Never Look Back. Sheri WhiteFeather
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it draw him near? Or would she be tempting fate? Allie didn’t know what to call herself. She wasn’t a witch. Native witches used their power to perpetuate sickness and death, to do harm unto others. But by the same token, she wasn’t a shaman. Shamans used their power to conduct ceremonies and cure illnesses.
So what am I? she wondered. A grown woman who believed in fairy tales? Who thought Prince Charming wore tattered clothes and big, dark wings?
Unable to stop herself, she reopened the window. A little water damage was better than the raven barreling into the glass.
Finally, she went into the kitchen to feed Samantha and fix a snack. She opened a can of cat food and scooped it into a bowl, but Sam didn’t come running. The animal approached her meal warily, still smarting over the weather. Water pounded on the roof like a thousand angry fists.
Dark and heavy. It was a male rain, Allie thought. Or so she’d been taught. And since that knowledge had come from her mother, she battled a quick chill, rubbing her arm and disturbing her bandage.
Trying to focus on food, she diced an apple and cut bite-size chunks of cheddar cheese. A glass of wine came next. She needed something to pacify her nerves.
Then she got the urge to call Daniel, to ask him what ravens ate. It might help to leave some food out for the bird. She glanced at her cat. When Samantha had been living on the streets, Allie had earned the stray’s affection by feeding her.
She looked up Daniel’s number and punched out the digits. The phone rang and rang. Finally, she left a message on his voice mail. It hadn’t occurred to her that he wouldn’t be home. Where would he go in the rain? Allie intended to stay put.
She finished her wine, then poured another glass. She deserved to get tipsy. She was alone on a stormy night with powers that confused her.
Screw it. A third glass of wine did the trick, giving her a nice buzz. Who cared if she wasn’t a witch or a shaman? Who cared if magic—her supernatural gift—didn’t make any sense? It was part of who she was, of what made her special.
The phone rang and she grabbed it on the second ring. “Hello?”
“It’s Daniel.”
“Oh, hey. That was quick. Where were you?”
“In the shower.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t about to envision him without his clothes. He wasn’t the naked type. Fogged glasses, maybe. Bronzed and bare, no way.
“What’s on your mind?” he asked.
She popped a piece of cheese into her mouth. “I want to know what ravens eat.”
“Damn, woman. You’re obsessed.”
“Yep. So what’s their diet like?”
“They’re omnivorous. They eat animal and vegetable substances. They’re attracted to carrion, too.”
Hmm. She couldn’t recall what that meant. She blamed it on the wine instead of her scattered mind. Allie usually had a zillion thoughts going at once. “Carrion?”
“It’s dead and putrefying flesh. Like a deer that’s spoiling.”
Her stomach roiled. “That’s gross.”
“You think so?” He chuckled. “They eat the insects that feed on carrion, too. Mostly maggots and beetles. Oh, and they’ll chow down on the afterbirth of ewes and other large mammals.”
Now her stomach was turning something awful. “Let’s discuss the kinds of non-animal foods they prefer.”
“What for?”
“Because I’m a vegetarian.” She set her empty wine glass on the counter. “And I’m fresh out of maggots and afterbirth.”
“You’re going to try to lure the raven with bait?”
“That’s the plan.”
“I forgot to mention that they eat spiders.”
“That’s not funny.” But she laughed anyway. “Come on, Daniel, be a pal.”
“All right. Fine. Berries, nuts, corn, grains. Whatever you can scrounge up. They’re not picky.”
“I can do that.”
“Ravens take their food from the ground and store it. So leave it in a place that seems natural. No fancy plates. No silverware.”
“No kidding,” she said, enjoying his sense of humor. She wondered if she should set Daniel up with one of her friends, with someone who thought quasi-geeks were sexy.
“Do ravens have special mates?” she asked, pursuing the question he hadn’t answered earlier.
“Some do,” he responded, still sounding hesitant. “They stay together for years, maybe for life. Females incubate the eggs, but both parents care for their young once they hatch.” He paused. “I think you’re getting too attached to that bird. You can’t become part of its life. It’s not like a stray dog that’s going to adopt you.”
What about a stray angel? she wondered. “I know. I understand.”
“Okay. Be good, Allie.”
“You, too. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up the phone and suffered an instant pang of loneliness. Suddenly the rain seemed even stronger, more tumultuous.
Ignoring the temptation to call Daniel back, she gathered food for the raven and carried it into the studio. The procedure felt familiar. Sometimes Allie left meals for her dad. The Lakota believed in feeding ghosts.
She set an ear of corn down and hoped her father didn’t think she was putting his food on the floor. Not that he ever ate what she gave him. But she knew the gesture mattered.
After making a floral pattern with sunflower seeds, something Daniel would have admonished her for, she wrote her name in blueberries. Just in case the raven wondered who she was.
She stood there for a moment, realizing how silly her effort was. She decided to sober up, to let the buzz from the wine fade away.
Determined to unwind, she closed the door and headed for her bathroom, peeling off her clothes along the way. The loft had two bathrooms, one for her and one for her sister. Allie’s was decorated with butterfly wallpaper and gold fixtures.
Finally, she soaked in the tub, adding her favorite scented oil, making herself feel soft and pretty.
Even if the rain was pounding like tears from hell.
When the water turned cold, she dried off and slipped on a long-sleeved nightgown, something to keep her warm, something to give her comfort.
After that, she treated herself to a pedicure, painting her toenails a shimmering shade of pink.
And then she cursed a little, putting a damper on her feminine mood. She couldn’t quit thinking about the raven. Yet that damned bird wasn’t going to show up on a rainy night. He was probably snug in a cozy nest somewhere, wooing his mate, feeding her maggots and cawing love sonnets.
So close the window. Forget about him.
Taking her own advice, she headed to the studio and opened the door. Then she stopped dead in her tracks, her heart somersaulting to her throat.
Dear God.
There he was. Her angel. Her protector. As big as life, as glorious as her watercolor, with his clothes clinging to his body and his hair dripping with rain.
She gulped, and his wings swooshed, making a powerful sound. Beneath his work boots were crushed berries. He stood in the center of her studio.
Allie didn’t know what to do, what to say. His eyes, the same pitch-brown eyes she’d painted, were staring straight at her.
Chapter 3
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