Wyatt

---

He was talking too much, yet at the same time, it was as though the story fought its way up from the grave of his past and crawled through him to escape. Maybe Quinn needed to hear all of it to understand what they faced. In his own way, he was answering her question.

Because, this time, he had to stop his brother, no matter the cost.

A cough worked free and he relented to the impetus to pull his waterskin to him and take a long drink. They were close enough to the source that he could make sure they were full before they got back on the trail in the morning.

“Adam was dead.” The image of his brother would forever haunt him. “He was on his back. A lot of his possessions were gone and the fire was cold—he was cold. I don’t how long he’d been left there, and maybe it was only dumb luck that the scavengers hadn’t come for him.” Even as he spoke the words, the scene unfolded in his mind.

Dressed in simple buckskin, Adam always kept his hair long. They were identical, and they could pass for whites if they cut their hair and changed their clothes. Their light eyes had come from their mother and helped with the illusion. Wyatt had done that for a while. They used the names their mother gave them rather than their native names. It had been Wyatt’s idea, particularly as they traveled closer and closer to white towns.

Blend in, don’t make waves, and enjoy.

“I didn’t see the blood on his chest at first, only the emptiness in his expression. I threw myself off my horse and rushed to him.” He spoke each word carefully, his fingers curled around the top of the waterskin. “I think I knew he was already gone, but the heart will not always accept what the mind tells it.”

Sometimes, the heart will outright reject even the soul’s knowledge and will act accordingly. The rush, when he realized his brother’s soul had already fled, and the pain the knowledge ignited within him, exploded outwards. A hundred trees fell to the force of his power.

Then he recalled the one thing he was, above all others.

“Shamans of the Blood are gifted.” He cooled his tone and fixed his gaze on the fire. The flames trailed out over fresh wood, beginning to lick at the fuel and consuming it with a voracious appetite. “As the witches are, we’re each blessed with a unique gift, though amongst my people we knew there were only three true gifts. The dreamwalkers, who could communicate through dreams, walk in them, and soothe or teach. The truly powerful ones could travel through the dreaming, a world alike and yet so alien to our own.” Quanto had been the most powerful dreamwalker he’d ever encountered. Buck had potential, but he would need to grow into his strength.

“Then there are the skinwalkers,” he said, half aware she had finished her hot coffee. There was more water so he pulled her cup to him and refilled it with what remained. Sending the cup back to her, he poured more water from his skin into the tin. Already Quinn’s color was better, so it was good to keep her heated. Outside, beyond the ring he’d erected to shield them, the wind howled. “Skinwalkers take on the characteristics of the animal which chooses them. They can commune with the animals, and the truly powerful of those lines can become them.” The woman Jimmy brought back, his new wife, was such a skinwalker. With so many of their kind being murdered, it made protecting Blue and Buck paramount—for they might very well be the last of their kind.

Lifting his head, Wyatt met Quinn’s quiet gaze. Though she cradled the fresh cup of chicory, she hadn’t moved nor did she comment. The lack of judgment or rancor in her expression encouraged him.

“All Shamans have a gift for the spirits—they hear them, they act as their agents upon the earth and they can sometimes compel them. Though all might hear them, not all can walk in their world as well as the world of the living. Not all can summon any spirit they truly wish and bind them. These shamans are the rarest of all, because they exist beyond the natural order of things.” Quinn’s expression changed. Her brows came together and tiny lines tightened the space between her eyes even as her mouth opened.

Shock rippled through her expression. “Spiritwalkers are a myth.”

“Are they?” Was that what the tribes and the witches said? “They call the Fevered a curse, and a myth…and a woman who lives hundreds of years? What are you?”

“A failing of magic.” Without missing a beat, her answer told him more about her than he’d learned so far. Quinn didn’t think she had the right to exist, her whole life had become the destiny proscribed for her.

If he could go back in time, he’d slaughter her people…Stop. He closed his eyes and curled his hand tighter on the waterskin. It was thoughts such as those that got him into trouble in the first place.

“Spiritwalkers existed. My father was one.” Morning Star had been one of the strongest spiritwalkers in seven generations. Once, Wyatt heard him tell Golden Hair, Wyatt’s mother, that his elders had worried when his calling manifested. What terrible catastrophe could call for such a gift? “And so was I.”

Pausing for a moment, he waited out her reaction. Her expression shuttered, though, and even the glow within her eyes failed to reveal her thoughts. “Continue.”

Fair enough. “When a body dies, the spirit lingers a moment or two—perhaps as long as a few minutes. Then they pass on. Those spirits who do not pass, they wander away. Their connection to their physical form is severed.” It all sounded so arbitrary to him. What souls decided to stay? Which ones left? “Shamans can tether them, if we’re lucky, then treat the wound and heal them. Some, the strongest, can bind the spirit back to the body, even overcoming death in rare cases. That act requires a price in blood and binds the resurrected to the living shaman…forever.”

“You brought your brother back?” The horror in her voice was unmistakable.

“I tried,” he admitted, not remotely proud. At the time, he hadn’t thought. He’d reacted. He’d lashed out with his gift, blood to blood. He needed his brother. Was desperate to have him back… “But what I pulled from the void wasn’t my brother. Oh, it pretended for a short while, but it was too late.”

“What?” She leaned forward, her eyes glittering as though the power within in her wanted to strike him.

“Call it demon, a trace…an evil spirit. Whatever name you label on it, the thing I allowed into this world was not my brother. He tried to kill me and then fled. I survived, but barely. I chased him, but he vanished. Then I found the town I’d celebrated in…dead to the last man and woman and child. My brother’s body was gone.”

Wyatt scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Is that thing tethered to you?” It was a good question.

“After a fashion.” This time, when she offered him the flask, he used a tendril of power to bring it to himself. The whiskey wouldn’t have much effect, but he liked the thought. “I thought to expel him, but the moment he took up residence in my brother’s body, my connection to the spirits went quiet. They refused me. I could almost hear them, but I’d done something utterly wrong and it shocked them.” He’d hunted for years—a dozen of them—but Adam had simply disappeared. Every time he thought he was close, the thing inside his brother would escape before Wyatt could arrive. Finally, he’d returned to his parents to confess his crime.

His father was already dead. His mother?

The light in her seemed to die that day.

“I noticed I did not age,” Wyatt continued. “And the world seemed even darker. Then rumors reached the west of a charismatic man in the east, and for the first time, the spirits spoke to me. They offered a charge—a challenge.”

“They wanted you to fix what you had broken.” Quinn seemed to understand, then she leaned back against the bedroll. “You brought something…other into the world.” She wasn’t talking to him. It was as though she was turning his story over and examining it. “Wait, you said you are what you have been made. You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. What did he do to you?”

Clever.

Too clever.

No wonder the witches had bound her for so long. A spirit like Quinn’s longed to soar.

Tipping the flask up, he took a long swallow. “That is a longer story and you’re exhausted. You need to sleep.”

“You’re really going to leave it there?” The pinched expression she wore promised him retribution if he did.

“For tonight. The fire will die in a few hours, but the warmth will stay. Sleep for now. Tomorrow you will tell me about yourself as we ride.” Goliath gave a snort, and finally lowered his head as though to sleep.

“You’re a bastard,” Quinn muttered. She drank the last of her coffee before she tucked against the bedroll. On her back, she folded her hands against her abdomen. There was not even a trace of shivering in her manner.

Much to his surprise, her breathing evened swiftly. Then again, what did he really know? She’d been on the road for months. Years? Perhaps she, like he had once, knew how to sleep when it was necessary.

A rustle of movement, and Wyatt glanced from the dark to her. The light played beautifully over her, shifting and changing, almost a promise of what she could be. What? My salvation? He could almost hear Quanto telling him to consider all possibilities. There was no saving him. He’d damned himself with one impulsive, grief-fueled action.

There was only waiting for the axe to finally fall.

Settling in, Wyatt forced his attention away from the woman sleeping on the other side of the fire. Whatever danger she presented, he had to remain wary of what Adam would do next.

The creature knew he was coming.

---

Adam

Somewhere near Lake Erie

---

The house was quiet—exactly how he preferred it. His adherents kept their distance. Even his most loyal didn’t want his attention. Outside, the snow piled up. The wind off the Lake choked them year after year. Adam liked it cold; he liked the quiet. It was almost enough to silence the screams, which followed him when he walked into the world. He preferred the cities, where dense populations and construction overwhelmed the land.

They could be quiet, too.

A scuff of motion against the wood floors alerted him to a new arrival. Boots were to be taken off before any of his walked into the house. No clunking around him. They wore slippers, ones Adelaide sewed. Hands folded behind his back, Adam let the newcomer wait. The storm had been promised for days, and its arrival was a glorious thing.

A faint clearing of a throat intruded. Finally, a low voice spoke, “Father?”

Henrik.

The German transplant had proven a loyal foot soldier, but he required far more reinforcement than the others. After the loss of Delilah on his watch, Adam found he had less and less time for such indulgences. “What is it?”

“Gentry is no longer.”

Yes, he was aware. He’d felt the snap of the tether he hooked into all of his adherents. The weather-gifted had been dispatched to snow in his targets. He wanted them contained for a time. The last thing he wanted to deal with was Quanto’s annoying band of do-gooders.

“Our man at the fort sent word that most are still on the ranch, though he could not confirm all. The woman, Scarlett, gave birth.” Henrik stuttered. Scarlett was a firestarter. Four times in his life, he’d made a play to acquire both her and the wolf, and four times he’d been rebuffed. The children had promise though. Perhaps it was time to bring in human allies who could cross the odd boundary on the ranch and bring him…

“Father?” Henrik was still talking. “Do you have any requests for me to send back?”

“Where is the man they call Wyatt?” The First One would be coming for him, and it was long past the time they settled the ridiculous dispute.

Henrik went silent. Which was telling enough. Why did his people always fail him?

“Bring me Rudy. It is time he earned his keep.” The young man could phase through objects, and he’d begun to buckle under the leash. His obedience had taken time, but now he would prove his loyalty.

“As you wish, Father.” Henrik retreated, his relief stinking the air behind him. The soft shuffle of his feet faded, then the blessed silence returned.

Returning his attention to the great snow shooting sideways toward him, obliterating the world beyond the windows, Adam sighed.

War. That was what Wyatt wanted from him. Another war. It would consume resources and his carefully cultivated flock. Last time, he’d lost nearly every one that served him and Wyatt should have died that day. Almost had.

Damn Quanto. The war could have been ended decades before, and now he would have to fight it again. It could cost him a great deal, then he would have to start over. Again.

Why couldn’t Wyatt just…stop. Lip curling, Adam closed his eyes. His good mood had already dissipated. Damn Wyatt would never leave him alone. From his first breath, the First One had pursued him. Coming east had been both an effort to elude the relentless being and to escape the noise…a thunderous roar echoed beyond the house and though he half-expected the wood and stone to shudder under the assault. It wasn’t the weather but a wind spirit.

Damn things found him everywhere. Concentrating, he lashed out and the roaring stopped. Sometimes it took every ounce of his concentration to keep the bastards at bay.

Delilah had been so useful when she traveled with him. The perfect foil for their taunts. She captivated his audiences and silenced even the spirits.

“Henrik,” he called, aware the man would never venture too far from earshot.

“Yes, Father?”

“Put out another bounty on Jason Kane.” The boy was supposed to have been his as well, but the shaman intervened, and he hadn’t been able to steal them when their powers began to manifest. Punishing Jeb Kane led to some unique gifts. “Wait, change the bounty.” Jason Kane had married a girl…the wife would be an easier target. “Put the bounty on his bride.”

“As you wish, Father. Are they to collect dead or alive?”

“No. Only dead.”

Jason took something from him. He would take something in return.

The act soothed the hunger in his soul and the need for retaliation. This was his world, and the sooner the others bowed to him, the safer all would be. Why couldn’t they understand that he could save them? The Fevered. The disenfranchised. The lost.

A door opened and hard boots struck the floor. They only took two steps, then the shuffle of boots being removed pleased him. All of his adherents understood the rules. The swish of a skirt announced the first arrival. Turning, Adam fixed a smile on his lips.

“Thank you for coming Cerisse.” He’d sent for her the day before, but the weather delayed her travel by a few hours. An acceptable reason. The brunette woman stood before him wearing a black dress. Most would assume she was in mourning, which allowed her to navigate arenas a single woman might not otherwise be admitted.

“Father.” Cerisse inclined her head. Not a hair was out of place, and the upswept style highlighted her fine bone structure. Her gift for anticipation allowed him a chance to see where his targets traveled. “My apologies for the delay.”

“None needed, my dear child. Sit.” He waved her toward the settee as he crossed to the bar. “Would you care for a drink?” It was late enough in the morning, he could enjoy a glass of wine.

“I would love one, Father. Unless you need me to See, then I must decline until after I have completed your task.” The proper reverence in her tone went a long way toward easing his earlier irritation.

As he opened a bottle of wine, he considered the woman. Cerisse had come to him after an epidemic in her small trapping community. Barely nine at the time, she’d been terrified at first. His hunter assured him that she was Fevered, but she didn’t demonstrate any noticeable skill.

On her second day, she’d whispered in his ear of a betrayal one of his men planned. Though he’d doubted it, he tested the man in question. When it proved out that the man did indeed intend to kill him, he’d executed the traitor and his cohorts. An hour after their deaths, he’d moved Cerisse into his house. She’d been his first daughter.

Delilah his second. It didn’t matter that they’d never met. Their only allegiance should be to him, not to each other.

Cerisse remained loyal, and he rewarded loyalty.

“Your thoughtfulness is appreciated.” Wine glass filled, he moved to the chair which took the alignment of the furniture and put him at the focal point of the room. After sitting, he raised his glass to her. “Find the man called Wyatt.”

Bowing her head, Cerisse gripped her hands together. A moment later, her head snapped up and her eyes went pure white.

Patiently, Adam took a sip of his wine and waited. Where are you…brother?

---

Rudy

---

Sitting in the foyer, Rudy stared at his socked feet. Boots weren’t allowed in the master’s house. The strange rules and rituals dictating his days left him bereft of real contact. Life without Ike around bugged the hell out of him. No one told him where Ike was or if he was still alive. They only said that if he didn’t cooperate—Ike will die. So maybe that means he is alive.

Adam terrified and intrigued him in equal measure. That he looked so much like Wyatt unnerved the hell out of him. But he doesn’t sound like Wyatt. Adam pretended to be polished, like the big city folk he’d seen in San Antonio a few times, but there was a rage which lurked just beneath the surface.

The man lied with a beautiful smile on his face. He asked for horrible things, and made them sound compassionate. Whatever he was—

“Sit up,” Henrik shoved him and Rudy straightened. “Father prefers us to always be proper.”

Then there was everyone calling him Father. What the hell was that? Scrubbing a hand over his face, he grimaced at the bristles. Not shaving was the only act of rebellion left to him. Father apparently didn’t like beards on men. Or women who did more than bow their heads to him and answer yes. His men forbid Rudy to phase, and the knife at Ike’s throat—or in this case, large cat—was how they earned his capitulation. He started to lean forward again and rest his elbows on his knees. It helped to take some of the pressure off his bruised chest and back.

The act also earned him a slap to the side of his head. The burn against his ear tensed every muscle in his body. Rudy had grown up with brothers. Brothers fought. He’d done his share of wrestling, punching, and biting. Not retaliating took every ounce of his willpower.

Ike. Like a mantra, his brother’s name flowed through his mind. He couldn’t afford to respond while they held Ike captive. Ike made things grow, he tended to the land…his gift was one of the least combative Rudy had ever seen.

Currently, Adam—Rudy refused to call him father, as that name belonged to a far better man than the creature who ruled here—was busy so Rudy had to wait. Though Adam had sent for him, a woman arrived at the same time they did. She was stunning, in a cold, artificial kind of way. No emotion crossed her face, and she barely acknowledged the others as she stepped out of her boots. Snow had clung to her wrap, but it was immediately swept away from her as she dropped it.

The men deferred to her as she strode down the hallway and vanished into the main room where Adam currently held court. She hadn’t even acknowledged Rudy’s existence.

For all her grace and poise, it was like watching a piece of artwork step off the wall and move. When they were kids, telling stories around the fire, he remembered Wyatt telling them one once of the dead being animated and coming back to life. Maybe it was statues or something carved being given the semblance of life. They would move, talk, and function, but they didn’t have the spark—their soul.

The cold-eyed woman reminded him of that. Her sycophantic greeting to Adam coupled with his false welcome left Rudy’s gut churning. He wasn’t a faithful man, but if he had to envision hell, this would be high on his list.

“He is not…he rides…” Her voice carried down the hall, distress discoloring every word. “I see…” Suddenly, she screamed. Jolting, Rudy was on his feet and halfway down the hall before the others tackled him. Under the force of their pummeling, he glimpsed the finely dressed, doll-like woman collapsed on the ground, blood running from her nostrils while Adam sat in a chair, bored or irritated.

Why the hell wasn’t someone helping her?

Driving an elbow into Henrik’s face, Rudy enjoyed the crunch of bone. Then he phased, rolling right through his assailants to solidify on his feet halfway into the room. If the son of a bitch in the chair wouldn’t help her, Rudy would.

His assailants rushed in after him then halted. Rudy didn’t bother to look to see what Adam had done or not done. Kneeling next to the woman, he put a hand on her shoulder.

“Ma’am?” Though she wore a heavy dress, it was like he could feel the cold rolling off her flesh. It reminded him of the time Cody had dared him to phase through the ice in the pond.

Dumbest thing Rudy had ever done.

The woman didn’t stir, so he attempted to turn her over gently. Was she injured? The blood flowed from both nostrils, and her eyes were wide open—horrifyingly white—and staring into nothingness. Bile burned in the back of his throat as he withdrew his hand.

Suddenly, she jerked forward and her hands clasped his face. Her mouth opened and then—Rudy was on the Mountain, and his whole life began to scroll. Wrestling with Ike, running with Scarlett, testing his abilities, being scolded by Wyatt, running away with the guys, saving Buck from a lynch mob, stealing gold, abandoning Scarlett…every image pounded through his brain, twisted his heart, and ripped at his soul.

They wouldn’t stop.

A scream tore out of his throat as he relived every moment.