As a wolf, I loped up the overgrown path. Bushes and branches pulled at my mahogany coat, brambles stuck here and there. Tiny, wild things skittered out of my way. Because I was both wolf and woman, I could ignore them.
However, the spill of the moon dazzled. I found my gaze pulled to it, and my throat ached as I stifled the call. I wanted so badly to sing to that nearly full moon and to hear others like me answer.
I caught the scent of smoke and water long before I would have if I’d been wearing shoes. My paws dislodged rocks on the path that tumbled downward, spilling me out of the overgrown fir and pine boughs and into the small clearing that fronted the clear mountain lake.
The moon flared off the water like a spotlight, the glow illuminating the hogan at the base of a mound of rock. A fire blazed higher than Sawyer’s head, turning every color seen upon the earth.
He was naked. What else was new? He kept extra clothes in the hogan, but Sawyer preferred to walk around with only his tattoos for adornment. He always had.
I reached for myself, and in a blast of light and ice I became a woman. I headed for the hogan and Sawyer lifted a hand.
“No,” he murmured.
“No what?”
“No time,” he said, then lifted his arms to the starry sky.
I expected the fire to leap higher, to swirl, perhaps to speak. He’d done funky things with fire before. Tossed in strange Navajo herbs that had made me do . . . him. Conjured a woman from the smoke who had turned out to be the mommy dearest of all time.
But the fire remained the same—too high for safety, too colorful to be only fire—and when his fingers pointed heavenward, the sky split wide open.
I tensed, expecting lightning to spark. Instead rain tumbled down, drenching us in seconds as the fire continued to dance on unharmed.
“Come closer,” Sawyer whispered, and I did, drawn by his deep, commanding voice as well as the warmth of the flames against the sudden chill of the night.
Xander’s hat sat on the ground near his feet, a circle drawn in the dirt around it.
“What . . . ?” I began.
“Touch me.”
“Huh?”
Sawyer’s dark gaze swept to mine. “Touch me.”
“I don’t—”
“Now. I need help.”
“You’ve never needed anything or anyone. Ever.”
In his eyes, something flared. Fire? Fury? I couldn’t tell. “You’re wrong.”
The earth trembled. Sawyer’s mouth thinned, and he seemed to tremble too.
I glanced up, but the sky was as clear as a sterling winter night. The moon and the stars continued to shine through the falling rain. However, the wind began to swirl and the rain began to sting. Strangely enough, Xander’s hat stayed right where it was.
“Phoenix,” Sawyer said between gritted teeth. “I can only do so much on my own. I’m bringing the storm when there is no storm. The lightning is going to require more power than I have.”
“Nothing requires more power than you have.”
“Touch me,” he ordered, and his eyes blazed silver.
I slapped my hand to his waist. The sharp smack of flesh on flesh was followed by a sharp hiss, and steam rose from his skin as thunder rumbled ever closer.
As always, when I touched him the essence of his beasts called to me. They wanted out—every last one of them. Sawyer’s tattoos were predators; hell, so was he.
Sometimes when we came together, those animals seemed to swirl in the shadows, waiting to be called at his command. I looked for them now where the light met the darkness and saw nothing. They didn’t dance in the flames or float through the smoke, yet still I sensed them hovering.
The wind stirred my hair; the rain pattered against my cheeks and I lifted my face.
“Ah,” I murmured. There they were. Appearing and disappearing in the shapes of the clouds that now gathered. Behind them sparks flared, and the air sizzled.
“Almost,” Sawyer whispered. “Just need a little more . . .”
He shifted and his slick naked body slid against mine. He lowered his gaze from the sky to my face. That sizzle in the air seemed to scoot along every nerve ending I had.
“A little more what?” I managed.
“Power,” he said, and kissed me.
Static flared, a sharp spark between my lips and his. His tongue soothed the burn. I thought: Moisture and electricity. That can’t be good. Then all my thoughts disappeared as it became very good indeed.
The storm erupted. Wind whipped our hair; rain pelted our bodies; thunder shook the mountain. I held on to him more tightly, kissed him more deeply. He was the only warmth, the only reality, that I had.
His arms were still raised—calling down the lightning, controlling the wind, bringing the chaos. My lips opened, I welcomed him in. The man could do more with his mouth than most could do with their entire body.
I traced his tattoos. Whenever my fingertips skated over one, the image of the animal flared behind my closed eyelids, yet I felt no difference in the texture of his flesh. These tattoos had not been carved into his skin with a needle but emblazoned by magic and—
“Lightning,” I whispered into his mouth.