He nodded. "I can't decide if they knew a lot or a little."

"Whaddya talking about?"

"They knew what we were," Luther said slowly. "So they brought a silver bullet and kava-kava for me, golden chains for you. But they didn't know what Faith could do."

"Which means," I continued, following his train of thought, "that they aren't after her because of Sawyer."

Silence settled between us as we continued to work things out.

"Maybe," Luther murmured, "they're after her because of her mother."

"Whoever the h.e.l.l that is. But why send humans? That's like sending a guppy after a shark."

"They kicked our a.s.s."

"Your idea of an a.s.s kicking and mine are radically different," I said.

"We're broken, b.l.o.o.d.y, and shot. They're not."

"We're alive."

"So are they." Luther set the bullet on the dresser. "They could have killed us if they wanted to."

"Not me."

Luther cast a quick, wary glance into the mirror on the wall. The only people on this earth who knew how to kill a skinwalker were skinwalkers, and they were understandably closemouthed on the subject.

"They knew how to put us down quick and easy without killing us." Luther's forehead creased.

"I wonder who told them."

"I wonder how long it'll take me to find them and kill them." I frowned, and Luther's hands tightened into fists. "We can't leave those guys out there. They know too much."

Behind his bravado lay fear. Breeds were hard to kill, but they weren't indestructible. This was the first time Luther'd had that truth shoved in his face. Poor kid.

"We have other things to do first," I said, trying to distract him.

"You don't need me."

I made the sound of a game-show buzzer as I pushed an imaginary b.u.t.ton in the air. "Wrong answer. Would you like to try again, Mr. Vincent?"

"Liz, it makes sense for me to follow, beat the name of their contact out of them, and-"

"What?" I interrupted. "Kill four men? That smells like murder to me, Luther."

"But they're-"

"People."

"a.s.sholes," he muttered.

"If we killed every a.s.shole in the world we'd have no time left for the Nephilim."

His lips twitched, but he sobered almost instantly. "They're killers. You can't tell me we were their first job. They were too good at it."

"We aren't the police." I held up a hand to forestall any argument. "We aren't vigilantes, either. We were given our powers to kill Nephilim, plain and simple."

Luther hung his head. His hair fell across his face, and his shoulder bones stuck through his T-shirt, making him appear impossibly young. Guilt flickered again. He did not belong here.

"What if they come back?" he whispered.

He'd really been scared. Tied down with no way to access what made him stronger, he'd been helpless, which had no doubt brought back memories of other times he'd been helpless and those stronger than him had taken horrible advantage.

Many breeds did not come into their magic until later in life, and Luther had been one of them. Because of this, his childhood had been a lot like Jimmy's and mine, two others who'd been late bloomers.

"Hey." I touched Luther's arm, got a quick flash of things I didn't want to see, and drew away.

Besides the fear, Luther had been embarra.s.sed. Taken by surprise, he hadn't protected the baby or me. That embarra.s.sment was fueling him now, making him angry and vengeful.

If those guys came back anytime soon, they were toast.

While the thought of their deaths was appealing-they'd planned on shooting a baby, for crying out loud-death was too easy, and I didn't want Luther involved.

"If they come back, I'll deal with it," I said. "They'll wish they hadn't."

He studied my face. "But I-"

"Will stay out of it. I mean that, Luther. Humans are not in your job description."

"But they're in yours?"

My gaze rested on Faith. "They are now."

We decided to catch a few more hours of sleep. Being captured, threatened, wounded, then shape-shifting and healing took a lot of energy.

We'd also keep watch. I didn't think the hired killers would come back, but who knew what might.

Luther insisted on taking the first shift since I'd been hurt worse than he, and therefore I'd had to expend more energy to heal. Since he was right, I let him.

I fell into bed, into sleep, into the dream.

I'm on Mount Taylor, one of the four sacred mountains that mark the boundaries of Navajo land. They refer to it as their sacred mountain of the south or the turquoise mountain. There Sawyer found the stone I wear around my neck. The mountain is magic, and it is his.

He had a secret place on the banks of a clear, cool mountain lake where he went to perform rituals he dared not practice anywhere else. Perhaps that is what has drawn me here-a ritual, a spell, magic.

I stand next to the lake in the night and listen to the mountain rumble. A few million years ago Mount Taylor was an active volcano, and sometimes, when Sawyer walks across its surface, the mountain still shakes. I wait for him to step out of the trees as he has done so many times before, but he doesn't.

"Sawyer?" I whisper.

The wind cants across my face, bringing the scent of water, evergreens, the earth. Sawyer's scent but the mountain's, too. Is he here or isn't he?

Then I catch a hint of smoke. My eyes search the darkness, but no telltale glow appears. I breathe in. Not a forest fire, not even a campfire, but cigarette smoke.

"I know you're there."

A match is struck; the flare of a flame draws my eyes. For only an instant before the tiny fire goes out I see the shadow.

Of a wolf.

Though Sawyer can turn into many beasts, the wolf is his spirit animal. Perhaps, now that he is a spirit, a wolf is the only form he has.

The scent of cigarette smoke continues to waft my way. I breathe it in like a lifetime smoker on her second year of abstinence.

I a.s.sumed Sawyer had been smoking since the Mayans discovered tobacco. He probably showed them where to find it. So I'm not surprised that even in death, he's got a cigarette.

A tiny orange glow draws my eyes to the forest. I don't think, I run, but before I get there it's gone. So is Sawyer, if he was ever there at all.

In the distance the low buzz of a motor begins. My chest suddenly feels heavy, as if something is weighing it down, perhaps despair. Every time Sawyer disappears, it reminds me of the day he died. Because right after I killed him he went poof.

He'd been dead and then he'd been gone. No body. No ashes. No Sawyer.

I turn back to the lake. Reflected on the surface are clouds in the shape of a wolf, yet when I look up the clouds are as nonexistent as Sawyer appears to be.

"Where are you?" I shout.

"Everywhere."

The voice comes from right behind me. I spin. Again there is nothing but smoke.

"Am I dreamwalking?"

"The dead don't dream, Phoenix."

"Don't call me that."

He always had, and I never minded. Until I met my mother, heard him call her the same thing, discovered they'd once been lovers and then he'd had to kill her.

His sigh is the wind with just a hint of rain. "What should I call you? Lizzy?"

"You really want to call me Lizzy?" Jimmy's the only one who's ever called me that.

The mountain rumbles beneath my feet. Guess not.

"If this isn't dreamwalking, what is it?"

"Just a dream . . . Elizabeth."

The name stirs my hair as if Sawyer himself is touching it. Teachers, librarians, social workers, lawyers, cops-people who don't know me and don't want to-call me Elizabeth. But Sawyer knows me. I think, sometimes, better than anyone. When he murmurs Elizabeth I like it.

"So"-I trail my fingertips over my hair where I imagine he has-"you're only in my head?"

"Where else would you like me to be?"

I can feel his heat against my back, as if he's right here with me. I lean into him and the heat, the pressure, intensify. He feels so there. But if I turn, if I try to see him, he'll be gone. Instead I close my eyes and wish that he'd hold me.

I haven't realized how alone I've felt with Sawyer gone from this earth. It isn't as if we were lovers in the true sense of the word. I don't think Sawyer can love-at least not anymore-and I only discovered my love for him when his death brought me his magic.

Skinwalkers are both witch and shape-shifter. The shifting comes at birth; the magic comes later-when the skinwalker murders someone he loves.

Sawyer obtained his by killing my mother. I, in turn, received more power than I knew what to do with by killing him.

I can bring up a storm, control the lightning, toss people across the room with a flick of one hand, and more. But what that more is . . . I have no idea. Just because I've taken the magic doesn't mean I know how to use it, or even what powers I have. With Sawyer dead, I needed to talk to another skinwalker for more reasons than one.

His arms come around me, and his lips brush my neck. Sawyer has always told me he can't read minds, just faces, and mine is easy. Does he understand from my expression what I crave? Perhaps he just craves it, too.

My head lolls against his shoulder. If he isn't really here, then this isn't really happening. I don't care. If this is a dream, I'll make it a good one.

I imagine myself naked, and I am. Then I lower my hands and rest them on top of his at my waist. I feel the warmth of his skin, the spike of his bones, the movements of the muscles when I raise his hands and show him what I want him to do with them.

Together we cup my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, lift them to the moon like an offering. He needs no encouragement to stroke the nipples, to tease the tips with just a slight hint of nail.

I shiver despite the heat of the night, the heat of him, shuddering when his hair tumbles over my collarbone, cascading across my skin, smooth and fragrant as summer showers. The lake laps against the sh.o.r.e, the soothing sound a startling contrast to the turmoil within.

His erection pulses in the hollow of my spine. When he pumps his hips-once, twice, again-sliding along the crevice of my backside, the pleasure is just short of pain.

I lift my arms, wrap them around his neck. He feels so solid and real, but I know better than to open my eyes. If he disappears right now, I'll want to die myself.

His hair spills over my wrists, the muscles of his shoulders rippling against my knuckles. The position is odd-me with my back to him, arms twisted ballerina-style up and behind his head. But it also presses us together in a lot of great places. I shift my shoulders, rubbing my tingling skin against the sleek, st.u.r.dy length of his chest.

The movement also creates friction between his hands and my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, his p.e.n.i.s and my a.s.s. His mouth at my neck goes from soft to sharp, a caress to a cut, lips to teeth, gentle to rough, and I crave it.

One hand slides across the slope of my breast, down the curve of my waist, a thumb outlining each spike of rib before his fingers trace my belly, swirl around my navel, then dip into the curls beneath.

Unerringly he finds my center, first teasing with a brush so light I gasp then testing my control by pressing and rolling the swollen flesh between his thumb and the bone beneath.

One long finger probes lower still, imitating the act of completion as I rock my hips forward and back, taking that finger all the way in, then all the way out, as his erection rides me from behind.

I need him inside me so I reach back as I bend over, fumbling, grasping, finding, then guiding him. Draped over his arm, he supports me, even as his finger continues to worry me, keeping the tension at a near-explosive pitch as he plunges within. His movements are slow, almost tender. I nearly sob. I'm so d.a.m.n close.

"Sawyer," I say, and in my voice lies everything I feel.

At the sound of his name, he swells, stretching, filling, completing me. One final stroke between my legs and I come, too, the pulse of his o.r.g.a.s.m fueling, fueling, fueling my own.

Limp with satisfaction, I can barely stay on my feet, but I force myself to straighten. Then I turn my head, eyes still closed.

"Elizabeth," he whispers, and his breath caresses my cheek.

"Yes." I rub my face against his. He never has stubble. His skin is as smooth and silky as his hair.