Beautiful Warrior by Sheri Whitefeather Page B

his own wit. But I was beginning to appreciate him, especially now that I knew how truly sensitive he was. His smart aleck remarks were his way of seeming macho. I was glad that I had his company. I wouldn’t want to be doing this alone.
    Who was I kidding ? I was alone. Seven wasn’t really here. None of it was. Everything was in my mind.
    “Where are the rest of Abby’s people?” I asked . Aside from Seven, there were three others she’d created. Or I’d subconsciously created or whatever. For now, I’d yet to meet them.
    “They’re lying low.”
    I merely nodded. They were at risk of being attacked by the monsters, too.
    Seven stopped singing, thank goodness, and we continued to twine our way through the forest . When we came to a familiar copse of trees, I gasped.
    “What’s going on?” he asked.
    For a psychic, he wasn’t as informed as he should be. But psychics didn’t know everything, so I cut him some slack. “This is a scene from one of Duncan’s paintings.”
    “That makes sense, I suppose . Because we’re getting close to where the warrior lives.”
    Already I was missing the real Duncan. The warmth of his kisses. The passion. The comfort. If I clicked my cotton-bound heels together, would I be able to go home and return to his arms? Somehow I didn’t think it would be that easy.
    Nor was I going to attempt it . I needed to see this through. Curious, I gauged our whereabouts. “Is it safe to assume that we’re in the past?”
    “Yes, and I hate this fucking realm.”  Seven dragged a hand through his untamed hair. “It can get rough, like it was in other centuries, and the farther back you go, the worse it gets.”
    Another shiver sent goose bumps racing along my skin . “How far back in time are we?”
    “Hell if I know . We don’t have actual dates here. But if I had to liken it to a timeframe, I’d say somewhere in the eighteen-eighties.”  He struck a long, lean pose, showcasing his tight black jeans and trendy combat boots. “I’d rather go back to the nineteen -eighties . ”
    Of course he would . He was a throwback from that era. My late mom had been a huge Mötley Crüe fan and Seven’s bad-boy persona was inspired by their bass player.
    He paused, jerking his head from side to side. “He knows we’re here.”
    My heart s lammed against my chest. “The warrior?”
    Seven nodded . “He senses that someone is approaching. He’s mounting his horse now. Pretty soon, he’s going to be headed straight for us.”
    “What should we do?”
    “Stand our ground and tell him why we’re here.”
    Suddenly I was scared of the warrior . Afraid that he would reject me or hurt me or scoop me up and toss me over the back of his horse like a sack of flour, hauling me off to parts unknown. “When I first saw Duncan’s painting, I imagined him thundering toward me like this.”
    “Well, you imagined right.”   Seven grabbed my hand. The ground beneath us was beginning to rumble. “He’s getting closer.”
    “I know.”  I could hear the hoofbeats of his big black stallion . I knew what his horse looked like because Duncan had painted an image of it, along with himself in war paint. There was also the matter of me formulating details about the warrior when I was young, which was a whole other story.
    Seven squeezed my h and. “If he kidnaps you, there isn’t much I’ll be able to do about it.”
    So much for standing our ground . “Gee, thanks for the encouragement.”  Not only were we discussing my possible abduction, a sudden whoosh hit the air, and we both started. In the next instant, rain pelted down on us, making the moment more riotous. Would thunder and lightning soon follow?
    “ If he nabs you, I’ll come back and check on you later, after he gets you out of his system.”
    By now I could barely breathe . I was getting drenched, and so was Seven. Attempting to stay strong, I released his hand. “Chicken.”
    “Damn straight . I’m not going to get in the way