Shifters in Britain? My brain was starting to spin and I needed another subject change. “Bridger?”
“Hmm?” His hands moved slowly up and down my back.
“What do you mean when you say you’re bound to me?”
His hands paused and his dark eyes lit up, like the sun burning behind rain clouds, yet he didn’t say a word. Tentatively, I put my hand at the nape of his neck and coiled my fingers in his thick hair.
“Shifters have different instincts than humans,” he said, as if my touch released his words. “Some can sense danger. You already know I can feel what people around me are feeling.”
“Yeah, about that. If you were feeling what I was feeling so strongly, why didn’t you feel when I turned into an animal?”
“Actually, I did. I always feel you, but you don’t feel different when you shift. Whether you’re human or animal, you feel like Maggie Mae—there is no difference between the two. A Shifter’s instincts are tied—”
“Oh my gosh!” I gasped, gripping the neck of Bridger’s shirt.
“What?”
“Tito!” Bridger’s eyebrows knit together. “The dishwasher at the Navajo Mexican? He was the mountain lion that attacked me in your front yard. I could totally feel him. Whenever he was around, I got all creeped out. Is that what you mean by instinct?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“So what does that have to do with you being bound to me?”
He pressed a finger against my lips. “If you shut up for five seconds, I’ll explain. I shift into an eagle. Eagles … stay together for life when they find a mate. Even though I am human, I still have the instincts of an eagle, in some ways. Like my father. Once I fall in love, I cannot fall out of love. I am stuck loving you for the rest of my life. So I hope …” His voice trailed off and his finger dropped.
“What?”
“You’ve never said how you feel about me, Maggie.”
I rolled onto my back and stared at the hanging lightbulb. I remembered the warmth that coursed through me whenever I met Bridger’s eyes, thought of how my heart sped up double-time every time he touched me, thought about kissing him, about watching him ride his bike and throw a Frisbee clear across a giant field. Then I thought how, for the first time in my life, I knew who I was, and in spite of all my flaws, he still loved me. I felt free to be myself in front of Bridger despite my shortcomings. I let the warmth from all of those things fill me.
His face appeared above mine and blocked the light from my eyes. “Wow,” he whispered. He stared at me for a long time, as if reading in my eyes all the feelings pulsing through me. Slowly, he leaned down. I could feel his breath on my face, feel the warmth radiating from his lips, but before they touched mine, he pulled his face away and sighed, easing out of the sleeping bag.
I sat up, staring at him. “What?”
“That’s what,” Bridger whispered, looking at the closed door. A heartbeat later the door swung open and a tall, dark man strode into the room. “Dad.”
Mr. O’Connell looked past his son and focused on me, accusation burning in his gray eyes.
“Dad, you remember Maggie Mae,” Bridger said.
I forced a smile to my face and pulled the sleeping bag to my chest.
“Nice to see you again,” Mr. O’Connell said. He wasn’t whispering and his voice seemed horribly loud.
“They’re gone?” Bridger asked, standing.
“Yes,” Mr. O’Connell replied. He cleared his throat and looked down at me again, dark eyes studying me like I was a pebble lodged in his shoe. Unable to hold his gaze, I focused on the ceiling and tried not to cringe. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Mr. O’Connell said, “She’s safe. Move her to a guest room. But give me fifteen minutes to clear out. And I need a quick word with you, son.”
Bridger followed his dad from the room and pulled the door shut behind them. Their voices barely resonated through the stone-walled room, completely indecipherable. Call it Shifter instinct, but somehow I knew they were talking about me. I closed my eyes and tried to make sense of their words. When I couldn’t, I concentrated on my ears, focusing on making them work like a cat’s. Slowly, my ears adjusted, shifted the tiniest bit, and the conversation taking place on the other side of a closed door changed from deep echoes to a conversation that might as well have been being held right in front of me.
“… because I don’t love Angelene! I tried. I really did, Dad, I swear,” Bridger argued. “But there’s nothing left between Angelene and me.”
“You didn’t try hard enough,” Mr. O’Connell insisted. “Sometimes you have to fan the coals to make a flame.”
Bridger groaned. “There aren’t even coals left! Just a pile of cold ashes.”
“But this other girl—”
“Her name’s Maggie Mae.”
“She’s so ordinary. So unlike us! I don’t understand how you formed an attachment to her in the first place. Why you chose her,” Mr. O’Connell snapped.
My stomach dropped. I’d known all my life how insignificant I was, but it hurt to hear it stated so confidently by someone who didn’t even know me.
“I didn’t choose her! I fell in love with her!” Bridger said, voice tight with anger. “And she’s a lot less ordinary than you give her credit for. If you weren’t such an elite snob, you might actually be able to see the good in people from other social classes.”
“Just don’t tell your mother until you’re certain this girl is the one,” his father replied, voice weary. “It will break her heart.”
“I already am certain. Nothing is going to change.”
His father sighed. “Move her to a guest room in fifteen minutes.”
“I will. And … thanks, Dad. For coming.”
“It’s what we do. Why don’t you come upstairs with me. See me out.”
Footsteps echoed on the cement floor and faded away.
I snuggled down in my sleeping bag and closed my eyes, content in the knowledge that Bridger loved me no matter what his dad said.
If Bridger came for me fifteen minutes later, he didn’t wake me. I spent the whole night in the basement and didn’t wake up once.
38
Two days later, we drove to the deserted mine. Bridger pulled his SUV to the side of the dirt road and we got out. I squinted against the hot afternoon sun and followed him through a sparse copse of trees to a round, fathomless hole in the ground—another place where the parched earth had been swallowed by the mine. Icy air oozed from the hole and crept down my spine.
“Bridger, why did you bring me here?” I asked, rubbing my hands over my arms. The mine was the last place I wanted to be.
Bridger looked at me. A shadow of fear danced in his eyes. “There are Yea-naa-gloo-shee here,” he whispered.
Dread turned my legs to mush and I grabbed Bridger’s arm to keep from falling.
“They’re dead, Maggie,” he said gently, wrapping his arms around my waist. “My father killed the Walkers that stayed to see if you were dead. Their bodies were disposed of in this sunken mine shaft.”
I shivered in spite of the hot afternoon. “Who was the woman at the gate? Is she dead, too?” The woman from my nightmare.
“When the Skinwalkers need to communicate, they have a designated Speaker—someone who keeps her human form. She was gone before my father arrived, but I described her to my father. He believes she’s the Speaker for a Skinwalker named Rolf Heinrich.”
I gasped and dug my nails into Bridger’s arm. “Did you say Rolf Heinrich?”
Bridger’s eyebrows rose. “Do you know Rolf Heinrich?”
“He was one of the tigers—the men I told you about—who were hunting me here. I killed him.”
All color left Bridger’s face. His hands grew clammy against my back, so clammy I could feel them, like ice through the fabric of my T-shirt. “Are you certain he’s the man you killed?”
“Yes.”
“You killed the Skinwalkers’ leader—their most formidable fighter. If I had to guess, I would say the ability to survive against impossible odds is one of your natural instincts.” He looked at my hand and began prying it from his arm. My nails had made four half-moon indentations in his skin, right above three wolf-inflicted scars on the back of his wrist.
I thought of Rolf Heinrich’s naked corpse lying atop the tiger pelt. “If a Skinwalker dies in the shape of an animal, does he turn back into a human?”
“No. If you kill them instantly, they don’t have the power to change back. They are dead animals. If you wound them, they can change back to their human shapes, but they’re not like us. They don’t heal. Sometimes they still die.”
That made sense. Rolf Heinrich didn’t die instantly. He shifted back to his natural form and bled to death. My stomach churned and I peered over my shoulder, toward the distant dirt hill topped by a faded red flag.
“What is it?” Bridger asked, his hand slowly moving up and down my back.
“There are three bodies in the mine shaft over there, the one below Evening Hill,” I whispered. “Two are animals, but the third one’s Rolf Heinrich.”
He pulled my head against his chest and ran his fingers through my hair. “He’ll never be found. My father is destroying the mine. He wrote an article for the local newspaper claiming it’s too dangerous to leave the abandoned mine as it is, which is true, but that isn’t the motivation behind his decision. He’s disposing of your hunters.”
I looped my arms loosely behind his back, content to rest my head against his chest. “How many died?”
“Only a few. Most of them left after you were shot.”
“How’d he … kill … them?”
“My father …” I looked up when he didn’t continue. His lips were pressed together, as if he couldn’t speak another word. He looked at me and took a deep breath. “He had a lot of help—other Shifters.”