The Naughty Box (9 books in 1 box set) Read online

  Contents

  Safe Word

  Hunter’s Blood

  A Perfect Passion

  Taste Eternity

  The Goddess of Blackwater Pond

  Marcus

  Trifecta

  Nila Believes

  Slowburn

  Safe Word

  By Sarah Jane

  This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Published by Hot Ink Press

  Text Copyright 2013 by Sarah Jane

  Cover by Rue Volley for Vivid Designs

  Prologue

  The icy sadness of winter bled all color from my life. By the summer, even my dreams were in black and white. The imagery in my sleep lured and repelled me. I ran through rooms painted in intricate earthy patterns, I saw faces with faded yellowed eyes peering from behind blackened masks; thorny vines crawled across my arms and legs. These dreams set my nerves on edge; except for one which happened every night so I knew it had meaning for me: an owl sitting on my windowsill, a white feather floating above my bed, and four swirling smoky circles rotating above the floor of my room as they coalesce in the middle.

  Something whispered in my ear. “That image is not for you”.

  ***

  He sauntered down the street with a slow, but agitated gait; his eyes darted from side to side under the umbrella of his long lashes. Stopping in the shadows outside of the 9:30 Club, his gaze never left mine as he leaned against the bricks to finish his cigarette. I remembered him from last night’s dream, his warm breath on my neck. “I’m here, Sparrow,” I heard through the night wind. His golden eyes, unblinking, held still in the night air. Somehow, I was not afraid.

  He can’t help you. Who whispered now?

  Later that night, he came again as I slept, he smiled and his eyes glowed as if hot embers lurked inside. His black hair skimmed his collar and shimmered like liquid. Tall and smooth, his ochre skin reflected the moon while the dampened smell of pine enveloped me. I can feel him, always as I sleep. His presence bled warmth as his hands twisted gently into my hair. I missed him when I woke up.

  The next night, another strange voice, from another girl, lurked in the corner of my room. “This one,” said the girl’s faraway voice, “seems not afraid.” My eyes, half open, squinted to see her. Her form gradually developed, like an old Polaroid photo. Her pale, blanched skin accentuated her pointy features. She looked like a newly hatched baby bird, all angles and bony white. “She’s strong, Istowun-eh’pata.”

  “I hope so,” he said without looking at her.

  “It’s almost time. Her mother passed it to her.” A violet haze surrounded the girl. Vines and flowers crept up her arms and snaked through her hair. “You come here every night. You must be sure.” She walked closer to me like a predator, her hands clasped together with twisted fingers. I heard clicking in the air and I felt a cold mist.

  “I haven’t heard her say it.”

  Say what? I don’t know whether to scream or stay still.

  “The safe word? Yes, you must wait,” said this bird-like girl. “But she is changing already. See?”

  See? See what? I wondered. I rolled over to face my bedroom wall.

  “Fire,” she disappeared into my wall. “She has the fire inside.”

  The sound of paper curling into itself filled my room and the faint scent of burnt ash wafted in the air.

  Chapter One

  You wouldn’t expect the turn signal to work, but it did. Still clicking like a metronome, the sound indicated the right turn that was never made. The metal sides of the car were peeled back, the doors were torn, and the windows splintered and shattered. Wheels and hubcaps were either twisted or missing along the roadside as gas leaked from the car. The smell of turpentine and blood hung in the air. Billy Idol’s White Wedding still blared on the radio, through the dust, through the horror, through the blood stained seats. Yes, it would be a nice day to start again.

  I looked over at my mother and saw that the whites of her eyes were almost completely red. Her mouth was frozen, with her lips parted. She looked at me, but there was nothing. No maternal softening in her eyes, no smile formed at the corners of her mouth. Her blood seeped through her shirt and made a small puddle underneath her, becoming thicker as it mixed with the dirt and dust alongside the road. One of her legs was unnaturally crooked and I saw the bone in her right upper arm. Her tattooed skin and muscle were skewered back from the impact.

  My mind raced. This must be a dream, this can’t be right. This cannot be my mother. The air was humid for February, but I felt the cold as the blood dried in my hair. Sticky, matted, damp. My left arm was contorted, but I couldn’t feel it as the wind covered me with a veil of sandy dirt. I lay back, waiting to wake up. Please wake up!

  “Is she alive?” I asked the paramedics as they hurry from their ambulances. I can’t move, but I needed to be next to her. I clawed the ground in her direction and my agitation made the younger paramedic nervous. He looked at the older man beside him. Their eyes locked. Finally the older man said, “The mother is in cardiac arrest. Severe internal bleeding. Bring the girl over, this might be it.” My mind froze and my heart broke into a million sharp blades. My throat closed as two other paramedics worked frantically over my mother, putting in intravenous lines and bandaging her deepest cuts. Her shirt was ripped open and all I wanted to do is cover her.

  My mind raced back to earlier in the day. It was the morning we both raced to her old Jeep.

  “Do you want to drive?” she asked. We drove to work together, she was a lawyer on the reservation and I was finishing law school at University of Montana.

  “No thanks. I still need to put on mascara. We have a client today, remember? Mascara is my finishing professional touch”

  “How about some BBC News this morning?” Mom smiled.

  “Oh, come on,” I made an exaggerated long face. “How about something not so…refined?”

  I don’t remember exactly how, but the Wave of the 80’s radio became the compromise. We buckled and I started to make my lashes as long as humanly possible. When satisfied, I glanced into the passenger side mirror at the road behind me. The lines on the road hypnotized me as they whiz past.

  The rest I am not sure is really the truth, because afterwards, the only thing I clearly remember, is death. The long, unavoidable, cold reach of death. As I looked up at the sky from where I lay, I realized the truth is like the bright sun beating down through the holes in an old rusted tin roof. Part of it shines on you, but you have to go outside and search for the rest. One day, when you feel the blunt force of it, you can own it. Or maybe it owns you.

  I am brought next to Mom, on the side of the road. Wet dirt and tears burn my cheeks. Her eyes are dull and her lips pale, her shiny hair is dusty. I can see her hands reach out for mine. “It’s a good day to die,” she holds my arm fiercely. Her lips don’t move. “But as you grieve for me, watch for the him. Pick the right one. You are marked.”

  “Marked?” I sputtered in confusion. “What mark? A tattoo? Watch for what who?”

  “Istowun-eh’pata. Trust him.” Then nothing. There will be no more from her in this life.

  I can’t bear to l
ook at her anymore. I wonder what the moment between her life and her death was like, was there a choice? Was there a sudden spark or did everything simply go dim… My heart beats slower in my chest as if the devil himself gripped it.

  Now her words are all I have. I looked up into the bright sky as the sun shattered into a million shards of brightness. I prayed, for her sake, that it was a good day to die.

  I was completely numb, in a way I still am. My legs were nothing but road rash. Quickly, I was strapped down and loaded into an ambulance as the paramedic smiled at me, “Hang in there, honey. Hang in there.” And I did.

  ***

  Nobody ever sleeps in a hospital. The lights stay on, the monitors beep, and nurses are always whispering, typing, and checking. Plastic bags dripped liquids into my body. Cuts and bruises covered me. A cast is wrapped around my arm, beginning at my right wrist and entombing my entire arm, up to my shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry,” I woke up to hear Aunt Shelby next to me, her hand rests gently on my thigh. She must have flown in from Washington, DC. It must be bad.

  “It’s so bright in here,” I whispered to her. The lights hurt my eyes and my eyelids felt like a cat’s tongue scraping over my eye with each blink. Aunt Shelby rose from her chair. I suddenly felt alone. “Please, don’t go.”

  “I’m just turning off the lights. You had me so worried, Sparrow.”

  She squeezed me affectionately and intertwined her fingers with mine. “She was so strong, your smart and brave mother. But she will always be with you, and you know if you look for her, you will find her.”

  “I wish I were more like her,” I answered back with hoarse difficulty. A sob rises in my chest.

  “You are very much like her. You will see that soon enough. But right now, focus on getting your strength back. You need to heal. The rest will take care of itself.”

  I’m not sure if I know what she means, or if I really want to know. Her short small fingers fidget as she pushes back her cuticles. “Am I going to be okay?” I could muster no more words.

  “Yes, love. A bad concussion, bruised ribs, and a nasty broken arm. Nothing permanent. Do you remember anything?” She asks slowly. Her face morphs from a sympathetic smile, to serious concentration. I grimace with the memory. “Nevermind. Just get some rest. I don’t mean to upset you.”

  She poured some water into a pink plastic cup and holds it up for me to drink. While stroking my legs, she straightened my blanket, mindlessly pulling out the hills and valleys of the fabric.

  “Your mother was strong for a very long time. She kept our reservation strong, too. But there are always forces, from the inside and the outside, that want to destroy it.”

  I want to destroy you.

  “Did you hear someone say something?” I shook my head to clear the strange voice of a girl. I swallowed a yawn, as my eyes filled with tears.

  “No, darling. I’m the only one here. Get some rest. I’m interfering with your recovery. We’ll chat later, love.” She leaned in to kiss me, and her eyes stared at me as she comes closer, trying to find a place on my face that isn’t swollen or bruised.

  The nurse came in and broke the stillness of our grief. Her cheerful scrubs and bouncy shoes lightened the mood of the room. “You can have some pain meds now, honey.” She checked my pulse and oxygen levels, and then peeked under my bandages.

  “No,” I mumbled, trying to keep the stress from my voice. I am tired of being sleepy and confused.

  “Okay, but push this button on the side of your bed when you are ready, the one with the silly nurse’s cap. You’ll be first on my list.” The nurse turned to leave and pulled the curtain behind her. A young man stood in the corner. The one from my dreams, almost six feet tall, lanky, tan, hair dark like mine.

  “Aunt Shelby,” I ask groggily, “Who is he? Behind you, over there.”

  She looks behind her and shrugs. “No one is there, love. You’re tired. Close your eyes.” She got up to leave. “I’ll be back later.”

  His presence agitated me. He stood and stared at me in the corner, I was too afraid to say anything. One of my monitors started beeping and the nurse rushed back in. She checked all the leads connecting me to the machines, chastising me for refusing the pain meds. “You’ll heal faster if you rest. Pain causes inflammation which will slow your healing, you know.” Her voice sounds slightly annoyed. “There aren’t any awards for getting better without meds.”

  “Who is that over there, behind you?” I asked the nurse, pointing towards him, still watching me. I was certain they were giving me pain meds without me knowing. I felt like a melting piece of chocolate, reality dripped out of my sides leaving a big spot of grief where strength once lived.

  “Where?” She turned to look and then smiled back down at me like I’m a child afraid of snakes under the bed. “There’s no one there, honey.” She patted my foot. “Listen, you just need some rest.”

  Everyone thinks you are crazy. No one hears her. No one sees him.

  Chapter Two

  Three Months Later

  The cab drove me to the airport with the windows all the way down. It was eighty degrees, perfect and humidity-free. A beautiful day on the Reservation, the blue sky was interrupted only by cottony white clouds and the bright yellow sun of early summer.

  “Where are you flying to?” asked my cab driver.

  I resented the intrusion, so I shared only a sliver of truth. “Washington, DC.” Nothing else. I don’t feel like connecting.

  The driver squinted, looking into his rear view to study my expression, as if he knew there were much more to my story. The full truth is that I had a one-way ticket to Reagan National Airport to start the next phase of my life. Aunt Shelby, a political lobbyist, pulled strings to get me enrolled in Georgetown University Law School. “Sounds like you have a lot to look forward to. The nation’s capital is a fine city.”

  “Yep,” I answered flatly. My eyes glazed as the burnt rust and summer yellow of the reservations landscape reflected in my window as I said good-bye. Good-bye for now.

  You can’t run away from me. I will shadow you. Just say the word. You will be safe.

  I buried my life, as it once was, deep in my heart. I prayed for my people, who will remain.

  ***

  The first morning I woke up in Aunt Shelby’s house, I was on the floor, wrapped in an expensive duvet and comforter. Everything inside me felt like it had been crashed into; my organs, my spine, even the muscles in my neck feel pained and pierced. I reached for the alarm, which hasn’t gone off yet, and showered quickly. I throw on some clothes and stroke on a fast coat of mascara. In the kitchen, Aunt Shelby cooked breakfast, smiled and then rolled her eyes at my purple hi-tops.

  “Your shorts are too short,” she mentions. I’m just glad she says nothing about my camisole.

  “Wow. Bacon.” I kiss her on the cheek. “I thought you didn’t eat meat anymore.”

  “Bacon doesn’t count, Sparrow. Even vegans eat bacon,” she jokes, laughing at herself. “And sweetheart, don’t forget a sweater over that teeny tiny top. DC is a conservative city.”

  There is no safe word for you…

  Chapter Three

  Seven nights have passed, and I’ve had no dreams. My eyes burned from lack of sleep. Each slow blink scratched the parched desert of my eyes.

  “It’s dusk,” he whispered at the corner of my room, looking out my window at the darkening clouds.

  I jumped and startled. Not because of his voice, but because of its wistful tone. His eyes locked on mine.

  “I’m awake, you know. And I’m not under the influence of prescription pain medications either. I can see you, but I don’t know who you are.”

  “You can? Why aren’t you frightened of me?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I believe my mother sent you.” My eyes watered and I pulled the sheets up over my arms.

  He smiled at me, and shyly looks towards the floor. “My name is Istowun-eh’pata. Call me Mateo.”


  “Why do you come here?” I asked again, but I’m too exhausted to be afraid of the answers.

  “Because I am the strongest guide. The more you are threatened, the more visible I will become. With me near, no one will harm you. I will be here until you are strong enough to go home.”

  “No one’s been threatening me.” I stare at him, but wonder about the bird girl.

  “No one you recognize is threatening you,” he corrected.

  “And maybe this is my home.”

  “And maybe you have one foot in two worlds.”

  ***

  As we rush into our primary grade Blackfoot language class on the reservation, most of us aren’t wearing green for St. Patrick’s Day. I remember how our teacher greeted us in the doorway.

  “Where’s your green?” asked Mrs. De La Croix, while we run past her. We either narrowly miss her playful attempts to pinch us or we hold up our hands, triumphantly colored with green marker.

  “Hustle, girls,” she calls out to the lingerers in the hallway.

  “I say, you say,” she announces to us. Her stick points to a color chart in English and Blackfoot. She taps down the list.

  “Green,” she begins. “Sai sikimokinaattsi.”

  “Green,” we reply. “Sai sikimokinaattsi.”

  We must take turns reading the chart alone. We must close our eyes to listen to the rhythm of each word.

  “I do this so you remember. Not to embarrass you.”

  A large painting of a Blackfoot Jesus, with Blackfoot Indian children, graces the wall next to posters of three prayers: The Glory Be, The Hail Mary, and The Our Father. We also learned the language of the Creator and Napi, but we couldn’t pray to them here.