Doomsday Can Wait (Phoenix Chronicles, #2)(51)

He wasn't. Thank God.

I knew nothing about incest. The very word made me wince. The thought made me nauseous. But I had to think that the perversion had a permanent effect on the psyche of the victim. Even if the victim, and the victor, weren't entirely human.

Sawyer seemed no worse for the encounter. The same couldn't be said of me. I was shaking.

He herded me inside, shut and locked the door, then threw out his arms, threw back his head, and sang a Navajo chant to the ceiling. Watching him in the half-light, nearly naked, tattoos dancing, his long, dark hair cascading past his shoulders, I wanted him, too. And that I did disgusted me. He'd been preyed on enough.

Seeing Sawyer as a victim disturbed me. He'd always been the bane of my life. I'd feared him. I'd hated him, as he'd said. But there'd been something between us from the first moment we'd met. I hadn't understood at fifteen what that something was; I'd only known that it, that he, was dangerous.

He stopped chanting, lowered his arms, and then his head, though he didn't look at me, continued to face away from me. "That should keep her out for a while," he murmured.

I glanced at the door. "She's coming back?"

"What do you think?" Sawyer took a breath, then released it.

I found myself fascinated by the play of muscles beneath his skin, the inked images of the shark on his shoulder and the hawk at the small of his back. The crocodile on his forearm—

The image made me pause. It was new, except I'd seen it before.

In his dreams.

I wondered momentarily why he'd gotten it, then remembered what I'd felt as my fingers brushed the image—strength in my jaws, the furious urge to chase and to kill, the power over all that swam in the waters. Every being etched into Sawyer's skin was a beast of prey. Really, what good would it do to shape-shift into a lamb?

But I also had to wonder if his tattoos were begun as a defense against the indefensible. His mother had preyed on him; he'd had to become an uberpredator in order to survive—both physically and mentally. Not that Sawyer had ever seemed to have a lot of psychological problems.

Considering what I'd just witnessed, Sawyer's not having psychological problems was a problem.

"What did you do?" I asked.

He glanced over his shoulder; for an instant his face was stark, haunted, and I caught my breath. Was he going to tell me about his past? Could I handle it if he did? Then the unguarded expression was gone, replaced by his usual indifference.

"I cast a spell of protection. It'll keep her out for a few hours, maybe even the rest of the night."

"Why don't you cast that spell over and over and over again? Keep her away forever."

"She's too strong. Once she breaks this spell, it doesn't work anymore. And there aren't very many that work against her at all."

"You need to save them."

He nodded.

I opened my mouth to ask why tonight, then shut it again. Why not tonight? I could certainly use a rest from her popping in and trying to kill me.

Sawyer turned away from the door, and my gaze was captured by the tiny bottle hanging from a strip of rawhide looped around his neck.

I reached out and captured it between my forefinger and thumb. Inside was a bit of red-brown dirt.

Sawyer had gone still; he barely seemed to breathe. I lifted my eyes to his. "What did Carla do?"

He looked away, then back again, shrugged. "A spell. As long as I wear this talisman, I can walk as a man anywhere that I wish."

"And if you don't wear it?"

"Woof."

"Very funny."

"I thought so."

Yet he wasn't smiling. He so rarely did. After today. I could understand why.

"Talisman," I murmured. "Not an amulet?"

"An amulet is for protection, a talisman brings good fortune."

"Your mother—"

"Don't call her that." He didn't raise his voice; never-theless I flinched at the fury in the words.

"All right." I agreed, though what was, was, and the Naye'i was his mother. "The woman of smoke had an amulet."

"To protect her from her enemies by hiding her from their seeking eyes."

"And this?" I lifted the bottle a little higher.

"A talisman to bring me . . ." He spread his clever hands. "Me."

I nodded, laying the talisman against his chest. My fingertips brushed his skin and he shuddered, then took a step back.

"You okay?" He'd never reacted that way before; it was almost as though he couldn't stand to be near me.

"Fine." he said, and brushed past. "Without my fur, the air's too cold."

It was summer, nearly eighty degrees out there, but I didn't bother to point that out. He wasn't cold and we both knew it.

"I'll take a shower." He disappeared into the bathroom.

"I guess we're sharing a room," I murmured to the closed door.

I hadn't had much choice when he was furry, but now ... I wasn't so certain staying in the same room with Sawyer was the best idea. Not that his being furry had done anything to stop the sex—at least in our minds.

I wandered around the room, uncertain what to do with myself. I picked up the TV remote, hit the on button, then just as quickly hit the off. I wanted silence. I needed to think.