The Unforgiven by Joy Nash Page B

victim limp in its claws.
    Lucas Herne watched the bird glide across the valley. He was that hawk. That killer.
    The sudden disturbance over, the land around him calmed. Protective silence gave way to birdcalls, to movement in the grass, to the buzz of insects. Far from dulling his mind, his long fast had only sharpened his senses. Colors seemed brighter, sounds clearer. His dark blond hair, which he wore loose, lifted in the breeze, sending a tingle over his skin. His existence was alive with form and sensation; his world was vivid in a way it had never been. It was as if he were touching and seeing nature’s soul rather than its substance. If only he could be certain what he sensed was real and not a fabrication of his mind.
    He cocked his head, listening. He could hear the beat of his heart, the blood rushing in his veins. And with it all, the shewolf’s call. Closer than it had ever been.
    His body tensed with anticipation. He’d been waiting for . . . how long? Hours? Days? A week? Impossible to tell; time had lost all meaning.
    He’d been waiting his entire life, it seemed, but when theanimal finally appeared, he didn’t even see its approach. He didn’t recognize it until it stood before him. Her fur was a deep, dark cinnamon, shining with health and beauty. He reached out a hand and, trembling, touched one soft ear.
    She shied away; he let his hand fall. A wash of shimmering light illuminated the beast. Reflexively, he shielded his eyes until the radiance passed. Upon lowering his arms, he beheld not a wolf but a woman.
    She was past middle age, he could tell. Her eyes held wisdom if her red-brown skin remained unwrinkled and not a single strand of silver marred her arrow-straight black hair. When her lips parted, her speech was as strong and as delicate as the wind in the trees.
    “You are a stranger to this place,” she said. “Why have you come?”
    “For guidance.”
    She frowned. “I guide only the living.”
    “I am alive.”
    She shook her head. “You breathe, Nephilim, but you are not truly alive. You are a demon.”
    “Yes. But I am a man as well.”
    “You have no soul,” she replied. “And you are a killer.”
    “As is the hawk.”
    “The hawk kills for survival. You do not.”
    “I kill hellfiends.”
    “And the humans they inhabit.”
    Lucas shrugged. “Their souls are doomed anyway.”
    Her eyes seemed to look right through him. “Then perhaps you are fortunate you do not possess one.”
    “Am I?” Luc gave a harsh laugh. He growled, “Human hosts are doomed by their own weakness, their welcome of the evil creature that seeks to use their souls. We Nephilim are cursed by the sins of our fathers. Is this just?”
    “Just? Is the killing of the mouse by the hawk ‘just’? Thenotion of justice is a human invention. It does not come from the Creator. Nature seeks harmony. That is not at all the same thing.”
    “Harmony also eludes the Nephilim.”
    The woman frowned. “That is true enough. What do you want of me?”
    “A soul. Harmony with the Creator.”
    Her eyes, wolflike, seemed to widen. “I do not know if such a thing is possible. I do not know if the curse you bear can be reversed.”
    “Nature is closer to the Creator than any human being. I believe you can help me.”
    She tilted her head to one side. “It would be an interesting endeavor. But are you worthy of my aid?”
    “I am willing to do whatever is necessary.”
    “Willing, yes. But able? That is the real question.”
    “I can but try.”
    She fell silent, her black eyes turning inward. “I sense your desire. It is pure. But you are burdened by hatred and pride. You lust after vengeance. You cannot achieve harmony while carrying these burdens. Can you put them aside?”
    It was Luc’s turn to look inward. He sensed a glib answer, or an eager one, would drive away the guardian spirit he’d struggled so hard to summon.
    “I don’t know,” he said.
    “Neither do I know if I can help you. But I will