LITMIR.BIZ

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soaked the ground and he’d exterminated them from the earth.

      Blood vengeance she understood. She vaguely recalled the woman of his they’d taken after leaving him for dead on the road. The woman had not lasted long in their camp. Carrion or traded, Ih-tedda didn’t remember which.

      The boy twitched. Something in his hand rattled. The Other grabbed for him. But too late—

      Scarface jerked his reins toward their hiding place. “Mira! Aquí!”

      They’d been discovered.

      Abandoning them to their fate, she dashed into the open and headed for the deer path. She scrambled from boulder to boulder. The Other heaved the boy from rock to rock.

      Gunfire scored the cliff face. Dodging the flying chips, Ih-tedda climbed higher and higher.

      Must not be taken, Nana’s words pounded in her brain. Must not be taken.

      With a cry, the boy latched onto her long skirt, hampering her forward progress. Cursing him, she pried his tiny fingers free as he sobbed.

      “Help us,” whispered the Other. “Do not leave us behind.”

      Ih-tedda reached for the boy. His small body, shaking in terror, slumped against her chest. “Be brave,” she whispered in his ear.

      And then jerking him away, she flung him over the rocks toward the mountain ponies who did not give up. Toward those who’d never give up until her kind were gone from the earth.

      The Other screamed as his body bounced onto the hard-packed ground. The horses reared but stopped at the broken obstacle in their path. The Other grew as quiet as the boy lying in the pool of blood below. With a final glare, the Other descended from the precipice and lay beside the child. The men and their horses surrounded them, blocking them from Ih-tedda’s view.

      Not waiting to learn their fate, she resumed her climb. Hand over hand, she pulled herself upward. Her bare feet scrabbled for placement. Rocks skittering, she turned to find Scarface, knife clutched between his teeth, climbing after her. Panic laced her heart. Her breath constricted, she hauled herself the last ten feet.

      Wobbling, flailing, she edged as far as she dared until only nothingness yawned. And still he came, relentless as death. He removed the knife from his mouth and brandished it.

      “Come,” he beckoned. “Come to me,” he crooned.

      She’d heard the women talk. She understood what awaited her if taken alive. She’d heard of the slave markets.

      Do not be taken, Nana had drilled over and over.

      She swallowed and peered at the gorge beneath her feet. She swayed. Fear of the chasm assaulted her senses, numbed her heart, froze her reasoning.

      He inched closer. She shrank until she could retreat no further.

      One step and all would be over. Only darkness. Where was the name the old woman called upon now? Where had the name been when the men died, when the children were hungry and cold, when the soldados came?

      She teetered. Her arms flailed. She righted herself.

      And moved away from the edge.

      Chapter 2

      2

      Arizona

      Pilar To-Clanny had been murdered when she was about the same age as the dead girl lying face down in the shallow grave.

      Only difference?

      Pilar’s body hadn’t died.

      Just everything else.

      The wind whistled off the escarpment behind Pilar. She shivered and wrapped her arms in her uniform jacket. The sun had yet to make its way above the rim of the rugged mountains. Shadows engulfed Pilar and the makeshift burial site.

      An inexplicable foreboding teased at the edges of her consciousness. She’d learned the hard way to always trust her gut. Tensing, she scanned the unspoiled wilderness of her people. Her eyes darted in the remote canyon for movement or any sign she wasn’t alone.

      Nothing.

      And yet . . . she couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes. Of lingering malevolence. An eerie stillness hung suspended.

      Her eyes flicked to the partially unearthed grave. To the bundle of skin and bones. A lonely, helpless place to die.

      She wondered sometimes if the ground—blood-soaked since the Ancient Ones—somehow retained the essence of the violence perpetrated upon it. If the evil committed between the dark cliffs continued on—past the barbarism of the Conquistadors or the wickedness on both sides of the Indian Wars. If an unholy force yet preyed upon those unlucky enough to lose themselves in the forbidding ramparts of this mountain fortress.

      Where were Special Agent Edwards and his team from Phoenix? Why was her heart pounding? Why was it so difficult to breathe?

      Her hand flexed above her duty belt. She wasn’t defenseless. Not anymore. Or as ultimately helpless against her fate as the girl rotting in the desert tomb.

      Pilar had fought—and would continue to fight—to survive.

      Never allow yourself to be taken was the mantra she taught the women at the tribal center self-defense class. The mantra by which she lived. Yet she also told them that, if taken, they must adapt quickly or die.

      Buffeted by a gust of wind, Pilar huddled inside her jacket. An unearthly howl pierced the air. She flinched. Coyotes? A cougar?

      Flipping off the safety catch, she drew her gun and whirled. The air pulsated with palpable menace. The harbinger of death, an owl hooted somewhere in the pine-topped ridge above.

      And a memory too terrible for words forced itself to the forefront of her mind. Of another time and place. Of utter desolation.

      Sucking in a breath, she squeezed her eyes shut.

      Flashes. The smells. The terror.

      This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening again. She was better, stronger than this.

      But sometimes retreat was the better part of valor. Her eyes flew open. Maybe best to wait for the feds at the road in the safety of her cruiser.

      Adapt or die. Adapt or die.

      Canvassing her escape route with her gun extended, she backpedaled across the scrub grass. Clambering across an arroyo, she struggled to regain control of the distorted images filling her mind. She hurried around a massive butte, desperate to push the horror once again into the black pit of nothingness. But unable to deflect the inexplicable panic, finally she just ran.

      Out of the canyon. Toward the road. Toward sanity.

      And the farther she traveled from the canyon, the farther the darkness receded.

      Reaching the sanctuary of the tribal cruiser, she reholstered her Glock and gathered the carefully constructed shards of her numbness once more. Her breathing rapid, she willed herself to think of Manny. To remember her life now.

      She scrambled inside the car and concentrated on taking even breaths to slow her heart rate. Slamming and locking the door, she cranked the engine. Pilar threw the car into drive and gunned the vehicle. Ten minutes later, on the cusp of the San Carlos rez, she parked off the graveled shoulder of the road.

      As the sun rose over the dusky pink horizon, so too did the September temps. Loosening the collar of her uniform, she got out of the car to wait for the feds. Here in the sunlight, where you could see friend and foe coming for twenty miles, she felt foolish over her sudden terror in the canyon. Maybe not so over the PTSD as she’d hoped.

      Sound, too, traveled far over the desert floor. Her breath whooshed out in relief at the red haze preceding the feds’ arrival. She shaded her eyes with her hand and watched the dust cloud kicked up by the tires as the black SUV drew closer. Typical fed vehicle.

      Took them long enough. Always a federal case when

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