Raven Cursed

Mike said, “I’ll go pick out a landing spot for the chopper.” He disappeared from view. Dave nodded and tucked the blankets tighter around me. Lifted my legs and shoved pillows beneath my knees. Treatment for shock, I thought. It had been a while since my emergency medicine course, but some things you don’t forget. I looked up at Dave, tried to talk. Had to moisten my lips. “You were supposed to go on down the creek.” It came out a whisper.

 

Dave’s blue eyes held humor and worry. “Your boss made an offer we couldn’t refuse.”

 

“Yeah. He’s good at that. I always turn him down, though.”

 

Dave chuckled breathily. “I have a feeling he makes you different kinds of offers. Ours was to come up here and get you stabilized. He’s sending a helicopter for you and an ambulance for the girl.”

 

“How much?” I meant how much to help me.

 

“A thousand each. On top of what you’re paying us each to deliver you here. Not bad for a day’s work, and I get to paddle too. It’s all good.” His tone was deliberately lighthearted, not that I believed it. Not a bit. I’d have laughed if I hadn’t passed out again.

 

The next memories were fractured. Men in uniforms. Stretchers. A siren sounding outside. One of the twins, his head turned so I couldn’t see his mole, pale-faced and stern. Mike squeezing my hand. A stranger inserting an IV with no regard for my pain. Me saying something not very nice about him. My phone ringing, Dave answered. Bruiser’s voice in my ear, telling me to hold on. An argument between the B-twin and the stranger. Money exchanging hands. A lot of money. Rain on my face, outside. Mike and Dave disappearing into the trees, Dave with a lifted hand of good-bye. And more blackness.

 

I woke when they pulled me from the helo, seeing the hotel in the background. Later, I woke in my hotel bed. So cold. Shivering. The gas fire burning bright, flames whispering and hissing. Not alone. Grégoire over me, his blond hair hanging forward. His mouth on my stomach. His breath heated across my skin. Young boy face and old lover eyes, experienced, watching me as his tongue laved my flesh from navel to sternum. His hands roamed me, featherlight. Demanding. Claiming. Healing.

 

Heat like a drumbeat though my veins. The sound of my moans. The smell of my blood, of human blood and the sight of Brandon’s face as his master fed from his neck. Blackness.

 

Waking to pleasure. Grégoire’s tongue on me, sliding up my body. Slowly. The faint scrape of long canines, teasing. My hands reaching for him. The feel of his hair, like warm silk. The smell of his body like flowers and spring rain and desire. My need growing. Strength filling me. Tracing his face with my fingertips. Firelight reflected in wide, black pupils. The taste of him.

 

“Drink from me.” Whispered words.

 

“No. I won’t belong to you.”

 

Blackness.

 

The sound of drums. Echoing through a cave. The feel of stone at my back, my pelt and spine pressed into it. The ledge high up, above the families below, around the curve of the cave wall, their fire glowing on the damp stone. Tsaligi, hiding from yunega. Hiding in Beast’s cave. Out of sight of cave opening. Hiding from yunega aniyowisgi, white soldiers who would make them go west, as the others had gone west in the cold moons.

 

Tsaligi had not seen Beast. Four days and four nights the family had hidden here. Soon they would go back out, into the light, leaving Beast her den. Until then, Beast hunted only late at night. Returned to den, to hiding place, away from white men and guns and long-distance death. Away from Tsaligi and human kits. Closed eyes, listening to drums. Blackness.

 

I woke at dusk, warm, pain free, an arm across my waist, a head pillowed on my shoulder. I stiffened. My heartbeat raced. I felt his mouth curve into a smile. “Mon Amazon. George said you would be angry to find me here, in your bed. Please say that you are delighted instead.” I moved my hand. I was naked. So was he. Oh crap. Crap in a bucket. Crapcrapcrap!

 

He sighed. I felt his breath exhale across my breasts. My naked breasts. He slid from the covers with that boneless grace the really old ones have. I pulled the covers over me. What had I done? I slid a hand down my stomach. Healed. Around my waist. Healed. Panties? No. Crap. He stood over me, patient. I wasn’t going to look to him. Couldn’t look at him.

 

Minutes passed. He was still standing there. He was hundreds of years old; time was different for old vamps; he could stand like that for hours, waiting, and not get tired. Heart not beating, not breathing, unmoving as a stone angel in a graveyard. I blew out a breath. “What?”

 

“You are healed.” There was just a hint of irritation in his voice. A hint of steel.

 

After a moment I said, “Thank you?”

 

“I did not drink from you. You are not my Enforcer. And . . . we did not make love.” His words were carefully precise. Relief washed through me so hot I broke out into a sweat. “According to your provincial American standards,” he added.