Chapter 8
“Good Goddess!” Nate said. “Is that normal?”
“It’s been happening since we found her,” Jonas replied, helping Evie to stand. “Everyone okay?”
The Aether ignored them, stepping closer to examine the unconscious woman. “Incredible. Other than a Goddess or Guardian, I’ve never seen such power.”
“What is she? Fallen angel?” Uncle Nate wrapped an arm around Evie, leaning in to assure himself she was unharmed. With a satisfied sigh, he kissed her forehead and tucked her close.
“Do angels even exist?” Jonas asked, having never considered the possibility before. Since gods and goddesses were real, it stood to reason they might create winged creatures in their image.
Damian shook his head with a chuckle. “One never knows, but so far, I’ve not encountered any.”
“That you know of,” Uncle Nate replied dryly. “Could be they are hiding in plain sight. This lovely young woman, for instance.”
“Then why not heal herself?” Aunt Evie countered with a jab to his stomach to free herself. Approaching the lady in question, she fearlessly began the fever-cooling process again. “No. She’s merely lost her way.”
“Nate explained she appeared from thin air in the canyon west of here,” Damian said. “What did the Guide say, precisely?”
Jonas tried to recall the exact conversation. Failing, he said, “He called her a Traveler’s child.”
A secretive smile curled the Aether’s mouth. “Did you summon Isis?”
“I tried. She was reticent. Her message was along the lines of suggesting Draven Masters should make the first overture.”
With a dark chuckle, Damian nodded. “That sounds like the deity we all know and love. I’ll reach out to her, the Council, and the Authority. Perhaps I might gain answers where you could not.”
“Can you heal her?” Jonas asked, reluctant to let him leave without trying.
“Not without a nasty shock. She’s holding her own for now. If she takes a turn for the worse, send Draven to me.” He turned to go, but paused. “Is Shadow still hanging about?”
“Yes. He’s keeping watch over Gus Green.”
“I’m not familiar with the name.”
“No, you wouldn’t be.” Jonas gave a single-shoulder shrug. “He’s a mortal with the devil for a father. Poor kid.”
“Well, we weren’t all as blessed as the Thornes.”
“Thorne,” their patient mumbled in her delirium. “Wilder.”
Damian stilled, and a dangerous expression settled on his face. “She recognized the name. She’s definitely more than she seems.”
“Should we be concerned? Is it possible she’s a Death Dealer seeking one of our extended family?” Uncle Nate asked.
“I don’t believe so,” he said slowly. “In my experience, they regenerate faster than a standard witch.” Damian turned to Jonas. “Nate said she was like this for five days?”
“Yes.”
“Then, no, she’s not a Dealer.”
Aunt Evie waved them off. “You’re distressing her with your morbid talk. Go on with you boys.”
“Evie, my love—”
“You, too, Nathanial. The woman needs rest and care at the moment.” She gave him a pointed look. “Go investigate the name Wilder. Ask Isis about future generations. I have a sneaking suspicion it’s attached to our family.”
“You think she somehow tumbled through time to find other Thornes, Aunt Evie?” Hopping about time was difficult for Jonas to wrap his head around, but based on the female’s manly clothing and tools, she certainly didn’t belong in their century.
“Perhaps.” His aunt gave her a considering look. “I doubt it was by design. More likely, it was accidental. If Stands-in-Shadow is correct and she is a Traveler’s child, she may not be in control.”
Damian shifted closer.
“You make a great point, Evie. If she was injured first, she might be falling through time, instinctively searching for her people.”
Uncle Nate grunted. “Bloody fantastic.”
“The only thing we can do is nurse her to the best of a mortal’s ability.
If, at a future juncture, she allows the use of my gifts, I can restore her mind and heal her more serious injuries,” Damian said.
“Continue to ply her with willow bark tea. It should control the fever. Slippery elm and honey might soothe her throat as well.”
“You’re able to remove her power,” Jonas said, hating himself for suggesting it. “Why not do it?”
“It’s a painful process, and some don’t survive. Separating a witch from their magic requires a directive from the Authority or Isis. I’ll not take it upon myself to destroy her life.”
“You may not have a choice, son,” Uncle Nate added.
“Certainly, it may come to that, Nate, but I’d rather exhaust all other possibilities first.”
“I agree. In her weakened condition, it’s doubtful she’d make it.” Jonas pressed the back of his wrist to her forehead and cheeks. With a grimace, he retrieved the empty bucket by the dresser. “She’s flushed. I’ll retrieve another block of ice.”
Aunt Evie protested. “It’s a simple matter to conjure more.”
“I need to stretch my legs and find Draven. I’m still required to fulfill my duties as sheriff of this godforsaken town, and he’s likely the one stirring up trouble.”
“He’s a young man with the weighted expectations of the Fates. Let him enjoy his freedom for a while longer,” Uncle Nate suggested.
“Wise,” Damian replied with a warm smile. “I’m glad I had you and Evie to raise me, sir.”
“Your mother was to thank, son. Her last act was to save you.”
His expression hardened, and the room grew chilly. “I must go.”
“That boy,” Uncle Nate muttered after he was gone.
Jonas barked a laugh. “Boy? He’s what, fifty-six, fifty-seven? He’s no more a boy than I am.”
“You’ll both always be boys to us,” Aunt Evie cut in with an affectionate smile. “We love you like our own.”
He kissed her smooth cheek. “I love you, too.”
“Leave the bucket. Nathanial can conjure ice while you patrol the town and check on your friend.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, and I want to meet your young lady. Soon,” she said with a stern look.
“Young—”
“The one you call Red,” Uncle Nate supplied helpfully.
Jonas groaned and hightailed it from the room.
How the hell did they find out about her so quickly?
There was no way in hell he’d introduce Red to Evie.
Not that he didn’t feel she was good enough, more like she didn’t need to be corrupted any more than she was by his aunt’s and uncle’s inappropriate humor.
6 MONTHS LATER…
Nightmares continued to plague her. Relentless and haunting, with the shadow of knowledge lingering on the edges of her consciousness. And one man was at the center.
Wilder.
Whoever he might be, the phantom without a face.
There were dreams so vivid, creating such a desperate longing for him, she would wake crying.
But on other nights, even the merest glimpse of him triggered a level of anxiety, causing her to scream herself awake.
Snowstorms, mountains, magical doorways…
none of it made sense. Nothing and no one was familiar.
Over the months, she’d had to relearn the basics, like dressing herself.
Jonas and Evie had dubbed her “Mary,” but the name didn’t fit.
They tended to speak in hushed conversations, sending her sidelong glances and falling silent if she drew near.
Whenever she chose to eavesdrop, the primary topic was the Aether and the removal of her powers.
What abilities she could possibly have were beyond her scope of imagination, but she couldn’t shake what she’d heard from Nate: she was a woman out of time.
Lately, she’d begun to believe she was on her way to insanity.
Especially those nights she woke, reaching for a lover who wasn’t there. How could she explain the phantom feel of a man curled around her? Or the echo of him calling her name during intimate acts? A more fitting one she could never recall come daylight.
Although the Thornes were kind, the overall feeling of oppression wouldn’t fade.
Tonight, after dinner, she’d made her excuses, claiming she was turning in early.
Once alone, she crawled out the window and crept toward town.
Maybe, by spending more time there, she might recognize something or someone.
One block from the saloon, Mary paused and tugged at the bodice of her borrowed gown, wishing for anything less constrictive than her ridiculously tight clothing.
Happily for her, Evie and Jonas had given up trying to force her into a corset and bustle, agreeing that neither was suited for the sweltering Arizona heat anyway.
“Well, what do we have here?” sneered the voice of a man she’d come to despise.
Harlan Green.
A real-life nightmare.
He actively stalked her whenever she left the safety of Jonas’s home, and anytime she glanced up, it was to find him smirking as if he knew a secret she didn’t.
He probably did, since she couldn’t recall a damn thing before six months ago.
But it annoyed her, instilling unease she couldn’t seem to shake.
“Cat got your tongue?” he taunted, shifting closer. “Or maybe you really are too dumb to talk. That it, Crazy Mary? Ain’t got a thought in that broken head of yours?”
Jaw tight, she averted her chin. Speaking was difficult for her, as most of the townspeople had eventually guessed. Her brain had not only locked away her memories, but it had also half-paralyzed her vocal chords, effectively limiting her speech.
“Folks say you’re touched,” Harlan drawled, circling as he sized her up. “But me? I think you’re fakin’ it. Playin’ the mute so you don’t have to answer no questions about where you came from.” He flipped the lace at her collar. “Is that right? Maybe you’re smarter than what they say.”
Anger simmered within her, gathering strength like an unchecked storm.
His foul breath teased her gag reflex. Did no one believe in mouthwash in this godforsaken town?
Mouthwash.
A memory tried to surface. There had been no mention of it before, she was sure of it. Yet she was certainly familiar with the word and the minty liquid used as a rinse. How else would she know he needed it?
“Pa?” Gus Green stepped onto the boardwalk and met her gaze. His expression held discomfort with his father’s behavior.
“Go away, you fool boy,” Harlan grumbled. “Can’t ya see I’ve captured the filly loose from her pen?”
His menacing leer tightened her stomach.
“And I’m just the man to break her,” he concluded.
Mary gave a slight shake of her head, hoping Gus would understand she wanted him to stay.
His answering nod was infinitesimal.
“Pa, if ya don’t come now, Cookie said he’s givin’ up our table. Said those ribs don’t stay good for long.”
“That’s because they’re already older than dirt with no meat on ’em,” Harlan snapped. “Go on with ya. Get. And don’t be eatin’ my meal, or you’ll face my belt.”
The suggested abuse caused Gus to pale, but he remained stubborn in the face of the threat. “Cookie said he ain’t holding no food, neither.”
Harlan rounded on him, prepared to settle the matter with his balled fists.
Unable to let the young man be punished for his father’s obsession, she stepped in his path.
“No,” she rasped, through her faulty vocal cords.
Rage clouded Harlan’s pockmarked features, but then he grinned, the expression so evil, her stomach shriveled.
“Would ya look at that, boy? She fancies ya.”
No, she damn well didn’t, but she wasn’t capable of voicing it.
“But that’s only ’cause she hasn’t had a real man, like your pa.”
Dear God! As if he were anyone’s poster boy for a real man. She shuddered.
“Don’t worry if you’re cold, gal, I’ll be warmin’ ya soon enough,” Harlan promised.
“That’s going to be mighty difficult, considering la dame est with me, Green.”
A match flared in the darkness, then died, leaving smoke to signal Draven Master’s approach, and as he stepped into the light at the alleyway opening, he shifted a cheroot from one side of his mouth to the other without lifting his hand from the pearl-handled gun butt he caressed.
“Isn’t that right, ma chère?” Although he didn’t look at her, he was aware of the exact second she nodded. “There you have it, Green. C’est confirmé.”
There was a pecking order in Perdition Ridge, and Draven was at the top. Many had challenged him since her arrival, but none had won, as the graveyard upon the hill attested. Unfortunately, Harlan knew better than to challenge the top dog, and he tended to slink away to save his hide.
His glare promised retribution as he disappeared into the shadows.
“I’m sorry, Miss Mary,” Gus said, eyes downcast.
Despite wishing to touch his arm in understanding, she didn’t.
Harlan didn’t know it, but Draven Masters had saved him from a nasty shock.
If he’d come in contact with any part of her skin, her body’s selective process would’ve likely registered the threat and acted accordingly.
The force field protecting her was temperamental, allowing some contact but denying it for others.
With any luck—and of late, she’d had little—it would remain on high alert for those of Harlan’s ilk.
“She understands,” Draven said in her stead. “He’s your père and difficult to challenge, oui? One day, you’ll get there, Gus.” His unspoken “you’ll be forced to” hung in the air between them.
Or perhaps only Mary heard what he hadn’t voiced aloud. As an outsider, she observed more than most, relying on body language and a person’s energy.
“It seems Jonas’s plan to separate them isn’t workin’ all that well,” Draven commented casually as he joined her to watch Gus scurry after his father.
Mary placed a hand to her throat. “Works.”
“Oui, however, it will not be enough. Harlan Green will get that boy killed one day, ma chère. It’s a sad fait.”
She looked up at him, meeting his warm whiskey gaze.
“But perhaps his père will meet his end first?” he suggested with a wink.
“For now, let’s introduce you to the Ridge’s finer plaisirs.
” With a smile promising sin, he held out an arm, waiting for her to tuck her hand into the crook.
“Do you fancy a taste of Perdition’s underbelly?
Cards, whiskey, and péchés folk pray the good Lord don’t see. ”
She hesitated.
“You can’t shock me, Marie,” he said, giving her new name a poetic flair, Mah-ree. “I mean you no harm. But if it makes you feel better, I can conjure for you a pair of gloves.”
With breath held, she touched her fingers to his coat sleeve and sighed happily when nothing happened. His grin was pure triumph.