Free Under My Skin by Judith Graves Page A

shrubs across the field, a large gray wolf bolted through the grass. He howled out to his mate. A jet-black wolf, her coat in stark relief against the fading sun, stepped gracefully into the clearing, howled in answer, and rushed to him. When she was midway through the clearing, the first shot rang out.
    I cupped my mouth, screaming into my shaking hands, terrified to leave the safety of the shrubs. I should help them. Why did I never try to help them? Why was I frozen here, unable to move?
    The female wolf advanced, her wound forcing her into an awkward lope. She fell. Heedless of the danger, the male raced to her side. He stood above her, keening low in his throat. The second round took him down. He staggered and fell to the earth—nose to nose with his lifeless mate. A gentle mist descended from the heavens.
    God…no…they were my parents. And they were dead.
    I dropped to the earth, sobbing.
    Violent tremors of grief rocked my body.
    Long moments passed.
    I stilled. I waited to wake, for this was where the dream always ended—where I woke to fear and guilt.
    But this time, something was different. I held my breath and listened. Only the whistle of the wind broke the silence.
    I gasped when a hand rested on my shoulder.
    “We have to hurry, child,” a woman’s voice said. “They’re coming.”
    The hair on my neck quivered. I was kneeling on the dust-covered plank floor of a rustic cabin. I peered through murky lighting filtered through a smoky haze. No, not a cabin—a house. A historic home, filled with antiques still in their prime, except for the heavy film of dust coating each surface. A vacuum-tube radio of solid cherry wood shaped like a church window, a cast iron stove in the corner, colored-glass jars and bottles in a curio cabinet.
    I stood and brushed the dust from my pants, coughing as I inhaled some of the fine grit.
    She thrust a wet rag into my hand. “Breathe through this. It will keep the sand out.”
    I pressed the rag to cover my mouth and nose. She was right. It was easier to breathe now.
    “Where am I?” I asked through the cloth.
    “Ah, child, the question is: when are you?” The woman’s sad smile lightened grey eyes that shone above hollowed cheeks. Her gaze mesmerized despite her fine features smudged with dust, the collarbone that jutted through the lace at her neck.
    She glanced from my cargo pants, my T-shirt, and backpack to her own muslin dress. Ankle length, pleated. Her dark hair wrapped around her head in an intricate braid. The weight of all that hair too much for that slim neck. Forget the mint-condition antiques in the house, our clothes alone screamed that we were from different times, different worlds.
    The woman circled her hands in the air, drawing ancient symbols with smooth movements. Gesture magic. A witch, working a spell.
    Odd how I didn’t feel panicked. My pulse beat steady. Her magic settled over me like a shroud. My body, light. There…but not really.
    “You are cloaked. They cannot see or hear you,” the woman said. “Nor will they catch your scent.” Her eyes darkened. “What happens here is in the past. No deed can stop it. What you see has already come to pass.” She gripped my arms, her fingers strong. “You are my witness. The only hope for my boy. I risked more than I should have to bring you here. Don’t fail me.”
    With that the witch spun to face the door at the end of the parlor. The pine slab splintered, the wood was sucked out and up into the air. Outside, thick red sand swirled the entire height of the gaping entrance. The world had submerged into a sandy sea.
    A tall, dark form filled the doorway. The wind carried the smell of decay and rotting flesh. Slow-cooked death with all the trimmings.

    “I know you’re in there, witch,” a deep voice roared. “Come see what I got for you.” The man reached an arm out into the dust and then shoved a young man into the room.
    He was around my age, nearing eighteen. Tall, dark haired, thin,