Sheri WhiteFeather - Never Look Back

Raven blinked at her. They still stood in the studio, with rain beating on the roof and a puddle of water on the floor. “Why would you say that?”

She gestured to the painting, to the image she’d created of him. “Because a portion of it has already been broken. You’re human once again. And you’re not paralyzed. You can walk and talk. The ghost sickness is gone.”

“Half of my soul is still missing.” He put his hand against his chest. “I can feel it.” He paused to frown at the portrait. “And I am not completely human. I still have wings.”

“You only have them because I painted you that way.”

He spread the wings in question and they opened like enormous fans, as dark and compelling as the expectancy in his eyes. “Can you unpaint them? Can you make them disappear?”

“I can try. But I’ll need some time to prepare.” To get in the right frame of mind, she thought. To stop thinking of him as an angel.

“What about the rest of the curse? How do I get my soul back?”

“I’m not totally sure, but it seems possible that if someone in Zinna’s family—someone who practices positive magic—returned the necklace to you, it could become a talisman, drawing your soul back and breaking the rest of the curse.”

“Are you offering to do this?”

“Yes.” Her pulse jumped in anticipation. “How many years has it been? Is it closing in on a hundred?”

“In another month, it will be so.” He took a step in her direction. “How will you retrieve the necklace after all this time?”

“I’ll delve deeper into my ancestry, into the witch realm. Sorrel took the amulet from you, and she was my grandmother. She’s dead now, but I’ll track her life, her old belongings.”

“Did you know her when she was alive?”

Allie shook her head. “She died before I was born. But my mother spoke of her from time to time.”

“Does your mother still live?” he asked.

“Yes.” A shiver shot through her veins. “She’s in prison. For three counts of murder,” she added, her stomach clenching. “I’ll have to visit her.”

“And this will be difficult for you?”

“Emotionally, yes. Technically, no. When she first went to prison, she mailed my sister and me the visitor’s forms. I wanted to throw them away, but Olivia said we should fill them out and send them in.”

“Olivia is your sister?”

“Yes. She’s psychic, and she had a premonition that one of us would have to see our mom. She didn’t know exactly why. Sometimes Olivia doesn’t get clear-cut visions or feelings. Sometimes it’s only snippets of information. Things that don’t seem to make sense at the time.” She shifted her stance. “We both hate our mom.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Then why did your mother send the forms?”

“That’s what prisoners are supposed to do if they want someone to visit them. But we knew she’d done it to be snide. To remind us that no matter what, we were still her daughters. Still related to her by blood.”

“To a killer?”

“Yes.”

Raven didn’t say anything else, and his silence was deafening.

She noticed his hair was still dripping with rain, and his clothes remained slightly damp. She reached for a towel, taking it from a nearby shelf. She always kept a supply of linens in the studio.

He dried off and returned the towel to her. She clutched it for a moment, then draped it over an empty easel. “Why don’t we go into the living room? It’s cold in here.” She walked toward the door. “I can fix some tea. And I can tell you about this century.”

He followed her. “I am already familiar with the way the world is now. I have watched it change. I know of its progress.”

Of course, she thought. He’d seen it through the eyes of a raven. She walked into the hall and waited for him, but he couldn’t get through the door.

His wings were stuck.

He struggled in the narrow opening, turning his shoulders, trying to force his way through.

Finally, he made it into the hallway, but the impact of his effort propelled him a bit too far and he bumped straight into Allie, nearly knocking her off her feet.

She teetered, flailing for support. He reached out to help and caught her arms.

And then they looked at each other.

Depth. Warmth. A skin-tingling sensation.

He brushed the bandage under her sleeve. “Is this covering the wound I gave you?”

“Yes.” She swayed a little. His face was only inches from hers. “What’s it like being a raven?”

“Confusing. When I’m in that form, I have the comprehension of a man, but I react like a bird.” He continued to hold her arm. “I didn’t mean to bite you. To hurt you that way.”

“It’s okay. It was instinct.” A conflict of nature, she thought. “I should make that tea.”

“Are you still cold?” He hadn’t released her.

She took a lust-driven breath. “No.”

“Nor am I.” He glanced at the front of her nightgown, at the flutter of feminine lace. A second later, he shook his head and stepped back. “I miss my wife.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He’d been married to a woman that he’d desperately loved. That he hadn’t forgotten, not even a century later. And here she’d been worried about the bird having a mate. How ironic was that?

They walked into the living room and Samantha darted into a corner to hide.

Raven ignored the wary cat and studied his surroundings, taking a special interest in the mural that covered the wall. He even reached out to touch the dragon.

Curious, Allie watched him.

“In the beginning, the world was covered with darkness,” he said. “The night had no moon or stars. But there were birds and beasts. One of the beasts was a dragon.” He ran a finger down its scales. “Like this. The coating on its skin came in four layers.”

“I wasn’t aware that dragons existed in Apache myths.”

“You were not taught our creation story?”

“No. I’m only half Chiricahua.”

“The witch half,” he said.

“Yes.” Her chest turned tight. “What happened to the dragon? Did anyone ever slay him?”

He nodded. “A young boy whose name was Apache. He shot the dragon four times. The fourth piercing exposed the beast’s heart and killed him. After that, Usen taught the boy how to gather herbs and how to hunt and fight. He became the first chief of our people.”

“Then maybe this is him.” Allie gestured to the knight in the mural. “Maybe I painted him without knowing it.”

“Like you did with me.” Raven made a thought-provoking expression. “You’re a shaman.”

“No, I’m not.” She resisted the urge to step back, to move away from him. “I don’t conduct ceremonies.”

“Your paintings are your ceremonies.”

“But I don’t cure the sick. I was involved in a healing once, but the main source of power didn’t come from me.”

“Not all Apache shamans heal. Some are bringers of rain. Some have medicine over snakes. Others can shoot guns without touching the trigger.”

“And I give men wings?” She pointed to the television, then smiled a little. “There’s an energy drink on TV that claims to do that.”

He smiled, too. The transformation made him look even more handsome. “I know about those entertainment boxes. I have watched them in store windows.”

And he came from the era where moving pictures were invented. “You fascinate me. The man and the raven.”

“You do that to me, as well. The woman and her paintings.”

Another intimate moment passed between them, and she told herself this wasn’t as strange as it seemed. That it was fate. Part of her destiny. Something that was meant to happen.

“I’ll get our tea.” She started for the kitchen, then stopped, turning back to look at him. He’d clarified her confusion about her power. He’d called her artwork ceremonies, associating it with shamanism.