(Tiger Saga #2) Tiger's Quest Read online

  tiger’s quest

  by COLLEEN HOUCK

  An Imprint of Sterling Publishing

  387 Park Avenue South

  New York, NY 10016

  www.sterlingpublishing.com

  SPLINTER and the distinctive Splinter logo are trademarks of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.

  © 2011 by Colleen Houck

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-4027-8404-0 (print format)

  ISBN 978-1-4027-8486-6 (ebook)

  Designed by Katrina Damkoehler.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Houck, Colleen.

  Tiger’s quest / by Colleen Houck.

  p. cm. -- (Tiger’s curse)

  Summary: Kelsey returns home to Oregon, where Mr. Kadam has enrolled her in college, but danger sends her back to India to begin another quest, this time with Kishan, to try to break the curse that forces Kishan and his brother Ren to live as tigers.

  ISBN 978-1-4027-8404-0

  [1. Tigers--Fiction. 2. Blessing and cursing--Fiction. 3. Colleges and universities--Fiction.

  4. Dating (Social customs)--Fiction. 5. Immortality--Fiction. 6. Orphans--Fiction.

  7. Oregon--Fiction. 8. India--Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H81143Tiq 2011

  [Fic]--dc22

  2010049270

  For information about custom editions, special sales, and premium and corporate purchases, please contact Sterling Special Sales at 800-805-5489 or [email protected].

  Lot #:

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  04/11

  Some of the terms included in the book may be trademarks or registered trademarks. Use of such terms does not imply any association with or endorsement by such trademark owners and no association or endorsement is intended or should be inferred. This book is not authorized by, and neither the Author nor the Publisher is affiliated with the owners of the trademarks referred to in the book.

  For my husband, Brad—proof that

  there really are guys like that out there.

  Contents

  Prologue Going Home

  Chapter 1 WOU

  Chapter 2 Wushu

  Chapter 3 Dating

  Chapter 4 A Christmas Present

  Chapter 5 Return

  Chapter 6 Choices

  Chapter 7 Back to School

  Chapter 8 Jealousy

  Chapter 9 Kishan

  Chapter 10 Hired Guns

  Chapter 11 Return to India

  Chapter 12 Of Prophecies and Practicing

  Chapter 13 Vatsala Durga Temple

  Chapter 14 The Friendship Highway

  Chapter 15 Yin/Yang

  Chapter 16 The Ocean Teacher

  Chapter 17 Spirit Gate

  Chapter 18 Good Things

  Chapter 19 Bad Things

  Chapter 20 The Tests of the Four Houses

  Chapter 21 The Divine Weaver’s Scarf

  Chapter 22 Exit

  Chapter 23 Going Home

  Chapter 24 Confessions

  Chapter 25 Saving Ren

  Chapter 26 Baiga

  Chapter 27 War Stories

  Chapter 28 Worst Birthday Ever

  Epilogue Unloved

  the loom of time

  Author Unknown

  Man’s life is laid in the loom of time

  To a pattern he does not see,

  While the weavers work and the shuttles fly

  Till the dawn of eternity.

  Some shuttles are filled with silver threads

  And some with threads of gold,

  While often but the darker hues

  Are all that they may hold.

  But the weaver watches with skillful eye

  Each shuttle fly to and fro,

  And sees the pattern so deftly wrought

  As the loom moves sure and slow.

  God surely planned the pattern:

  Each thread, the dark and fair,

  Is chosen by His master skill

  And placed in the web with care.

  He only knows its beauty,

  And guides the shuttles which hold

  The threads so unattractive,

  As well as the threads of gold.

  Not till each loom is silent,

  And the shuttles cease to fly,

  Shall God reveal the pattern

  And explain the reason why

  The dark threads were as needful

  In the weaver’s skillful hand

  As the threads of gold and silver

  For the pattern which He planned.

  Prologue

  Going Home

  I clung to the leather seat and felt my heart fall as the private plane rose into the sky, streaking away from India. If I took off my seatbelt, I was sure I would sink right through the floor and drop thousands of feet, freefalling to the jungles below. Only then would I feel right again. I had left my heart in India; I could feel it missing. All that was left of me was a hollowed-out shell, numb and empty.

  The worst part was . . . I did this to myself.

  How was it possible that I had fallen in love? And with someone so . . . complicated? The past few months had flown by. Somehow, I had gone from working at a circus to traveling to India with a tiger—who turned out to be an Indian prince—to battling immortal creatures to trying to piece together a lost prophecy. Now, my adventure was all over, and I was alone.

  It was hard to believe just a few minutes ago I had said good-bye to Mr. Kadam. He hadn’t said much. He had just gently patted my back as I’d hugged him hard, not letting go. Finally, Mr. Kadam pried my arms from the vise I’d locked him in, muttered some reassurances, and turned me over to his great-great-great granddaughter, Nilima.

  Thankfully, Nilima left me alone on the plane. I didn’t want anyone’s company. She brought lunch, but I couldn’t even think about eating. I’m sure it was delicious, but I felt like I was skirting the edge of a pit of quicksand. Any second, I could be sucked down into an abyss of despair. The last thing I wanted was food. I felt spent and lifeless, like crumpled-up wrapping paper after Christmas.

  Nilima removed the meal and tried to tempt me with my favorite drink—ice-cold lemon water, but I left it on the table. I stared at the glass for who knows how long, watching the moisture bead on the outside and slowly dribble down, pooling around the bottom.

  I tried to sleep, to forget about everything for at least a few hours— but the dark, peaceful oblivion eluded me. Thoughts of my white tiger and the centuries-old curse that trapped him raced through my mind as I stared into space. I looked at Mr. Kadam’s empty seat across from me, glanced out the window, or watched a blinking light on the wall. I gazed at my hand now and then, tracing over the spot where Phet’s henna design lay unseen.

  Nilima returned with an MP3 player full of thousands of songs. Several were by Indian musicians, but most of them were by Americans. I scrolled through to find the saddest breakup songs on it. Putting the plugs in my ears, I selected PLAY.

  I unzipped my backpack to retrieve my grandmother’s quilt, only then remembering that I had wrapped Fanindra inside it. Pulling back the edges of the quilt, I spied the golden serpent, a gift from the goddess Durga herself, and set it next to me on the armrest. The enchanted piece of jewelry was in a coil, resting: or at least I assumed she was. Rubbing her smooth, golden head, I whispered, “You’re all I’ve got now.”

  Spreading the quilt over my legs, I leaned back in the reclined chair, stared at the ceil
ing of the airplane, and listened to a song called “One Last Cry.” Keeping the volume soft and low, I placed Fanindra on my lap and stroked her gleaming coils. The green glow of the snake’s jeweled eyes softly illuminated the plane’s cabin and comforted me as the music filled the empty place in my soul.

  1

  WOU

  The plane finally landed several mind-numbing hours later at the airport in Portland, Oregon. When my feet hit the tarmac, I shifted my gaze from the terminal to the gray, overcast sky. I closed my eyes and let the cool breeze blow over me. It carried the smell of the forest. A soft, dewy sprinkle settled on my bare arms from what must have been a recent rain. It felt good to be home.

  Taking a deep breath, I felt Oregon center me. I was a part of this place, and it was a part of me. I belonged here. It was where I grew up and spent my whole life. My roots were here. My parents and grandma were buried here. Oregon welcomed me like a beloved child, enfolded me in her cool arms, shushed my turbulent thoughts, and promised peace through her whispering pines.

  Nilima had followed me down the steps and waited quietly while I absorbed the familiar environment. I heard the hum of a fast engine, and a cobalt blue convertible pulled around the corner. The sleek sports car was the exact color of his eyes.

  Mr. Kadam must have arranged for the car. I rolled my eyes at his expensive taste. Mr. Kadam thought of every last detail—and he always did it in style. At least the car’s a rental, I mused.

  I stowed my bags in the trunk and read the name on the back: Porsche Boxster RS 60 Spyder. I shook my head and muttered, “Holy cow, Mr. Kadam, I would have been just as happy to take the shuttle back to Salem.”

  “What?” Nilima asked politely.

  “Nothing. I’m just glad to be home.”

  I closed the trunk and sank down into the two-toned blue and gray leather seat. We drove in silence. Nilima knew exactly where she was going, so I didn’t even bother giving her directions. I just leaned my head back and watched the sky and the green landscape zip by.

  Cars full of teenage boys passed us. They whistled, admiring either Nilima’s exotic beauty and long, dark hair flying in the wind or the nice car. I’m not sure which inspired the catcalls, but I knew they weren’t for me. I wore my standard T-shirt, tennis shoes, and jeans. Wisps of my golden-brown hair tangled about my loose braid and whipped at my brown, red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked face. Older men cruised past us slowly too. They didn’t whistle, but they definitely enjoyed the view. Nilima just ignored them, and I tuned them out, thinking, I must look as awful as I feel.

  When we entered downtown Salem, we passed the Marion Street Bridge that would have taken us over the Willamette River and onto Highway 22 heading for the farmlands of Monmouth and Dallas. I tried to tell Nilima she missed a turn, but she merely shrugged and said we were taking a short cut.

  “Sure,” I said sarcastically, “what’s another few minutes on a trip that has lasted for days?”

  Nilima tossed her beautiful hair, smiled at me, and kept driving, maneuvering into the traffic headed for South Salem. I’d never been this way before. It was definitely the long way to Dallas.

  Nilima drove toward a large hill that was covered with forest. We wound our way slowly up the beautiful tree-lined road for several miles. I saw dirt roads leading into the trees. Houses poked through the forest here and there, but the area was largely untouched. I was surprised that the city hadn’t annexed it and started building there. It was quite lovely.

  Slowing down, Nilima turned onto a private road and followed it even higher up the hill. Although we passed a few other winding driveways, I didn’t see any houses. At the end of the road, we stopped in front of a duplex that was nestled in the middle of the pine forest.

  Both sides of the duplex were mirror images of each other. Each had two floors with a garage and a small, shared courtyard. Each had a large bay window that looked out over the trees. The wood siding was painted cedar brown and midnight green, and the roof was covered with grayish-green shingles. In a way, it resembled a ski cabin.

  Nilima glided smoothly into the garage and stopped the car. “We’re home,” she announced.

  “Home? What do you mean? Aren’t we going to my foster parents’ house?” I asked, even more confused than I already was.

  Nilima smiled understandingly. She told me gently, “No. This is your house.”

  “My house? What are you talking about? I live in Dallas. Who lives here?”

  “You do. Come inside and I’ll explain.”

  We walked through a laundry room into the kitchen, which was small but had lemon-yellow curtains, brand new stainless-steel appliances, and walls decorated with lemon stencils. Nilima grabbed a couple of bottles of diet cola from the fridge.

  I plopped my backpack down and said, “Okay, Nilima, now tell me what’s going on.”

  She ignored my question. Instead, she offered me a soda, which I declined, and then told me to follow her.

  Sighing, I slipped off my tennis shoes so I wouldn’t mess up the duplex’s plush carpeting and followed her to the small but cute living room. We sat on a beautiful chestnut leather sofa. A tall library cabinet full of classic hardbound books that probably cost a fortune beckoned invitingly from the corner, while a sunny window and a large, flat-screen television mounted above a polished cabinet also vied for my attention.

  Nilima began rifling through papers left on a coffee table.

  “Kelsey,” she began. “This house is yours. It’s part of the payment for your work in India this summer.”

  “It’s not like I was really working, Nilima.”

  “What you did was the most vital work of all. You accomplished much more than any of us even hoped. We all owe you a great debt, and this is a small way to reward your efforts. You’ve overcome tremendous obstacles and almost lost your life. We are all very grateful.”

  Embarrassed, I teased, “Well, now that you put it that way—wait! You said this house is part of my payment? You mean there’s more?”

  With a nod of her head, Nilima said, “Yes.”

  “No. I really can’t accept this gift. An entire house is way too much—never mind anything else. It’s much more than we agreed on. I just wanted some money to pay for books for school. He shouldn’t do this.”

  “Kelsey, he insisted.”

  “Well, he will have to un-insist. This is too much, Nilima. Really.”

  She sighed and looked at my face, which was set with steely determination. “He really wants you to have it, Kelsey. It will make him happy.”

  “Well, it’s impractical! How does he expect me to catch the bus to school from here? I plan to enroll in college now that I’m back home, and this location isn’t exactly close to any bus routes.”

  Nilima gave me a puzzled expression. “What do you mean catch the bus? I guess if you really want to ride the bus, you could drive down to the bus station.”

  “Drive down to the bus station? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Well, you aren’t making any sense. Why don’t you just drive your car to school?”

  “My car? What car?”

  “The one in the garage, of course.”

  “The one in the. . . . Oh, no. You have got to be kidding me!”

  “No. I’m not kidding. The Porsche is for you.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not! Do you know how much that car costs? No way!”

  I pulled out my cell phone and searched for Mr. Kadam’s phone number. Right before I pressed SEND, I thought of something that stopped me in my tracks. “Is there anything else I should know?”

  Nilima winced. “Well . . . he also took the liberty of signing you up at Western Oregon University. Your classes and books have already been paid for. Your books are on the counter next to your list of classes, a Western Wolf sweatshirt, and a map of the campus.”

  “He signed me up for WOU?” I asked, incredulous. “I’d been planning on attending the local community college and working—not attending WOU.”
>
  “He must have thought a university would be more to your liking. You start classes next week. As far as working goes, you may if you wish, but it will be unnecessary. He has also set up a bank account for you. Your new bank card is on the counter. Don’t forget to endorse it on the back.”

  I swallowed. “And . . . uh . . . exactly how much money is in that bank account?”

  Nilima shrugged. “I have no idea, but I’m sure it’s enough to cover your living expenses. Of course, none of your bills will be sent here. Everything will be mailed straight to an accountant. The house and the car are paid for, as well as all of your college expenses.”

  She slid a whole bunch of paperwork my way and then sat back and sipped her diet soda.

  Shocked, I sat motionless for a minute and then remembered my resolve to call Mr. Kadam. I opened my phone and searched for his number.

  Nilima interrupted, “Are you sure you want to give everything back, Miss Kelsey? I know that he feels very strongly about this. He wants you to have these things.”

  “Well, Mr. Kadam should know that I don’t need his charity. I’ll just explain that community college is more than adequate, and I really don’t mind staying in the dorm and taking the bus.”

  Nilima leaned forward. “But, Kelsey, it wasn’t Mr. Kadam who arranged all of this.”

  “What? If it wasn’t Mr. Kadam, then who. . . . Oh!” I snapped my phone shut. There was no way I was going to call him, no matter what. “So he feels strongly about this, does he?”

  Nilima’s arched eyebrows drew together in pretty confusion, “Yes, I would say he does.”

  It almost tore my heart to shreds to leave him. He was 7,196.25 miles away in India, and yet somehow he still manages to have a hold on me.

  Under my breath, I grumbled, “Fine. He always gets what he wants anyway. There is no point in trying to give it back. He’ll just engineer some other over the top gift that will only serve to complicate our relationship even further.”

  A car honked outside in the driveway.

  “Well, that’s my ride back to the airport,” Nilima rose and said. “Oh! I almost forgot. This is for you too.” She pressed a brand-new cell phone in my hand, deftly switching it with my old phone, and hugged me quickly before walking to the front door.