Skinwalker

“Impertinent,” he murmured. “Brazen.” There was a warmth in his gaze that hadn’t been there a moment past. “Cheeky, even.” A secretive smile touched his lips, a smile that was almost, but not quite, human. His head followed the length of my arm up to the elbow as he breathed in my scent. And higher, close to my neck. So close.

 

His breath exhaled against my face, smelling peppery and slightly of almonds, an odd combination that should have been unpleasant or jarring, but wasn’t. Heat pooled in my belly, conflicting with the pain. “Bold,” he said, his voice dropping low, “rude.” I laughed, the sound more Beast than me. His pupils widened a fraction more. “But you smell so good,” he finished.

 

He turned his head, his chiseled nose sharp as a stone axe in the lamplight behind him. He bit his lip; a drop of blood eased out, sliding down his chin. He placed his bloody mouth on my arm. The pain receded like a wave drawn back from shore. I gasped, breath hissing in through my lips as if he’d kissed me. He met my eyes and smiled, his mouth curling against my flesh. He sucked gently on my arm, lapped at torn flesh, his tongue laving, our blood mingling in my wounds. The pain vanished fully and I shivered hard at the loss, my muscles easing.

 

Vamp saliva really is an analgesic, I thought. I relaxed against the upholstered couch. My belly warmed. Fluttered. I sighed, the sound uneven. Leo chuckled against my skin, the vibrations of laughter pulsing through my arm like blood.

 

He pulled away a fraction of an inch, his lips parted, revealing long, slender canines, white as bleached bone. He placed his teeth on his bottom lip and bit down again. Blood welled in his mouth. And he bit into my wrist at the damaged vein. I gasped and jerked my arm back, but he held on tight. He wasn’t feeding on my blood. He was forcing his blood into me.

 

The sound of drums returned. Shadows danced on stone walls. Tunics and leggings, fringed and beaded cloth and deer hide, cotton dresses swaying. Sage and wormwood, rosemary and mint filled the air. Sweetgrass smoke billowed around me. Shadows closed over, dancing. Dancing. Cedar and sage burned, the aromatic smoke rising like dreams. Diaphanous, gossamer as butterfly silk, the smoke touched me. Drums beat into my veins. The night wrapped around me like the hand of God. And I fell into sleep. A deep, deep sleep. Dream and memory, both ancient, came together, melded like an alloy into one.

 

Slowly, I dragged my eyes open, my lids sluggish and heavy. Drums . . . Drums . . . I raised my head. Shadows danced, grotesque and monstrous on stone. Stone everywhere, flickering from campfire flames.

 

Night. Darkest night. I looked up, searching for the moon, the stars. And saw only the curve of the world above me, stone on stone, melting down like the white man’s candles. Pooling, dripping, melting stone.

 

Underground. The caves . . . Caves? The thought, alien here, vanished.

 

My father’s face, half lit by flame, half shadowed, as black as death, loomed over me. “Edoda,” I whispered. Father . . . His eyes were yellow, like mine. Not the black of The People, the chelokay, an alien thought whispered, but the yellow eyes of u’tlun’ta, the skinwalker.

 

Edoda smiled and I breathed in his pride with the herbed smoke—stern, yet full of laughter. An old woman appeared beside him in the night, her face crosshatched with life and age. Her skin pulled down in long droops and stretched up in sharp lines. And her eyes—yellow eyes like mine—were lively and full of tenderness. “A s dig a,” she murmured. Baby . . .

 

I breathed in a new scent, burning, sweet, choking. The drums took on depth and power. The beat reaching into my blood, into my flesh, melding my heartbeat with it. Taking me over.

 

“We sa,” my father whispered. Bobcat . . .

 

Time passed. The drumbeat mellowed. Edoda sat close, his flesh hot in the chill air. The old woman, his mother, u ni li si, grandmother of many children, sat beside him, her fingers tapping on a skin-head drum. The echoes of her fingertips on the skin beat through me, vibrating deep. Touching sinew, bone, and marrow.

 

“A da nv do,” she crooned. Great Spirit . . .

 

“Follow the drum,” Edoda said.

 

I looked at the cave wall, at the shadows dancing there, swaying with exhaustion. The beat of the drum filled me, slow and sonorous, echoing through the cave.

 

Warmth settled onto me. Fur tickled me. On the wall of dancing shadows, I saw myself as the cat rested on me, ears pointed, tufts curling out. Pelt brushed my sides. My legs. We sa . . . bobcat. My face. The overlay of cat face, above my own. Settling onto me, a cured skin.

 

Faith Hunter's books