Never Look Back. Sheri WhiteFeather
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to ward off the lingering dizziness, to walk to the bathroom and splash some water on her face. Last year, she’d lived through some craziness with her sister, fighting bewitched creatures Zinna had conjured.
But this seemed strangely erotic. As confusing as it was, she couldn’t stop the heat that spiraled through her body, the attraction that left her wanting him.
Her angel.
She bandaged her wound, and once she got her sea legs back, she returned to the studio and set about cleaning up the mess, wiping the spilled liquid and putting the shelves in order.
Samantha crept out from under the chair with the bird’s feather in her mouth, moving like a jungle cat, slow and steady, her shoulders arching, her rangy muscles bunching. Drama queen, Allie thought. The shape-shifter was gone.
Gone.
The word reverberated in her brain. She took the feather away from Sam, putting it in the oak cabinet for safekeeping. She needed to find out who or what the angel was. At this point, she didn’t know if he was a manifestation of her magic or if he’d existed before today—if his image, the details she’d painted, went beyond the strokes of her brush.
She reached for the window screen, intending to replace it. But she changed her mind. She left the window as it was, just in case he decided to return.
To come back to her.
Samantha meowed, grabbing her attention. She blinked and scooped up the cat. She didn’t need to worry about leaving the window open. Aside from it being too high for Samantha to reach, Allie and her sister lived on the fourth floor in a commercial building, a downtown loft in the Los Angeles Fashion District that was located above a trendy shoe store and a gourmet coffee bar. Home invasion robberies weren’t part of their realm.
Then again, Kyle Prescott had broken in one night. Of course, Kyle hadn’t been robbing them. He was Allie’s trainer, an Apache militant who’d staged an attack. At times, she thought he was the toughest, most capable man on earth. And other times, she thought he was as dense as a rusted doornail. But the feeling was mutual. The nickname Addle-brain had come from him.
She closed the studio door and carried Samantha down the hall, placing her on a velvet sofa. The living room had been decorated with rich fabrics and mystic accents. The walls were covered with a mural she’d painted, with unicorns and fairies and an armor-clad knight slaying a dragon. Luckily none of those beings had jumped to life.
Allie wished she could call Olivia, but her sister wasn’t available. So she dialed Kyle’s cell phone number instead.
He answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“It’s Allie.”
“I know. I saw your name on the caller ID. What’s up?”
She decided not to waste any time. “Do you know anything about ravens?”
He made a perplexed sound. “What?”
“Ravens. Those big, black birds. One flew in my window today.”
“Damn it, Allie. Did you do something weird?”
“No.” She wasn’t about to tell him about the raven’s transformation. Not because he wouldn’t believe her. He’d been involved in combating last year’s witchery, and he knew she’d been experimenting with her magic. But she wanted to keep the angel a secret, to let her romantic notions linger. Everyone had a partner but her.
Kyle was married with a baby on the way. He’d wed a homicide detective, a lady Allie respected and admired. She’d helped them get together, in the same way she’d helped Olivia commit to her FBI lover. Allie liked playing matchmaker. She’d always believed in love.
Kyle’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Are you sure you didn’t do anything weird?”
“Yes.” She wasn’t lying. Not completely. She was simply omitting a few details. “I’m just curious about ravens now.”
“Then you should talk to Daniel Deer Runner. He’s a member of my Warrior Society.”
How was one of Kyle’s hard-edged militants going to help? She wasn’t looking for someone to hunt the bird down and kill it. “Why should I talk to him?”
“Because he’s half Lakota, like you, but he has a tribal affiliation with the Haida Nation, too. Raven is a demigod to them, a major part of their mythology.”
Her pulse jumped. Any little bit would help. She reached for a pen and paper. “What’s his number?”
“Hold on. I’ve got it programmed in my phone.” A second later, he rattled it off.
Allie jotted it down. Then she drew a black bird on the paper, coloring its wings with bold marks. “What does Daniel do?”
“He’s a veterinary technician at the zoo.”
She looked at Samantha. The cat was curled into a ball, napping on a gold-tasseled pillow. “So he would know about real ravens, too? And not just the mythological kind?”
“That’s why I recommended him.”
“Thanks, Kyle.”
“Sure.”
She said goodbye and disconnected the line, preparing to call Daniel Deer Runner.
For now, he was just what Allie needed.
The following day at five-thirty, Allie arrived at Daniel’s house. He lived in an average district of North Hollywood, where nondescript homes blended into each other. But not Daniel’s. His in-need-of-repair structure sat on a bed of dying grass and flourishing weeds, with a weathered tire hanging from a solitary tree.
She exited her economy car and noticed that he drove what she called a terrorist van. The white, nearly windowless vehicle was parked in an oil-stained driveway.
His house was even worse than Kyle’s, and that wasn’t an easy feat. Kyle was a junk dealer.
She trudged up the walkway, dodging loose stones and chipped cement. She rang the bell, but nothing happened. Figures. It was broken.
As she knocked on the door, she noticed a brittle green hose rolled up in the dismal flower bed. An ugly brown spider had built its home in the center of the hole. She made a disturbed expression. She hated bugs.
“You must be Allie,” a deep voice said.
She jerked to attention, unaware that the door had swung open. “And you must be Daniel.” He looked like a Native American nerd, with a solid, six-foot-plus frame and horn-rimmed glasses. His medium-length kettle-black hair was combed straight back, revealing a square jaw, a flat-bridged nose and killer cheekbones.
Did he think the glasses made a pseudo/L.A./artsy statement?
Behind the dorky specs, he checked her out. His gaze swept the long, lithe length of her, taking in her Southwestern flair—the loose cotton fabrics and silver-and-turquoise jewelry she’d bought at a pawnshop.
She assessed his style and noticed that his white, button-down shirt and shrink-to-fit Levi’s were clean and pressed. She thought it was weird when people ironed their jeans, but at least he hadn’t put a crease in them. On his feet, he wore a pair of high-top, black-and-white tennis shoes.
“So what do you think of my house?” he asked.
Allie didn’t know what to say. She glanced at the garden hose. Its occupant had disappeared.
“That bad, huh?” He gave her a goofy grin. “And here I thought this place was a chick magnet.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Not quite.”
“Was it the spider that ruined it for you? He and I are buds.” He turned to look at the web and noticed that it was vacant. “Traitor.” He grinned at Allie again. “I should have known better than to trust an arachnid.”
She