Chapter One
Chief Seattle was once a great leader of the Duwamish and Suquamish indigenous people. At least, that's what history says.
I stared at the art piece before me. Part metal, part feathers, part plastic, and part clay; it was an amalgamation of trash. It was also Chief Seattle. Made by one of the indigenous artists I prided myself on featuring, it was supposed to speak to how the chief had worked with European invaders, something not every Native American was cool with. Including this one. But hey, we all have to make tough choices. The poor guy had to make one that affected all of his people and got recorded in history. And who was I to judge? Would I rather he have fought the great white wave? His chances of winning were slim. He chose the option that meant survival, even though it wasn't much more than that.
I walked away from the sculpture, glancing out the glass walls at the modern streets of Seattle, Washington. How times had changed. I hadn't seen this city built, but I'd witnessed other ones like it go up. I'd been in Stump Town back when it was full of stumps. I was from Oregon originally. Salem. Although back then, it didn't have a name. There were no states. Only tribal regions. Places to hunt, fish, and grow vegetables. Those places were different for each season, and so we moved with the turning of the world.
I went into my office and sat down in my comfortable leather chair to stare at the monitor of my computer. I owned the art gallery. The whole building, in fact. I was a wealthy woman. Powerful because of that wealth. And immortal. All because I fell in love with a god.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Once, the word “tribe” meant something very different from what it means today. Tribes were collections of villages—people who shared a language, customs, and territory. Each village was guided by a chief. My tribe was the Tsimikiti, but that name isn't well known anymore. Neither is Chemeketa—the other name for my tribe. Say Chemeketa in Oregon, and people will think you're talking about the community college. Most people wouldn't recognize either as a tribe. Probably because I'm all that's left.
Most of my people died during the malaria epidemic of 1830. The survivors were forcibly driven from our lands in the Willamette Valley and made to live on reservations in Grand Ronde. When that happened, the white people labeled all who spoke the Kalapuya language, Kalapuyan, even though we didn't consider ourselves to be one tribe. The Tsimikiti Kalapuyans didn't fare so well in Grand Ronde. Maybe I'm not the very last. There could be a smidgen of Tsimikiti blood in a human. But I doubt it.
Don't get all sobby for me. I wasn't among them during the malaria or the forced move. That was long after I left the area with my lover. But still, those were my people. They are my history. That is who I am. Or who I was. Lomasi of the Tsimikiti. These days, I call myself Lora. I took the name centuries ago after I got tired of explaining my real name. It was just easier to change.
Change is often necessary for survival.
Sighing, I sipped my coffee. On the desk before me were some invoices. The gallery did well. People loved indigenous art, especially modern indigenous art. And especially white people. I didn't care who bought the pieces, and neither did the artists. It's a business. Also, I don't hold a grudge against a particular race for what happened to mine. It was so long ago. The past is the past. Remembering it so we don't repeat it is bullshit. People need to stop building monuments to atrocities and stop writing about them to traumatize future generations. All that does is prolong the pain, stain the fresh souls coming into this world, and give assholes a blueprint on how to become better monsters. The monsters of my past are dead, and they can stay buried. I don't believe in making children pay for the sins of their parents. No, I judge everyone on whattheydo. Their actions and words.
And the god who I had once loved was behaving badly these days.
The Gods of the white people were in America long before the white people themselves. Because they weren't just the Gods of the pale-skinned. The Gods are the Gods of everyone. There is only one pantheon, but the gods within it go by many names. Their favorite names, possibly their true names, were those found in Greek mythology. The ancient Greeks got most things about the Gods right. Well done on them. I don't know why. Maybe they listened better than the rest of us. But no matter what you call them, the Gods are not technically Greek. They're simply gods. And they have always been everywhere. All over the world. Messing with humanity to keep eternity interesting.
One of the most well-traveled of the Gods was Hermes. As the Messenger God with the magic of Travel at his disposal,Hermes likes to move about. About the realms and the world. He never stays in one place for long. Except when he met me.
My people thought the Gods were spirits, and I recognized Hermes as one as soon as I saw him. Rather hard not to, what with him being so pale. And glowing. Not that he glows all the time. That was just to impress me. Hermes did a lot to impress me back then.
I'm not sure what about me impressed Hermes, but it was enough for him to pursue me. Determinedly. I thought he was an animal spirit, maybe Coyote or Spider. He was so playful and mischievous. Hermes taught me his language, then taught me about the Gods. Gods, not spirits. No, spirits are something else entirely.
I looked up as someone entered the gallery. I couldn't see his face at first; some of the displays blocked him. But I sensed his power. Being chosen by a god does things to a human. Immortality offers more than anti-aging. I could feel other immortals approach like a shift in the atmosphere. Like rain on the way.
A storm had just blown in.
I stood up. Went around my desk. Waited in the doorway of my office.
An immortal in my gallery could not be good news. Was it one of the Gods? I knew enough to know that immortality didn't automatically equal divinity. I mean, look at me. I wasn't a goddess. This person was immortal, but beyond that, I wasn't sure. It wasn't Hermes. He had just visited me a month ago and wouldn't come around again for at least another month. He could be unpredictable, but not like this. If he decided to swingback for another few days of fornicating, he would have gone straight to my apartment upstairs, not strode in the front door of the gallery. And that wasn't Hermes's ass.
Or the rest of him, for that matter. Those shoulders were too broad and the leather across them too rough. Hermes only wore designer leather. Those thighs were too thick, those boots too worn. And then he stepped into view.
My breath caught.
In over four hundred years, the only man who had ever made me catch my breath was Hermes. But this man surpassed the God in looks and form. His skin was fair but not pale, tinted amber. The color went with his hair, turning the blonde locks into white gold. But it especially enhanced his eyes. They were green—a deep forest green with an inner ring of mint. Those stunning eyes focused on me. And widened.
We stared at each other for a few moments before the thuds came. Was it my heart? His? No, it was his boots on the hardwood floor. He was walking over to me. Closer. Closer still. I couldn't look away from his eyes, but I still registered the glimpse I'd gotten of the rest of his face. The sharp angle of his cheekbones. The heavy slope of his nose. The refined line of his jaw. He was elegant and crude all at once. An artist's dream. I instantly wanted to paint him.
“Who are you?” he whispered to me.
Despite his low tone, his voice slammed through me. I could feel it hit my heart and make that old organ stutter.
“Lora,” someone said.
I blinked, coming out of my daze, and turned my head to look at Jenny, my employee. “Yes?”
“Uh, did you want me to help this customer?” Jenny offered, her gaze flitting back and forth between us.
“No,” I said immediately. “He's a friend of mine.”
