The Man From Forever
OUT OF THE MISTS OF TIMEWhen she first came to the sacred tribal land in the California wilderness, anthropologist Tory Kent paid little heed to the tales of a mystical warrior keeping watch there. But then a dark figure appeared through the mists before her–and suddenly the unimaginable became reality. Wherever–whenever–he had come from, the one called Loka was truly a man, and he awakened a need within Tory that could scarcely be denied. For he had returned, after a century in the shadows, to claim her–the woman destiny had promised only to him. Though entangled by undeniable passion, each walked a path seemingly impossible to weld together. For Tory was tied to the present. And Loka was bound by an age-old promise to protect his people's legacy…even at the cost of his own life.
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“LOKA, I FELT SOMETHING THAT FIRST DAY.”
He shrugged, the gesture low and studied. If he’d thrown a thousand words at her, the impact couldn’t have been greater. She would never say there was a vulnerability to him, but something—maybe it was the loneliness he’d endured since his awakening—was etched on every line of his body. She was the first human being who’d touched him in six months—no, in more than a hundred years.
Thinking of nothing except putting an end to that, she slipped closer.
He watched her, his beautiful eyes seeing things in her she knew no one else ever had. I’ve been alone, too, she said with her heart.
His powerful fingers closed over her wrist and drew her close, closer, gentle despite his strength. Silence coated the air between them and yet she knew.
He wanted her.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the wild, windblown world of the Lava Beds in Northern California, the location for The Man from Forever. More than a hundred and thirty years ago, the Modoc Indians fled a reservation and found shelter in the caves created by ancient volcanic eruption.
Although their battle is over, the area has been made into a national landmark. When I went there, I gave myself over to the quiet beauty of a stark land untouched by progress—a land where the spirits of those brave people wait to touch and be touched. I knew I had to write about a warrior capable of facing great danger as he bridges time and space and the woman who takes him from loneliness to fulfillment.
I hope you enjoy reading that warrior’s story as much as I loved writing it. I’d love to hear from you at [email protected].
Sincerely,
Vella Munn
Although Loka and Tory are fictional characters,
The Land of Burned Out Fires and the Modoc Indians are real. Located in Northern California, the Lava Beds National Monument stands as a testament to the resourceful Native Americans who once made that fascinating land their home. I am honored to dedicate this book to the spirit, the essence, of those people.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Prologue
The warrior’s body woke, one slow, gliding movement at a time. He became aware of sound—a distant, half-remembered whisper of wind sliding its restless way over the land. He remembered—remembered closing himself in the cave’s darkness beside his dying son, swallowing the shaman’s bitter potion, feeling strength flow out of his body, losing control of his thoughts. Losing the thoughts themselves.
How long ago had that been?
He lay on the bear pelt he’d spread on the ground for his forever sleep. The air moving almost imperceptibly over his naked body felt warm, yet not quite alive—ancient air. He was in Wa’hash, the most sacred of places.
Strength flowed into his war-honed muscles. He gave thanks to Eagle for the power in his body. Cho-ocks the shaman had been wrong. The mix of ground geese bone, bunchgrass and other things unknown hadn’t ended him after all. He couldn’t stay in the underworld with his son; something—or was it someone?—had brought him back.
Back to empty-bellied children, despairing women and men ready for battle.
The anger that had fed him and his chief and the others during that cruel-cold winter of 1873 returned in powerful waves. They were Maklaks—the Modocs—proud people living on land given to them by Kumookumts, their creator. The white skins had had no right to bring their cattle and horses and fences here. The army had had no right to force them to live on a reservation with their enemy, the Klamath. But those things had happened.
Sitting, he tried to hold on to his anger, but his body tightened into a brief, pain-filled knot. He breathed through it, kneaded his calves and thighs, then forced himself to stand. His belly felt utterly empty, his flesh unwashed, but those things didn’t matter. Soon his eyes would make the most of the sliver of light coming in through the small opening.
Another kind of hunger touched him with hot, familiar fingers. It pulled him away from urgent questions about what had brought him back to life. His manhood signaled a message that he’d learned to master during the long, cold months of hiding and fighting. Either he’d forgotten how to keep need reined in or something was—
Something or someone.
Like a wolf after a scent, he left his son’s bones and went in search of light, taking with him the knife his grandfather’s grandfather had created from the finest black rock. His legs unerringly led him down the narrow tunnel that led to the surface and, hopefully, understanding. When he reached the place where surface and tunnel met, he picked up the ladder, but the rawhide that held the wood in place was dry and brittle. Although he had never cowered from an enemy’s bullet, he shuddered now. It took many seasons for rawhide to become useless.
After freeing the sturdiest pole, he used it to shove aside the rock that covered the hole. Then he sprang upward, hooked his hands over the rocky ground and pulled himself up. Bright sunlight assaulted his eyes. The wind brought with it the sweet, endless smell of sage, and for a moment he believed that nothing had changed. Peace didn’t last long enough.
