Changeling Dream

by Dani Harper

  Stars wheeled overhead, revealing the constellations of the early morning as the Pack leader turned toward Elk Point. There, she slowed at last and picked her way along the rocky promontory until the trees parted to reveal a sweeping view. Tongues lolling, sides heaving, the wolves flopped down on the stone plateau just as a wind gusted up from the valley. Dry leaves swirled into a lazy vortex around the group. The air crackled, flashed here and there with tiny sparks, as static electricity began to collect. The power built until the ground thrummed with it, until the very rocks vibrated.

  Sudden silence burst as loud as a thunderclap. Human laughter and human words flowed in quickly to fill the vacuum. The breeze died away, the leaves fell to earth. Where eight wolves had been, there was now only one. A lone white wolf and seven human beings.

  Connor Macleod automatically reached out a hand and ruffled the thick soft fur. His older brother was not just the only one in the family with such a snowy pelt, but the only Changeling that Connor had ever seen with that coloration—not an albino but a true white. Their father had often called James a winter wolf, but there was always a touch of sadness in his voice when he did so. Connor had pressed him for an explanation once. It’s a verra long journey until spring for a winter wolf, lad. A verra long journey. Connor had been too young to attach any meaning to his father’s words. Now he saw that they had been all too prophetic.

  He spoke to his older brother in his mind. All of them had that ability; it was part and parcel of being Changeling. Good to see you, bro. Have you eaten tonight?

  Old moose, lame. Easy hunting. Full now.

  James’s words were always clear in Connor’s mind, but they were few and labored, as if it were a strain to use human words at all. As if running as a wolf for thirty years made it difficult to even remember the language. Seven words in a row nearly counted as a speech.

  It might have given Connor a tiny glimmer of hope, but he hadn’t allowed himself that luxury in many years. His hand fell away from the thick white pelt as he automatically blocked the rest of his thoughts from his brother. What possible good could it do to tell James how much he missed him, ached to talk with him, to joke and laugh with him, hell, even to fight with him? How the whole family grieved for James, as if he was dead. And he was dead to them. Even as a wolf he very seldom ran with the Pack or came near any of them except Connor on occasion. James had forsaken his human self entirely, and it was unclear if he was bound to the Macleods by remembered human ties or merely a wolf instinct to be part of a Pack.

  But not one of us blames him for it. Good Christ, how could we? We weren’t there. We were too far away, all of us too damn far away. He shook his head. By the time they’d arrived at James’s farm, the house was a heap of blackened beams and cold ashes. Too damn late to do anything but bury poor Evelyn. It had nearly been too late for James as well. The Pack had tracked him through deep wilderness for two days, unable to catch up with him until he finally collapsed from his horrific wounds. Over thirty years had passed and still Connor shivered at that memory. He had barely recognized the blackened and battered creature that once was the white wolf. Changeling or not, it was a miracle James had lived.

  But the miracle was incomplete. The wolf came back to them, but not the man. Connor glanced over at his brother. The massive white creature was stretched out on the ground beside him as if relaxed, but the vivid blue eyes flicked from person to person. Alert. Ready, Connor knew, to disappear. Everyone else knew too. Connor noticed that each member of the Pack, family and friend alike, would glance over at James and then quickly turn away, not knowing what to do or say. Fearing to break some unknown spell, fearing that the white wolf would leave them even sooner than he usually did.

  It’s hard on James but it’s hard on all of us too. Your older brother has lost his balance, his ability to be comfortable in both worlds.

  Jessie Watson’s voice was warm and strong in Connor’s mind. He knew the Pack leader was focusing her speech so only he could hear it. He did the same. I don’t know how to help him.

  You’re doing all you can. James is doing all he can, too. He’s chosen to stay here, for one thing. He wanders but always returns. He still feels a connection to this land that your family claimed and settled, a bond to something that symbolizes roots. And he responds to you, Connor. Cares for you as a brother, not just a Pack-mate, even guards you. Haven’t you sensed him on some level when you’ve been working late at the clinic?

  Connor looked across the fire, saw it brush golden highlights over Jessie’s dark skin. There was always something regal about her, a sense of power. She was a small woman, downright tiny when standing next to her husband Bill. Yet she possessed a formidable blend of courage and wisdom, as well as more exotic gifts. Including magic. He didn’t doubt her, but the news came as a surprise. James has been at the clinic?

  Many times. Perhaps you haven’t noticed his physical presence because thoughts of James are always in your mind. Take a walk tomorrow and use your Changeling senses to check the stand of trees behind the building. Scent the air, the ground. Watch for hairs in the hay bales in the compound, prints along the fences in the corrals. He watches over you, Connor. He watches over the others too.

  Well, then he should be fired—he didn’t make sure everyone was dressed tonight. Connor tried to lighten the subject, a little uncomfortable with the notion that the older brother he worried so much about was guarding him. He turned his attention to where his younger brother Devlin was mercilessly teasing his twin Culley about missing shoes and socks. Anything—clothing, objects, tools—that touched a Changeling’s body as it shifted to wolf was automatically suspended in a another dimension until human form was resumed. What or where that dimension was exactly, Connor didn’t know, only that the current theory favored the existence of many more dimensions than the four that Einstein declared. That was Devlin’s passion, exploring the physics associated with Changeling life. Culley, however, couldn’t care less. Always in a hurry, he often Changed without checking to make sure he was fully clothed.

  It wasn’t a problem unless they had to shift back to human form unexpectedly. Explaining why their youngest brother was barefoot in the middle of the night could be tricky. Culley had no jacket either, only a light T-shirt, but a Changeling’s ambient body temperature was much higher than that of a human. Connor shook his head, nearly smiled. That boy would be comfortable if he was buck-naked in a snowstorm. Then he saw Culley steal a wistful glance at the white wolf and the heavyheartedness returned full-force.

  They think he avoids them, Jessie. And he does, he steers clear of everyone. Except me, Connor thought. And he doesn’t exactly hang around much with me either. They were just a year apart in age, and they’d been inseparable when they were growing up. Even when Evelyn entered James’s life, they’d remained close. Close before everything went to hell. I miss him, Jessie. It drives me crazy, wishing I could help him.

  You are helping him. You’re there for him. How many months was it before James even attempted to communicate? Yet he speaks to you now in your mind. How many years before he would venture near the Pack? Yet he often runs with us now, ran with us tonight. Progress is slow and subtle, very hard to see when it’s happening—but James has been opening the door a little at a time. He doesn’t know it, but he is ready to be healed. And because of this, the healer will come.

  What healer? Who?

  I don’t know. I haven’t seen that. I just know that the Universe reaches out to us when we make an effort, when we show we are ready. James is ready. The healer will come. She broke the connection then, turning her attention to something Bill was saying.

  Connor looked down to find the white wolf gone. Good Christ, I didn’t sense a thing. James was like a damn ghost at times. His brother might be talking—well, technically, using mind speech—a little more, but if he was making any real progress, Connor couldn’t see it. He couldn’t imagine who or what could possibly heal his brother’s shattered soul. Still, Jessie’s wo
rds gave him a little actual hope. He let himself feel it this time, savor it. Hope that James could find his way back to his human self, hope that he would find a reason to want to come back. And stay.

  Douglas Harrison heard the song of wolves in the distance and shivered as he sat by his father’s bedside. The old man had been dreaming again, and thrashed the blankets and sheets into a twisted wad. He took his father’s hand from where it clawed the air, clasped it, and remembered how that hand had once seemed so large, so powerful. The fingers were always cold now, the tough calluses covered with the velvet-soft skin of age. His dad’s grip was still strong, but not nearly as strong as it once was. The old man licked dry lips and whispered fiercely, “It’s here, son. We didn’t kill it. It’s still here, walking among us. I know it’s here. Get your gun, Dougie, we gotta get it, gotta finish it off.”

  A chill zipped down Douglas’s spine, tingled like ice-cold electricity. He tried to keep his voice calm, level. “We took care of that bear, Dad. Made a big rug out of it, remember?”

  “You know what I mean, boy.” His father’s eyes fastened on him, angry and a little wild. His voice was hoarse but rapidly gained in volume. “The werewolf, the white one. The one you didn’t shoot when I told you to shoot. You stood there and bawled like a damn baby until I had to drag you out of there.”

  Oh God, not that again. Douglas was thankful that none of the caregivers who came to their home believed his father’s stories, but he found himself checking behind him just the same to see if anyone was listening. “Dad, I—”

  “I told you. I told you we had to finish him. He’s alive, and he’ll be tracking us, hunting us both unless we hunt him down first. Get my .338 out of the truck, boy, the one I use for bear.”

  It took an hour this time to get his father settled. When he left the room, Douglas felt wrung out and apprehensive, even though he knew that the old man was unlikely to remember any of this in the morning. Wisps of an Alzheimer’s fog had settled over Roderick Harrison’s mind in recent years. More and more, the past mingled with the present. Including a part of the past his son would much rather forget.

  It had to be the full moon. His father was always worse during the full moon. Last month during this lunar phase, Roderick had been found halfway down the lane in his pajamas, carrying a broom like a rifle, determined to destroy the creature that filled his dreams.

  Douglas had gathered up all the hunting rifles after that incident and sent them over to the ranch manager’s house for safekeeping. A decision about a nursing home needed to be made soon—but he didn’t feel like making it right now. He couldn’t picture his father in such a place, away from the ranch he had ruled with such fervor. Knew too that in his dad’s lucid moments he would feel betrayed by his son.

  A small voice within mocked him. What about that long ago betrayal by your father? What about that night your dear old dad took his young son along to help him commit murder? Face it, Dougie-boy, you don’t want to put your father in a nursing home because you’re too afraid someone might start listening to his stories, that somebody might believe.. . .

  Douglas tucked his father in and decided against going back to bed himself. Instead, he headed downstairs to the bar for a drink. Maybe several drinks. As many as it would take to make that small inner voice shut up.

  Chapter Two

  Despite the fact that it was still April, despite the early morning hour and Jillian’s fervent wishes to the contrary, it was already hot and humid in the city of Guelph, Ontario. She got on a crowded Greyhound, praying that its air conditioning could handle the unseasonable heat wave that had plagued eastern Canada all month.

  Dr. Macleod had wired enough money for a first-class plane ticket and some extra besides, but the cash she saved by choosing the bus had paid off the rest of her rent, the balance on her phone bill, plus her tab at the little corner grocery store. No loose ends, she thought with some satisfaction. Nothing left behind, either. Everything she owned was in a battered knapsack and three large boxes held shut with duct tape. Fifty-seven hours and twenty-one minutes later, she arrived at the little northern town of Dunvegan, Alberta, with only the knapsack, a pounding headache, and a determination to strangle, then sue, every bus line employee she could find.

  The clerks at the small terminal—which apparently doubled as a dry cleaning establishment—never knew their danger. They were spared the moment Jillian stepped down off the bus. She caught only a glimpse of a white-haired woman in a citrus-green suit before she was swept into a bone-crunching hug.

  “You made it. You must be exhausted, dear.” The woman stepped back, still holding on to Jillian’s arms, and looked her up and down with hawk-bright eyes. “Name’s Birkie Peterson. I’m officially the receptionist at the clinic and unofficially the glue that holds the place together, and I, for one, am damn glad to see you. Been trying to tell the bossman he needs another pair of hands for years now. Welcome to the north.”

  “Um. Thanks. Thank you.” Feeling a little off base, Jillian noticed that the woman’s white hair was elegantly styled, her suit tailored and crisp. Tasteful gold jewelry gleamed at her ears and throat. And those shoes, those lovely little slings, looked like real leather. Next to Birkie’s cool and polished exterior, Jillian felt like a rumpled, sweaty mess wrapped in rags. Fashion had never been her top priority, but she was dead certain that a homeless person would possess more style than she did at that moment.

  Birkie didn’t seem to notice. If she did, she didn’t think a thing of it. “Let’s get you out of this heat, hon. At least you’ve left the humidity behind you. We’re dry as the proverbial bone here, and I’ve got a cold beer with your name on it, or a cola if you’d rather. Connor would have been here himself, but he got called to a foaling out at Vanderkerke’s not half an hour ago, and they’re two hours north of here in Eureka. We’ll be lucky to see the bossman before tomorrow. How much luggage did you lose?”

  “What? Some boxes. How did you know?”

  “Honey, hardly anyone comes off that bus with all of their possessions. It’s almost a tradition around here—things tend to get rerouted over to Spirit River or up to Fort St. John. I’ll give them a call, get them to track down your stuff. Should get it back in a couple days at the most. Truck’s this way.”

  Jillian let herself be steered by the arm and found that Birkie was as good as her word. There was an ice-filled cooler with an assortment of drinks, but after the lengthy bus trip, it was the beer that appealed to her the most. The air conditioning in the bright red pickup felt delicious. Jillian took her first deep breath since Winnipeg and began to unwind a little. She thought the older woman was a bit of a puzzle, but a friendly and interesting one. With such an impeccable appearance, Birkie might look more at home in the back of a limousine, yet she handled the big truck as if she’d been born behind the wheel. And her earthy humor made the grand tour of the town a memorable experience.

  “That’s Kinney’s. If you want a good deal on furniture, you go to them, but you won’t need anything right away. Apartment’s fully furnished, you know. And make sure you see Greg Kinney, not Bob. Bob wouldn’t give his own mother a good deal on the time of day. Besides, he farts something awful.

  “That apartment of yours, by the way, is right inside the clinic. Northwest wing, down the hall from the lunchroom. Good location for getting to work on time, not so good for getting a break from your work. You’ll want to watch that.

  “Have to go to Macklin’s down the street here if you want any sporting goods. Do you fish? I like to go for trout on the weekends, sometimes get a few perch to fry up. Sergeant Fitzpatrick, now, he likes to fish for sturgeon. I see him on the river quite a bit. When he’s not fishing, he heads the RCMP Detachment in these parts, and if he asks you for a date, say yes. He’s a good man. Connor is too, but he’s taken. Mind you, his younger brothers are still available and all the Macleod men are easy on the eyes.”

  Jillian goggled, not certain how to respond to such bluntness.
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br />   Birkie peered sideways at her and grinned. “Just letting you know how things are. By the way, Connor’s wife, Zoey, runs the newspaper here. You’ll like her. And she likes you already just because she’ll finally get to see more of her husband now that you’re here to hold the fort. Zoey’s in Vancouver at a publishers conference right now but she’ll be back next week. In fact, she’ll probably contact you for an interview first thing.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Not from a small town, are you? New people are news around here. Everyone will be wondering who you are and where you’re from and so forth. Probably put your picture right on the front page.”

  Alarm must have shown on Jillian’s face because the older woman suddenly burst out laughing and thumped the steering wheel.

  “Don’t you worry, Zoey’s very kind. She won’t print a thing you’re not comfortable with, and she doesn’t ask embarrassing questions. If there are any skeletons in your closet that brought you all the way up north, she won’t rattle them.”

  “No skeletons here—it’s my empty bank account that rattles. I have student loans to pay.”

  Birkie nodded. “Tough to get ahead these days. No one makes a fortune in the veterinary business but you’ll do all right here. Heaven knows there’s no lack of work to do.” She waved to a man with wild gray hair who was just leaving a drugstore. “That’s our lawyer, Herb Salisbury. He’s the only lawyer in town, but a good man and honest. Damned unusual for someone in his profession, it seems.

  “On that corner is Chez Mavis. It’s a sandwich shop, belongs to Mavis Williams. She’s got a hot bacon salad that’ll put you in heaven right before the cholesterol kills you.

  “But you want the best food in town, you go to the Finer Diner. Bill and Jessie Watson own that operation. I’ll take you to lunch there in a day or so when you’re settled. Although you can sample plenty of their wares in the lunchroom at the clinic—they keep the staff fridge stocked for us. Probably the only reason Connor hasn’t starved to death with the hours he puts in. Now that you’re around, maybe he won’t work himself to death either.”