The Last Trace (The Chosen Novellas Book 1) Read online

  His awareness condensed to the large body moving beneath him, the sound of hammering hooves, the labored breathing of the horse. He fought with everything he had to hang on.

  As they reached a split in the trail by three cottonwoods, Trace tugged a rein and they veered off, taking the smaller trail up the slope. A dozen strides along the path and it split again. This time he took the lower one and the horse slowed, dropping into a trot.

  Relief ran through him as they came around a bend and he spotted the overhang he was aiming for. He guided the palomino to a small pine next to the rocks. The horse stopped at the tree, his head low and his sides heaving in and out. Trace slid off and leaned against the sweaty neck, barely able to keep his eyes open. He loosened the cinch, yanked the lead rope free from the saddle, and, clinging to the blond mane, worked his way to the tree and tied the panting horse.

  The bark scraped Trace’s cheek and palms as his knees gave out and he tumbled to the ground. He dragged himself into the den beneath the rock, grateful it wasn’t occupied, and collapsed. Facedown in the cool dirt, he gave in and let the darkness take him.

  ~ ~ ~

  The temperature had dropped when Trace crawled out from beneath the rock. He could only see tiny patches of grey sky through the dense canopy of the trees surrounding him, but a chill in the air told him that a storm was moving in. Though it felt like late afternoon, without the sun he had no idea what time of day it was.

  He pushed himself to his feet and frowned at the effort it took. His horse nickered, tossing its head as Trace stumbled toward it. Guilt picked at him as he realized the poor animal hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since early the evening before. He ignored his own whining, empty stomach.

  Trace rubbed the golden neck, smoothing the sweat-stiffened hair. The gelding shoved Trace with his head, expressing his hunger and impatience.

  “Sorry, horse. I’ve not treated you well lately.”

  Trace shrugged off the fatigue that still clung to his bones and tightened the cinch, then untied the lead from the tree and gathered the reins. The horse shifted his feet and tossed his head, anxious to get moving, and Trace swung up into the saddle as the palomino walked off.

  They followed the winding trail back to the creek, then worked their way downstream until the steep bank leveled out a bit. Trace guided his horse to the edge and watched the heavy clouds gathering overhead while the horse drank. He tugged loose the ties holding his robe and pulled it on.

  Looks like it’s fixing to snow.

  He frowned.

  Trace had decided the previous night that he needed to leave, that he needed to get away from the demon woman. But first he had to pack up his parents and haul them to the Flathead trading post, which was about a day’s wagon ride to the east. He knew they’d put up a fuss, but his father’s leg was healing too slowly, and he worried about them making it through the rest of the winter on their own. He’d hoped to get them moved before the first snow, but that didn’t look likely now.

  Why do all my plans keep going awry?

  He let his horse snatch at the grass along the streambank and thought about where he might go afterward. The trapping party with which he’d planned to winter was no doubt long gone, and finding them would take some doing. He flexed his jaw against his mounting frustration and glanced again at the dark grey sky.

  Need to get back before nightfall, before she finds me again. If she decides to find me again.

  White, lacy crystals were drifting through the chilled air by the time he reached the cabin. He quickly unsaddled his horse and turned him into the pen, then grabbed the rest of his gear and headed toward the door.

  Trace stopped and stood below the step, staring out toward the trees through a thick veil of falling snow, listening, waiting. Trying to ignore the damned hope building in him again.

  The quiet hum of his parents’ voices within the cabin finally broke the spell. He took a deep breath and braced himself for the storm awaiting him inside, then stepped up onto the porch and opened the door.

  He recoiled from the stench of roasting meat that greeted him when he walked in. Trace choked back the bile rising in his throat and quickly masked his expression, hoping his mother hadn’t caught it as she looked up from the cookfire. A smile brightened her face, then faded beneath lines of worry. Her mouth tightened.

  “Well, boy, did ya get the sets moved? You took ’em up to Pierre and South Creeks, right?” His father was in his chair as usual, his broken leg propped up, and his lap held part of a mule harness. He set down the stitching awl and picked up his tin cup from the floor. He studied Trace over the rim, his brow furrowing.

  Trace walked over to his sleeping corner and dropped his gear, leaving his robe on. He took another deep breath, then turned and faced his father.

  “No, I didn’t. I pulled ’em.”

  “Whaddya mean, ya pulled ’em? Thought you was gonna move ’em. We still got a good month of season left!”

  “There’s nothing up there. They ain’t paying now anyway. Just a waste of time.”

  “They’re still payin’! Malachite said he’d gimme a good rate. Maybe not as good as last year . . .” Red-faced, his father swept the harness from his lap and it clattered onto the floor.

  “Yeah, and not as good as the year before, or the one before that.”

  “Don’t matter. I got a deal. You don’t wanna run those sets, then I’ll do it meself.”

  His father stared at him defiantly. Trace recognized the challenge in his eyes.

  Not gonna take the bait. Not even gonna look at his leg.

  “Nah. We got a storm moving in. No one’s running any sets anywhere.”

  “Supper’s ready.” Trace’s mother brought his father a tin plate filled with roasted venison and bread.

  Scowling, his father took it and stuffed a chunk of sourdough into his mouth. Crumbs trickled into his thick beard and hung there while he chewed.

  “Are you eating, Son?” Her soothing voice dissipated some of the tension in the air.

  Ever the peacemaker, thought Trace.

  He glanced at his mother waiting by the cookfire and shook his head.

  “Naw, I ate earlier.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. She pressed her lips together and nodded, then turned back to the fire.

  “I dunno what’s the matter with you, boy. There’s only three things to throw a man off his feed. Whiskey, fever, or women. Since you don’t favor the whiskey . . .” His father sneered and raised his cup. “And since yer up an’ walkin’, my guess is it’s a woman. And the way yer sneakin’ around, I’m bettin’ she’s someone else’s.”

  Rage knifed through Trace and his vision darkened. His eyes narrowed as he glared at his father.

  “It’s none of your goddamn business!” He stormed to the door and jerked it open, then yanked it shut behind him.

  Trace stood on the porch, shaking, his fists clenching and unclenching. He turned and smashed one into the wooden planks of the door and grunted at the pain that exploded through his hand.

  Why does he always have to be such a sonuvabitch? God damn him!

  Rubbing his hand, he stepped to the snow-covered ground. The flakes were still coming down, and he could barely see the trees on the other side of the small clearing. He tucked his robe tighter around him and stood peering into the darkness, listening.

  Waiting.

  Trace realized his knuckles were bleeding, and he raised his hand to his mouth and sucked on them. The hunger in his belly screamed and he bit the ragged skin without thinking, then winced.

  God damn her.

  He heard the door open and tore his hand away from his mouth, quickly wiping his lips. The snow crunched behind him.

  “My son, he’s just worried about you. We both are.”

  “I don’t need his worry. What I need is to get the two of you packed up and over to Flathead Post. His leg ain’t gonna be healed in time to finish the season, and I . . . I just can’t be here no more.”r />
  “He won’t go.”

  “Then he can stay. I’ll take you to your sister’s.”

  “No. I stay with him.”

  Trace turned around. Frowning, he gently grasped his mother’s shoulders.

  “Why, Mother, why? I just don’t understand . . .”

  “He’s a good man. I know he’s changed, and not always for the better, but he’s been good to me. He’s a strong provider. Look at this beautiful cabin he built for us.” She gestured toward the well-crafted log walls. “And he was so proud of how you helped, how hard you worked.”

  That was twelve years ago.

  Trace looked beyond her to the little log cabin, with snow settling on the sod-covered roof and smoke from the rock chimney weaving its way between the falling flakes, and recalled the long days working alongside his father to build it. Felling the trees and notching the logs, raising them into place, his mother packing the gaps with the mixture of dried grass and mud—those were some of the few times he remembered them all working together as a family.

  They’d finished it that summer, then added little touches to it over the years, like the wooden floor and the porch. Though they were on the move most of the time, following the trapper camp, they’d managed to live here for a small part of each year. His father had said he liked the feeling of having roots. It was the closest thing to a real white man’s home Trace had known.

  He sighed and looked back at his mother.

  “You know he’s not gonna be able to run those sets this season. And I think he should see a doctor.”

  His mother looked at him and shook her head.

  “He refuses.”

  Trace took another deep breath and released her shoulders.

  And then he felt Angelique’s presence, somewhere nearby.

  Relief flooded through him and he bit his lip.

  He didn’t know how he knew she was here, but he could feel her inside him, wanting him. To his embarrassment, his body responded, and he stepped back. He resisted spinning around to gaze into the forest and instead forced himself to turn slowly so as not to alarm his mother.

  “I . . . uh . . . I’ll just hafta try to talk some sense into him. But not tonight. Tomorrow.”

  “Are you all right? Did you hear something?” His mother stepped up beside him and touched his sleeve.

  He glanced down at her worried face staring toward the trees and felt a jolt of fear for her.

  “It’s nothing.” He brushed the melting snowflakes from the top of her head and kissed it. “You should go back inside. I’ll be in later.”

  “My son . . . I’m so worried for you. Please tell me you haven’t joined a raiding party.”

  Trace nearly laughed aloud.

  “No, Mother. I’m not out thieving and killing. You raised a better son than that. Now go on in.”

  She looked up at him, sadness filling her eyes, and nodded. Shaking the snow from her shawl, she pulled it tighter around her and headed back to the cabin.

  Trace stared into the forest and listened as his mother stepped onto the porch and opened the door. He looked back at her, giving her a quick smile. She returned it and disappeared inside.

  His heart pounding, he set off across the clearing in a jog, then stopped at the edge of the trees and peered through the white-flecked gloom. He felt Angelique’s presence stronger toward the southeast, and began weaving through the brush in that direction. Anticipation prickled his skin, and he swallowed and increased his pace.

  Angelique stood by the base of a large cottonwood next to the creek. Her cold expression was intensified by the inhuman red light shining from her pupils. Trace slowed and forced himself to cross the remaining space at a walk, the snowy curtain between them thinning as he neared. He stopped a few feet from her and took a breath in an effort to calm himself.

  She tipped her head.

  “I have rules.” Her tone was icy, stern, commanding.

  Whatever you say. Just don’t leave me again.

  He nodded.

  “As much as I care for you, mon chéri, you no longer sustain me. I must feed elsewhere. You must not interfere. Do you understand?”

  His jaw tightened.

  “If this is a problem, then we cannot continue. I will leave this place and you will never see me again.”

  He took a deep breath and nodded.

  She stepped forward and touched his cheek with her cool fingers.

  “You are very special, mon amour, and I have come to treasure our time together. Things have never progressed this far for me, and I would hate to lose you. But you must accept what I am and what I need. Otherwise . . .” She shook her head.

  The only sound Trace heard in the deadened silence of the night was the beating of his own heart. He considered his words carefully.

  “The way you make me feel . . . it’s different from anything I’ve felt before. I can’t seem to break the spell you’ve put on me, and when I’m with you, I don’t wanna break it.” He brushed the snow from her tangled yellow hair. “I just don’t know if I can share you.”

  Angelique smiled.

  “Ah, but you won’t be sharing me with anyone who matters. The others will never see the part of me that I show you, nor be able to give me what you do. They’re nothing more to me than a deer in the woods is to you.”

  Trace frowned. He remembered what she’d said about stalking him.

  “What’s changed? You hunted me.”

  She laughed, a musical laugh that the falling snow was unable to mute.

  “Why, mon chéri, you survived.” Bright wonder shone in her eyes. “You’ve survived.”

  She leaned forward on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Now come.” She took his hand. “Are you hungry?”

  At the thought of his empty belly, it growled and twisted.

  He gave her a wry smile and shrugged.

  “Can’t seem to eat much these days.”

  “You’re just not eating the right thing.” She tugged at his hand, then dropped it and started off along the creek bank. “Follow me.”

  Concern rippled through him, and he suddenly felt very afraid.

  “Wait.”

  Angelique stopped and turned around, her eyebrows arched.

  “I have some questions first.”

  Her expression grew thoughtful and she walked back to stand in front of him.

  “Ask.”

  “I need to know what you are.”

  She laughed and shook her head.

  “My people call themselves The Chosen.”

  “Your people? There’re more like you?”

  “Oh, yes. But not many. Most are in Europe. Supposedly there are a few here on this continent, but I’ve yet to meet any.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  She smiled.

  “A long time, mon chéri, a long time. Now, shall we go find you some supper?” She turned and walked back along the creek, ending their conversation.

  Trace heaved a sigh and followed her.

  ~ ~ ~

  They traveled for several miles beside the rocky bank, snowflakes still drifting down around them. Trace watched the grace with which Angelique moved, her light step, her effortless glide across the rough ground. She seemed unaffected by the cold in her thin coat and bare feet, which didn’t really surprise him since her skin always felt cooler than his.

  Need to make her a pair of moccasins. Get her a new dress, too, when I take the folks to Flathead. Maybe she’d even like to come along.

  Angelique stopped, her nose raised in the air, nostrils flaring. She turned to look at him, her eyes blazing red, and smiled, the tips of her fangs indenting her lower lip.

  Maybe not. He shook his head.

  She put out a hand and gestured for him to stay put, then crouched down and crept along the edge of a small, snow-blanketed meadow. Trace watched her melt into the trees and only caught glimpses of her as she circled the clearing.

  A movement on the othe
r side of the meadow caught his attention. Several does were bedded down beneath a large pine tree. He looked back at the woman, realizing they were her target.

  He watched in disbelief as she neared the unsuspecting animals, then with a speed too fast to track, she launched out from the trees into the middle of the deer. Before any of them could lunge to their feet, she straddled one, grabbed it by the nose, and wrenched its head. He heard its neck break, a sharp sound like ice cracking on a pond. The other two does leapt away into the forest.

  Angelique stood up and waved him over, and he tramped through the snow to where she waited. Trace looked down at the dead deer, unable to ignore the dread building in him. He watched as she bent down and grabbed the doe’s muzzle and slashed open the furred throat with nothing more than her nails.

  Steaming red blood poured out onto the snow and he stared at it, fascinated.

  “Mon chéri, it’s not going to come to you. Come. Taste it.” She stuck her fingers into the crimson stream and held them out to him.

  It suddenly struck him that this could be his future, that his life was gradually being reduced to fearful days spent hiding from the sun and unending nights of hunger, sex, and blood.

  That’s not part of my plan.

  He stood tall and looked down at her and shook his head.

  “No. I’m not like you. I don’t drink blood.”

  “You drink mine.”

  He felt the flush of embarrassment color his face.

  “That . . . that’s different.”

  “I suppose for you it is. But this is something that you need in order to keep up your strength. It will sustain you—trust me.”

  But I don’t want to be like her.

  Yet he couldn’t deny the allure of the blood which kept drawing his gaze. He tore it away to look at her again.

  Red eyes stared into his, trapping him. He felt himself kneel and take hold of her pale wrist, then raise her bloody fingers to his mouth. He hesitated, and she pushed them between his lips.

  He closed his eyes and sucked on her fingers. A despair he couldn’t put to words rose within him, then faded as she withdrew her hand and leaned forward to kiss him. He wrapped his arms around her and roughly pulled her to him, losing himself in her cool, sweet mouth. But as he started to tug at her skirt, she pushed away.