Then Genny’s presence reached out and enveloped him.
She was alive. She was unhurt.
She grabbed his arm as if she could see him in the dark. “What’s wrong?”
He embraced her, closed his eyes, and held on to her, gasping with relief.
“I can feel the forest. It’s worried . . .” she said.
Unseen, John nodded. He could feel it, too.
Brandon was out there, doing . . . something . . . wicked.
“Come on.” John followed his senses, and led the way toward the river.
When they were halfway there, he knew where they were going.
The truth hit Genny at the same time, because she whimpered and tried to move more quickly through the darkness under the trees.
But her instincts weren’t as finely honed as his. The brush and roots tripped her.
He caught her once. Twice.
They broke out of the forest above the river and below the observation post on the cliff. The moon glimmered on the water, the sandy bed was pristine white—and across the way, the trees leaned inward almost as if they were racked with the same anxiety that brought John to an abrupt halt. He held Genny back, looked up and down the river, and listened.
“This way.” She pulled him back into the trees and along the path that led to the den where Mama Cat lived with her kittens.
“Quietly,” he said on a breath. “Be silent as a bat on the wing.”
“Yes.” Here, close to the river, the quarter moon provided enough light to see. Barely enough, but she no longer stumbled.
They went around the bend, came to the place where the path slid steeply down to the river. The trees parted; John saw Brandon standing across the river by the lynx den, a kitten in one hand, a blue plastic crate tilted up and open beside him.
The kitten cried pitifully.
Genny dropped her backpack and exploded into action.
John tried to stop her, but she jumped six feet onto the riverbed, ran across the stones that spanned the water, as silent as a bat on the wing . . . but in the open, she had no chance.
For Brandon saw her—and pulled a revolver. “Forget it, Genny. You can’t keep these for yourself. I’m going to make a little money, too.”
Genny skidded to a stop, slipped off the stones, splashed ankle-deep into the chilly water. “What money? I haven’t made any money.”
“Then you’re a fool,” Brandon said viciously.
“So I’ve been told,” she said with awful irony.
Behind her, unseen, John smeared dirt on his face.
“Brandon, are you going to shoot me?” she asked.
John noted with approval that she managed to sound hurt and slightly pathetic . . . and he began the methodical process of moving into position.
“I won’t shoot you as long as you don’t try and stop me.” Brandon sounded tritely pleased, as if he were reading a script. “These kittens are going out on a plane tonight.”
“No!” Genny darted forward out of the water. John froze, lifted his hands, prepared to willfully use the power that two years ago had broken his will . . . and his heart.
But when Brandon clicked the safety off, Genny paused again. “Those kittens are tiny babies. If they’re taken from their mother, they’ll die.”
“They’re weaned.” Brandon was callous and triumphant, and he focused intently on Genny.
Keeping low, John crossed the river upstream, in plain sight—camouflaged by movements that so closely resembled a stalking cat, and by dirt on his skin and clothes.
What was happening here was John’s mistake. John’s fault. He had humiliated Brandon, and when he did, he underestimated the depths of the boy’s wounded pride and malice. John had to make this right.
The second kitten climbed out of the den and yowled as if defending its sibling.
Brandon dropped the baby cat he held into the crate.
“Oh, Brandon. Be careful!” Genny’s anxiety was not feigned. “These are rare creatures and—”
“I know. You love these pussies, don’t you? Love them more than anything in the whole world.” He reached greedily for the second kitten.
Out of the corners of his eyes, John saw a movement, the slow, slinking motion of a lynx. Mama Cat blended with the night. Her eyes gleamed as she stalked Brandon.
Brandon didn’t even realize he was in trouble. He picked up the other kitten, holding it loosely in one hand, the way a drunk would hold a snifter of brandy.
John moved on him from one direction.
Mama Cat moved on him from the other.
By his foot, the crate rattled as the ten-pound kitten fought its captivity.
Genny moved forward by inches, her gaze fixed on Brandon’s face. “I do love them. Don’t you? You came here to find them, to protect them.”
“No, I didn’t.” He sounded absolutely scornful. “I came because my father insists I do something useful; and if I had found a lynx, I would have gotten credit. But as it is, I’ll still get attention.”
The crate beside his foot rattled.
“It’s the wrong kind of attention,” Genny said urgently. “There’s no honor in this.”
“Oh, right. You get all the honor, all the glory, because you managed to find the lynx. Gee, Genny, how did you do it?”
John heard the mockery in his voice.
Genny was too focused, too worried for the subtleties. “I was lucky.”
“Lucky?” Brandon’s laughter put John’s teeth on edge, made Mama Cat move a little more quickly. “You weren’t lucky. You were a ringer. You’re a cheat!”
“I didn’t cheat. What do you mean?” Genny was obviously bewildered. “How could I cheat?”
Because he knows about me. John now realized the source of the trouble that swirled through the forest; somehow Brandon had discovered the truth about the photos, about John, and . . . and he knew how John felt about her. Because John had visited the traktir to see her. Because John had cut his hair, changed his clothes, subdued his wild self for her. Because he had courted her without saying a word. Most of all, to protect her, John had carefully, so carefully, ignored her in public.
“You pretended you didn’t know about that creep. That yeti. And all the time you were sleeping with him.”
Genny halted. She put out her hands, palms up. “I’m not sleeping with anyone.”
“You lie. John Powell. John Powell!” Brandon’s voice rose, echoing up and down the riverbed. “You know him! You used him to find the cats. You used him like you used me.”
“I never used you.”
“You’ve known him all along!”
The lynx was moving into position, her gaze fixed on Brandon and the kitten he held.
“I have never lied to you.” Genny’s voice sharpened. “But, Brandon, I’m not required to tell you the truth. I owe you nothing.”
John wanted to shout at her. Error. Genny! Error.
Brandon’s face worked; then he smiled a crooked, maniacal smile. “I don’t owe you anything, either, but I’ll give you something.”
In a careless, graceless motion, he tossed the kitten toward Genny.
Chapter 24
Everything happened at once, and in the feeble light of the moon, Genny saw, heard, felt it all.
The kitten soared through the air, spitting and clawing. Desperate, she leaped to catch it.Brandon fell backward so hard, he might have been hit by a freight train, and the pistol flew out of his grip.
The kitten froze in midflight.
Genny stood underneath it, her hands up, her jaw dropped.
The mother lynx leaped out of the darkness, claws extended, intent on taking Genny out.
And something heavy hit Genny from the side.
She flew through the air, hit the sand and skidded, the breath knocked out of her by the impact.
A muscled mass—John—landed on her.
In a daze, Genny heard Mama Cat snarl, felt her weight drop on top of John.
Something to
re. John tore. Genny felt John convulse, heard him gasp in pain.
Then Mama Cat sprang away . . . and Brandon shrieked in terror.
In a tiny corner of her mind, Genny experienced a savage satisfaction.
Some fluid dripped off John and landed beside Genny’s ear.
She opened her eyes, breathless under the burden of his body.
A dark liquid pooled beside her and sank into the sand, the coppery smell of blood all too evident.
Mama Cat stalked toward Brandon, eyes fixed on him, teeth bared.
And although Genny knew it was impossible, the kitten still hung in midair, curled up as if held by an invisible palm.
Then she knew the truth she had so carefully ignored.
John was truly Chosen.
For one incredulous moment, she rubbed her forehead on the cool, packed sand. She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it. But to deny what was before her eyes was ridiculous and futile.
And someone needed to handle this situation before it got any worse.
She pushed at John. “John? John? Can you hear me? Let the kitten down.”
John gathered himself, an obviously painful process, and rolled off her. By slow inches, he lifted his hand.
Like a feather on the wind, the kitten descended to the sand and ran toward its mother.
Genny was reminded she wasn’t the only one who had seen the miracle, for Brandon was breathing in loud, irregular moans.
To break through his terror, Genny sharpened her tone. “Brandon. Let the kitten out of the crate. Let it out now.”
Gibbering like a monkey, Brandon pushed over the crate with his foot.
The second kitten sprang free.
Mama Cat paused, distracted by the return of her babies.
“Brandon,” Genny said softly. “Run.”
He did, and his flight excited Mama Cat’s predatory instinct.
The lynx sprang after him.
He screamed and disappeared into the forest, the big cat on his heels.
“I hope he gets lost.” Genny turned to John.
“I hope she eats him alive.” John lay sprawled on the sand, eyes closed, breathing deeply. The denim shirt was shredded at the shoulder; blood oozed from the wounds.
In pursuit of her kitten, the lynx had attacked Genny, and John had put himself between them.
Mama Cat had clawed him, sliced his muscles into ground beef.
“Stay here.” Genny ran back across the river and up the path, grabbed her backpack, then pelted back down again. She had water in her shoes and sand up her nose, and her ribs hurt when she breathed. But compared to John . . . She knelt beside him, pulled out her first-aid kit, opened it.
She had one roll of gauze. That wasn’t going to do it.
She dug deeper in the backpack. Her hand touched her sweatshirt. She pulled it out and pressed it against his shoulder. “Hold it on there,” she told him.
He did as he was told but otherwise wasn’t moving, and that told her all too clearly how much he suffered.
She got the scissors, the small pack of sterile wipes. She lifted the sweatshirt, cut away the shreds of his denim shirt, saw three slashes across his pectorals. The longest cut was the length of her hand and had laid back skin, showed muscle and sinew. She dabbed at it with the shirt, and worried about the fecal matter and bacteria that the lynx collected on her feet. The wound should be cleaned, and the first-aid kit wasn’t equipped to handle something so serious. “How polluted is the river?”
“Gold mines above. Best not to take a chance.”
The lynx returned, her pace measured.
She was clean, with no blood on her fur, but she fixed her cruel gaze on Genny and stalked toward her.
Then her kittens ran to her, crying their distress. She halted in her tracks and nuzzled them, licked the Brandon scent off their fur, picked up the boy in her mouth, and started up the river. The girl cat scampered behind them.
“She’s moving them to a different den,” John said. “We’ll never see them again.”
“I think that’s the least of our problems.” Already, his body was giving off waves of heat. It wasn’t possible for a normal man to sicken so quickly, but this man wasn’t . . . normal . . . “John, why didn’t you use your . . . your . . .”
“Power?” he supplied softly.
“Power,” she agreed. “To block the lynx’s attack?”
“I needed to knock Brandon and that damned pistol out of the picture. I needed to protect the kitten. When I’m on the run, I can only project in so many directions at once. Since I knew I could reach you in time, and an attack by the cat was probably not fatal . . .” He shrugged, and winced.
“We have to get you into town to a doctor.”
His laughter held a raw sound. “After what happened here? No. If Brandon lives—Mama Cat wasn’t bloodied, so I assume she let him go so she could return to her kittens—he’ll be back at the inn, babbling his version of events. We’ll be lucky if the villagers don’t lift their torches and come to hunt me down.”
“You’re not Frankenstein,” she snapped.
“I’m a freak.”
“You are not a freak, you’re . . .” She paused, struggled.
“You can’t even say it.”
“You’re Chosen.” There. She did say it.
“I warned you that’s what I was, didn’t I?” He sounded affronted and bitter. “The first time I met you, I told you the truth. I didn’t let you walk into this situation blindly.”
“I always knew what I was getting into.” Before this went any further, she had to explain who she was, who her father was, what she had promised to do. “John, I have something to tell you.”
“Whatever it is, I don’t want to know right now.”
“You really should let me talk.”
“I can’t. I haven’t got a lot of time.” He struggled to sit up.
She helped, and tears filled her eyes as blood sprang anew from the marks on his shoulder. “If you don’t want to, we don’t have to go into Rasputye, but you do need a doctor.”
“No, I don’t. I’m Chosen. This is going to be a serious infection—”
“How can you sound so certain?”
“I can tell.” He challenged her with his gaze. “But I heal quickly. A few bad days, and I’ll be all right. Help me up and I’ll be on my way.”
All right. She would tell him later about her father and the notorious deal she’d made. It was probably better that way. John needed to recover without fretting about her motivations.
As she slid her arm around his uninjured shoulder, got her feet under her and lifted him, she shivered in shame. Because she wasn’t keeping the truth from John merely for his good health. She was quiet because she was afraid—afraid he wouldn’t understand, afraid of his anger, afraid that when he knew the truth, he would turn away and she’d never see him again.
He fascinated her. He challenged her.
She’d witnessed the truth about him. He’d proven his gift.
And now . . . she wanted him more.
He was heavy, but stronger than she realized; and when he was on his feet, he tried to disentangle himself. She looked up at him, into his bare face that still looked so alien, into the eyes that were so familiar. “Where are we going?”
“I’m going home.”
“Then I’m going with you.” She felt his body tense against her. “There’s no use arguing.”
“What are you going to do? Chase me through the forest?”
“What are you going to do?” she mocked him back. “Run away when you’re in pain? Leave a trail of blood like bread crumbs for me to follow?”
He opened his mouth to retort, then closed his eyes and swayed.
He was fevered. He was weak. He was in shock.
She picked up her backpack and, using the same cheery, ruthless tone as the nurse who had helped her prep for her tonsillectomy, said, “You know me. I’m not letting an injured man go off to take care of
himself. I’ve never done stitches before, but if you won’t go to Rasputye, I guess I can learn.”
“No stitches.” He shook his head in heavy amazement, and started walking down the sandy riverbank. “Do you know that some of the Chosen Ones are marked at birth, and some must earn their mark?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I’ve never had a mark. I’ve been shot at, stabbed, burned, but I’ve never had any scars or permanent marks that would prove I was Chosen.” He staggered slightly. “I believe an enraged mother protecting her babies finally gave them to me—and perhaps there is justice in that.”
Chapter 25
John didn’t admit it, but if Genny hadn’t helped him, he wouldn’t have made it back home. The infection swept through him, stealing his strength; and when she asked how the illness could come on so quickly, he mumbled about being Chosen.
He sickened quickly. He healed quickly.It was what happened in between that he worried about.
He barely made it up the last steep, rocky climb to his home.
He had oh-so-carefully made his cabin secure, using the subtle tricks he’d learned in the military, and now he leaned against the doorframe and ran his fingers over the latch. The narrow pine needle he had placed there last night remained, assuring him no one had come through the door. So he opened it and stumbled in.
He dragged Genny after him. Or rather—she refused to let go, to allow him to fall to his face on the dirt floor. She used his weight to propel him facedown onto the primitive wood bed. The feather mattress was barely wide enough for his shoulders and long enough for his legs, but flat enough that he felt every rope stretched across the frame beneath the mattress. It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t large. But it had been here when he moved in and he hadn’t cared enough to improve it.
“Roll over,” she said.
“Right.” He gathered himself, pushed away the pain, and rolled over.
She shed her coat and backpack, carefully climbed on him and unbuttoned his shirt.
The heat of her soaked into his flesh. The scent of her filled his head like potent perfume.
He groaned in exquisite agony.
She paused. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I don’t know how else to get you out of these clothes.”