Storm of Shadows (2 page)
Authors: Christina Dodd
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal, #General
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
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Happy anniversary, Scott.
Lots of years, lots of memories,
two kids, and true love.
Thank God I found you.
Lots of years, lots of memories,
two kids, and true love.
Thank God I found you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to the wonderful team at NAL who have been so enthusiastic about this story—Kara Welsh, Lindsay Nouis (who I know does all the real work), the brilliant art department led by Anthony Ramondo, the publicity department with Craig Burke and Michele Langley, and of course, the spectacular Penguin sales department. A heartfelt thank-you to my editor, Kara Cesare, who contributes so much to my work with her discerning eye and tactful suggestions.
Prologue
Thirty-two years ago High in the Idaho Mountains
A
s the sunrise tinged the sky, the Indian stood naked outside the Sacred Cave. He shivered in the frigid air, resisting the call to enter. It was not an honorable resistance; as the chief of his tribe, it was his duty to go to the gods when they called. But always he was afraid of the small, dark hole, of the hard, black rock, of the ancient paintings in the stone.
s the sunrise tinged the sky, the Indian stood naked outside the Sacred Cave. He shivered in the frigid air, resisting the call to enter. It was not an honorable resistance; as the chief of his tribe, it was his duty to go to the gods when they called. But always he was afraid of the small, dark hole, of the hard, black rock, of the ancient paintings in the stone.
His ragged all-weather coat lay at his feet, the tear in the green nylon mended with a wide strip of silver duct tape. He had flung his jeans, white with age, and his long johns, pink from a washing with his red flannel shirt, across a rock. His boots and socks were stacked below. He looked longingly at the clothes, the footwear, and the warmth they represented.
Did the gods care about his old age? About his duties on the reservation? About the difficulties of coming up to this high, bleak spot when winter himself stalked the land?
No. They cared only about themselves. He didn’t know much about them. The old traditions and stories had faded from their small tribe, but he knew one thing for sure; they were very human gods.
So Bitter Eagle lay on his belly, groaning as the mountain’s cold bones stripped the warmth from his flesh. Arms outstretched, he worked his way into the tiny crack in the stone, pushing the leather bag before him and wishing he had grown too fat to cross the threshold, yet knowing that was impossible. The Bear Creek tribe was small and poor, easily dismissed by the US government and, some said, too proud for their own good. But they had learned early on that to depend on anyone besides themselves meant giving up their freedoms. So they lived in their small houses, hunted the lofty peaks of the Sawtooth Wilderness, raised gardens and children, and slowly faded from the modern world’s memory.
Never had one of the Bear Creek tribe grown fat on life.
As Bitter Eagle entered the womb of Mother Earth, he sniffed. Usually the cave smelled like molten rock and broken dreams.
Now the air was smoky, with the bitter tang of blood.
No wonder the gods had called him.
Someone had violated their sanctuary.
He knelt in the entrance. Sun leaked through the crack in the rock behind him, but at this time of the year, when the sun was low in the south, and this time of the day, at first light, it cast only a feeble illumination. It was the Sacred Cave itself that glowed with an unearthly light, a dim phosphorescence that seemed to seep from the living rocks. The ceiling above his head was low, but gradually it sloped up and back, extending so far that it ended in the home of darkness. Messages danced across the walls in drawings and words, some so faded with age as to be less than a thought, some as fresh and new as this morning’s sunrise.
He didn’t know who had written them. Wise men, cruel witches, women who saw portents and men of power. He didn’t try to read them. Didn’t try to understand the cries of grief, didn’t dare repeat the spells of magic, didn’t want to fall under an enchantment that would lead him farther and farther into the cave until he stumbled on the bones of the others who had succumbed to the fascination and died, sacrifices to the gods.
Instead, he looked for the cause of the smoke and blood.
There. In a pit built where the floor took its first downward slant into the earth, the embers of a fire still glowed red. He crawled forward, his eyes darting back and forth, looking for the lifeless body he thought must be sprawled on the hard floor. For why else would he smell blood, except that some foolish soul had broken the law and entered the Sacred Cave . . . and there had lost his life?
Yet he saw nothing. Whoever had come here was now gone, leaving no stain on the floor.
Should he revive the fire, or extinguish it? Which would please the fickle gods?
Standing, he walked to the pit and knelt beside the shallow depression in the rock. From his bag, he withdrew kindling and logs of dry, aromatic cedar, and laid them carefully on the embers. He leaned forward to blow on the infant flames, and from within the cave, a puff of wind performed the service for him.
So. He had guessed right. The gods wished him to cleanse the air with his offerings. He fed the fire bit by bit, building the flames, waving his arms in great circles to spread the fragrant smoke throughout the massive cave. The scent of pine retreated, but the tang of blood grew stronger, strong enough to taste it on his tongue. He got to his feet and scanned the area, trying to locate the source, then picked up a flaming torch from the fire and followed his nose into the depths of the cave, farther than he had ever been before.
The blood-soaked stench guided his footsteps, leading him on until at last he found it, a dark mass just over the edge of a two-foot drop.
It took a moment for him to realize what it was—a human female had given birth in this cave, and recently enough that the placenta was fresh.
The gods would be displeased.
His horror made him stumble backward, off another step and into the darkness.
He landed awkwardly, going down on one knee, and dropped his torch. The branch rolled away and vanished over the edge. The little flame disappeared. Terrified he was going to follow it, plunge into the chasm and disappear into the black depths, Bitter Eagle put his hand out to catch himself. He touched something sticky, cool, and soft, and . . . the thing moved beneath his fingers.
Alive. It was alive.
He snatched his hand back and cradled it against his chest over his pounding heart. He stood carefully and backed up, feeling his way with his bare feet, up the jagged rocks toward the entrance, never taking his gaze away from that place where the thing had wiggled under his touch. The scent of woman’s blood from his hand made him halt in his tracks.
The silence pounded in his ears.
What was that thing?
Was it . . . the baby?
No. No. It was cool. There was no human warmth in it.
But a newborn who had been abandoned by its mother would cool as its body heat dissipated, as its heart slowed and its breath failed.
What did it matter? A baby born in this cave was forfeit to the gods. The mother, whoever she was, had known the law, and had done this deliberately to dispose of her baby.
But the gods had never given Bitter Eagle the gift of a child. Three wives, and while they were with him, all had been barren. The world called him Bitter Eagle, a name given while he watched the village children at play.
Perhaps the cruel gods had called him here to give him a gift . . . and perhaps they had called him to finish the sacrifice.
He should leave the infant to its fate.
He took a step toward the entrance.
And the baby gave forth one small, newborn mewl of anguish.
The sound flew to his heart, to the center of his pain.
The infant was tiny. It was dying. It needed warmth and food and comfort.
It needed him.
Swiftly, knowing he was breaking one of the most ancient and sacred commandments, he turned back to the tiny being.
He laid his hand on it. It was indeed a human baby.
Lifting it into his arms, he cradled it against his chest and walked toward the entrance.
Wind ripped through the cave, pushing him back.
The gods were not pleased.
But a lifetime of obeying their desires had not made him complicit with this . . . this murder.
He fought his way forward, leaning against the wind that blasted him toward the chasm.
The baby hung limp in his grasp. Dead? Was Bitter Eagle displeasing the gods for a child who had already passed on?
Yet he struggled toward the entrance, toward that narrow glimpse of pale sunlight. Sand whipped into his eyes, blinding him, searing his lungs.
If he put the baby down, the wind would stop. He knew it would.
Still he moved inch by inch, one foot in front of the other. The entrance came closer and closer.
Above him, the black granite groaned, threatening him with immolation. If he didn’t get out
now
, he, too, would be a sacrifice.
now
, he, too, would be a sacrifice.
He made a rush toward the narrow crack in the rock, dropped to his belly and shoved the child out into the cool sunlight. From the heights, he heard the wind scream with fury, heard the shift as stones broke free and roared toward the cave floor. He dove toward the entrance, wiggled his head out, his shoulders out, his chest out—and something slammed onto his foot, trapping him in place.
Skin ripped. Bones crunched. Pain ripped into his gut and brain. He writhed with torment, wanting to beg the gods’ pardon, knowing it was too late. He was trapped forever. He would die here, and the child with him.
The child . . .
He fought his way out of the fog of agony and looked at the child.
The infant lay on its side facing him, and it looked back.
It was a boy, a tiny newborn covered with afterbirth. The umbilical cord had been severed close to his body, so close the knife had nicked his leg. His skin was red-tinged, his chest moved up and down with each breath, and he shivered in minuscule convulsions.
But his eyes were open, and he stared gravely at Bitter Eagle, waiting for him to finish his rescue.
Bitter Eagle could not die now. He could not fail his first test as a father.
Shutting his pain inside his formidable will, he stretched himself toward the pile of clothes he had shed before entering the cave. His fingertips could not quite touch . . . He strained forward. . . .
In his foot, something tore—some ligament, some bone, some muscle. New waves of pain escaped their confinement to batter him, dimming his eyes and shortening his breath.
The child struggled as if trying to reach him . . . or as if death leaned too close.
With his suffering, Bitter Eagle had bought himself one vital inch.
He caught the edge of his old nylon coat between two fingers and pulled it toward him. With one hand he scooped the infant off the cold stone; with the other he slid the coat beneath the child, placed him onto the material, and enclosed him in the warmth.
Then he set to work. He dragged his jeans toward him and pulled his hunting knife from its leather sheath. He held it for a minute, allowing his body temperature to warm the plastic handle, allowing himself a moment of rebellion against what he must do.
Then he struggled to fit his arm back into the cave.
That must have amused the gods, for they sent no more missiles to break his body or his spirit. Or perhaps they simply waited in anticipation for a fresh gush of blood to appease their anger. Certainly they laughed as he set the blade in his own flesh, as close to the boulder as he could, and started cutting. His writhing, the moans that broke from him, the way he used knowledge gleaned from cutting up chickens . . . all that must have satisfied their malice.
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