Supernatural: Coyote's Kiss

by Christa Faust

  “Forget it,” Dean said. “We don’t need your help.”

  She paused for a moment with the burrito halfway to her lips, shot Dean a curious look, then went ahead and took the bite.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, chewing. “I will still eat your burrito.”

  “What do we have to lose, Dean?” Sam asked. “I think we should hear her out.”

  Dean frowned. Sam’s face was unreadable.

  “Give us a minute,” Dean said. “I need to talk to my brother. Alone.”

  Xochi shrugged and took her dinner outside.

  “We don’t know anything about this chick,” Dean said as soon as the door was closed. “We don’t even know for sure if she’s human. I don’t trust her.”

  “Trust has nothing to do with it,” Sam said. “I want to hear what she knows about this thing.”

  “Okay, so we just listen to what she has to say,” Dean said. “And then she leaves, right? I don’t want her tagging along with us.”

  “Why not?” Sam asked. “Because you don’t want to let a girl into the Monster Club? Or is it because of what happened to Jo Harvelle?”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Dean asked, feeling like he had lost the argument before it had even started.

  “Look, from what I saw, this girl’s got skills,” Sam said.

  “She can obviously take care of herself and she knows what we’re dealing with here. Why not take advantage of that? We can use her to help us hunt this thing and if she tries to screw us over along the way, well, then I’ll handle her.”

  “Handle her?” Dean frowned. “What do you mean handle her? Give her a stern talking to? Put her over your knee?”

  “Is this gonna be another one of your Jiminy Cricket lectures?”

  “You mean kill her, don’t you?” Dean couldn’t believe he was actually having this conversation. “Sam, what if she is human?”

  Sam shrugged. Dean shook his head, made a disgusted noise.

  “Just trying to be practical, huh?” Dean asked.

  Sam didn’t answer.

  Dean had to look away from Sam. From the Sam-shaped thing standing next to him with nothing but calm, cold logic in those empty eyes. What difference did it make anyway? Why not have a whole team of enigmatic strangers whose motivations he didn’t completely trust? He had been kidding himself, thinking this job would be just like old times. That version of their lives was dead and buried in a thousand different graves.

  “Fine,” Dean said. “She’s your responsibility. I want you on her day and night, watching her, but if you think something’s not right, you come to me. Come to me, you hear me? And I can’t believe I’m the one saying this, but I have to say it anyway. The day we start ganking innocent humans is the day we become what we’re hunting. Hell, you’re the one who taught me that. Remember?”

  Dean could see that Sam was seriously thinking about what he was saying, but he had no way of knowing what was really going on inside that head.

  “Go on,” Dean said with a resigned sigh. “Call her back in.”

  Dean filled Sam and Xochi in on everything he’d learned from De La Paz. Sam, in turn, laid out the details of the more recent attack, including several grisly photos. The gory details didn’t seem to have any affect on Xochi’s appetite. She had finished the burrito and was powering her way through the remaining tortilla chips. She would dunk each chip into the salsa and then pour nearly an entire packet of salt onto every single bite. He’d never seen anyone eat so much salt in one meal. It was making him thirsty just watching her. Even though he still didn’t completely trust her, it was safe to say that she definitely wasn’t a demon.

  “Interesting,” Xochi said. “But this information gives me more questions than answers.”

  “Yeah, well speaking of questions,” Dean said. “It’s quid pro quo time. What’s a Borderwalker?”

  “Do you have any beer?” Xochi asked.

  Dean gestured grudgingly toward the dented mini fridge beside the television.

  “Help yourself,” he said.

  She sauntered across the room and bent over to pull a bottle of Negra Modelo out of the low fridge. Dean tried not to stare. Sam made no such effort.

  “A Borderwalker is a creature that used to be human,” she said, popping the cap off her bottle and taking a swig. “Transformed by an ancient supernatural affliction that originated with a trick played on a mortal woman by the god Huehuecoyotl. He was smitten by a legendary beauty, so he tricked her into swallowing a lump of white copal that would make her fall in love with him. But the trick backfired and her love was so strong that she did not want him go back to the realm of the gods. She clung to him as he was shifting form to leave the realm of humans and her soul was caught in the portal, trapped in the borderland between the worlds. She became a shadow dweller, neither alive nor dead, lost between dreaming and waking, between beast and human. Like vampirism or your European lycanthropy, this affliction can be passed on to others, but only to women and only in the moments before their death. It’s known as the Coyote’s Kiss.”

  Dean walked over to the fridge to grab a beer of his own. He motioned for her to continue.

  “Borderwalkers are found only in the deepest desert,” she said. “And are generally very shy, rarely making contact with living humans. But they are attracted by dying women and will often make an offer to either guide their soul to the realm of the dead or pass on the legacy of the Coyote’s Kiss, allowing them to live on in dream form.”

  “That’s a very nice bedtime story,” Dean said. “But you’re way off base. Whatever it is that attacked those Border Patrol officers certainly isn’t shy. It’s murdered at least twenty people that we know of.”

  “Butchered them,” Sam said. “Tore them to pieces. This isn’t some mopey romantic ghost we’re dealing with. This thing is a bloodthirsty killer.”

  “Isn’t that why we’re both here?” Xochi asked.

  “I don’t follow,” Dean said.

  “Aren’t you here because of the...” She paused, searching for the correct English word. “The wrongness? You are hunters, like me. Our job is to keep the balance, no?”

  “Our job is to gank monsters,” Dean said.

  “Now I don’t follow.” She looked genuinely puzzled. “You don’t dive into the river and slaughter a crocodile in her nest. She is a natural part of life and death in that river. She belongs there. You do not. But if that same crocodile comes into your swimming pool and eats your dog and your baby, she is no longer in her natural place. She has disrupted the balance and must be killed. That’s my job. It has been the job of my family for more than 500 years.

  “Something is horribly wrong with this Borderwalker. She has become corrupted, her powers both intensified and twisted. I feel sure that understanding what happened on that night fifteen years ago is the key to understanding this tortured creature.”

  “Okay, but hold on a second,” Sam said. “I’m still stuck on this.” He handed the photo of the halved SUV to Xochi. “What the hell happened here?”

  Xochi took the photo, ran her finger over the image.

  “Borderwalkers have the power to transport people and objects between worlds,” Xochi said. “In this case, it looks like our Borderwalker is so out of control that she is pulling things out of our world without intention. I believe that is also what happened to Davis Keene’s head.”

  “Lovely,” Dean said.

  “That kid Anibal,” Sam said. “The one who said he saw the border patrol officers turn a woman into a coyote. What do you make of that?”

  “He may have seen her mortally wounded by the officers and then witnessed the appearance of the Borderwalker who turned her,” Xochi said. “That would explain her vendetta, but it doesn’t explain what went wrong in the transition.”

  “Why wait for fifteen years?” Dean asked. “Why didn’t she come after these guys sooner?”

  “In the Borderland between the worlds, where the transf
ormation takes place, time passes differently. What seems like a single second can be a decade, or the other way around. There is no exact formula to it. Some take years. Some are instantaneous. Every transformation is different.”

  “So how do we kill it?” Sam asked.

  “A normal Borderwalker is a shape-shifter, able to take on aspects of various desert animals such as the coyote, the scorpion or the rattlesnake. But she is weakest in her human form. If we can find a way to connect emotionally with her human soul she will become vulnerable to attack with ordinary weapons.”

  “That’s all you, Dean,” Sam said.

  “Of course,” Xochi said. “That’s a normal Borderwalker. A normal Borderwalker cannot tear through a bulletproof vest. A normal Borderwalker would have no reason to even attempt such a thing. This creature that we are dealing with is driven by a kind of all-consuming rage. Her vendetta has transformed her into something unnatural. Something terrible. There is no precedent. I think it would be wise to assume there are no rules.”

  “What about silver?” Dean asked. “Works against most other shifters.”

  “Yes,” Xochi said. “It does, but not against Borderwalkers. It will not kill her if used as a weapon, but may thwart her attack if worn for protection. Obsidian, perhaps, would be more effective...” She trailed off, seeming lost in reflection for a moment.

  “Is there some kind of herb we could use?” Sam suggested. “The Borderwalker equivalent to wolfsbane or garlic? You mentioned something about copal. That’s a kind of tree resin, isn’t it?”

  “Borderwalkers have copal smoke for blood,” Xochi said. “And copal is often burned to help lost souls find their way back home on the Day of the Dead. But I don’t think it would give us any advantage against her. However, Cempoalxochitl... how do you say... marigold? These flowers are very powerful and may offer us some additional protection.”

  “Marigolds?” Dean raised an eyebrow. “You mean those little orange puffballs in old ladies’ window boxes?”

  “Marigolds are the most sacred plant of my people,” Xochi said with a thundery frown. “I wear them in my hair whenever I go into battle.”

  “No disrespect to your people,” Dean said. “But we’re not going to San Francisco here. I ain’t wearing any flowers in my hair.”

  “I’m with Dean on this,” Sam said. “I wouldn’t even let them put a lei on me if I went to Hawaii.”

  “No problem,” she said, shrugging. “I’m sure your big fat cojones will be more than enough to protect you.”

  “So what’s the plan then?” Sam asked.

  “We need to talk to the two remaining men,” Dean said. “Find out what really happened that night. Maybe warn them, if they’ll listen. Then stake them out and wait for our Borderwalker to show up.”

  “So, what?” Sam said. “We should split up? Each take one guy?”

  “No,” Xochi said firmly. “We stay together. It’s the only way.”

  “What makes you say that?” Sam asked.

  “Listen,” she said, throwing a loaded gaze in Dean’s direction, then turning and putting her hand in the center of Sam’s chest. “I need you.”

  Sam grinned. “Anytime, baby.”

  “Not for that,” she said. She looked up into Sam’s eyes, searching. “I need you because of your... dislocated soul. The motivations of your gods are hidden from me, but I know that you are here for a reason.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Dean said. “What do you know about his soul?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Only that it is missing from his body. And that without him, this hunt will ultimately fail. We need to work together to fight this thing. It’s the only way.”

  “Okay, so you need him,” Dean said. “But why do we need you?”

  Xochi looked him over.

  “¿Hablas Español?”

  “Mas cerveza por favor,” Dean said with a sheepish half-smile. “That’s pretty much it.”

  She turned to Sam. “You?”

  “I remember some of my high school Spanish,” Sam said. “I can get my point across when I need to.”

  “What if our Borderwalker chooses to move south? You are familiar with the towns on the other side of the border? Nogales? Agua Prieta? Cuidad Juarez?”

  Dean looked at Sam. They both shook their heads.

  “These are some of the most dangerous places in my country,” she said. “I’m sure you’ve seen the news. The gruesome executions. Torture. Women and children gunned down in the street. There is open war between the drug cartels, but I’m sure they will be happy to stop shooting each other long enough to give directions to a couple of lost gringos.”

  “Point taken,” Dean said. “But what makes you think we won’t catch it here on this side of the border?”

  “Maybe we will,” she said. “Or maybe we won’t. You like to gamble, Dean? I do not.”

  “So we stay together,” Dean said. “But how do we know who to visit first?”

  “I will go into the desert,” Xochi said. “Pray to Huehuecoyotl and ask him to help us find his wayward granddaughter. His answers are not always trustworthy, but his lies often reveal more than the truth.”

  “I’ll work on tracking down current addresses for the two men,” Sam said. “And any other information I can dig up on the recent killings in San Diego.”

  Dean nodded, pushed his fingers through his hair. He wasn’t exactly happy with this uneasy alliance, but it seemed almost like it could work.

  “I must go now,” Xochi said. “But I will return in the morning.”

  She walked over to Sam, stood high on her booted toes and pulled his shaggy head down so she could kiss his cheek.

  “Thank you for the food,” she said.

  “De nada,” Sam said with a wink.

  She turned and locked eyes with Dean. She came to him slow and slid her arms around him, curvy little body pressed against his like it had been when she was struggling under him on the scratchy carpet.

  “And thank you, Dean,” she said, low and close to his ear. “For giving me a chance to prove my intentions.”

  Dean gripped her by the upper arms and stepped back, out of her embrace.

  “Yeah, okay great.” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

  She paused for a moment, looking up into his eyes.

  “Tomorrow,” she said.

  She turned and left. Dean closed the door and locked it. Let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  ELEVEN

  “Dude,” Sam said. “What’s with you?”

  “What?”

  “That chick’s a hammer. I’ll bet she could crack walnuts with that ass.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So she’s obviously into you,” Sam said. “You ought to hit that while it’s hot.”

  Dean went for a much-needed drink, bypassing the beer and going straight to the whisky he’d stashed in the bedside drawer beside the King James Bible.

  “Come on,” he said, breaking the seal and swigging directly from the bottle. “We’ve got more important things to think about right now.”

  “You’re the one who keeps on saying you don’t believe I’m really me,” Sam said, hands held out in exaggerated disbelief. “But who the hell are you? My big brother, the unrepentant womanizer, just let an ass like that walk out the door because he’s got more important things to think about?”

  “Look, if you think she’s so hot, why don’t you...:”

  Sam cut him off before he could finish.

  “Why are you still doing this to yourself?”

  “Doing what, exactly?”

  “Not like it matters to me one way or the other, but you and Lisa have been separated for how long now?”

  “You were the one who wanted me to be with her so badly in the first place,” Dean said. “Besides, I’m just...”

  “Just what?” Sam said. “Just not getting any. That’s what. Look, you gave the whole apple pie thing a shot, but it didn’t work out. Moping around a
nd acting like there aren’t any other women in the world isn’t gonna change that. You need to lighten up. Have a little harmless fun. Clear out your pipes, because they’re obviously starting to back up and overflow into your brain.”

  “Yeah, well,” Dean took another swig. “If you had a soul, maybe you’d understand.”

  “You really think she hasn’t been with anyone else since you left?”

  Dean turned to face his brother, eyes narrow.

  “I really think you oughta mind your own damn business,” Dean said. He set the bottle down hard on the table, contents sloshing, nearly spilling.

  “I’m just saying,” Sam said, shrugging. Unruffled as a reptile.

  “Well don’t,” Dean said, hands curling into fists.

  He was itching to let Sam have it, but there was no point. He was right, of course. Just trying to be practical. Besides, it wasn’t as if the idea hadn’t crossed Dean’s mind before. More times than he wanted to admit. Even though it made him crazy to think of anyone else touching Lisa, she deserved to find someone who could keep her safe and make her happy. Someone stable and decent and honest. Someone who could be a good role model for Ben. Someone who would never expose them to the kind of ugliness that Dean had brought into their lives. In short, someone who wasn’t him.

  So why couldn’t he let go? Lighten up? Have a little harmless fun?

  He grabbed the bottle by the neck and walked out the motel door.

  Dean sat behind the wheel of the Impala, staring through the bug-splattered windshield at the motel parking lot. That car had always been more of a home to him than any house or any town anywhere in the country. It was where he went whenever he felt rocky. Disconnected. But sitting there that night, he just couldn’t shake the feeling of emotional freefall. Like he’d completely lost sight of what he was supposed to be doing with his life. Sam’s question was still echoing inside his head. Who the hell are you? Dean couldn’t make things work with Lisa, but he couldn’t just go back to who he used to be either. All he could do was keep busy, keep moving, and keep all his emotions crushed down and buried deep, like he always did. Numb up and nut up. Lose himself in the hunt. But it was the quiet times like this that got to him. Those long, lonely hours when night became morning, when no matter how much he drank, he just couldn’t seem to drown all the doubt and regret. The bottle propped between his legs was half empty. The pessimists’ verdict. Half empty, like he was. He took another pull, swiftly working his way toward completely empty. He thought of De La Paz, asking him if he still believed in justice.