaware. So
naive.
If she hadn't returned to camp earlier than
expected… If she hadn't overheard them deciding to find her and
kill her
now
, when the storm would work to their
advantage…
She tried to quiet her breathing so she'd be
able to hear them. Tried to force herself to breathe through her
nose, her throat and lungs already aching from gasping cold
mountain air.
How could Ethan be involved in this? And for
money. He knew the most important thing to her was her art. It was
all she'd cared about since she was old enough to hold a
crayon.
A rumble sounded in the distance. Thunder to
go with the darkening sky and gathering gray clouds.
Tears wet her face. She brushed them away
impatiently. Tears wouldn't do any good.
Maybe later. When she found her way off the
mountain. When she flagged down a car or found a call box. When she
got back to the last town they'd stopped in. Hohoq—so small it
wasn't on the map.
They'd eaten at a tiny home-style diner
there and anyone who'd seen them together would testify they'd been
in great spirits. A man and two women. Enjoying themselves the way
people do when they're on vacation. Laughing. Teasing. Probably in
the area for rock climbing or hiking, or just to camp.
She and Ethan resembled each other so
closely with their black hair and blue eyes that they were
obviously related. Not that Kaitlyn wouldn't have drawn her share
of appreciative glances with her blonde, fashion-model looks.
Fresh pain ricocheted in Marisa's chest.
They'd played her so well. Not just for the last couple of days,
but for months.
The beautiful tabletop books with pictures
of the Cascades. Talking her into taking a rock-climbing class. All
done so this trip wouldn't seem out of character and her
accidental
death wouldn't seem suspicious.
Stupid! She'd been so thrilled to be
included!
But now, looking back, she understood how
she'd set this in motion. She'd been so proud to realize that
slowly, over the years, she'd begun living only on the proceeds
from the sales of her paintings. She'd been so excited by the idea
of putting the money she'd inherited from their father, the money
her brother had been managing, into a scholarship fund so other
artists could make it as she had.
Was any of the money left? Had Ethan been
embezzling it all along? Or only since Kaitlyn came into the
picture?
Marisa pushed thoughts of her brother and
Kaitlyn aside. Forced herself to straighten. The air around her was
getting colder and the sky darker.
A different fear gripped her. Its fingers
icy dread.
Lost, her skin slick with sweat from
running, exposed to the elements overnight with nothing more than
the clothing she was wearing, she could as easily die from
hypothermia as from a staged fall while rock climbing.
It'd be easy for them to claim she'd gotten
lost while she was hiking. Gotten so absorbed in her surroundings,
in the beauty and colors she'd try to pull into her art later, that
she hadn't been paying attention to where she was going. They'd say
she had panicked and run when she finally realized she didn't know
where she was or how to get back to camp.
Anyone who'd ever seen her when she became
immersed in her work would testify that she could go days without
answering the phone or opening the mail, would barely remember to
eat. It wouldn't take any great leap of imagination to believe
she'd gotten lost.
Marisa shivered. The sweat chilled
underneath her shirt and jeans.
They'd still want to find her body. They'd
want to make sure she hadn't overheard them or guessed their plans
and used her art supplies to leave a note.
The breeze picked up, bringing the scent of
rain. Thunder rumbled, louder, closer, confirmation that a storm
was on its way and would turn the mountain and time into deadly
enemies.
She wouldn't last the night if her clothing
got wet. She knew it with a certainty that came from being a news
addict, not an experienced camper.
She would give every penny she had just to
spot smoke curling upward from a cabin somewhere in front of her or
below in the canyon. But there was nothing. No indication anyone
lived in the area despite the
No Trespassing
signs and the
beautifully crafted totem poles capped with ferocious thunderbirds
that she'd passed earlier.
Another rumble sounded, not thunder but an
off-road motorcycle. Her heart pounded faster, harder. Adrenaline
and terror dulled the pain in her lungs and sides and thighs.
They knew she was missing. They knew she was
running.
There was a grove of pine and cedar ahead
but she wasn't sure she could get to it before being seen. And if
she did, the trees and undergrowth might slow her down and trap her
instead of offering her shelter and protection.
The rumble of the motorcycle grew louder.
She left the wide dirt path. Everything inside her screamed that
she needed to get out of sight.
Now. Now.
She reached the canyon edge. Her heart
surged into her throat. She swallowed, trying to force its
throbbing beat downward.
I can do this. I have to do this.
She went over the edge. Scrambled over rock,
grabbing with her hands and trying to gain purchase with her feet
while pebbles tumbled like the beginning of a rock slide.
All she needed to do was find a place where
she could cling safely until the bike had passed and then passed
again, returning to camp.
The bike drew near. Its engine roared,
echoed in the canyon.
Hurry! Hurry!
Just a little bit
further and she'd be out of sight.
The rock under her hands and feet gave.
An involuntary scream escaped and sliced
through the canyon.
She hurtled downward. Clawed at the canyon
side, each wild grab dislodging more rock and earth.
There was a desperate awareness of speed and
motion, of being momentarily airborne.
She landed hard on an outcropping. Pain
screamed through her. Legs, ribs, arms. Broken. So many things
broken.
She turned her head and vomited as debris
struck her face and arms and torso before bouncing and continuing
the journey downward.
The sound of the slide faded and only the
purr of an engine remained. Fighting to remain conscious, Marisa
saw the motorcycle stop far above her. The rider slid the helmet
off to get a better view—or maybe Kaitlyn needed to reveal herself
to make her victory more satisfying.
For long moments she looked down at where
Marisa lay, and then with a wave, she put the helmet on and drove
away.
Tears streamed from Marisa's eyes. There was
nothing left but pain. Emotional. Physical.
Bleeding, killing wounds inflicted to heart
and soul.
Breaking, tearing wounds done to bone and
flesh.
She faded in and out of consciousness. Aware
on some level of the blackening sky, the rapidly approaching storm,
the feel of cold rain pelting her exposed skin. The wetness of her
clothes, their sodden mass a heavy weight on a frame barely able to
sustain life.
The thunder was directly overhead now, a
violent, crashing symphony.
Lightning flashed, flickering brilliance
against Marisa's eyelids.
She forced her eyes open, knowing she was
dying and yet
choosing
to see the beauty around her. The
magnificence of the storm. Far more powerful and real than anything
she'd ever been able to capture in her art—though sometimes she
came close, and those were the paintings she treasured.
Jagged streaks illuminated the sky. Thunder
crashed like the clap of cymbals at a song's crescendo.
Above her a thunderbird formed and hovered.
His powerful wings beat the air with such force that clouds swirled
around and under him. The bright colors of his feathers reflected
off gray rock, painting it red and white with splashes of yellow
and blue. His beak opened in a soundless scream and lightning
sparked from coal black eyes.
She was hallucinating but she embraced the
hallucination. A small laugh of sheer joy came. The wind caught the
sound of her pleasure and carried it away as she felt herself
floating upward, toward the thunderbird.
The great bird turned its eyes on her and
swooped. Its dive scattered the clouds and drove Marisa's awareness
back to her body. To pain and cold. And finally—nothingness.
* * * * *
Chapter
Two
There was the sound of a solitary drum
beating in the rhythm of a heart. A voice accompanied it in a
chant-like song offering prayers in a language Marisa didn't
understand.
Instead of pain, there was only heat. Moving
through her. Over her. Building in intensity as the song built,
peaking, fading. The process repeated over and over again until the
voice stopped. The drum stopped.
Into the sudden silence came the eerie sound
of water dripping in the distance. The sensation of being watched.
The hint of a woodsy scent that called to Marisa and gave her the
strength to open her eyes and struggle to her elbows.
It took her a minute to see him, and then
she blinked. Licked lips that were dry as she forced herself into a
sitting position.
The movement made her lightheaded. It warned
her against trying to scramble to her feet.
He rose from where he crouched next to a
small fire and her fingers clenched involuntarily—not with the need
to defend herself, but with the urge to draw him. To capture him on
paper.
He was a vision from history. A warrior. His
muscles toned from a life where only the fittest survived. His skin
bronzed, revealed except for the area covered by a loincloth.
Most of his black hair flowed over his
shoulders and down his back. But on either side of his face
colorful beads and feathers decorated tight, narrow braids.
"Drink this," he said, kneeling next to her
and offering a cup she hadn't noticed him carrying. His voice was
deep, confident. His words English, firm.
She shook her head in confusion as the
memories flooded in, of overhearing Ethan and Kaitlyn plotting to
kill her, of running, of being injured, of knowing she was dying
and seeing the thunderbird swoop down from the sky.
He gripped the back of her head and held her
still as he pressed the cup to her lips. "Drink."
She struggled instinctively, wondered if she
was drugged. Her captor set the cup down. His arms went around her,
demonstrating how weak she still was, how easily she could be
subdued.
With the touch of skin to skin, she realized
she was completely naked. "Easy," he said, as if sensing her rising
panic and her intention to renew her fight. "Easy. I'm not going to
hurt you."
She looked around her, taking in the rock,
the darkness, the campfire—her clothes. They hung torn and bloody
and dripping water from a peg pounded into a cave wall.
Her gaze returned to the man holding her.
Seeing the dark eyes. The thunderbird's eyes. The colorful feathers
braided into his hair. Red and white and black with splashes of
blue and yellow. The thunderbird's colors.
"You rescued me," she said, understanding
she'd been delirious, her mind lost in the last piece of art to
make an impression on her. The totem poles capped with powerful
thunderbirds.
Beautifully sculpted masculine lips curved
upward, sending pleasure rivering through her. "I reached you in
time."
She pulled away from him and he let her go.
She glanced at her body and saw no open wounds, felt no broken
bones though there was dried blood on her skin and the state of her
clothing attested to the fact that she
had
been injured.
