Raven Calls (The Walker Papers Book 8), page 27
"You mean like learn ta shapeshift?" Gary asked with a not-very-credible glower.
"Hey, you’re the one who went off on shore leave with the guys for three days. You could’ve stayed home and been there for the fireworks."
Gary got a look that said he’d had some fireworks of his own over the weekend, and I realized I’d barely even asked him how the party had gone. There was a laundry list of catching up to do, never mind his adventures through time about which I’d not yet heard a peep. I pointed at him, said, "We gotta talk," then marched back to where Aibhill had fallen and gathered handsful of Gancanagh’s dusty remains. It didn’t take much to draw a small power circle around myself, and when I was done I sat in its center, black dust glittering in the failing light. Macabre, maybe, but it seemed suitable: he was of this land, and I could use all the friendly surrounds I could get. And Gan had certainly been friendly.
Circle in place, I was as safe from the Master’s minions as I could get. I waved at Mom and Gary, then let my heartbeat be the drum that carried me to my garden.
For a rarity I came up through the water when I entered the garden, and strode out feeling a bit Diana at the hunt. That lasted right up until I saw an agitated Coyote pacing the stubbly grass. Technically he shouldn’t have been able to wander into my garden uninvited, but that concern came secondary to why he was there at all. "Are you okay?"
He spun around on his heel, changing from animal form to man as he did so. He was breathtaking, as always. Brick-red skin, not a human color at all, and flawless black hair that fell loose to his hips. That, he had in real life, but not the skin tones or the golden eyes, which were currently shining with worry. He ran the few steps across the grass to catch me in something that wasn’t exactly a hug and wasn’t quite a shake, but fell somewhere in between. Then, as Gary often did, he set me back so he could see me, but with him there was a definite rattling of my teeth involved in the motion. "Me? Are you okay?"
I put my hands over his wrists and squeezed, not gently. Red-brick beauty or not, Coyote was two inches shorter than me both in real life and in his garden perception of himself, and I was, if not his equal in strength, pretty damned near. I was certainly strong enough to grind his wrist bones together, even if we hadn’t been in my garden, where my will reigned supreme. He frowned, then let go of my shoulders as my grip grew increasingly clamplike. "Ow!"
"If you ever shake me again it’s going to be a whole lot more than a little ow." I only released him after childish hurt turned to comprehension in his eyes. His "Sorry" was the grudging apology of a man embarrassed to have been caught out. I nodded and exhaled my own anger away. "What’re you doing here, Cyrano?"
Maybe not all my anger, then. I’d spent a long time thinking Coyote was a spirit animal. After discovering he was a real live human boy—and learning his name—I’d started using the latter occasionally. Generally when I was annoyed with him. He noted it now, and his grudgingness melted away in a thin, acknowledging smile that turned slightly incredulous. "You came tearing into my garden, demanded the spear, went rushing off again with no explanation and you wonder why I’m here?"
Oh. "Oh. Everything’s okay. I was just in a tight spot."
Coyote, with wonderful neutrality, said, "In Ireland’s underworld."
"Right. Hey, look, since you’re here, you want to gi—"
"JOANNE WALKER!"
I sat down hard and nearly swallowed my tongue as I looked up at him, all innocent eyes. "What? What?"
Coyote thrust a finger out. Not quite at me. Not after I’d squashed his wrists for shaking me. Just an imperious thrust, piercing the air. "What are you doing in Ireland, in the underworld, asking for the spear, which I see you no longer have, and what is wrong with your arm!"
Between him and my mother I was getting about all the outraged-parent scenario I could handle. I took a moment to be grateful Dad had raised me on his own so my parents couldn’t double-team me, then said, as pleasantly as I could, "I’m in Ireland’s underworld trying to find a cure for a werewolf bite," which was succinct and, in its way, accurate.
Coyote’s long smooth hair took on a life of its own, strands rising like static pulled them hither and yon. It was a rather appealing show of magic and concern, and regret sluiced through me. It probably always would, when it came to Coyote. Some things couldn’t help leave a mark. He, unaware of my thoughts, demanded, "And the spear?"
"I gave it to the Irish Mage."
His mouth opened and shut, but evidently he couldn’t find fault with that particular answer. After a minute he, too, sat, rubbing his hands over his face. "Werewolf bite, Jo?"
"It was," I said for the hundredth time, "a rough weekend. Look, I’ve left my dead mother and Gary hanging around in the underworld while I’ve come here to try to heal this thing, so while there’s an awful damned lot I need to talk to you about, right now is probably not the time to do it. You’ve known me longer than anybody else. Do you think you can help?"
"Jo, a werewolf—a shapechanger, a skinwalker of any kind—a skinwalker shouldn’t be able to…" He struggled for a word and settled on, "Infect. Shouldn’t be able to infect you. The healing magic should keep it away, and you can’t shapeshift yet, so—"
I said, "Actually," into my elbow, and he fell into a voluminous silence. Poor Coyote. For the past week I’d been doing variations on rushing into his consciousness, screeching for help and rushing out again with nary a word of explanation. I ran through the details of the past several days mentally, then summarized it all with, "The shapeshifting lesson this weekend went fine. No flounders. I did what you told me, I kept an animal in mind to shift into and so far I’ve done a snake and a coyote and a werewolf, but according to my mother the whole wolf thing is me embracing the shapeshifting in a totally screwed-up way."
Coyote, with what struck me as remarkable restraint, said, "Isn’t your mother dead?"
"Yeah."
"I see." He sat there waiting for more for a full thirty seconds before concluding I wasn’t going to delve any deeper into that particular well, then sighed from the depths of his soul. "Of course I’ll help."
He didn’t even put a caveat on, which I thought was very gentlemanly of him. I leaned forward and caught his hand with mine. "I swear I’ll call you and tell you the whole story, all of it, no holds barred—" except maybe the part about Morrison kissing me "—and then I’m going to beg you for mentorly advice, because, holy crap, am I in over my head."
"Call," he said, making a phone with his fingers, "or call?" he said, gesturing around the garden.
"Call," I said, repeating the garden motion, and he smiled.
"All right. If I may, then?" He nodded toward my overheated left arm and I flopped it toward him. A hiss escaped between his teeth as he touched it and almost withdrew. "Sorry if that hurt."
"Actually, it didn’t." I knew perfectly well that was worse than it hurting. It suggested somewhere within me I’d started accepting the changes, and that was bad. "I’m fighting myself," I said quietly. "My hind brain is running with the 'werewolf bites mean turning into werewolves!’ thing and the healing magic, which I guess is smarter than I am—"
Coyote gave me a look that suggested tree frogs were smarter than I was, but didn’t say it. I half smiled and continued. "Anyway, I guess it’s going great guns holding the infection in place, not letting it spread. Or not spread quickly, anyway. Nobody else has been able to get a foothold against it."
"Who’s tried?"
"A goddess and a spirit animal."
Coyote’s eyes popped like Sylvester the Cat’s, but he got his expression back under control. "Were either of them invited?"
"Not per se." I knew a cue when I heard one, though, and straightened my spine so my lungs could be properly filled and my "Coyote, will you heal me?" could come out as a nice solid request.
For some reason it made him laugh. I huffed and he laughed again, then, trying for ritual solemnity, replied, "I will," before cracking up a third time. "Sorry. I just expected something a lot more formal. Magic makes people talk funny, have you noticed?"
"Have I ever. But I couldn’t figure out a way to dress it up any more than that."
"No, asking for a healing is really pretty straightforward. All right, listen, Jo. Two things. One, this is probably going to hurt, and two…" He hesitated, regret creasing lines around his mouth. "It’s going to require not holding anything back. That shouldn’t be hard...."
It shouldn’t be, because we’d had a handful of amazing days together only a few months earlier. We’d gotten under each other’s skins, into each other’s magics and seen each other’s souls in a way that only a couple of magic users could ever do. It had been the safest, most comfortable, most erotic intimacy I’d ever imagined.
And then Coyote had gone home to Arizona, and I’d stayed in Seattle, and the truth was, neither of us was going to give up our lives for the other.
More than that, though, was Morrison’s presence in my life. I’d been half in love with Coyote since I was a teenager. He was home to me in a way nobody else could ever be. But Morrison was the one who made me dizzy and weak-kneed and splendidly angry and passionately happy. Coyote’s magic was breathtaking. Morrison’s solidity was my world. Coyote and I both knew it. It hurt him more than it hurt me, but I didn’t want to rub salt in the wound.
On the other hand, I didn’t want to turn into a werewolf, either. I sighed. "No holds barred, ’Yote. I said that already."
"Okay." He kept my left hand in his right and put his left over my heart. Nice circle, I thought: heart magic. Without thinking I put my right hand over his heart, too. Not as intimate as the left hand, heart-to-heart, but since my left hand was a festering lump of burning infection, that was probably okay. Coyote nodded once, and I Saw his power light up, blocking the poison magic from the rest of my body with the circle he’d created.
Then desert heat exploded in my veins, and everything went white for a while.
Chapter 30
Acoyote and a wolf fought on a desert mesa. Eggshell-blue sky, hard white earth, a too-large sun pounding relentlessly on the combatants. The wolf was larger, black-furred, green-eyed and looked hot. The coyote, rangier, golden-eyed and quick, was more comfortable in the heat, but outgunned in terms of body weight. I was too far away to help either of them. I was, in fact, trussed and dangling upside-down from a dead white tree for the second, and I fervently hoped the final, time in my life.
The air this time wasn’t so hot as to be unbreathable. Not quite. I could just barely manage small sips, enough to keep me from gasping at the lack of oxygen. The sounds of battle carried through it: snarls, growls, bites, yips, howls and less obvious noises like claws scrabbling for purchase against hard dirt. Furthermore, heat waves played with the distance, so at some moments the fight seemed very far away and, others, startlingly near. Discomfort fluctuated in my own body as the fight changed distances, sometimes rocketing past pain into blinding agony, other times rolling back to nothing more than a vague nuisance. I kind of thought the waves should reflect which animal seemed to have the upper hand, but there didn’t appear to be a correlation. Or if there was, it hurt more when Coyote was winning. That didn’t seem quite fair.
Of course, I was hanging upside-down from a bleached-out desert tree, so I probably wasn’t in much position to be dictating what was and wasn’t fair. The wolf left black oily footprints behind as it fought, reminiscent of the black shapeless horrors that had formed themselves into the werewolves back at the dawn of time. Once in a while Coyote stepped in some of the goo. My heart rate accelerated every time, in half-rational conviction he would be contaminated by it.
I didn’t quite see it coming when the two animals locked on each other’s throats. I felt it, though. Felt it in my bloodstream: the blue-gold desert power Coyote brought to the game firing all cylinders against the wolf’s slick black magic. My whole body shuddered, contorting into a shape not meant to have arms tied behind its back. I tried for a scream, managed a croak and realized a little belatedly that I was letting Coyote do all the work for me.
My experiences in the desert had mostly been getting pummeled by somebody else’s magic. I didn’t really know what would happen if I called on my own. On the other hand, I had a fairly clear idea of what would happen if I didn’t, and it involved my mentor and one-time lover getting his ass handed to him. I bit my tongue until saliva flooded my mouth, and with that one tiny wet swallow, nerved myself to face the healing power again.
It was losing ground, even with Coyote shoring it up. Silver-blue was being eaten alive, mutated, corrupted, by the buzzing spill of black oil. I pushed back, tentatively, and my flesh wracked again, a modicum of ground regained. I was going to have to regain a lot more than that, and fast, or my extremities were going to be pulled from their sockets as I became more and more wolflike. Healer or no, that was not something I was eager to experience. I shoved again, this time whispering, "Your own worst enemy," to myself.
It was true. I had been since the beginning. I’d been some other people’s worst enemy, too, often people I’d meant to be a friend to, but mostly I’d been in my own way. There were a million faces to my impediments: my mother, my father, my children, my job prospects, my romantic prospects—basically I’d thrown everything I could think of in the way. Excuses or reasons, regardless of what I called them, they stood there like trenchermen, my own personality determined to hold me back.
But so much had gotten cleared away recently. I had to go back to North Carolina, that was increasingly obvious, but beyond my dad and Aidan, I’d done so well lately. Like I’d told my mother, I’d gotten the magic, the guy, the job. I didn’t have much left to be afraid of, and no sense at all of why I should be so afraid that turning into a werewolf seemed like a better option.
"You’re afraid of success," my own voice said to me. I bobbled around to see myself, aged fifteen, standing a few yards beyond the deadwood tree. It was the angry version of me, the one that had lost all contact with the shamanic heritage she’d been learning about. She’d chopped her hair off in defiance, and if she wasn’t already, she’d be pregnant within a few weeks, in her timeline. I thought she was a brat.
She was also painfully clear-sighted about some things. She, who had fought the whole damned world tooth and nail, had gotten me through a confrontation with a Navajo Maker god by demanding to know why it was I, the person she’d become, thought everything had to be a fight. It didn’t, it turned out. Some things needed acceptance, not railing against. I had no idea how she’d figured that out, when I, a dozen years older and presumably wiser, certainly hadn’t. So if she was turning up to let me know new and obvious ways in which she thought I sucked, I should probably listen.
"Who the hell," I demanded, "is afraid of success?"
"You are." She walked around me, eyeing the ropes and the dead tree with a sort of scathing respect. Respect for the bindings, scathing for me. "Seriously, look at you. You’ve spent my entire life running from responsibility and pretending all you’re good for is fixing cars. Only, oh, no! It turns out that if you’re, like, forced to be, you’re pretty good at some other stuff, too. And now you’ve finally tapped into the real power I was working toward before you screwed me over, and you’re all 'Oh, my God! More responsibility!’" She made spooky wavy hands and put a tremble in her voice with the last bit. "'Oh, no! I’ve gotten this far but I can’t handle even more responsibility! What if I screw up with it? Worse! What if I don’t! What if it turns out I can actually, like, be really good at saving the world and helping people? No, no, Brer Rabbit, we can’t risk that, better get turned into a horrible monster instead! Oh, my God, Morrison really likes me! We can’t have that! I better run off and get myself killed fighting banshees instead! Oh, no! Mom didn’t hate me after all! I better—’"
"ALL RIGHT ALREADY." Jesus but I didn’t like that kid. I bobbled around in another circle and glared when she came back into view. "What’re you doing here, anyway? I didn’t go stealing power from you this time, there’s no time loop to cl—"
Scathing respect had faded into the rant, but now scathing pity rose to replace it. "Are you kidding? We’re almost at the end of the time loop now. Not just ours, but the big one, the one the Master and the Morrígan set in place when they made the cauldron. I always would’ve been here, in Ireland, fighting this fight, because of what happened with us and Mom and the banshee before we were born. This is it," she said a lot more softly. "This is the end of me. Tie us up with a bow. Tell Coyote goodbye, because from here on out it’s all you, Siobhán."
Desert heat or not, the idea that my younger self was facing her last moments was a bucket of cold water in the face. I didn’t like her, but she appeared to have her shit together in a way I hadn’t for a long time, and she had, frankly, deserved better than me. I tried to wet my lips, had nothing to do it with and croaked, "Sorry."
"Don’t be sorry. Be good. Be right. Be a hero." She’d demanded that of me once before, and I supposed if anybody did, she had the right. She pointed at my arm, at the shiny red-hot infection, said, "Man up, Joanne," and vanished.
Right there in that instant, she healed me. Not because she was throwing power around, but because she’d hit me so hard I had to see the world a different way, and that was all it took for a shaman. Just a moment’s change of viewpoint. I’d been so proud of myself for doing increasingly well it had never occurred to me I might be afraid of doing better yet. Of succeeding. But my younger self, brat or not, was nobody’s fool, either, and all of a sudden I could see success for the huge, scary beastie that it was.
I’d never had ambitions toward greatness. I genuinely believed I’d have been happy running a mechanic shop, tinkering with Petite and drinking beer with the guys on days off. But that wasn’t in the cards, and I’d gotten good at the hand I’d been dealt. I’d been pleased with that and hadn’t wanted more. It never crossed my mind that being dealt an even better hand would scare me, but Joanne The Younger was right.
