The Warrior. Dinah McCall
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Night Walker had screamed until his voice was nearly gone. He’d prayed and begged and cursed the Old Ones, demanding to know why he alone had been spared. The muscles in his body were starting to tremble. His gut was a knot of pain. He’d pulled at his hair and ripped his own flesh with his fingernails, needing satisfaction—wanting to die.
Then he saw the leader suddenly stand up in the canoe and point at him.
He screamed into the wind and slapped his own chest over and over, daring the man to come back and fight, but the invaders were still moving toward their winged canoe.
There was a loud noise, and then everything, including time, seemed to slow down. It was still raining, but suddenly it was as if he were seeing each raindrop as it fell, hearing his own heartbeat over the roll of thunder, feeling the exhalation of his own breath more sharply than the wind hitting him in the face. In the midst of that reality, he saw something fly from the hand of the man who’d killed White Fawn, coming at him, cutting through the rain, pushing aside the air with a high-pitched whistle.
He stopped, his arms dropping at his sides as he watched it come, accepting that this was death. The Old Ones had heard his prayer. Whatever this was, it would end his life in battle in an honorable way. He would join White Fawn and the others. He would not walk this land alone.
He waited. Unblinking. Barely breathing. Watching as death came for him.
Then it hit.
He waited to feel pain.
Expected to see his own blood pouring down his chest.
Instead, it bounced off the broad expanse of his chest and fell into the water.
He grabbed his chest in disbelief.
“No!” he screamed, then spun toward the village, striding to the shore, staring at the bodies, willing them to rise up and walk. This couldn’t be happening.
He’d tried to avenge them, but the enemy was escaping.
He’d tried to die, to go with them, but he’d failed at that, too.
He looked over his shoulder. The man in the canoe was staring at him in disbelief. Night Walker’s misery was complete. He didn’t notice that the wind had died and the rain had quit falling. All he could think about was everything he had lost.
Then the clouds parted, and a single ray of light poured down onto the shore, bathing him in what felt like fire.
So…now I will die.
He arched his back, lifted his arms above his head, closed his eyes and waited to be consumed. Instead, he heard drums, then voices, and even though he couldn’t see them, he knew he was in the presence of the Old Ones. When their chants turned into words, he fell to his knees.
“Night Walker—son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, son of the Turtle Clan—we hear you. Brave son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, you have fought well. You have honored us in life as you honor us in death. Look now to the great waters. Look upon the face of your enemy and know that whatever face he wears, you will always feel his heartbeat. Son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, we have heard your prayer. Son of the Ah-ni-yv-wi-ya, listen to our words. You will live until the blood of your enemy is spilled upon your feet. You will live until you feel his last breath on your face. Then and only then, will you be as all men. Then and only then, will you suffer and grow old. Then and only then, will you live until you die. But for now it as you have asked. You will live.”
The light disappeared. The clouds blew away. Night Walker swayed, then staggered where he stood. The Old Ones were silent. The fire was gone, and he was not consumed. He looked to the water. The enemy was climbing aboard the great canoe and scrambling about as if they were crazed.
He saw the tall bearded man standing at the front of the canoe, staring toward shore. He felt the man’s blood pulsing through his body in an urgent, panicked gush, though he did not know why.
Vargas was in shock. He had witnessed the savage’s baptism in fire, expected to see him incinerated, been shocked to see him standing safely on the sand. The men around him began talking in hushed tones, attributing magical powers to the fact that though the savage had been shot, the bullet had bounced off his flesh like a single drop of rain. That he’d been struck by lightning and walked away unharmed.
Vargas was afraid. He didn’t know what had just happened, but when it came to the supernatural, he was out of his element. Yet what other explanation could there be? The savage had killed more than twelve of his men single-handedly, been shot without suffering a wound and been struck by lightning without being burned. The man should be dead, and yet they were the ones on the run and the savage was standing alone on shore, watching them go.
He knew his crew was scared. They’d all been through something they didn’t understand. But it was over. It was over, and he was still alive to tell the tale. He wanted to turn his back on the whole thing and pretend it had never happened. But there was the matter of all those dead men, and the still-pressing need for food and fresh water.
He felt the eyes of his men on him, waiting to see what would happen next. He’d lost face when he’d let one single man—and a savage, at that—put him on the run. He turned his back to shore and faced the crew.
“Hoist the anchor!” he shouted.
Even though two men ran to do his bidding, no one would look at him. A shiver of fear ran through him. Sailors were a superstitious lot. If they lost trust in him, his own life was in danger.
He shoved one of the crewmen who was running past him. “Weakling! Make haste, or I’ll feed you to the fishes.”
The sailor staggered, quickly righting himself before hurrying to do what he’d been told. The captain was angry, and they all knew him well enough to know that he would take his anger out on whoever was closest.
But the ones who’d been on shore with Vargas weren’t afraid of him—not anymore. They’d seen him panic. They’d seen him turn tail from only one savage and run like a woman toward safety. They were sick and hungry, and someone needed to be blamed for their situation. Vargas was the logical target.
By the time the moon rose that night, Vargas was standing at the end of the plank, begging for his life. It never struck him that the savages he’d killed that morning had been doing the same thing. He didn’t feel remorse for what he’d done to them—only that his life was going to end in such a humiliating fashion.
A shot rang out.
Unlike the shot he’d fired at the savage that morning, this bullet quickly found its mark. He felt a fire in his chest, and then he was falling, falling.
Water closed over his face, then washed up his nose, choking off the curses he was heaping on the heads of his mutinous crew. The last image that swept through his mind before he died was of the savage pointing at him from shore.
One
Georgia—Present Day
Despite the hundreds of years that John Nightwalker had been on this earth, he had yet to feel completely comfortable wearing clothes. And from the look the female bank teller was giving him as he stood in line at the First Savannah Savings and Loan to cash a check, she would have been perfectly happy to help him strip.
John felt her gaze but was ignoring all the signals. Not only was he not in the mood for dallying with a stranger, she was wearing a wedding ring—a big no-no for him. He shifted from one foot to the other, then looked down at the two little boys clinging to the legs of the woman in front of him and grinned. The oldest one smiled back, while the younger one continued the exploration of his right nostril with his index finger.
“Hi,” the older one said. “My name is Brandon Doggett.” He pointed toward the little guy. “That’s Trevor Doggett. He’s my little brother.” Then he pointed at his mother’s backside, which John had already noticed was quite shapely. “That’s my mama. Her name is Doggett, too.”