The Serpent in the Stone - By Nicki Greenwood Page 0,33
me. If you don’t mind...”
She frowned when he didn’t continue. “Shapeshifting.”
“If you can,” he added. “Just to see if you can understand him. I wouldn’t ask you to get too close or do anything dangerous. And I’d really like to know what it’s like to fly.”
Underneath his guarded exterior, she saw a flash of wonder that made her heartbeat skip. She felt the same thing every time she shapeshifted. “It’s scary. Incredible.” She cast her gaze up at the top of the cliff. “Did you ever just stand up there with your arms spread and let the wind rush through your fingers?”
He shook his head.
“That’s what it’s like. Stepping off the edge of the world.”
Something flickered in his eyes then, the subtle but unmistakable connection of understanding. “That’s the way it is when I climb.”
They stayed on the cliffside, talking and birdwatching until the sun began to descend. By the time they reached the top again, she couldn’t contain her enthusiasm. “I can’t believe you do that for a living. What a rush!”
They removed their gear and sat on the cliff edge, dangling their legs over the side. “Well, it isn’t always this much fun,” he told her. “The tradeoff is that I have to spend most of the year in a classroom or in board meetings, justifying the fun part of my career.”
“Board meetings, ugh.” She swung her legs back and forth, heady with the sensation of sitting on the edge of a cliff. With him. And for once, having a conversation that lacked suspicion on both sides.
What a nice change.
Warm with sunshine and good humor, she asked, “What information do you have about peregrine falcons?”
“A few photos, some of my sketches. Nothing else that’s specific to the Eurasian subspecies. Why?”
“The more I know about an animal, the easier it is to shapeshift into it.” At his look of interest, she hurried to add, “I’m not promising much. I can try it, but I might not be able to keep the shapeshift for long. And as for talking to it, I can’t promise anything at all.”
He nodded soberly, but she could tell he was bursting with questions. She folded her hands in her lap and wondered why she’d agreed to this insane endeavor. “I’ll come tomorrow afternoon. Can I see your sketches?”
“Yeah, they’re in my tent.” He got to his feet and picked up the rest of their climbing gear.
She took a last look at the copper-gold water and followed him back to his camp.
Inside, he combed through a stack of books on a table. He handed her a thick volume on North American wildlife. “That one has a good color plate and a writeup on the American peregrine. The Eurasian is similar, so it might be what you’re looking for. I’ve got a couple days’ worth of notes on our friend Horus down there—”
“Horus?” she interrupted, then smiled. “The Egyptian falcon god?”
“Seemed appropriate.” He flashed that dimple again.
She clasped the book to her chest. “Well, all we have to do next is find him a mate, and you’ll have your Hathor.”
“Who’s Hathor?”
“She was the wife of Horus. Goddess of music, dance, motherhood, and”—she cleared her throat and opened the book, staring hard at a picture of a grizzly bear—“sexuality.” She hugged the book to her body like a shield while her cheeks flamed.
He crossed the tent. When she looked up, he was holding his journal, flipping through the pages. Their gazes met.
Ian lowered his journal. He glanced down at her lips, and ages passed in silence. Sara wanted to run away, run toward him, escape, ignore it, and savor it, all at once. She swallowed, not knowing what to do. Not knowing what he wanted to do.
He took a hesitant step closer and then stopped, rigid with tension. “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He pitched his journal on the cot, strode forward, and kissed her.
The contact exploded through her. Her every nerve fired like a Roman candle. She breathed him in, smelling saltwater and fresh air as he plunged his hands through her hair and pulled her closer. His stubble scraped her chin. With a muffled moan, she parted her lips.
He slanted his mouth over hers, deepening the kiss. Oh, God, everything she remembered about their last kiss was wrong, so wrong, only a shadow of what he really felt like pressed against her. Invading her mouth, invading her space, tearing her senses asunder and putting them back together in totally the wrong order. Careless of anything but the