Shifting (26 page)

Bridger stood at my side. He nudged me with his bare foot, then slipped a heavy bag over my body.

“She's dead,” he triumphantly announced.

And the night exploded in noise.

36

Consciousness slowly settled over me. I was in a burlap sack. And I was an animal. The sack came away from my face and Bridger peered at me. He reached out a tentative hand, caressed the fur on top of my head, then completely removed the sack from around me.

“Maggie,” he whispered with relief. “You're alive. Change. If you are what you say you are, you must change. Now, or you will die!” There was urgency in his whispered words. His hands came down on me, pushing painfully against my chest.

I smelled blood—human blood—and realized it was my own. But I was a giant cat. And for some reason, I lay in a damp, barely lit cement room that smelled like water and rock.

“Maggie! Change! Shift!” He pushed even harder against my chest in an effort to stop my blood from spilling onto the floor. Pain shot through my shoulder and into my lungs. I tried to growl, though it was more like a kitten purring.

“Shh!” he hissed, his eyes frantic. “They are out there listening to make sure you didn't survive,” he mouthed.

My ears flattened, straining. The very faint echo of animal cries reached my ears. I growled again, a low, hollow rumble.

“Please, Maggie. If you're not one of them, change back to yourself,” Bridger begged.

I looked at his hands, pressed against my chest and covered in blood, and licked them clean. I was so tired, though, I could not change back into my human form. I put my head down on the hard cement and closed my eyes. It hurt to breathe, hurt to move. All I wanted was to die so that I didn't hurt anymore.

“Maggie,” Bridger started again, always whispering. “I don't want to live the rest of my life with a broken heart. Please, please change back. Find the strength, or my heart will die with you.” Without taking his hands from my chest, he lay down with his head on my ribs. “For me. Please, Maggie.”

He was silent a long moment. His next whispered words seemed to wake me from the beginning of a foggy sleep. “Maggie, remember the first day we played Ultimate and Alex kept looking at you? And I put my hand on your shoulder? That was the first time I admitted to myself that I was truly, helplessly in love with you. I wanted to tell you so badly when I walked you to work that day, to kiss you. And every day after that, it took all of my willpower not to touch you, or kiss you good night, or tell you how hard it was to be away from you.” He sighed, his breath fanning my whiskers. “And now that I am able to tell you these things, you are choosing to die. I always knew you were strong willed … but I never thought you were selfish. Do you realize that if you die, you are taking away the only thing that matters to me?

“Maggie Mae Mortensen, if you won't change for yourself, do it for me.”

Somehow Bridger's words sank into my fuzzy brain. Without lifting my head or opening my eyes, I remembered what it felt like to be me. Remembered how my clumsy human legs felt, the taste of fish tacos, the rush of mountain biking down a steep hill, the feeling of being held safe in Bridger's arms, and of loving him and knowing that he loved me back. Slowly, with so much strain I felt like the last little bit of toothpaste being squeezed from the tube, I began to change.

Bridger got to his knees, whispering encouragement. “That's it! Keep going! Come on, Maggie, come on!” His hands were in my fur, touching me, warming me. “Don't stop, just make the shift.”

I felt my legs lengthen and my claws disappear; then my fur became bare skin. And with a groan of pain, I was myself again, curled up in a ball on the cold, hard floor. My chest and ribs burned. I looked down and saw a hole in my skin below my right shoulder—watched it start to close up and push out a bullet as big as the top knuckle of my pinky finger. As the bullet clinked onto the floor, all pain disappeared. I was whole.

Bridger grabbed my limp body in his arms and hugged me to him, laughing a whispered laugh. “I truly thought you were one of them at first, but when you said you didn't need a skin to shift, I dared to hope—I
knew
…” His voice trailed away to nothing. “That's why I didn't shoot you in the heart—why I didn't shoot to kill. Because I knew you'd heal when you shifted back. Here.” He held my T-shirt out to me.

I was too tired to care that I was naked, too tired to pull the T-shirt over my head, so he did it for me, tugging the long shirt down around my thighs. Then he picked me up and moved me from the bloody spot on the cement floor to a cleaner spot. His face, mere inches from mine, absolutely beamed.

“I can't believe it! You're one of us!” he whispered. He laid me down on the floor again, taking care that my head didn't hit the cement. Then his hands were all over me, touching my hair, face, neck, my bare calves and feet, back to my face again, like a mother examining a brand-new baby. “You are one of us!”

“What do you mean?” I whispered.

“You are like me. A Shifter. That has to be why I am so drawn to you!” He put his hands on either side of my face, leaned down, and gently kissed my forehead. “I should have known the first time I saw you run. But I thought I knew every single Shifter in the entire world by name. We are so few, so rare, we never lose contact with each other. But somehow you slipped through our fingers.” Bridger was whispering almost faster than I could follow. “Oh, Maggie. If only you'd told me from the beginning. If only things had been different for you.”

“If only I knew what I was from the beginning, life would have been so much easier,” I whispered, thinking about the past two years. My heavy eyelids slipped shut.

“Your juvenile record is for indecent exposure, isn't it?” I could hear the smile in his voice. My eyes flickered open. “A definite downside of shifting, coming out of it naked. I've had a few close calls myself.”

My eyes fell shut again.

“Oh, Maggie. If only you'd told me.” His hand stroked my hair and I started to drift off to sleep. His voice jarred me awake. “Don't move,” he whispered, as if I had any choice. Even the energy it took to open my eyes and watch him leave the dimly lit room almost hurt.

My eyes flicked around, taking in quick flashes of my surroundings before crashing shut again. I was in some sort of windowless, stone-walled basement. A bomb shelter, maybe? It was an empty room, without so much as a rug on the damp, grimy floor. The only thing in the room besides me was a lightbulb dangling on a lone cord from the ceiling.

Bridger returned with his arms full of stuff. Gently, quietly he set the stuff beside me. I forced my eyes open one last time to see what it was: food, two sleeping bags, water, and a foam pad. He rolled out the foam pad and put a sleeping bag onto it.

“Climb in. You're going to fall asleep any minute. I almost killed you.” His eyes were dark and troubled for an instant. Then his face broke into a beautiful, breathtaking smile again.

I looked at the sleeping bag but couldn't move my body. Bridger lifted me onto it and zipped me into its soft warmth. He covered me with the other.

“Eat this,” he instructed, holding a granola bar to my mouth. I ate the whole thing in record time. “At least your appetite's not sleepy,” he said with a whispered laugh. I sipped some stale water out of the canteen he held to my lips, then lay with my back to him, using my arm for a pillow. Maybe it was the cold, damp floor or maybe I was in shock, but in spite of the sleeping bags I began to shiver.

“You're freezing,” Bridger said, his breath on my ear. He climbed into the sleeping bag with me and lifted my head onto his warm, bare chest. Wrapped in his arms, I fell asleep before I heard his heart beat three times.

37

A woman's face, framed by the hood of a tiger's head and teeth, stared at me. She reached through the wrought-iron gate separating us and wrapped her hand in my blacker than black hair, pulling me toward her until our noses almost touched. But when she opened her mouth to speak, she changed, grew taller, with crow-black hair and charcoal eyes.

“I have to kill you now,” Bridger whispered, tightening his hand in my hair and thrusting a gun against my chest. He pulled the trigger and pain exploded in my heart. I jolted awake and pressed my hands over my ribs. The pain disappeared, but the memory of Bridger's cold, hard eyes stayed with me. I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath.

“Maggie!” Bridger's voice hissed. He padded across the cement floor and crouched at my side. “What's wrong?” His hair was damp, he smelled like shaving cream, and he was wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and a black T-shirt.

“Nightmare,” I whispered. “Where are we?”

“We're beneath my house.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Not long. Maybe forty minutes.”

“Are we safe yet?” I questioned groggily.

Bridger frowned and shook his head. “No. But close. My father is here. With reinforcements. Some of the Walkers felt uncertain about your death. They're lingering, waiting for any hint that you still live,” he explained. “They must believe you are dead or you will never be safe.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to sort through my muddled thoughts.

“You're confused,” Bridger stated. “And mad.”

I opened my eyes and scowled at him. “I know.”

“Do you want to talk about it? You can ask me anything you want. Oh, yeah—” He held something out to me, a pair of boxer shorts. I blushed as I shakily pulled them on beneath my long T-shirt. “Sorry—I gave all of my sister's old stuff away and Katie didn't leave a thing behind,” he said, raising one eyebrow. “Scoot over.”

I scooted and Bridger squeezed into the sleeping bag with me, his face inches from mine, our legs tangled together. He put a hand on the small of my back and pulled me closer so the only part of my body not touching his was my face.

I stared at him for a long moment. He smiled, but I knew there was another side to him—a dark side. I almost felt as if I didn't know him anymore.

“You shot me,” I whispered.

The smile fell from his face. “I had no choice. That was the
only
way I could save your life and mine—by making them think you were dead. There were too many Walkers for me to fight alone, and they'd already breached the gate. But if they thought you were dead … it was our only chance.” I could hear pleading in his whispered voice. I didn't have to sense his feelings to know how much he craved my forgiveness.

I understood what he was saying, but it still made me furious that he'd shot me. I changed the subject.

“You say I'm like you. What do you mean?”

“I shift. I'm a Shifter like you.”

For a very long time I stared at him, wondering if I was dreaming. I reached out and placed my hand on his warm neck, gently probing until I found the pulse beating against his skin.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes searching mine.

“Making sure you're real.”

“Very real.”

“So, when you … shift … are you a cat, too?”

“I am a golden eagle.”

“
Atash?
It was you who saved me from the coyotes?”

“You threw a rock at me, Maggie.”

“Sorry. But the moon … the night of the full moon. I was at the mine and so were you, but you had a gun. You weren't an animal. Were you?”

“Of course I wasn't. I am a lot deadlier with a semiautomatic weapon than with talons and a beak.”

“What about prom night? Why did you leave? And after graduation?”

He took a deep breath. “For the first time in years, I could feel Walkers in Silver City. That was prom night. I could feel them hunting …
someone
… who they were desperate to catch. I figured it must have been one of their own, a deserter. Now I know it was you.” He traced my jawline with his finger. “I'm sorry I left you at the prom, but I had no choice. It was a life-and-death situation. I shot one that night.

“When they attacked Danni at Mrs. C.'s house after graduation, I realized they were targeting you. Danni was wearing your jacket. I assumed that by hurting you, they were trying to get revenge on me for me shooting one of them, so I stayed as close to you as possible to keep you safe. Now I know the real reason they wanted you. You're like me.”

“But … I can't help but shift when the moon is full,” I stammered, thinking maybe he and I weren't quite as similar as he thought. I had been a slave to the moon's will for two years.

“There are so many things you should already know. The only reason you would be forced to change at the full moon is if you haven't shifted since the previous full moon. It's like you get this overflow of energy and have to use it. And for some reason the moon pulls it out.”

Well, that explains it
, I thought bitterly. Until I moved to Silver City, the only time I
ever
changed was when the moon pulled it out of me.

“I still can't believe the Walkers came after you in broad daylight,” he mused. “I thought they did everything under cover of night.”

“How do you think they found me?”

“They've known what you were from the very moment your mother conceived you. You're a
be-tas-tni.
”

“A what?” I asked.

“
Be-tas-tni.
A
mirror
. It means you can mirror any animal you see, with a few limitations. It also means—” He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair.

“What? It also means what?” I asked, nervous.

“You're a
mix
. All mirrors are a sort of really rare
hybrid
.” He cleared his throat and I stared at him, waiting for the meaning behind his words. “Your mother was a shifter—she had to be. But your father? The only way to make a mirror is to have a Shifter for a mother and a Skinwalker for a father.”

My entire body seemed to freeze—my breathing, my heart, my wide eyes. After a long moment I forced a breath of air into my lungs. “What are you saying? That I'm a Skinwalker after all?”

“No. You're the
offspring
of one. And the offspring of a Shifter. Somehow, against all odds, you've evaded the Walkers. Possibly, due to all the foster homes you lived in, they couldn't find you, not with you moving around so much.”

“But if they wanted me dead so bad—from birth, if you're right—then why didn't they shoot me as soon as they found me? Like when I walked home from the bus? Why didn't they kidnap and kill me, and leave my body on some deserted dirt road? I mean, they killed all of my family. Why not me?”

“I never said they wanted you dead. You're
be-tas-tni.
I highly doubt their intent was to kill you. Most likely they wanted to capture you—to own you.”

“Own me? Why?” I asked, unsure if I wanted to hear the answer.

“Since you have the gifts of both a Walker and a Shifter, you are more powerful than either. You heal instantly and don't need a skin to shift, like me. But, like the Walkers, you can turn into any animal you want. If they caught you and made you believe you were one of them, they'd have the most powerful weapon against the Shifters imaginable. And think of what would happen if you fell in love with one of them.” His lips pursed. “Think of what your offspring would be like.”

My skin started crawling at the thought of having babies with a Skinwalker.

“And if you didn't side with them, they would probably …” Bridger cleared his throat and shook his head the tiniest bit.

“What? They would what?” I demanded.

His body stiffened against mine. “Trust me. You don't want to know.”

“Yes, I do. Tell me or I'll go insane wondering.”

He took a deep breath and his eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown. “They could use your skin.”

My head started to spin and my blood felt too hot. I needed a major subject change before a panic attack set in. “So,” I said, voice trembling. “You can only shift into one thing?”

Bridger nodded. “Yep. Only one. If Shifters even attempt to force themselves into a different shape than they're born to, they die. Except you. Exactly what else
can
you turn into?”

I know he asked simply to take my mind off what he'd just said. But I didn't care. “Anything with fur. Except really small things, like mice, and really big things. I tried to turn into a horse and got stuck with hooves for the night.” A small smile broke through my worry. “And once, I tried to turn into a snake. It almost worked.… What?” Bridger was staring at me with a look of such terrified shock that I wondered if we were about to be attacked.

“A cold-blooded creature?” he whispered. “And you didn't die?”

“I was covered with weird, scaly dust for a day. That's all.”

His hands tightened on the small of my back. “I remember that day. We talked at the park and you were literally glowing.”

“Why do we shift at all?” I asked—the question that had plagued me since the first night I had changed.

“The universe must have balance: light matter and dark matter, good and evil, life and death, joy and sorrow. Thousands of years ago a man sold his soul to the devil and became the first Skinwalker. To keep the universe in perfect balance, someone had to offset him—be his opposite—so the first Shifter was born. Otherwise there would be an imbalance in the world and evil would be given the opportunity to conquer good. Since then, lots of men and women have delved into dark, evil things and traded their souls to the devil in exchange for supernatural powers—one of them being the power to wear an animal skin and shift—Skinwalkers. So Shifters have had the need to multiply. Does that answer your question?”

I nodded, but I could hardly believe it. It sounded so … fantastical.

“Skinwalkers aren't Navajo, are they?”

“Evil doesn't choose a race or nation. Anyone can follow the witch way and become a Walker,” Bridger explained. “In this part of the world, the burden to battle the Walkers has fallen to the Dineh—the Navajo. But in other parts of the world, other races are Shifters. My mother is descended from Bran the Blessed, ancient Druid king of England. His people were the first Shifters in Britain.”

Shifters in Britain? My brain was starting to spin and I needed another subject change. “Bridger?”

“Hmm?” His hands moved slowly up and down my back.

“What do you mean when you say you're bound to me?”

His hands paused and his dark eyes lit up, like the sun burning behind rain clouds, yet he didn't say a word. Tentatively, I put my hand at the nape of his neck and coiled my fingers in his thick hair.

“Shifters have different instincts than humans,” he said, as if my touch released his words. “Some can sense danger. You already know I can feel what people around me are feeling.”

“Yeah, about that. If you were feeling what I was feeling so strongly, why didn't you feel when I turned into an animal?”

“Actually, I did. I
always
feel you, but you don't feel different when you shift. Whether you're human or animal, you feel like Maggie Mae—there is no difference between the two. A Shifter's instincts are tied—”

“Oh my gosh!” I gasped, gripping the neck of Bridger's shirt.

“What?”

“Tito!” Bridger's eyebrows knit together. “The dishwasher at the Navajo Mexican? He was the mountain lion that attacked me in your front yard. I could totally feel him. Whenever he was around, I got all creeped out. Is that what you mean by instinct?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“So what does that have to do with you being bound to me?”

He pressed a finger against my lips. “If you shut up for five seconds, I'll explain. I shift into an eagle. Eagles … stay together for life when they find a mate. Even though I am human, I still have the instincts of an eagle, in some ways. Like my father. Once I fall in love, I cannot fall out of love. I am stuck loving you for the rest of my life. So I hope …” His voice trailed off and his finger dropped.

“What?”

“You've never said how you feel about
me
, Maggie.”

I rolled onto my back and stared at the hanging lightbulb. I remembered the warmth that coursed through me whenever I met Bridger's eyes, thought of how my heart sped up double-time every time he touched me, thought about kissing him, about watching him ride his bike and throw a Frisbee clear across a giant field. Then I thought how, for the first time in my life, I knew who I was, and in spite of all my flaws, he still loved me. I felt free to be myself in front of Bridger despite my shortcomings. I let the warmth from all of those things fill me.

His face appeared above mine and blocked the light from my eyes. “Wow,” he whispered. He stared at me for a long time, as if reading in my eyes all the feelings pulsing through me. Slowly, he leaned down. I could feel his breath on my face, feel the warmth radiating from his lips, but before they touched mine, he pulled his face away and sighed, easing out of the sleeping bag.

I sat up, staring at him. “What?”

“That's what,” Bridger whispered, looking at the closed door. A heartbeat later the door swung open and a tall, dark man strode into the room. “Dad.”

Mr. O'Connell looked past his son and focused on me, accusation burning in his gray eyes.

“Dad, you remember Maggie Mae,” Bridger said.

I forced a smile to my face and pulled the sleeping bag to my chest.

“Nice to see you again,” Mr. O'Connell said. He wasn't whispering and his voice seemed horribly loud.