Dark Waters by Alex Prentiss

statue in a shrine, and the sunlight glistened from his wet skin. His body was sculpted like some Greek god’s, and his face was sharp-featured and aristocratic. He was bronzed and dark, with the unmistakable hues of Native American ancestry. At first he appeared to be naked and carnally impressive, but a second glance showed it was really one end of his wet loincloth hanging almost to his knees.
    The only thing that spoiled the Native American effect was his hair. It was long, straight, and snowy white. The wind blew it back from his face, dramatically highlighting a sharp widow’s peak.
    He remained perfectly still, hands on his hips and chin high. If the scrutiny affected him, it didn’t show. Rachel had the same thought as every other woman present: I bet he’s used to being stared at . Certainly she felt a little catch in her throat as she took in his physical perfection.
    He strode across the park toward the stage. He passed within touching distance, and Rachel had the almost unbearable urge to run her fingers down the broad muscles of his back. She had never felt such instant, powerful physical desire for a total stranger—not even for Ethan. And as he went by, his eyes flicked up and met hers for just an instant—a contact that she had not seen him make with anyone else. Her breath caught in her throat.
    She turned away, certain that her lustful thoughts were visible, but realized at once that she was neither alone nor conspicuous. A teenage girl moaned audibly and squeezed her upper arms together, making her breasts thrust forward. Her nipples were visibly erect. Beside her, an older woman breathed rapidly and fanned her face with a program.
    Patty remained frozen in place at the microphone, one hand against her chest as if she was short of breath. Garrett Bloom eased her aside and said into the microphone, “Ah … Hello, sir. I’m sorry, but I don’t believe we’ve met. Can someone help you?”
    The man stopped on the grass before the stage, again put his hands on his hips, and announced, “I am here to say …” he began, then faltered. “To say …”
    Then his expression changed. He looked around as if waking from a dream. He took in the crowd, the lectern, and the old mental hospital. He turned and froze when, across the lake, he saw the distant dome of the state capitol rising above the city.
    His brows knitted in fury. In a voice deeper and more mature than before, he said, “What has happened here?” Then he looked up at the lectern. “You. Are you the chief of this tribe?”
    Bloom looked as confused as the man in the loincloth. “Am I what? Er … Yes, I suppose.” He glanced back at James Red Bird, who shrugged.
    “Then you are at war with the Lo-Stahzi,” the man snarled. “This is our land, our home. And you have desecrated it. You have carved into the land and sent its spirits into exile. You have piled stones higher than the greatest trees, and for what purpose?”
    This broke the spell for Rachel. An activist , she thought wryly, who definitely knows how to work the crowd—or at least the female part of it . But she knew the Lo-Stahzi had vanished long before the current tribes appeared, and even longer before the Europeans had settled the area. This had to be some publicity stunt, because there was simply no way this beautiful man could represent that long-dead civilization.
    “Is that right?” Bloom said. “Well, sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but there are no more Lo-Stahzi. The tribe is extinct. Now, who exactly are you ?”
    The man started to speak, then he got the same confused expression. When he spoke, his voice had returned to its original youthful sound. “I am … Artemak. No, wait, I’m … Kyle Stillwater. And I …” He shook his head and said in the deeper voice, “I am glad you can understand me. Our languages are not so different, then.”
    “What?” Bloom demanded. He seemed more annoyed than angry. “What the hell are you talking about?