CHAPTER 14

He looked exactly the same as the last time I’d seen him.

No, not the last time. I wanted to forget the last time.

Xander Whitelaw looked the same as the last time I’d seen him alive.

Khaki trousers, blue button-down complete with a tie, loafers and rimless glasses. Total geekazoid, but handsome if you liked blond-haired, dark-eyed long-distance runners with a brain. I was sure someone did. Or had. Hell.

“Miss Phoenix?” he asked in his soft, slightly southern voice.

I nodded, unwrapping myself from Sawyer. Our skin peeled apart with an audible fwonk. Sweat and rain, as well as a little mud, covered us; we were a mess. I badly wanted to jump in the lake, but first things first.

“Clothes,” I muttered, and ran for the hogan.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sawyer called after me. “He won’t care. He’s beyond that.”

“I’m not.” I ducked inside the structure.

There wasn’t much there. Sawyer didn’t care who saw him in the altogether, and this was his place, even more so than the one down the mountain. Sawyer came to the lake when he wanted to perform rituals no one else should see. Or perhaps he came to perform rituals that could only be performed here.

The Navajo refer to Mount Taylor as their sacred mountain of the south or the turquoise mountain. Once, long ago, it had been an active volcano. Maybe that was why Sawyer lived at its base, why magic happened at its peak. Volcanoes never really went away; they only fell asleep. I wouldn’t put it past Sawyer to wake this one up. Considering the way the ground had rumbled, maybe he had.

Inside the hogan all I could find was winter clothes—a plaid hunting shirt and heavy denim jeans. I’d swelter in them unless—

I yanked off the arms of the shirt—with my super-strength, I didn’t even need scissors—then I tore off the bottom half; I did the same to the jeans above the knees, leaving just enough material to cover the important parts. After the adjustments for the temperature, the items fit fairly well. Sawyer’s aura, his strength and power and wisdom, made him seem larger than he was. If not for the muscles on him and the hips and chest on me, we’d be the same size. I didn’t even have to loop twine through the belt loops before I rejoined the men outside.

Sawyer lifted his brows but didn’t comment on the destruction of his clothes. I was sure he had more somewhere and equally sure he rarely wore these. It would have to be a cold day in . . . the mountains before he deigned to put on a stitch.

Xander still stood within the circle. I joined Sawyer and murmured, “Can he move?”

“Move, yes,” Sawyer answered low enough so Xander couldn’t hear. “Leave, no.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know where he’s been, who he’s seen, what he’s been offered.”

“Offered?”

“There is a hell, Phoenix, and some of us will go there.”

I cast him a quick glance. He was working for the good guys—as far as I knew. Why was he worried about hell?

I opened my mouth to ask, but Sawyer kept talking. “You’ll agree to anything to avoid that.”

“Me personally, or the general ‘you’?”

Sawyer lifted a brow and didn’t bother.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Sawyer took a step closer; Xander took a step back. His heel brushed the circle, and he drew in a sharp breath as he jerked it away. I scowled at Sawyer. The guy had been through enough.

Xander’s brow creased, which only served to remind me how uncreased his brow had been. Whitelaw was undoubtedly one of the youngest Ph.D.s in history, and I’d gotten him killed long before his time. Guilt flickered, but I was getting used to it.

“I called Miss Phoenix.” Xander’s dark, confused gaze met mine. I wanted to take his hand, say I was sorry, but as Sawyer had said, I didn’t know where Xander had been, what he’d agreed to, who he’d become.

Instead, I nodded encouragingly. “That’s right.”

“You were coming to see me.” He glanced around, and despite the press of darkness it was easy to tell that we weren’t in Indiana anymore. “Or did you say you were going to bring me to see you?”

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. Was I supposed to tell him what had happened? I didn’t want to.

“We brought you,” Sawyer said, which was technically true. We’d just left out the part where I’d gone to him first and he’d been dead.

“Fascinating,” Xander murmured.

“You said you had information for me,” I reminded him.

“I do. Yes.” The professor lifted his hand, rubbing his forehead as if he could make the information within tumble free. “The Book of Samyaza.”

Sawyer and I exchanged a glance. Double damn. I was really hoping that was a myth.

“You found it?”

“No. There are so many rumors, but not a single solid clue as to its whereabouts or even what it looks like.”

“Swell.”

“Relax, Phoenix,” Sawyer murmured. “That means they don’t know anything about it either.”

“Or they’re better at keeping secrets than we are.”

“If they knew what it looked like or where it was, they’d have it and we’d all be—” Sawyer flipped his dark, supple hands over so that the palms faced the starry night sky.

“Cannon fodder,” I muttered.

“Would you like to know what I learned about the Key of Solomon?” Xander smiled.

I straightened. “Where is it?”

“The key is with the Phoenix.”

I’d heard that before. It didn’t make me any happier this time.

“I don’t have it,” I said.

“Not you. An actual phoenix.”

“Say what?”

“A legendary ancient Egyptian bird.”

“I know what it is,” I muttered. “A myth.”

Xander’s gaze went to Sawyer. “Myths aren’t so mythical anymore.”

Everything I’d ever considered legendary—werewolves, vampires, ghosts, you name it—was a helluva lot more real than I was comfortable with.

“We have to go to Egypt?” I asked. “That’s gonna take a while.”

Xander, who’d seemed so with it, suddenly didn’t. His face crumpled; he began to blink as if trying to recall something that was long gone.

“Xander?” I said, alarmed. “You okay?”

“Give him time,” Sawyer murmured. “It isn’t easy to walk between worlds.”

Xander stopped blinking. “I was at my office,” he said. “And I heard footsteps. I thought it was you—”

“But it wasn’t. Did you see who—?”

Xander shook his head. I wasn’t surprised. Ghosts don’t know who killed them, which is often what makes them ghosts.

Whitelaw’s gaze fell to his feet. He kicked a bit of dirt at the circle, and when it fell back on his shoe as if it had hit an invisible wall, he lifted his gaze to mine. “I’m dead.”

Then poof—he disappeared.

“Hey!” I ran to the circle, but the only thing there now was the hat. “Bring him back!”

“Can’t.” Sawyer leaned over and scooped the hat off the ground, then handed it to me.

“Bullshit,” I muttered. “You can do anything.”

“No,” he said softly. “I can’t.”

“Where did he go?”

Sawyer twirled his hand toward the sky, then let it fall and pointed to the ground as he shrugged.

“I wasn’t finished asking him questions.”

“Once ghosts realize they’re dead, or once they’ve completed their unfinished business, they’re no longer ghosts.”

From nowhere, Sawyer produced a cigarette; he snapped his fingers and produced a match the same way. After lighting the end, drawing smoke deeply into his lungs, then letting it trickle out through his nose, he contemplated the fire.

“Have you ever encountered an actual phoenix?” I asked.

“I’ve seen so many things.” Sawyer took another drag, then blew the smoke upward in a steady, gray stream.

It didn’t pay to point out that smoking was unhealthy. Breathing had become unhealthy for members of the federation, and since killing Sawyer was damn near impossible, I didn’t think mouth, throat or lung cancer was much of an issue.

If I were the Pollyanna type—and I wasn’t—I’d think that facing constant death and eternal destruction did have an upside. We could practice every vice we’d once given up without a care. Smoking, drinking, drugs, STDs—go nuts—they were no longer going to kill us any time soon.

Of course other cares had taken their place. We might not have to worry about cancer or AIDS, but there were always demons, fiery hell pits and the end of the world.

Sawyer tossed his cigarette onto the fire, then stared into the distance with a thoughtful expression. I moved closer, figuring he was going to impart all the wisdom he’d compiled on the Phoenix. Or at least tell me where I could go to get it.

Instead, he slapped his palm to his biceps. The resulting flash of light made me shield my eyes, and when I opened them again, he was gone.

“What about me!” I shouted to the night.

I waited until dawn streaked the sky before I headed down the mountain. When I’d come up the hill, I’d done so as a wolf—better eyes, better nose, better traction. Since I’d left my robe behind and Sawyer was gone, I’d be returning as a human. Yes, I was nimble and quick; I was strong. But the mountain was stronger. If I left in the dark, I might end up sliding into a culvert and breaking my neck.

Not that I couldn’t heal a broken neck, but I really didn’t want to. Just because my body could mend when broken didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell when the break occurred.

What was the rush anyway? Sure, Sawyer had been in a helluva hurry, but I had no idea why. If he’d needed me along, he wouldn’t have left me behind.

By the time I reached the foot of the mountain, I was hot, tired and thirsty. If Sawyer were lounging around drinking lemonade, I just might try to kill him again.

But he wasn’t. No one was. Which made me nervous. Where was the kid?

I checked the house, the hogan, the sweat lodge and the ramada. Not a sign of him. Maybe Sawyer had come back here; then they’d left together.

I began to touch things—Luther’s huge Nikes, Sawyer’s pillow—maybe I’d get a hint of where they’d gone. But Sawyer had always been good at blocking me, and it appeared that ability extended to his inanimate belongings as well, since I saw nothing. As for Luther, he’d worn those shoes to town, where he’d bought . . . comic books. Which wasn’t really very helpful at all.

My car sat in the yard. I retrieved my duffel and my cell phone, although getting a signal in the shadow of the mountain was iffy at best.

I’d get cleaned up, changed, eat a bit and then head to the nearest burg where I could boot up my laptop and research the Phoenix. Sometimes I missed Ruthie’s whisper more than I missed . . .

I tried to think of something I missed more than that and couldn’t.

“Okay,” I muttered. “I miss Ruthie’s whisper more than I miss anything.” But missing the voice wasn’t going to bring that voice back. I wasn’t sure what would.

I fingered the dog collar still latched around my neck. Perhaps if I got rid of this demon, but I didn’t know if that was possible.

I turned on the water and, as I waited for it to warm, lost Sawyer’s tattered, sweat-encrusted clothing. Exhaustion weighed on me. Fighting evil wasn’t easy. Fighting the evil inside of you . . . Well, that was downright excruciating sometimes.

I stood under the stream, letting the heated mist curl around me, breathing in the steam like a balm, allowing the familiar pulse of the water to soothe the prickling unease that had followed me down the mountain. By the time I finished, I almost felt human. Quite a feat, considering I wasn’t.

The door opened and then closed. Beyond the filmy white shower curtain, the shadow of a man loomed. Though I assumed it was Sawyer, I leaned down and palmed my knife, which I’d laid on the lip of the tub.

“We need to talk,” I said.

The only answer was a long, rolling growl. Not a wolf. More like a big cat. Again.

My head tilted. “Luther?”

This time my answer was a roar that shook the mirror over the sink. Not Luther. A bigger, badder lion.

I glanced at the blade in my slick hand, wishing I hadn’t left the gun loaded with silver bullets in the duffel bag. The knife was going to be tricky in such close quarters.

Suddenly the shower curtain was yanked violently from the rod and I stood face to chest with a man I’d never seen before: tall and broad, his skin as dark as the continent his ancestors had roamed and his eyes as golden as his shaggy hair. Even without the rumble that continued to roll from his throat, I’d have pegged him for a lion shifter.

“Where is de boy?” he asked.

“What boy?” I stalled.

The man let out another roar, snatched the knife from my own hand with speed that blurred even for me and planted it in my chest.

Why did every evil thing want to stab me in the chest? I have to admit it was a pretty big target, but come on. Be original. Try a kidney, the jugular, something, anything, else. None of those shots would truly kill me anyway.

However, the pain made me drop my guard, and the still-roaring lion man knocked my head against the ceramic tile. I heard the thunk and watched as the world fell away. My temple conked the lip of the tub as I went down, and I slid along the smooth side, coming to rest with my neck at an odd angle.

The water that swirled past me ran a rainbow of reds—maroon to fuchsia, fuchsia to petal pink. My heart thudded, stuttered, almost failed, and the rainbow began all over again—maroon, fuchsia, pink.

I needed to remove the knife. I wasn’t going to be able to heal with that stuck inside of me. But I couldn’t seem to lift my hand.

I watched the water’s rainbow swirl and wondered absently what would happen next. I couldn’t die, but I couldn’t heal.

And by the way . . . where was that lion man?

Right before I lost the last thread of consciousness, I heard a distant roar, followed almost instantly by a sound that made me fight against the dark spots overtaking my vision.

A second roar, a familiar one.

Luther.

“No,” I whispered. But, as usual, no one was listening.

The kid wasn’t ready for this. Someone had to help him, and the only someone available right now was me.

I managed to grip the side of the tub, even pulled myself half over the edge before the dark spots dancing in front of my eyes collided, and then the whole world went black. But it didn’t stay black for long.

During most of the occasions when I’d almost died—yes, I did this a lot—I awoke in the dreams of others. The ability was known as dream walking, and I’d caught it from Jimmy.

In the land between life and death, the place where dreams live, I would be drawn to the unconscious meanderings of the one with the answer to my most desperate question.

Opening my eyes, I expected the darkness to end, but the world was black. The air was hot, yet I was so cold, and something smelled really, really bad.

I tried to sit up and rapped my head against a very low ceiling. Lying back, I felt along my prison, the sides, above, behind. Surrounded by solid walls covered with satin, and when I stretched my feet, my toes—oddly bare—brushed satin too.

“Hello?” I shouted, startled to discover I had an accent—melodic, deep and dark and foreign. How strange.

Usually when I dream walked, I found myself in a person’s head. I could talk with them. I could stroll through the corridors of their mind and peek at things they didn’t want anyone to know. This was the first time I’d actually been the person whose dream I’d invaded. I couldn’t say that I cared for it.

I was trapped. Closed in. Buried.

My mind spun; a chittering insanity threatened. I slammed my hands against the roof, and a loud crack split the silence. Dirt sifted across my face.

Arise. The word drifted through my head, a faraway, maddening whisper. The time is here.

A compulsion, sudden and impossible to ignore, filled me. Before, I’d desperately wanted to get out; now I just had to.

I clawed upward, a nearly impossible task, through six feet of hard-packed earth. My nails broke; my fingers ached, as did my legs, which I kept pushing against whatever lay beneath. My heart beat a rapid and painful cadence. My ears and nose, my mouth and eyes, were stifled by dirt.

This journey brought back memories of my descent into the Otherworld, confusing me a little, because that memory was mine and this was . . . not. I’d never been two people before. If the body I inhabited now actually was people, and I didn’t think so.

People don’t rise from the dead.

The whisper returned. The promise is fulfilled. Your fate awaits. Arise!

I couldn’t resist that voice. It lured me onward, and soon my hand burst free.

Heated, humid air caressed my cool, cool skin, so heavenly I surged ever higher. First my shoulder, then my neck, then my face emerged into the approaching dawn. On the eastern horizon, the sun would soon rise and with it a brand-new me.

In the half-light I caught a glimpse of my arms. The shade of the skin was dark, the texture supple and young. As I watched, the scratches I’d sustained from my battle with the earth faded first to thin white lines and then away completely. My lips curved. What had been promised was now delivered.

I was free.

Morning kissed the horizon. As the flames spread across the sky, strength spread through my body, blazing away every ache, every doubt and every last remnant of exhaustion.

The sun—ahh, the sun. It had been so long.

Is it all that you remember? asked the voice—louder now, no longer muffled by earth, but still far away and maddeningly familiar.

“More.”

It will be yours if you do what you promised.

“I will.”

I patted a rough-hewn sack that hung from a strap looped across my chest. My clothing—some kind of sarong-type dress—was in tatters, but that sack, though dirty, had remained in one piece, and inside rested something hard and rather large for a necklace.

There is a place prepared for you. Come.

I had no choice but to obey. In truth I wanted nothing but to obey. I ran past crumbling headstones. The spindly limbs of ancient trees reached toward an increasingly colorful sky as beneath my bare feet the earth rumbled and shook. The dirt spilled out its dead and they began to walk.

I lifted my arms to the dawn. As the warmth radiated over my skin, power returned and with it all of the magic.