by C. E. Murphy
I put my face in my hands, dragged them down, and showed him the reds of my eyes. “You’re insane, Morrison. You’re bonkers. The coyote is as natural to me as a wolf is to you. What did you want me to do?”
“You could have tried.”
“No! No, I could not have. God dammit, Morrison, I turned into a werewolf, all right? I tried to kill Gary. Cernunnos nearly crushed my head, putting me in my place. I’m sorry, but no. I am not going to go down that road just to make you more comfortable. Almost anything else, yes. I will bend over backward to make you happy. But you’re just going to have to suck this one up, because the wolf might be your personal affinity, but in my pantheon it scares the crap out of me.”
That was obviously the exact wrong thing to say. Morrison stiffened right up and I made gargling sounds of frustration in my throat. “Not you. You don’t scare the crap out of me except in the sense of yes, for God’s sake, I am in love with you and I have no idea how to deal with that because you may not have noticed but I’ve kind of got the emotional spectrum of a turnip but I’ve never been so happy to be this scared and—”
I ran out of steam, my shoulders dropping as I looked away. We were both still naked. Having a naked shouting match on a mountainside should have been funny, but it wasn’t. Not at all. “You drove my car across the country, and I was happy,” I said dully. “Don’t you get that, Morrison? The only other time somebody drove that car I just about ripped her ears off. But I was happy Petite brought you to me. I was happy to see you behind the wheel. You don’t get more inside me than that, Michael. You just don’t.”
After a very long silence, he said, “You hadn’t told me about Muldoon.”
I closed my eyes and sank down to fold my arms around my knees. “When have I had time?” It seemed like we’d been doing nothing but talking since we’d reunited, but we’d also been running hell for breakfast all over the countryside. I’d caught him up on what was going on in North Carolina. I hadn’t even touched on what had gone down in Ireland.
Another very long silence passed before he said, “I’m sorry.”
I laughed, a tired, broken little sound. “Me, too. Seriously, Morrison, what the hell.”
“You’ve known him your entire life, you share a magic I can’t even touch, you have an affinity for his chosen animal form, you love him, he’s good-looking, and he’s your age.”
“Jesus.” I pressed my fingertips against my eyes, then twisted my neck so I could see Morrison. “You’re really hung up on the age thing, aren’t you? I didn’t even know how old you were until I got a look at your driver’s license last year. It doesn’t matter. And I’ll share as much of the magic with you as I can, if that’s what you want, but you’re my rock, Morrison. You’re what keeps me connected. You’re what I want to come home to. Yeah, I love Cyrano, but I wouldn’t give up everything for him. I wouldn’t give up anything for him, when it came down to it, and it did. You, I’d...” I’d die for you was the way that sentence ended, but it wouldn’t be something Morrison wanted me to say or do, so I let it fade away.
He heard it anyway, and said, “Don’t,” quietly, then came to sit beside me. He was warm, even not quite touching me, and I wanted to lean against him and shiver in his body heat. After a while he said, “I am hung up about my age. I always have been.”
I laughed again, a tiny, high-pitched and not very happy sound that was intended as an invitation to explain that remark. He took it for what it was. “I wanted to be a cop ever since I was a kid. I took college courses so when I graduated high school I only had three years of classes to get through. I finished the academy six weeks before I turned twenty-one, so I was very aware of being the rookie who was just barely allowed to go into bars. I made detective three years later, as soon as it was possible. My hair started going silver when I was about twenty-six, and I was self-conscious about that, too. I got promoted to lieutenant after three years in Homicide, because Captain Nichols liked me, knew I was dedicated, and thought it would be good for the department to have new blood in its ranks. Because of that, I was thirty-three when I was made captain, and I was chosen over a lot of older, more qualified men.”
Morrison exhaled slowly. “And now I’m just about the right age for people to start muttering about a midlife crisis, and I’ve fallen in love with a woman eleven years my junior. So, yeah. You could say I’m hung up about my age.”
“You’re crazy,” I said again, a lot more softly this time, and did lean against him, shivering against his warmth. He put his arm around my shoulder, cautiously, and I shifted a little closer. “And I’ll be damned. The Almighty Morrison is human after all. You do have neuroses and flaws like the rest of us.”
“The Almighty Morrison. Is that what you call me? I liked ‘Boss’ better. Or does that mean I’m forgiven?”
“You’re forgiven as long as you quit getting your knickers in a bunch over Coyote.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Then you’re forgiven. I had no idea you were so self-conscious about your age, Morrison. You’re, um.” I pressed my lips together, looking at the valley below us. “You’re a very private man. There’s a lot I don’t know about you.”
“That,” he said, “may also be a source of my concern. You know Cyrano very well, and I’m aware I’m...” He chuckled very softly indeed. “Private. Is there a word that goes beyond that?”
“Guarded. Discreet. Reserved. Chary. Restra—”
Morrison held his hand up. “Chary, Walker? I know you have an English degree, but chary?”
“How often does a girl get an excuse to pull a word like that out?”
He breathed a laugh. “All right. I get the idea, anyway. Chariness ties into the age awareness. The privacy helps create a barrier that—”
“Elevates you,” I said. Morrison made a sound like he didn’t care for the choice of phrase, but he didn’t argue. “You’re the boss. It’s your job to know your people. It’s not their job to know you. It puts me at a disadvantage, Boss. You probably know me better than I know you, and to make it worse I’ve been wearing my heart not so much on my sleeve as smeared across Seattle for the past year. Not just about you, but with all of this. The magic. Everything. And you’ve been there for it all.” My eyebrows rose. “And apparently you fell in love with me anyway, which makes me worry about your judgment.”
He laughed aloud this time, which was what I wanted. My heart ached, partly at the realization that I didn’t know him all that well, but more at having actually unearthed something about him, even if it was insecurity. Maybe especially because it was insecurity. I was a bundle of insecurity myself, so it was nice to know he didn’t actually have every aspect of his shit utterly, totally and completely together. “I want to go home,” I said against his shoulder. “I want to go home and learn more about you. Which means we need to get all this other crap dealt with, so if you don’t mind us going back to the part of the conversation where I thought the power circle was necessary...?”
He grunted, suggesting he hadn’t actually heard me saying that. It seemed very guy of him, which also made me feel a little better. Perhaps the Almighty Morrison didn’t actually notice every single thing that went on in his jurisdiction, whatever he decided that might be. “You need to See what I See out there, Morrison. You need to See why I couldn’t risk performing magic openly. Get dressed first,” I advised, and did the same myself. It felt strange putting clothes on after three days in fur, but at least I warmed up. It wasn’t really cold, but the view was chilling even without adding the Sight in.
Morrison asked, “What’s going on, Walker?” as he finished pulling his T-shirt on.
I shook my head, preferring to show rather than tell, and beckoned him over before he put his shoes on. “Same routine as before. Stand on my feet.” I swung around so my back was to the valley, and he stood on my feet. I put my hand on his head and
said, “See as I See,” which wasn’t poetic or spell-like at all, but at this juncture, I didn’t think I needed my poor rhymes to set the magic in place.
Morrison’s eyes filtered gold, then darkened.
I didn’t need to look again. The images were seared in my mind. Arguing with Morrison had been a lightweight relief, compared to what the valley presented. The war was bad enough, groups of men pushing back and forth toward a broad expanse of river. I half envisioned misted blood rising in the air, and wasn’t certain if it was my imagination or not. There were places where the earth ran with blood, rivulets large enough to be seen from the distance amassing and pooling in hollows.
At the heart of it, as if orchestrating, a lash of black lightning cracked down, down, and down again. Its silence was worse than any sound could be, and each time it shattered the sky, a single individual was illuminated by the power of darkness.
The lightning was fed by five points around the battlefield, places where the fighting was bloodier and more vicious than anywhere else. Malevolence rose from the Native warriors, a madness driving them beyond what warfare had once been to their people. The wights hung above those battles, drawing on the warriors’ fury and rage, and every time another man died, what was left of his soul was gobbled by a wight and sent back through the black lightning.
“What is that?” Morrison’s voice said he knew, but that he needed me to confirm it.
I did, and let him go as I spoke. “It’s Aidan.” I faced the slaughter with numbness rising in me. “This isn’t even Europeans coming in and making a hash of things, not as such. This is just warfare between nations.”
“You mean we can’t stop it.”
I shook my head. I felt very calm, very rational, and knew it was a front. I was willing to embrace it, though, because otherwise I would fall into the screaming heebie-jeebies over not just the battle, but Aidan’s presence in it, and the dark power he was drawing in. “We couldn’t stop it anyway. But it’s... It really annoys me, you know? The presentation of Native Americans as being pure, innocent, and one with the land until the Europeans arrived. But it’s still really easy to think that all of the bloodshed and death was implemented by Westerners. It’s harder to remember that some of these groups were nation states of their own, and conducted warfare on their own. I fell right into that trap. I figured all the pain the Executioner was drawing on came from the incomers, but no. A lot of it was self-inflicted. Europeans might have triggered it, but...anyway, I know when we are, now, more or less. Mid-to-late seventeenth century, I’d guess. They’re Iroquois and Huron out there, I think. They’ve been pushed west by the Europeans, don’t get me wrong. From what I’ve read, the war they waged before Westerners arrived was much smaller scale, and now they’re fighting for their land and their lives.”
As a kid I’d resolutely ignored all the Native American history that had been offered up, but in the past year I’d begun paying attention to the histories of those people whose shamanic heritage I was drawing on. I’d mostly read about the Cherokee, but the Iroquois had put together maybe the fiercest, largest armies against European settlers and, inevitably, against other Native tribes as they were all forced out of their original lands. They’d eventually turned on the members of their own league of nations. It had not been a good time.
“How can you tell?”
“I’m pretty sure we’re in the Ohio River Valley. Probably in Kentucky.” A wry smile pulled at my mouth as Morrison turned an astonished expression on me. “I spent most of my childhood driving around America, Morrison. I know where things are. We headed north, maybe a little northwest. You pretty much have to run into the Ohio River if you go far enough that direction, and there’s a big damned river out there. The details have changed, but it’s not like there’s a volcano waiting to go off nearby and change the whole face of the countryside.”
Morrison shrugged his eyebrows, faintly impressed. “What are the Iroquois doing down here, then? I thought they were from the Northeast.”
“They were, but they moved south and west when the settlers came. There was a huge war that got smeared all over the countryside as resources got scarcer. Mostly beaver pelts, I think.” I wished I’d studied it more, but nobody had warned me I’d be in need of real-life application of the knowledge. “Besides, even if I’m wrong about when, the what is pretty obvious. Wholesale slaughter, captivity and death. And it’s all being dumped into Aidan, who’s going to bring all that misery back to our time once everybody here is dead.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to go in and get him before that happens. There’s a little tiny bit of good news out there. You see those flashes?” I pointed down, then glanced at Morrison again, making sure the Sight was still working in him.
It was. His blue eyes were gold, utterly unearthly with his silver hair. Oblivious to my shiver, he looked where I was pointing and nodded.
“That’s white magic.” I winced. “Life magic. Positive magic. Not magic performed by white guys. You know what I mean.” Morrison nodded and I fumbled on. “Basically it means there’s someone down there doing what they can to stop this. Iroquois or Huron shamans, maybe. Someone who hasn’t been corrupted or captured yet, anyway. We’re not going for Aidan right away. We’re going to go see if we can team up with whoever’s on our side, and maybe together we’ll have a better chance at stopping this.”
Morrison took his attention from the massacre below. “Walker, I hate to ask, but how far are we going to go to stop this?”
“You mean am I going to do down there and shoot Aidan if I have to?”
Morrison nodded. I set my jaw. “Yeah. If I have to. In the leg or arm or something where it’ll get his damned attention. It’s about the worst idea I’ve ever had, but if I can shock him into breaking free for even an eye blink I can get inside and try to help him fight the wights and the mark the Executioner left.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“It will.”
“But if it doesn’t?”
“It will.”
A smile cracked Morrison’s face. “That may be why I love you. All right. How do we get in there without getting killed?”
“That,” I said, “I can manage. I invented an invisibility cloak thing ages ago. The only danger is whether the wights or Aidan notice I’m working magic, but I think they’re involved enough in what they’re doing, or they’d have already wiped that guy out.” I nodded again toward the intermittent flashes of power struggling to hold against the tide of blood. Morrison took my hand, and I called up just about the oldest trick I knew, bending light around us in a sphere of “we’re not here.”
“We’re good. Let’s go.”
Morrison hesitated. “I can still see us.”
“Look with the Sight.”
He blinked a few times, then bobbled with surprise. The shields around us warped the world beyond just a little, light refracted ever so slightly wrong. “Too bad we can’t use this on police raids.”
“Just as well. Imagine how many drug runners would get off by declaring their rights violated by magic.”
“If any of them dared admit it.” We shut up after that, concentrating on barreling our way down the low mountains and into a battlefield. I wished the invisibility shield worked both ways, so I didn’t have to see the myriad ways people could die by edged and blunt weapons. Our feet became caked with mud and gore, and the smell went from bad to worse to vomit-inducing. Morrison kept me going after I did throw up, and for a few minutes I wasn’t certain if he would get through with his innards intact. But we weren’t hampered by fighters attacking us, and I was happy using my shields to keep them farther away than they might naturally have come.
Grim with determination, we worked our way toward the irregular sparks of healing magic that burst through the gloom, until suddenly we were in the hear
t of a pitched battle, men dying and killing all around, and the frantic blip of light was immediately in front of us. I risked it all, dropped the invisibility shield and bellowed, “Hello?”
The blood turned to roses, and my father walked out of the chaos.
Chapter Eighteen
My knees cut out. Morrison caught me, which took faster reflexes than most people possessed. I wrapped my fingers around his biceps, trying not to collapse further as emotion hammered through me. Mostly shock, but also relief and a vast surge of anger.
I swear to God, Dad hadn’t aged a day in the years since I’d last seen him. His black hair was still worn long but not loose: it was braided now, falling over his shoulder in a thick chunk. He was barefoot—my father never wore shoes if he could avoid it—and clad in jeans and an unbuttoned plaid shirt.
He hadn’t aged, but he had changed. His eyes, at least, had changed. They blazed yellow, as gold as mine ever got. Or they did for half a second, anyway. Then they snapped back to ordinary brown, though his pupils were so large they just about ate all the brown. The misting rose petals became blood again.
Morrison, who was the only one who could find his voice, and apparently his sense of humor, as well, said, “Joseph Walkingstick, I presume,” and stepped forward, me in tow, to offer a hand. “Michael Morrison. It’s a relief to find you, sir.”
Dad shook Morrison’s hand absently, like it was more or less reasonable to be meeting modern-dressed white men in the middle of seventeenth century Indian wars, and finally managed to say, “Joanne?”
Somebody chucked a spear at us. I snapped my hand up, strengthening shields that didn’t need it, and the weapon bounced away. A brief, startled silence rushed through the warriors around us, and a few more slings and arrows came our way. They all bounced off, too, and that was that. They went back to slaughtering each other, evidently satisfied that we were insufficiently easy targets.
Dad’s eyes glimmered gold again, then widened. I supposed he was checking out my shields, my aura, my whole general shamanic showcase. A mix of regret and pride slid across his face, sharpening the line of his cheekbones. I’d gotten his cheekbones and Mom’s nose, making for some fairly prominent features. My eyes were between theirs, too, hazel to Mom’s green and Dad’s brown. They tended to pick up more of the green, but the power-indicating gold reminded me more of Dad. And I had Dad’s shamanic magic and my mother’s magery running in my veins, setting me on the rare warrior’s path.
