Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Dante
We cross the land bridge as the tide recedes. Two inches of water is deep enough to lap at the motorcycle’s tires, but it’s not enough to reach the alloy wheel rims.
Still, I take it nice and slow all the same. The engine block that keeps the wheels of my Harley spinning is water tight, but no rider wants to push his luck when it comes to machines and rust.
Only when I’m halfway across do the other four members of the MC riding with me begin to follow after me.
The wake my motorbike leaves in the lake water resembles ripples on an oil slick.
Like rats leaving a sinking ship, we travel from Canada to Landslide as the moon rises higher in the night sky.
The land bridge is not reliable—never has been. Sometimes it gets wide enough for a truck to drive over, and sometimes it narrows down to a few inches. Strictly foot traffic only then, and only if you can run faster than the wind.
They’ve tried bricking over the land bridge to create something permanent, but that’s the same as chucking the bricks straight into the inlet and watching them sink.
It reminds me of those stories I’ve heard about the Aztec people who used to throw gold into their lake’s thick mud to appease the gods.
Same as Landslide, it didn’t seem to work out too well for them.
There’s a hill of gold in a lake somewhere in El Dorado, but that’s not enough to tempt me to leave the inviolate boundary I have set around myself.
Coming back to Landslide’s really got me in a sentimental mood. I’ve been gone too fucking long.
The motorbike vibrates under me, the throttle too low for the engine’s rumble to turn into a roar.
I would never open up the throttle while crossing the water anyway. Waking up the locals is not an option.
The people of Landslide tolerate us because they fear us, but diplomacy has never been my strong suit. I’ve butted heads with more than a few of them during the long years of my residency here. Gotta keep them toeing the line, damn straight.
So, why am I returning to this backwater dump? Because Tempest promised me that she would have sorted everything out by now.
For her sake—for everyone’s sake—I hope she has.
Nothing else I can do when I reach the incline; I have to increase the gas flow to the engine by easing the throttle up a little bit.
The motorbike responds like a grumpy old man being prodded awake in the morning, sputtering and popping in slow coughs.
Fuck it. I just don’t care anymore.
Is there a wicked smile on my face as I suddenly increase the revs and make the engine blast? You can bet your life on it. I imagine the locals tossing and turning in their comfortable beds as they hear the motorcycle’s rumbling thunder.
However, I also know you’d be a damn fool to bet your life on anything in Landslide. It’s the sort of place where life is cheap—and that’s just the way I like it.
The needle on the tachometer falls back down into the white zone as the road plateaus out. Using the moon as my only light source, I scan the road ahead. I don’t expect any surprises, though. All the homesteaders and preppers around here know to keep their farm animals inside at night.
But I’m restless… uneasy. My eyes move from one side of the road to the other as I search for some sign. This is not the same impatient feeling I get when it’s time for the crew to ride out. There’s a definite air of expectancy emanating around me.
The scent on the wind is almost enticing. Closing my eyes, I inhale.
Something is coming…
I see the white shape in the middle of the road just in time. Muohta doesn’t bark or move. No headlights to reflect off the dog’s black eyes.
Stubborn fucking Samoyed.
I know what’s happening as my right hand tightens on the handlebar grip and my right foot presses down on the brake—the back wheel locks. It comes as second nature for me to lean towards the road as gravity pulls me down to the tarmac.
Falling, I allow myself to roll and flip. If Muohta is here, there might be someone watching. It’s so hard to suppress my resilient instincts, but I do.
My denim jeans rip as the thick fabric grates over the gravel. My leather jacket does the job it was designed to do by protecting my torso, but it’s going to have scars as a memento of this fall. As for my helmet, it’s locked to the back of my bike. Nothing I can do about that right now.
Many years of motorcycling life has taught me what to do after the momentum of the fall finally stops. I lie still for a beat as I collect my thoughts before slowly starting to sit up.
Time for me to go through the motions.
Groan with pain.
Feel limbs for breaks and sprains.
Pick myself up, dust myself down, and then stagger around a bit.
Wipe that cocky grin off your face, too—if you can.
Muohta is watching me patiently, his long pink tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth.
“What did you have to go and do that for, hey?” Cracking the kinks out of my neck by flexing my shoulders and moving my head, my heavy boots make me stumble as I go pick up my bike. All Muohta does is pant at me. That fur makes it harder for him to regulate his body’s temperature.
By this time, the other four riders have caught up to me.
“Take a tumble, Prez?” The club’s veep, Rundas, always finds it hilarious when one of us rides and slides.
They don’t waste time asking me unnecessary questions about what caused the accident. Muohta is standing in the middle of the road with his furry white tail wagging up a storm, so the story kind of tells itself.
“I’m-a go and see what’s got Mu’s tail in a twist. Ride on to the clubhouse without me.”
“Do you think Tempest is back?”
“Go on to the clubhouse.” I’m not about to launch into a speculative discussion in the middle of the goddamn road in the middle of the goddamn night!
Okay, I guess I’m pissed that I came off the bike. Kind of like those medieval knights competing in tournaments; no one likes to be knocked down from their horse.
Pushing the heavy motorbike to the verge and kicking the stand down, I don’t bother watching as the riders depart. Muohta gives a soft bark. Hurry up.
“Keep your hair on, Mu. I’m getting there.”
The land bridge should have disappeared by now. No one will be following me unless they’re wearing scuba gear. It’s safe for me to leave the bike here.
I give the dog permission to walk on. Muohta doesn’t need me to tell him more than once. The hound scoots ahead like a silver bullet, not bothering to check if I’m coming along.
The terrain on Ben Magoo’s property is treacherous. The stubborn asshole should have been forced to parcel up this land into smaller plots long ago, but he hasn’t been the same since his wife died. Being alone had made old Ben real ornery when it comes to trespassers.
My foot sinks into rabbit holes and divots multiple times as I run, but I keep my focus on the dog. The closer we get to the forest, the more excited I get.
I have to slow down and let Muohta get ahead of me so that I can compose myself.
Once I reach the destiny waiting for me inside this forest, something seismic will happen.
I know it. I can feel it. And that feeling is enough to make my body react in a very unpredictable way. I don’t fight it as certain parts of my body fill with blood. But can I master myself enough to ride the wave of lust as it engulfs me?
Lust. Such a pragmatic word. One of the “sins” they tried to imbue with evil properties a thousand years ago.
There is nothing bad about the way I feel right now…
because it is so good. I relish the possibility of intimacy waiting for me in the dark.
A delicious aroma wafts in the air. Sweat, fear, anguish.
The taste of war. But it’s mixed with a delightful feminine flavor, too.
Flowery armpits, strawberry lip balm, and… a hint of pussy.
Peering through the swirling mist, my senses fill the scene with light.
Same scent, same hair. She’s lying on the ground like an ensnared doe.
Tempest?
No. Like, but not the same.
By the breathless panting the woman makes as she sees the shape of me materializing out of the fog, I know she’s scared.
But there’s something else there, too: the stubborn refusal to let me see her fear. The obstinate determination to fight me tooth and nail if I take one step out of line.
I’m intrigued.
“Good evening, my little sacrificial lamb…”
She seems to shrink back from me. Good girl. Trust your instincts.
“Are you ready for me to help you?” She has to accept me first.
Blowing the hair away from her perfect heart-shaped face, the woman huffs with exasperation at her unwelcome predicament. “Mister, you might just be the answer to my prayers—I think.”
The way she says it makes me chuckle. “You think, or you hope?”
Shaking her hair back, the woman boldly shows me her face. “Both. Are you here to help me?” Her voice goes up at the end of the question.
Right off the bat, she wants to set the record straight with me.
Am I here to help her?
The ball’s in my court now.
The stainless steel trap glints. A rusty chain tethers her to the stake.
How very ironic.
Caught in a trap. Chained to the earth. And a stake driven in so deep it cannot move.
“What sort of help do you need?”
Taking a few steps, I get closer. The familiar scent hits me again.
Tempest Aherne. Young, carefree, and glowing with love. So long ago.
Even in the darkness, the similarities between this woman and Tempest are uncanny.
“Please, can you find me a nice sturdy tree branch so I can jemmy this bloody trap open? That would help.”
There’s a bite of sarcasm behind the words. She’s critical of my failure to jump to her rescue.
This is no time for me to tell her that she has taken my breath away.
“Sure thing.” I go reaching for the nearest branch, pretending to make an effort as I break it off the trunk.
The woman babbles nervously, trying to fill the dead air with conversation. Her eyes follow my dark shape as I saunter over to the nearest tree.
“The sun seemed to drop down from the sky like a stone. I swear, one moment I was pottering around the inn and the next moment it was twilight.”
A loud crack as the branch breaks loose. She levitates slightly as the noise startles her, but then she forces herself to pretend she’s not strung as tight as a guitar.
“I’m-a use my knife to slash off the twigs, okay?”
A nervous laugh. “It’s not like I have much of a choice, do I?”
Yes, ma’m. You do have a choice. If you could suspend your disbelief for one second, I could prise those trap teeth open with my bare hands.
Taking this to mean she’s going to grin and bear it when I unsheathe my knife, I withdraw the weapon from the leather scabbard tied to my right leg.
A flurry of swipes and the branch is bare. I do this with my back to her so she cannot see how skillfully I brandish the weapon. Or how fast.
The mist billows and eddies around my torso as if it wants to help me hide the monster within.
Making sure to sheathe the knife before I turn around, I move towards her.
“Okay, let’s get these teeth open.”
Her face is pale from all this pretending she’s having to do. All the blood in her body has rushed to her heart to give it enough oxygen in case she needs to run away. Sometimes, I find those primitive responses so endearing.
Placing the tip of the branch into the space created by her ankle, I lean in.
“It’s best to close your eyes”—so that you don’t see how easy it is for me to do this—“in case you get spooked by the release of pressure.”
The woman uses her hair to hide her gaze. It falls like a red velvet curtain over her face.
Tapping the toe of my boot on the bottom trap jaw to hold it in place, I lever the teeth open with my hand. She doesn’t feel anything. Her foot must be numb from the constriction. The woman only opens her eyes when she feels me lift her leg.
“How is it?” Hunkering down on the ground, I cradle her booted foot in my hand. “It might sting as the blood begins to flow again.”
Yep. Her blood is definitely flowing. As the adrenaline disperses, her heartbeats slow down.
Her flight-or-fight reflex disappears. She trusts me enough to give a small hiccupping laugh.
“I’m sorry, I’m not hysterical, I promise. I’m just so relieved… and you look like Prince Charming crouching there holding my foot. Like, you know, Cinderella. Only with boots instead of glass slippers.”
Her words spill out with no filter. The red-haired beauty in the woods is babbling.
Clapping her hand over her mouth, she apologizes some more as she speaks through her fingers.
“I mean, you don’t look like a Disney Prince Charming. Ugh. It’s only the position we’re in, you know.”
Muohta barks, like the dog is embarrassed for her.
I swear I’m smiling underneath the black scruff of my beard, but I might sound a little gruff when I respond.
“Let’s get you on the bike. You need light and warmth. Maybe a bandage.”
Her expression is contrite. “I’m sorry if I offended you. Thank you so much for helping me. I thought you might be a creep, you know. But you’re not. I think.”
Mu barks again, finishing it off with a grumbling growl.
Smirking, I give the Samoyed a wink. “I know, Mu. Very rude.”
The woman with the red hair launches into a liturgy of apologies, but I stop her before she can get hopelessly entangled.
“Do you trust me enough to lift you? Or am I too creepy for that?”
There’s a definite heat radiating off her cheeks.
“At least tell me your name first. So we’re not strangers to one another anymore.”