Kirsten swallows hard as the freshly released heat sets upon her like a living thing. She’s seen her share of saunas, courtesy of semi-regular trips to the gym, but this is a sauna taken to the nth degree, and her body is slow to adjust. She startles when Dakota’s hand withdraws from hers, and she turns to look at her lover.
Dakota appears completely relaxed; her chest moves in a very slow, very steady rhythm, her hands rest, palms upward, against her thighs, fingers slightly curled. A small smile plays across her lips and her eyes are gently closed.
Across the hut, the three men appear much the same, though Wanblee Wapka’s eyes are open, but unfocused.
Finally looking to her left, Kirsten finds Maggie smiling at her. Leaning slightly over, the Colonel whispers in her ear, “Relax. If nothing else, it’ll be good for the skin, right?”
With a whispering laugh, Kirsten nods and forces herself to relax. Though the head is intense, it truly isn’t as bad as she thought it would be. After a moment, her eyes begin to drift closed, and she lets them, clearing her mind as much as she is able.
Some unknown time later, Kirsten breaks sharply free of a light doze, like a swimmer finally breaking the surface of a choppy ocean, and gasps, her heart pounding hard and urgent in her chest. She blinks her eyes quickly, clearing the stinging sweat, as her panicked mind tries to decipher the insistent summons her body seems to be sending her. All seems peaceful and quiet.
A quick check on Maggie shows the Colonel sitting comfortably, eyes closed and breathing in an easy rhythm. The three men across from her are likewise still and calm in their meditation.
It is only then that she notices the frightful cold pressed against her right side, melded to her like a block of ice that has melted and refrozen.
Turning quickly to her right, she gives a soundless cry at the sight of her lover, pale and stiff as a marble statue, her half-open eyes showing only the whites. Koda’s parted lips are bloodless, and try as she might, Kirsten can detect no signs of breathing.
Her voice, when it finally sounds, is high and brilliant with fright. “Dakota!” she screams, latching onto her lover’s corded forearm. She might as well be touching a corpse, so cold and unyielding is the flesh beneath her hand. “Dakota!! No!!!”
Other hands, strangers’ hands, descend on her then, trying to pull her away. Voices, deep and gruff, sound in her ears, all but indecipherable. The strength of the hands on her body is implacable, but her will is stronger still, and she struggles with all her might, yelling for her lover at the top of her lungs.
“Kirsten!” Wanblee Wapka shouts in her ear. “Kirsten, you must listen! Dakota is makoce nupa umanipi. Walking in two worlds. You must not touch her, or her spirit may not be able to find its way back to her body. Please, come away!”
“No!” Kirsten shouts, able only to see Dakota’s bloodless, immobile face. “Dakota!!”
“Come away! Please!” Wanblee Wapka shouts again, redoubling his strength. “She cannot hear you. She cannot respond. Please, you are putting her in great danger!”
The urgency, if not the intent, of Wanblee Wapka’s words seeps through Kirsten’s terror, and she finds herself yielding to the firm strength at her back. Her rigid grip softens and her fingers unwillingly part from Dakota’s chill flesh. A sobbing cry erupts as she watches a tiny drop of blood trail its way down from Dakota’s nostril to rest on her upper lip. Her struggles begin anew, but the grip of the men behind her is too strong and too sure and she feels herself being pulled inexorably away from her lover. “No!”
And then, what Wanblee Wapka has deemed impossible, happens. With the growl of the wolf sounding deep in her chest, Dakota reaches out and clamps down on Kirsten’s wrist, her grip as cold and as unrelenting as chilled iron.
“Ate?” Tacoma demands, stunned and confused. “What—?”
“Chunkshi? He nayah^ uh, he?”
The growling halts and Dakota begins to tremble. Her eyes open fully, though only the whites still show. “Sa,” she groans, her voice hollow and far away. “Wapka sa. Maka sa. Shota. Wikate. Ayabeya tokiyotata wikate. Ayabeya tokiyotata sa.”
She trembles again, violently, and the blue finally shows from her eyes, shining with terrible knowledge. “Ayabeya tokiyotata wikate. Osni. So….cold.”
Her eyes flutter closed and she collapses. Lunging forward, Kirsten gathers Koda into her arms, stroking her hair with frantic fingers and murmuring desperate pleas through her tears.
“Manny,” Wanblee Wapka orders, “get the cart and bring it around to the front. “Chinkshi, help me with Dakota.”
“I’ll carry her myself, Ate,” Tacoma counters, moving to Dakota’s head as Wanblee Wapka’s hands descend back onto Kirsten’s shoulders.
“Kirsten,” he intones softly, lips close to her ear, “Kirsten, I need you to let her go, just for a moment.”
“No,” Kirsten moans. “No, please. Please, help her.”
“We will, wikhoshkalaka. We will, I promise. But you need to come away with me so that Tacoma can lift her and carry her to the cart. She needs to be cared for at home and we cannot lift you both.”
Slowly, with great reluctance, Kirsten allows Wanblee Wapka’s gentle hands guide her away from her lover. Dakota’s grip, however, remains tight around her wrist. Wanblee Wapka comes quickly to one knee and begins to gently massage his daughter’s bloodless hand. “Chunkshi, let her go. Let Kirsten go. We must tend to you, Dakota. Please, release her wrist.”
His intent massage softens Koda’s grip and Kirsten, with the greatest reluctance, pulls her wrist free. Dakota immediately reacts, thrashing her long body about. Head twisting from side to side, she moans.
Wanblee Wapka strokes his daughter’s hair, his eyes bright with concern and love. “Shhh, chunkshi. She is here. Your tehila is here.” He turns his regard to Kirsten. “If you speak softly to her, she will hear you.”
One hand over her mouth, Kirsten uses the other to reach out, stopping just short of Dakota’s icy skin. “Koda? Sweetheart? I’m here, right beside you, ok? You’re gonna be fine, I promise.” Unable to stop herself, her hand completes the last inch and brushes against her lover’s flesh. So very cold. She’s tempted to pull away again; a reflex she actively fights. Instead she strokes along the ridges of tendon, muscle and bone, willing warmth into the icy skin. “I won’t leave you,” she vows. “Not now. Not ever.”
Dakota calms immediately under Kirsten’s attentions. Her breathing settles and she appears to slip into a deep sleep.
Wanblee Wapka takes quiet note of the fierceness in Kirsten’s voice and manner, and smiles briefly to himself. This, he knows, is the true face of the woman his beloved daughter has chosen for a mate—the face of the Igmu protecting her cubs. He nods to himself, well pleased, then tenderly draws her away as Tacoma steps in and easily lifts Dakota’s limp, dead weight into his massive arms.
They follow closely behind as Tacoma walks quickly to the waiting cart, Manny at the wheel. He lays her gently in the back of the cart, a place where golf bags normally rest. It’s a tight fit, but he manages. He then ushers Kirsten around to the passenger’s side, and helps her settle in. She immediately twists in the molded plastic seat and reaches out, running her fingers through the thick fringe of hair on Dakota’s pale, chilled brow. Tacoma yanks Manny from the driver’s seat and gestures for his father to take the vacated space. “We’ll walk, Ate,” he murmurs before returning to check on his sister one last time. “We’ll meet you back at the house.”
With a brief nod, Wanblee Wapka puts the cart in drive and heads away.