Quinn

---

The man holding her captive—Wyatt, as the shadow man called him—swept the area around them and then built a second fire. Careful not to touch her, he gripped the rope binding her arms then dragged her over to the heat. Leaving her, he went to her horse and stripped it of its tack before turning it loose to graze. Her saddlebags in hand, he returned to the fire and began to go through her things. The deliberate search left her with a sensation of being invaded, yet she said nothing, more curious about his reaction to what he found.

Supplies. Dried meat. Hard tack. A water canteen. Bullets. A change of clothes. Plain, ordinary, and utterly unremarkable. The second bag—he paused when he opened it then looked at her. The flames cast light over his harsh expression. No emotion softened his mouth, no muscle ticked in his jaw. His chest was scarred, old injuries and new ones. The line over his heart looked waxy and knotted beneath the light. New skin against old.

Healing wasn’t a new gift. She’d encountered those before. Even a self-healer once, but it wasn’t his only ability. No, when he’d appeared, he’d pulled the rifle from her hands and dragged her along without physical contact. He could move things with his mind, but he possessed more power than she could read. Where other Fevered were open books, he was the sealed vault.

And he looked like the shadow man.

She considered then discarded a dozen ways to begin the next phase of their conversation. “He called you brother.” The Cheyenne word he’d used meant so much more, but she focused on the English.

“Yes.” Wyatt began to empty the second bag. An hour had passed since she’d woken to his conversation with the shadow man. Her head hurt. The throb of his blow joined the one she’d suffered from the marshal earlier. Knocked out twice on the same day. It’d be a miracle if she lived till dawn. He pulled out the leather journal, the cover stained and aged from decades of use.

Flipping it open, he squinted at the pages. His eyes illuminated faintly. It could be a trick of the light from the fire, but she didn’t think so. If he could read the script then…but he shook his head as he flipped through several pages, then glared at her. “I know what this is.”

“Do you?” Maintaining a disaffected posture when her hands and feet were bound along with her arms took effort. If she struggled, even a little, she’d hang herself. Hard to be unaware of the possibilities. “Fascinating.”

“It’s a book of shadows.”

No. Not even close. “Good for you.”

He chuckled, the sound unusual and rusty. “No, it’s not written in the language of spirits or of the Blood, so it’s not that.”

“If you say so.” Did he really expect her to help him? “Who are you?”

“Judge. Jury.” He set the book aside then withdrew a pouch of stones, another with tobacco, and a third with herbs. He inspected each one with care, before wrapping them closed and setting them aside. When he withdrew the bone-handled knife, his earlier consideration returned.

“And executioner?” Distracting him from the blade was vital. She kept it wrapped in an oilcloth for a reason. Better to keep it hidden away until she knew she needed it.

“This is human bone.”

He couldn’t be certain.

“It’s a witch’s bone.” He dropped the blade onto the cloth, then his gaze bore into her. “Is that what you wanted the witch for? Artifacts?”

Pressing her lips together, Quinn said nothing. A twist of her wrist resulted in the rope abrading her skin. She could get free, but it would cost her flesh, blood, and a hell of a lot of time.

With less regard than he’d shown earlier, he upended the bag and sorted through the contents. The only care he demonstrated was in the use of a stick to nudge the items apart. Despite the haphazard pile, he took his time examining each item. The wooden bird captured his attention and he picked it up.

“Where did you get this?”

Turning her right foot outward slightly, she created some slack so she could twist her wrist again. The rope bit into her flesh, but it loosened enough to begin sliding along her thumb.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes.” She mimicked his hard ass tone. “You did.”

He reached the last item and opened it, A charm on the end of a length of leather appeared. Like the wooden bird, the metal had been shaped in the form of a crow. Old, but she had to keep it shined to avoid the green growth of age creeping across the surface. Each time she drew it out to clean it, she was reminded of the promise it represented.

“Where did you get this?” He rose, then circled the fire to loom over her. The rope slid past her thumb, then she halted lest he see she almost had her hand free.

“Somewhere.” Taunting an enemy could be a valuable tool. “I forget.” Or a deadly one.

Scowling, he glared at her. “Where?” Threat coalesced in the syllable.

“What are you?” Despite his likeness with the shadow man, he wasn’t him. If she’d had more time before the fight, she would have sensed the difference. Not that it mattered, because they’d fought and she lost. Battles came and went, but as long as she still lived, then the war could yet be won.

The quiet thunder of hooves echoed on the wind. More cavalry?

On one knee, he leaned toward her. Cold swept over her—not like the chill of the Kane boy’s second gift, an entirely different kind of frost. “I won’t ask you again.”

Freeing her hand, she curled her left leg. The slack from her right hand’s freedom relaxed the imprisonment on her left. She’d be tangled in rope, but it wouldn’t choke her. “Promises, promises.” She whispered, then struck upward and slammed her fist into his throat. Sacrificing some mobility, she slammed her leg forward into his knee. The crunch of bone echoed loudly against the quiet night. Snatching the charm from his outstretched hand, she rolled towards her gear. The bone knife fit her hand and she barely made it to her feet, but Wyatt grabbed the end of the rope and yanked.

The hemp cut across her windpipe, and she hit the dirt. With one hand, she wrapped the rope around her forearm and used the bone-handled knife to begin cutting. Pressure increased on the rope, a hint of power licking over her. She consumed it immediately, buoying her strength. The pain in her head redoubled and blood ran from one nostril.

Strands of the rope frayed, and finally snapped. Freed of him, she rolled back another step and put a hand on her rifle. A gunshot echoed upward and Wyatt’s attention went from her to the men riding toward them.

Kanes.

She recognized the power swelling around two of them. Only they weren’t alone. A half-dozen or more rode up the rise, with more behind them. It didn’t take long for them to surround her and Wyatt.

Wyatt looked even less pleased about it than she felt. The horses whinnied as power expanded in a circle, keeping the newcomers out. She didn’t expect the defensive measure nor did she suspect he wanted to protect her so much as keep them out of his way. More riders appeared, coming from the south. Royce McKenna amongst them, with a fierce looking Mitchell and a cowed, worried Jenny at his side. Keeping their Dorado names in her mind, Quinn adjusted her grip on the bone-handled knife. They looked like too many to fight without having to eliminate someone.

Her mare didn’t care for their company. She had been grazing, but as the group closed in, she raised her head and stomped her hooves. The marshal led the group and a firestarter rode at his side. A very pregnant firestarter.

How many Fevered were there? The information bombarding her came from all sides. Two Cheyenne—one male and the other female—appeared from the shadows behind the front riders. The dark haired woman clinging to the male Cheyenne—Quinn knew her.

Delilah. The shadow man’s siren.

If she opened her mouth, she was the first one Quinn would take out.

The female Cheyenne nudged her horse forward, cutting off Quinn’s line of sight to the siren. Power surrounded her, a wildness as foreign as the Fevered, and yet far more contained in the same breath.

I’ll be damned. Not one shaman, but two. The McKennas, though strained, seemed fine, and a virtual army of Fevered stood before her.

“You were supposed to stay on the ranch.” Fresh annoyance added a new layer to Wyatt’s harsh voice.

“You were supposed to bring her back. Alive.” The marshal didn’t seem all that moved by the ferocity in the other.

“She’s breathing.”

Quinn almost laughed at the blunt response. Though they were all crowded around, none approached. The level of power flowing around her had the hair on her arms standing on end and unease prickling the back of her neck.

“She’s not an enemy,” Jenny announced.

“But he is.” Her brother countered.

“No,” the male shaman pushed between the other riders. “He’s not. He’s our brother. He’s as much a Morning Star as I am.”

Brother.

Morning Star.

“He’s the devil,” Mitchell snarled.

“He isn’t.” The firestarter scowled. Hheat flickered in her eyes but it extinguished when the marshal put a hand over hers on the reins. “This is pointless. None of us are enemies. Everyone here is known, except her.”

“She isn’t unknown,” Jenny protested. “She saved us.”

“She what?” The telepath intruded, his focused gaze zeroing in on Jenny.

“She saved us,” Mitchell agreed. “When they came for us…the first time. It was Quinn who got us out. We didn’t know how to run, but she did. She also kept us honest and true to our ways.”

Wyatt turned from her for the first time since the wild bunch approached and considered the witches. “She killed for you.”

Tears slipped down Julianna’s cheeks. Quinn stopped thinking of her with her Dorado name. It didn’t matter. They’d chosen to share their secrets with the horde around them. “Yes. She killed for us. She helped us disappear and taught us how to be someone new.”

“We vouch for Quinn. She’s our family.” A bold declaration from Mitchell, especially since he’d originally not wanted her help.

“Take her side, but don’t lie.” Wyatt faced her. “What about you, Quinn? Do you claim them as family?”

The female shaman said something in a strange language and the man at her side murmured in response. Wyatt glanced at the pair, then added a fresh layer of mystery to the unusual situation. He spoke to them both. The female shaman replied in rapid-fire speech, one Wyatt answered. The man at the shaman’s side dropped his hand to his gun. Her senses focused on him, a sharpshooter with eagle vision. Like the marshal, he was dangerous. He relied on his weapons.

“We can stand here and argue all night.” The marshal’s laconic voice interrupted whatever debate unraveled between Wyatt and the shaman. “Or we can retire to the ranch and discuss this like civilized folk. Miss Quinn is welcome to join us, provided she gives her word to remain unarmed and to keep her gift in check.”

Her gift.

Keeping her stance loose, Quinn didn’t release the blade in her hand. It didn’t take her senses to tell her the telepath communicated with those around them, particularly his brothers. To have survived this long, they couldn’t be acting impetuously. What were they trying to do? Fool her? Capture her? Fool him?

The wolf man dismounted and strode as far forward as the barrier Wyatt erected allowed him. “Wyatt, we’re doing this together, whatever the hell this is. It’s time we talked, and since I really don’t like the company you’re keeping or the spectacle we’re making, can we be done with it?”

Company. She’d been called worse. “Poor little wolf, didn’t like being told no?”

Wyatt spared her a look. “Leave him alone.”

“Why?” The biggest question of them all. Why was he the enemy of the shadow man? Why was he with so many Fevered? What are you?

Wyatt released the shield. The warm air whooshed away as the cold chill from the night spilled in. “They’re family and I’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt them.”

“Promise?”

They surged inside, and she didn’t need to be surrounded. Glancing toward Mitchell, she smiled. The McKennas were close together—close enough. Snatching her book from the ground, she leaped. The air around her twisted as she slid between the moments, then landed amongst the McKennas.

A shout went up, but she didn’t listen to them. Seconds mattered. “Grip.” She ordered and when all three touched her, she leapt again, pulling them with her. The world shifted sideways. She’d targeted their arrival point a dozen miles away, in a grove she’d prepared when she’d ridden into Dorado.

Blood spilled from her nose and the pain in her head redoubled. “Don’t make camp.” She told them. “Ride. They’ll be right behind us.”

“What about you?” Jenny protested.

“I’ll find you again. Now go.”

“Thank you,” Mitchell whispered, then he and his brother tapped their horses and pulled their sister with them. Quinn dropped to her knees. She couldn’t afford to collapse yet…she needed answers first.

---

WYATT

A transporter. He hadn’t seen a transporter in decades. Never had he seen one who could take more than one passenger, much less the horses they rode. With a wave of his hand, he gathered all of her items together and thrust them back into a bag. She may have facilitated the escape of the witches, but she’d be back.

“How the hell…?” Kid exhaled the sentiment rippling around the family mob.

“Go back to the ranch.” Wyatt whistled, then smothered the fire. His strength surged in her absence; whatever this Quinn had done to rob him of his ability earlier, it not only returned but also redoubled within him.

“We’re not done here.” The marshal’s unyielding tone declared his intentions. “You’re coming with us. I know the loss you sustained.”

He couldn’t possibly, yet Sam didn’t wait for him to respond.

“Your enemies are their enemies which makes them our enemies.” Nudging his horse forward, Sam met his gaze. “The McKennas were running from something. Based on their reactions to you and Delilah’s when you came to the ranch last year, whomever they are running from bears a striking resemblance to you. Which means you know who it is or at least what it is. Since he is after my family, you’re going to tell me.”

“Sam,” Scarlett pushed forward to reach his side, and one by one his brothers joined him. Worry filled Scar’s tone, and Wyatt rolled his head from side to side. The cracking of the vertebrae silenced them, but it didn’t quell Sam’s argument.

“Wyatt,” Kid raised a gloved hand. “What my brother is trying to say in his less than diplomatic way is that we’re on your side, but we can’t fight a war with only half the information.”

“You’re not fighting it at all.” On this Wyatt refused to yield. Sweeping a look around those in the circle, he shook his head. “This is not your war.”

“You are wrong, Ma'heónė-hetane.” Jimmy’s woman spoke, as she had earlier. The young shaman fully possessed her abilities. Where Buck had only begun to learn to listen to the spirits, Wyatt didn’t doubt for an instant she heard them and communicated well.

“I am not a Medicine Man, little mother.” It had been years since he spoke Cheyenne, and his word choices gave her pause. Most languages grew over time, even the one he’d learned as a boy. “I am not anything. You are new to this war. Take care of Jimmy.”

“Jimmy can take care of himself,” Jimmy answered. They’d all learned a fair share of the language of the People. “And Blue’s right, Wyatt.”

“About what?”

“About whatever she is saying.” Leaning forward, Jimmy rested an arm against his saddle horn and made no pretense of his exhaustion. The fatigue edging him served as a testament to the trials they’d faced. “One thing I’ve learned about her is she doesn’t say it if it isn’t true. The man you’re hunting is named MacPherson.”

“That’s one of his names.” They weren’t children any longer, yet he wouldn’t send a single one of them into battle. “This is my fight. Not yours.”

“The hell it is.” Jason Kane spoke quietly, but his words carried. “He has marked all of us.”

“Jason.” Surprisingly, the quiet chastisement in Kid’s tone silenced his brother. The two shared a long look. Whatever passed between them, Jason acquiesced. It was good the two had learned to forgive each other. “Wyatt, we don’t want to fight with you, we want to fight alongside you. You have allies—family and friends.”

At least one.

“You could have killed him. You had plenty of opportunity.” Quanto’s tone held no judgment. “Yet you chose not to.”

“Don’t read too much into it.” The weather outside promised to turn soon, though the house existed only within the dreaming, Quanto matched the weather to the world beyond it. “There’s still time to deal with him.”

“You chose not to kill Delilah before Buck took you into the dreaming.” Despite his lack of judgment, Quanto refused to let the matter go.

“You’re pushing it old man.” He always pushed, pushed and demanded Wyatt live, fight and survive. He refused to accept Wyatt had lost the war before the battles began. He’d lost it when he’d let his own needs get ahead of the right thing. “Go rest. You’re no good to any of us dead.”

“You like him.” Surprise rippled through Quanto’s statement, surprise and pleasure. Wyatt ignored the sentiment.

Staring at Kid, he shook his head. “Don’t.”

“Yeah, you like me.” The younger man grinned. “It’s okay to admit it. They like me, too.”

The empath had been dangerous before he mastered his abilities. The ease with which he’d manipulated others defied conventions and his own sensibilities. Overcoming those earlier handicaps increased his confidence, and his marriage to Evelyn seemed to have grounded him.

The temptation to knock him on his ass as a reminder served no purpose save to amuse himself. Wyatt couldn’t afford attachments. Not with the creature watching for them. He knew Wyatt was coming, he knew the moment of their reckoning had arrived. If he could distract him, he would do it.

He’d done it before.

“Go to the ranch. I’ll join you all there.” The ranch was safer for them, especially the shamans.

“What about the McKennas?” Buck hadn’t looked away from him, nor had Delilah. “We need them, don’t we?” The children had grown, achieved their maturity, and would no longer be simply sent away for their own safety.

“Do you really want to have this conversation where anyone can hear it?” Quanto handled their disobedience with patience. Wyatt had none.

“No,” Cody said, cutting a hand through the air. “But no one is around who can hear us at the moment. I’d smell them or Jason would sense them…”

“Except neither of you—none of you—can handle Quinn. She could be right behind you and you’d never know it.”

Unease sparked in their eyes, and more than one turned to look. Jimmy’s shaman—Blue—hid a small smile. “Ma'heónė-hetane, you are trying to scare them into obedience. Words of truth will often accomplish what misdirection fails.”

“Fine, have it your way, little mother.” If the spirits wanted them to know, he’d tell them. “I’ll tell you all what you need to know, but in my time and in my way. Go to the ranch.”

If he had to remind them…then Sam raised his hand. “We’ll go when you give us your word you’ll come tonight, not in a few weeks and not after you’ve accomplished whatever task you’ve set yourself.”

“Sam,” Scarlett admonished him, but she wasn’t disagreeing.

A faint smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. It had been a long time since someone demanded an oath from him. Fewer still were the men he’d allow the privilege. “You have my word.”

“That’s enough for me,” Kid said. “Let’s get the ladies home. It’s cold and we have work to do.”

“Agreed.”

Not everyone followed them down the rise. Jimmy and Blue lingered as did Buck and Delilah. Only when the others were out of earshot, did he raise his eyebrows.

“You’re a Morning Star,” Buck said quietly. “The first.”

“No.” He said. “My father was. I am Wyatt. I haven’t been a Morning Star in a long time.”

“But we’re related.” It wasn’t a question, though wonder and worry lived side by side in his voice.

“He is Ma'heónė-hetane,” Blue spoke carefully. “The first of the Cursed.”

Jimmy jerked once and Delilah’s eyes widened. “That would mean…Father…”

Wyatt nodded once. “The man you call Father—Adam MacPherson—he was my brother.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell us?” Buck demanded. Impatience and temper were usually Cody’s weapons, not Buck’s. “How could you keep it a secret?”

“Because you’re children. Children are to be protected.”

“I’m not a child anymore.” The young dreamwalker’s jaw clenched.

“Then don’t act like one.” Coddling them would serve no one. “You can be angry about what you didn’t know, about what you were not told when you were too young to understand or do anything about it. Or you can be adults, accept that you do not know everything, and may never have all the answers you desire. Choose, boy. Be the man your father raised you to be or be the impatient child, lashing out because you have discovered the world is an uglier place than you ever expected.”

Mouth compressed, Buck turned his horse and rode away without a word.

“That was harsh,” Jimmy said, but Blue looked thoughtful not offended.

“It was what it needed to be. Why are you still here?”

“Because she is.” He nodded to Blue. “She has a question for you, one she wasn’t sharing with the others.”

The quiet thunder of hooves announced Goliath’s arrival. He still wore his saddle and Wyatt’s bags. Halting next to Wyatt, the horse tossed his head and stomped his foot. He didn’t care for being woken to work.

With a pat on his neck for a thank you, Wyatt swept up Quinn’s bags and stowed them with his. “I’m listening.”

“You are the first.” At his nod, she canted her head. “Are we the last?”

“I hope not.” In truth, he wasn’t certain. Quanto had hidden Adam’s activities from him until he neared the end. “Shaman face many enemies—not only the White incursions, but yes, you two may be the last.”

“The one called Buck…he does not know?”

“Many things.” Not sighing, he secured the last bag, then pulled a fresh shirt from another. Tugging it over his head, he let the buckskin warm him. It was one of the few he’d hand tooled himself. The others he’d given away to his siblings. Setting his hat on his head, he listened to the changes in the wind. A faint thwock echoed in the distance. “Be specific, little mother.”

“Does the one called Buck know why the other First One kills us?”

The other First One… No, Adam wasn’t the other First One. Not anymore. “I don’t know. Do you know why?”

“Because we are of the Blood.”

Inclining his head, Wyatt nodded. “Protect her Jimmy. She and Buck may well be the last of their kinds.” The last of all of them.

“And the McKennas? What about them?”

A whisper of breath on the wind, the faintest scrape of a boot against rocks.

“Later. Go now.”

Jimmy didn’t care for the response, but Blue gave him a long considering look. The Cheyenne woman carried herself and her power well. In her eyes, Wyatt almost thought he could see the past.

If only he saw the promise of a future. The two finally obeyed, leaving he and Goliath alone. He clasped his hands behind his back and waited. The breeze increased.

“They’re gone, Quinn, and we should talk.”

A scrape of boot on stone, and she achieved the hill. Tall grass rustled as she paced toward him. “You knew I was there.” It wasn’t a question.

“I knew you wouldn’t go far. You only wanted to make sure the McKennas were safe.” She protected the witches. That much he understood. “You need your things, and you want to kill me. To kill me, you have to stay close.”

“Are you the one I have to kill or is it the other?”

Pivoting, he faced her. Without her hat, her dark hair gave into the pull of the wind. Nearly his height, she was not a fragile woman by any measure. Like Blue, Quinn wore her power well, but she used witchcraft as easily as she did her blades and fists in the fight.

“You’re not a witch.”

She inclined her head. “No, I am not.”

“Nor are you Fevered.” Or at least she wasn’t only Fevered.

“As you are not only the first of the Fevered.”

No. He was not only Fevered. He was also of the Blood. A born shaman, one of the most powerful his father had ever seen. Or so he had been, a long time before. “What are you?”

“I’m the Vanguard.” The word wasn’t familiar, but the sentiment was. “The universe gives nothing without exacting a cost.”

He waited.

“Your parents created you. They twisted their magic together, forced the spirits of one world to work with the spirits of another.” Forbidden magic. He’d not understood it as a boy or as a man until it was too late.

“And?”

“And you were the first—you and your brother.” Truth. “But you were not the only.”

Wyatt stilled. “You are not Cheyenne.” Though his mother had been white, he and his brother more resembled their father, save for their eyes. “They did not touch you with their work.”

“They touched everyone. Their magic twisted for everyone, the force rippled through the otherworld, and the spirits were bound—white, the People—all. My mother was a Traveler. My father, Onyota'a:ka.” The People of the Standing Stone. Shapeshifters. They could blend into their surroundings so well, none could track them.

“You are Cursed.”

“Aren’t we all?” Humor, the first glimpse of it, softened her mouth into a mockery of a smile. “You are the hammer. You wield death. You force the world to obey you.”

“And you’re…?”

“Life. I free the world, so it may live as it wishes. The spirits were never meant to be bound forever, crippled and twisted.”

She took his ability. Weakened him. She dropped the others. “You consume the gifts of the Fevered.”

“Like the serpent who eats itself, so the world may be reborn.” She was his opposite. “I free their spirits. I do not relish killing them, but the shadow man is destroying all of those of the Blood. The McKennas are the last.”

“Who are they, really?” Though he thought he knew. It was only those of the Blood Adam wanted to destroy.

“Your mother was Alicia Matthews.” Was. “They are the last of her clan.”

“You are their defender.”

“No, I protect them because it is right. Yet, I was born to destroy you. To bring the balance back.”

Well, at least she was honest. If only it were that simple. “You can’t kill me.”

“Not yet.” She smiled, the expression transforming her briefly. “But I’m a quick learner.”