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  “The swamp witch? You went to see her?” Saber shook his head, disbelieving. “You’re joking.”

  “I wish I was,” Reddix said fiercely. “It wasn’t a very fucking pleasant experience. But I needed help, and there was no place else to get it.”

  “All Xandra can offer you—can offer anyone—is death,” Saber protested. “You need to stay away from her, Reddix!”

  “Too late.” Reddix laughed, a deep, harsh sound that hurt Saber’s ears. “We’ve already struck a bargain—a bargain in blood. See?” He held out his arm and pulled up the sleeve of his hooded jacket.

  On the inside of his wrist, Saber saw something that made his gut clench with fear and loathing. There, on his friend’s pale skin was a black mark shaped like a small, slithering creature called a lthss. It looked remarkably like the Earth animal called a snake except that a lthss changed color after it fed, by sucking the blood from its victim, going from black to red. The mark on Reddix’s inner wrist was still small and still black. But what color would it be when Xandra was done with him?

  “Reddix,” he said. “You can’t do this. There has to be another way.”

  “To overcome the RTS long enough to get Tilla pregnant and make sure the Clans don’t kill each other?” Reddix barked a bitter laugh. “I don’t think so.”

  “But this is extreme,” Saber protested. “I really don’t think—”

  “No, you don’t, old friend. You don’t think about anyone but yourself. But you know what? I do.” Reddix jabbed a thumb at himself. “I’m thinking of my little sister—of Minda. Did you know she’s found a male from the Wind Clan? He doesn’t have much status, but he loves her and he’s good to her. They’re already joined, and she’s going to have a baby. What do you think will happen to that sweet, happy little family if the Clans go to war? How long do you think they’ll survive? And who should Minda side with—the clan she was born into? Or the clan she married into?”

  He stood suddenly and swayed unsteadily.

  Saber jumped up to help him, but Reddix shook off his hand and took another step back.

  “Stop touching me,” he muttered. “Just makes it worse.”

  “Sorry.” Saber took a step back. For the first time it occurred to him that his old friend looked more than just tired—he looked sick. He couldn’t get much of a look at Reddix’s face with the hood in the way, but from the little he could see, his friend looked unshaven and unspeakably weary.

  “I’d better be going,” Reddix growled. “I need to get back and tell your mother and father and the rest of our people I’m their next Overlord.” He snorted. “You can imagine for yourself their overwhelming joy at the prospect.”

  “Don’t go just yet,” Saber protested. “Stay for a while and recuperate—you look terrible.”

  “Don’t look nearly as bad as I feel,” Reddix rasped. “But don’t worry, I’m not running straight back to Tarsia yet. I have some unfinished business right here on that little blue-green ball of rock all our Kindred Brothers seem so fucking taken with.”

  “On Earth?” Saber frowned. “What do you want there?”

  “It’s not what—it’s who.”

  “Reddix, if I could—” Saber began.

  “Don’t say another word—your mind is made up, I can feel it. The certainty that you’re not coming back is like a weight around my neck. A heavy fucking weight.”

  “But—”

  “And don’t worry.” Reddix pointed to the half unrolled vid screen, which lay on the floor. “I’ll swear to your mother you watched that and still wouldn’t come home. It’s doubtless only the first of many lies I’ll be forced to…”

  His words trailed off, and he swayed again, much more alarmingly this time.

  “Are you all right?” Saber took another step toward him in concern. “Brother?”

  “Saber, I…I…”

  But Reddix never finished. His silver eyes rolled up, showing the whites, and he dropped heavily to his knees. Then, before Saber could take even one more step forward to catch him, he toppled forward like a fallen tree, face down onto the floor.

  Chapter Two

  Nina Kerrick sighed as she dusted the glass case containing the brightly colored Seminole dolls and the display of sweet-grass coiled baskets. Moving methodically but quickly, she cleaned the rest of the exhibits and straightened the stacks of brochures located near the front of the small tribal museum attached to the Hard Rock Casino. The museum didn’t pay much, but she only worked there two or three times a week. She loved being surrounded by the fascinating history of the Seminole Tribe even though she was only half Native American on her mother’s side.

  Her father was Welsh, and the resulting combination gave Nina an exotic look with high cheekbones and warm copper-tan skin. She also had long, straight black hair with reddish highlights, but it was her deep blue eyes, so unexpected in one with her coloring, that drew the most attention. Nina liked her looks, but she wished she had inherited a smaller behind—her big hips and bottom were a constant source of consternation, but no matter how hard she worked and dieted, they never really got any smaller.

  She moved to the small gift shop area, swiftly straightening the array of handmade items—the patchwork vests and jackets, the pillows, potholders, and ornaments, as well as the miniature dolls attached to key chains. Crafted of palmetto husk fiber and adorned in brightly-colored traditional skirt and capes, the doll key chains were by far the best seller. Every woman who nagged her husband or boyfriend away from the gaming tables for a second had to have one.

  The small space was straightened and ready for the next day’s patrons—mostly bored gamblers who trickled in from time to time from the casino next door. It was time for Nina to go. She barely had time to run through the drive-thru and get Mehoo-Jimmy her favorite fast food burger before she had to be at her night job as a therapist at Massage Envy in South Tampa.

  She paused in front of a framed black and white photograph depicting a Seminole woman from 1910. The picture was part of the Camera-man exhibit, taken by renowned photographer Julian Dimock. The photographs he’d taken revealed fascinating details of Seminole Indian life deep in the interior of the Florida Everglades back at a time when few whites dared to venture so far.

  The woman in the picture caught and held Nina’s eye not because of her historical significance but because of what she wore—strands and strands of glass beads woven around her neck. Not just a few either—the woman was wearing literally hundreds of strands, so many that they started just under her chin, covered her entire neck, and dripped down the front of her breasts. Their weight must have been enormous but the woman stood straight and strong, staring into the camera with an unyielding look in her dark eyes.

  Nina didn’t need a degree in Native American studies to tell her why the woman wore so many beads. In the past, it had been a matter of pride—of status—for Seminole women. The beads were an outward exhibition of their wealth and worth, not just received as gifts but bought with the money they made themselves, selling handcrafted baskets, blankets, dolls, and anything else they could make. Seminole women would wear the beads, only taking them off at night, even though the immense weight of them eventually led to severe back and shoulder problems. It was a matter of pride to keep them on, and more than once a female who slipped accidentally into the river was drowned because of the great weight around her neck.

  “So heavy,” Nina murmured, staring at the woman from over a hundred years ago. “How did you carry that weight day in and day out? How did you keep standing so straight?”

  Her own weight to bear was nothing so tangible as hundreds of strands of glass beads, but Nina still felt it pulling her down. It was the dreams, of course—they were like an anchor tied around her neck. If she didn’t stop having them soon, they would drown her as surely as the Seminole women, too proud to take off their necklaces, had drowned in the swamps of the Everglades. And like a woman adding strand after strand of beads, the dreams kept getting worse un