I sighed and pulled the bag free of the rest. Through the sheer container, Ruthie’s silver crucifix gleamed. I missed wearing that almost as much as I missed her.
The remaining item was a chunk of turquoise culled from Mount Taylor. Sawyer had drilled a hole, strung the stone on a chain and given it to me when I was fifteen. I hadn’t known it then, but the turquoise not only protected me from his mother but also was a type of homing device. When I wore it, Sawyer knew where I was.
Why I’d continued to wear the stone right up until the jeweled collar had made a second necklace overkill—not to mention that the chain had caught on the stones and I’d feared one day it would break and disappear forever—I wasn’t sure. Sawyer had scared the pants off me back then. He’d also fascinated me, and that he’d given me a gift had charmed me. Back when I hadn’t known what true charm was.
Before Jimmy.
I winced. I’d been trying not to think of Sanducci. About where I’d left him, and what was being done to him.
My fingers convulsed around the turquoise, and thunder rumbled from the mountain. Did the mountain call to the tiny part of it that had been taken away? Did it mourn this bit of stone like a little child lost?
I snorted and dropped the plastic bag back into my duffel. The mountain was magic, but that was going too far.
I zipped the duffel and took it with me when I left the room. I wasn’t staying, though I wasn’t sure yet where I needed to go.
Luther wasn’t in the hallway, and for an instant I panicked until I heard someone moving around in the kitchen. I went to the doorway and watched the kid pilfer through the cabinets for food.
“I told you to stay.”
He turned with a bag of chips clutched between long, dark fingers. “I’m not a dog.”
No, he was a teenage boy with more power than was good for him. I’d left him with Sawyer and Summer because they were the best choice at the time, but now—
“You’re going to have to come with me.”
“Not.”
I blinked. “I can’t leave you here alone.”
“I’ve been alone most of my life. Believe me, this”—he spread his arms wide, the bag of Ruffles swinging merrily—“is easy street. Ain’t nothin’ round here that can do me any harm.”
“Listen—”
“No,” he snapped. “I’m waiting for Summer. She’ll come looking for me here when she—”
My eyes narrowed. “When she what? Do you know where she is?”
Luther shook his head, and his kinky golden-brown locks jiggled. Funny, but suddenly I didn’t trust the kid at all.
So I reached out and touched him, but I didn’t see what I thought I would. With my gift, that happened a lot.
I couldn’t read minds; more’s the pity. Sure, when I touched people, and un-people too, I saw things—where they’d been, what they’d done—but I couldn’t see everything.
Situations that packed strong emotions—love, hate, joy, terror—came through the quickest and the strongest. Often, if I asked a question, then followed up with a brush of my hand, I could “hear” the answer.
But not today.
With the kid I didn’t see Summer. Instead I got slammed with his memory of the fight with the lion man.
Luther training in the desert, running, rolling, kicking, jumping. Suddenly he pauses as the wind rustles his hair and Ruthie’s voice whispers, Barbas.
I’d believed the man who’d invaded my shower had been a lion shifter, but there was more than one kind. That he’d been the same kind that had killed Luther’s parents, the same kind as Luther’s mother, was not a coincidence. Not in my world.
The memory continued to play out, and as long as Luther let me I continued to watch.
The roar of the barbas splits the suddenly still air. Luther’s eyes flare from hazel to gold. His head turns toward Sawyer’s house as the man emerges, already shedding his clothes and shifting to his true form.
I expect Luther to grab a knife, a spear, preferably a gun, and take out this guy. Instead, Luther strips too, and then he shifts.
They come at each other just like the lions on Wild Kingdom. Fast and furious, all snarls and claws and teeth. Blood and spittle fly. Horrible gashes open in their sides; chunks of fur and flesh thunk against the ground.
I yanked my hand from Luther’s arm and lifted my gaze to his.
Luther’s eyes, ancient despite the youth of his face, stared into mine. For an instant they flared gold, and the lion inside peered out. “Seen enough?”
His voice was a rumble—part beast and part man. I blinked, and he was just a kid again. Tall, gangly, he gave the appearance of being too awkward to do much but trip over his own massive feet. But I’d seen him fight in human form, and that appearance was deceiving.
“You could have shot him,” I murmured. “Silver plus shifter equals ashes.”
“Not with a barbas. I’m surprised you don’t know this.”