Soul Whisperer (3 page)

“Did they hurt you?”

“No, just took a swipe at me.” She twisted her hip, and glanced back, her hand sweeping over her posterior. “Might interest you to know that they can fly.”

The cloth of her trousers was sticky and wet.

“They can…what?” he said.

She lifted her hand to examine it, staring with disbelief at the crimson stain coating her palm. He captured her wrist and suddenly his horror was hers.

“You're bleeding!” Cesar turned toward the officer. “Get the EMTs over here, now!”

“No.” She grasped his shoulder with her clean hand, feeling the warmth of his body even through the fabric of his blazer. She swayed and closed her eyes, sending a silent signal for help, knowing that any Skinwalker
within a wide range would come immediately to her aid. When she opened her eyes it was to see a look of exasperation on his handsome face.

“Why not?”

“I prefer to work in my own HMO.”

He shook his head, clearly not understanding. She sighed. For reasons she could not quite fathom, she didn't want him thinking of her animal half. Spelling it out for him would only remind him.

His brow furrowed and he glanced toward the officer behind them. “I'm getting help.”

She grabbed his arm. “No. If they anesthetize me, I'll turn.”

He paused, looking back at her. “To a raven?”

She nodded, meeting his wide-eyed stare. He understood now.

“Well, you need treatment.”

“Not an emergency. I've sent for help already.”

“When?”

“As soon as I realized I was injured. We have a kind of emergency call system. When one of us is ill, in danger or in great emotional distress, a signal goes out. Any Skinwalker within a few hundred miles will read it. They would also have perceived my danger in the forest and plus I just sent a call a moment ago that I am wounded.”

Cesar glanced around, looking uncomfortable for the first time since she'd met him.

“They'll come?” he asked.

“Most definitely. Until then, could you take me home?”

He wrapped an arm about her shoulders and guided her toward his vehicle, a nondescript blue sedan. Unlike
his attire, his vehicle seemed chosen to be invisible among them.

His fingers grazed her neck as they walked side by side.

Bess's head swam as apprehension swept in, followed by guilt marching through her like an army of ants. It took a moment to recognize these were not her emotions.

“Let go,” she whispered.

“What?”

“You're making me dizzy.”

The finger that stroked her neck dropped away, but he immediately captured her shoulder as he drew out a remote and unlocked the car doors.

“Do you need to tell your partner that you're leaving?” she asked, and then felt his grip tighten.

“I work alone.”

She studied the grim line that now replaced the sensual curve of his mouth and the glittering rage that turned his eyes cold as gray marble. She lifted a hand to his face and read betrayal.

“What happened?” she asked.

He squinted, giving her a slight shrug of incomprehension. “What?”

“With your old partner, the one you're still so pissed at?”

His eyes popped open and he removed her hand from his face, placing it on the door frame then stepping away, clamping his jaws shut as tight as an alligator grabbing a turtle.

“Oh, like that, is it? All right, not my business.” She glanced at the car's interior. “I'm going to bleed all over your upholstery. You have a blanket or something?”

He released the trunk and returned with a yellow
rain slicker, laying it out on the seat. “You sure I shouldn't take you to a hospital?”

She slipped in and groaned as her injured hip twinged. Blood smeared the yellow slicker. She glanced at the stain, wondering if she'd underestimated the seriousness of her injury.

“Where do you live?” he asked, starting the car and pulling out of the park lot.

“Summit of Russian Hill.”

He made a sound in his throat that could have been recognition or a growl of irritation.

“What?”

“Appropriate for a raven. Bird's-eye view of the city and all.” He glanced at the blood pooling rapidly beneath her. “But too damn far. We're going to a hospital.”

“No.”

“I'm driving. Not up to you.”

“I can still fly.” She met his steady gaze until he returned his attention to the road.

“My place then. I'm in SoMa, practically under the bridge.”

“Hmm. I remember when that was a swamp.” She was feeling woozy now and wondered if she had lost more blood than she had initially thought. She laid her head back on the seat rest. The adrenaline had abandoned her now, replaced with exhaustion and an unnerving trembling in her hands. She pressed her palms down onto her twitching thighs and let her tired eyelids fall shut.

“Don't pass out on me,” he growled.

She opened one eye and noticed his white knuckles on the wheel and the fact that they were going entirely too fast.

“And don't wrap us around a tree.”

She placed her hand over her wound and pressed, feeling the blood continue to ooze between her fingers. Her eyes jerked open when they drew to the shoulder of the road. He threw the transmission into Park and removed that silly, boring tie then threaded it beneath her thigh. Next he used a crisp white handkerchief to blanket her gash.

She stared at the small square of fabric.

“Who carries one of those anymore?” It was a small thing, but it pointed to his age. Had he watched a century or two turn?

“Creature of habit.” He cinched the makeshift bandage and resumed their trip.

 

She hadn't expected to doze, but she did, wakening as they pulled into an underground parking facility beside an elevator. He held the door and she exited, stiffly but without his assistance. Her thigh burned with each step. A check of the bandage showed that she had bled through.

They reached the elevator and waited for the car.

“You're right in the middle of a pretty touristy area.”

He cast her a sidelong glance. “Lots of restaurants.”

“Full of people who are transient, temporary and, perhaps, open to a little fling.”

He looked suddenly imperious and, were it not for the ticking at his left eye, she would have thought she'd guessed wrong.

“Your point?”

“You live alone?”

Now he was scowling. “Makes it easier since I don't age like they do and my own family, well, let's just say
I'm not expecting an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner again this year.”

She lifted her hands in surrender. “Sorry. I just, well, we have that in common, too. I lost my parents when I was young.”

He didn't ask her how they died. It was the usual thing to say one was sorry and then inquire as to the cause. But Cesar remained grim and silent. His behavior made her wonder if he had already guessed what had happened.

He punched the elevator button six times in rapid succession and muttered, “Come on.”

The door dinged open. Bess took a step forward and wobbled badly.

“To hell with it,” he said, and scooped her effortlessly up in his arms. He stepped into the compartment. “Press nine.”

How odd to be captured in the arms of a Spirit Child, trapped in this small space and not feel threatened. She was wounded, vulnerable and yet Cesar Garza showed only concern over her welfare. His reaction was beyond odd. The Niyanoka she had met to date recognized her by her aura and then avoided her as if she were carrying some fatal contagious disease. Why didn't he?

T
he elevator was always slow, but never as lethargic as now when he held Bess in his arms. The compartment was not the only thing rising. Here she was helpless in his arms and he was ready to take her right in this tiny chamber. He kept his hands securely on the fabric of her outfit. It wouldn't do for her to feel the firestorm of lust roaring through his blood.

Maka be blessed, the fragrance of her was driving him insane. She smelled of fresh summer air and pines. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her hair. Sage, he realized.

“You want to step out or take another ride?” she asked, glancing up at him.

The elevator doors stood parted and, beyond, a familiar gilded table held ornate artificial flowers before a large mirror. His floor, he realized. He jerked forward. The closing doors bumped his back and her leg, simultaneously, causing her to inhale through her teeth.

“Sorry,” he muttered, and hurried down the hall, lowering her to his side as he fished for his keys. Blood dripped from her pant leg onto the carpet. “How long until your HMO shows up?”

“Hard to say. A few hours—a few days.”

“Days?”

“If they sense no emergency they won't be racing here.”

“But you're still bleeding.”

“True. Hours then.”

“Who's coming?”

“I'm not sure. A wolf or a buffalo, I imagine. The grizzly is much too far north and he has…” She didn't finish.

He stilled, key in hand, as he wondered if she was teasing and then decided she wasn't. Cesar released the lock and punched in his security code, deactivating the alarm system. Then he lifted Bess again and carried her to the guest bathroom, setting her on the marble lip of the large whirlpool tub.

“You must have been saving your pennies all these decades.”

“You'd have to be a total nitwit not to have millions when you've been around as long as I have.”

She smiled. “True. It's a pain moving my assets around all the time, though. I've inherited my own money three times already.”

He nodded and they shared a mutual smile of understanding. His faded when he saw the blood dripping down the porcelain of his tub and pooling on the marble tile floor.

“We better get you out of those clothes.”

“They're not clothes.” She brushed a hand over her blouse and her stylish ensemble morphed into an inky
cloak of glossy feathers that came to midthigh, exposing her wound and the bandage that now gaped around her leg. “It's just a trick, turning our coats into clothing or jewelry. This is the form I take directly from the raven.”

He stroked the shimmering feather cape and she allowed it. Astonishment rippled through him, causing a pleasant heat in his stomach. When was the last time he had been surprised by anything?

Cesar fingered the edge of the cloak. “And you need this to change back.”

Her eyes narrowed at him, glaring as if he'd just held a gun to her head.

“I wouldn't try it.”

Bess didn't like having him know her weaknesses. He understood that and nodded his comprehension. Then he withdrew his hand and stepped away. “Let's see about that wound.”

Cesar knelt beside her on the plush rug and peered beneath as she studied the gash that ran from high on her hip to midthigh. The wound tore through the skin but did not look to have gored the muscle.

“It's not very deep.”

“Looks like a map of the Mississippi,” said Bess, pinching and poking at her skin.

Seeing her torn flesh made his stomach flip, which was funny, since he'd seen so much worse than this over the years. How much blood had she lost?

She met his gaze. “Disinfectant?”

“I have rubbing alcohol.”

“Are you crazy? Why not just pour whiskey over it?”

“If you'd prefer, but rubbing alcohol is cheaper.”

“Just turn on the water. I'll wash it.”

He twisted the taps and adjusted the temperature.

“Do you believe
now
that they're dangerous? Or doesn't this qualify in your code book?” She indicated her injury with a graceful sweep of her hand.

“It's a book of law and I'm not sure what to think. It's possible they were defending their kill.”

She pressed her lips tight and regarded him from beneath her lowered brow. With a pang of regret, he recognized that his answer had just squashed any chance of doing anything with her that he'd fantasized about in the elevator.

“You're an idiot,” she said.

“I know. But I'm not hunting a creature before it has committed a crime.”

“Attacking a Skinwalker doesn't meet your criteria?”

“I only track murderers.”

She snorted. “Well, then, I'll fly slower next time.”

Her flippant response made his heart squeeze in some emotion he could not name. What was happening here?

“That's not funny, Bess.”

She flushed and then gave a defiant toss of her head that sent her silky hair back over her shoulder.

He said nothing as she turned her back to him and began washing first her hands and then the gash. Soon blood was streaming down her long leg again and sliding down his tub drain. She motioned toward a towel and he handed it to her.

Cesar rummaged in the cabinet until he found a medical kit he'd received from a health fair in the park. Inside, thankfully, were four large butterfly bandages, gauze, Band-Aids and an ammonia capsule. He might need that himself if he had to spend much more time with Bess.

She was his sexual ideal, but forbidden by his kind.
Not that she'd have him—unless she was also feeling the tingling attraction that sparked whenever they touched. He could barely think around her. He turned and the sight of the blood brought him back from his sexual musings like a slap across the face.

She'd dried her leg, making it easy to get the butterflies to stick.

“This is going to leave a scar,” he said. It hurt him to see such perfection marred by violence.

“It won't. I've had worse, but my friends took care of it.”

The bear, buffalo or wolf? he wanted to ask, but kept his mouth shut.

“What will it take for you to go after those things with me?” she asked.

He pressed the gauze to her leg and accidentally brushed her skin again. The hum of sexual energy rolled from her to him and their eyes met. So he wasn't the only one whose mind was wandering.

“Not now,” she said, pushing his hand away and taking charge of the gauze.

Not now?
Well, to his brain that meant later. He smiled.

“So, what will it take? Would they need to kill a human or what?”

“Oh.” His brain snapped back to the newborns of unknown origin. “Yes, they must commit a murder and I have to have irrefutable evidence.”

“I'd like to know who fathered them,” said Bess.

He nodded his agreement to that. “Me, too. But I doubt a DNA test will do anything but frighten the men I work with. I've never heard of a Supernatural successfully producing offspring. So it seems likely that they are some kind of Halfling.”

“Halfling?”

Bess went as pale as the marble upon which she perched.

“Yellow eyes,” she said. “Oh, no.”

She swayed and he grasped her shoulders to steady her.

“Easy there.” He pulled her down onto the plush mat on the floor, so she wouldn't crack her head and leaned her up against the tub. “What's wrong?”

“I think…”

Bess pressed both hands to her temples. Her skin seemed even paler than a moment ago.

She began again. “I need to know if… I have to know who fathered them.”

He noticed she had twice amended her words. What was it she was unwilling to say aloud?

“I'm afraid we're too late to interview their mothers.”

Her eyes widened. “That's it!”

“What? Listen, Bess. I only see their actual death. That's all. I don't get to ask questions.”

“But I can, by flying to the Spirit World.”

“You mean you can actually…”

Her slow nod made her seem regal as any regent. “I'll find the mothers, both of them, and I'll find out what they know.”

“You'd do that?”

“I need to know what these things are just as badly as you do, and I hope with all my heart that I'm wrong.”

“But your leg.” He hated to point out the obvious, but she'd lost blood.

“Yeah. Bad timing on that, for sure.”

There was a knock on his door. His head whipped around as if someone had discharged a weapon inside
his apartment. No one ever knocked on his door. Partly because he kept to himself, but also there was an excellent security system and doorman to insure that strangers didn't just appear at his threshold. He glanced back at Bess.

“This your guy?”

“Probably.” She stood and brushed a hand over her feather cape. Before his eyes the glossy wrap shifted into a short cocktail dress with a frilly skirt. Her bare feet were now trimmed in high, strappy sandals.

“Wow,” was all he could think to say as he stared appreciatively.

The knock came again, but suddenly he was very sure he did not want to be disturbed. He reached for her and she ducked under his arm, clearing the door, waiting in the hall.

“Answer it.”

He scowled and stalked to the foyer, jerking the door open. There before him stood a man dressed from head to toe in worn denim except for his scuffed brown cowboy boots. He had a pleasant face and long black hair plaited at each side of his head. The braids were wrapped in what appeared to be bear or buffalo hide, crisscrossed with beaded leather cords. His ethnic features, hairstyle and clothing made him look like a poster boy for Native pride.

He grinned affably. Cesar took in the frayed collar of his work shirt and the distinctive brown aura that surrounded him. Another Skinwalker.

“Hello,” said the stranger. “I'm Tuff Jackson. Is Bess here?”

Tracked her like some damn bloodhound. Cesar raised his brows. Maybe he
was
a bloodhound.

“In here,” called Bess.

Cesar jerked his head in invitation and stepped aside as Tuff entered his foyer. Bess was the only woman he'd ever brought to his place and Tuff was his first guest. He knew he shouldn't be so protective of his sanctuary, but he still felt as if he were being invaded. He liked his privacy and in the course of one afternoon he suddenly had a regular party of Skinwalkers at his place.

He followed his unwelcome guest into his living room, ignoring the lovely sunset over the bay and the twinkling lights of the bridge spanning the dark water in favor of the woman standing at his bar, pouring a tumbler of Scotch.

“Do we have any pop, Cesar? Tuff doesn't drink alcohol.”

What's this
we
crap? he thought as he stalked to the kitchen and retrieved a can of seltzer from his nearly empty refrigerator. He gave it to Tuff and then retrieved the tumbler Bess extended to him, Scotch on the rocks, just as he liked it. He gave the glass a puzzled look.

“You only have that and beer, so it wasn't hard to figure,” she said, and then turned to their guest.

Tuff cracked the can, took a long swallow and grinned. “Bubbly.” He wiped his mouth with the back of the hand that held the drink.

Hadn't he had a seltzer before?

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” said Bess.

He blushed. “I've got that old truck, you know. Don't like to drive much, but it's faster than walking.”

“How'd you get in?” asked Cesar, the tone of his voice making the question an accusation.

Bess frowned, displeased at either his tone or line of questioning. The Skinwalker was a guest, come at her request into his home. Cesar had so few visitors
he had long ago forgotten how to be gracious and this particular guest was both male and enemy. He hardly knew how to act.

If Tuff noticed Cesar's rudeness he gave no indication for his easy smile never slipped. “Oh, I just came round the back, carrying a five-gallon bucket of compound. The guy at the loading dock let me right in.”

“Where is it?” asked Cesar.

He thumbed over his shoulder. “It's right outside. You need some?”

Cesar shook his head. He'd never met anyone as guileless and gracious as this guy. It made him suspicious. He wondered what shape he took. Was this the wolf or buffalo? Cesar glanced at the rawhide cord around his neck. Whatever was on that leather thong was hidden beneath his work shirt.

Bess stepped between them. “Tuff, this is Cesar Garza, a Niyanoka.”

Tuff's eyebrows lifted, but his face remained otherwise impassive. After an awkward pause he turned back to Bess.

“So what happened, Bess? You seemed pretty rattled.” He gave Cesar an appraising look.

Cesar scowled at him from over the rim of his glass, refusing to acknowledge the heat in his face.

Bess proceeded to tell him everything and showed him the bandage on her thigh. She also included her assumptions about the creatures being dangerous. He didn't point out to her that she had left the world of facts and headed into supposition.

Tuff listened and asked only a few questions. Then he set aside his drink and took a step toward Bess.

“Let's fix that up.”

Cesar intercepted the guy, planting his palm on the
center of Tuff's chest. Tuff did not respond to the aggressive gesture in kind, but only paused, meeting Cesar's eyes.

“I only mean to restore her to health.”

That was true. Cesar read it through the connection between his index finger and the skin he touched at the gap of Tuff's button-down shirt.

“It won't hurt her.”

Also true. Why could he read other Skinwalkers' thoughts but not Bess's?

Bess was tugging at Cesar's arm now. Her hand brushed his and the shock of her emotion blasted through him. She was embarrassed and aroused, but he couldn't tell if it was by him or by Tuff. Rage flooded through him. He clenched his fist around worn denim and pulled Tuff forward, or he tried. Tuff blocked his wrist and spun, leaving Cesar a choice between letting go or spinning with him. Cesar released his grip.