by L. M. Hawke
Finally, Hosteen stood back and held the door open. “Come on in.”
His home was elegant in its simplicity—just a few pieces of the most essential and un-ostentatious furniture, and everything tidily kept, spotlessly clean. The main room of the house was dominated by a large oak desk set with several file drawers, its top holding two computer monitors that glowed brightly. A few folders were stacked on the desk. The topmost one was open, its contents spread out as if Hosteen had been going through the papers when Ellery had arrived.
“Working?” she asked.
Hosteen smiled. “I’m always working. I’m one of those ‘married to his job’ types. But I don’t mind taking a break. Can I get you anything to drink? I’ve got coffee or lemonade.”
Ellery could never resist anything sweet. “I’ll take a lemonade. Thanks.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, and Ellery waited for him on a blue sofa, the back of which was covered in wool blankets woven with traditional patterns. She couldn’t resist a few peeks at his desk, but from where she sat, she could see nothing in the open file or on the monitors. She wondered if he was still working on Roanhorse’s case.
Hosteen re-appeared and handed her a glass. She sipped, watching Hosteen with a steady gaze as he fidgeted with the files, putting a few papers back in order. Then returned them to one of the desk’s drawers.
He wandered over and sat in an arm chair opposite Ellery, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand.
“So,” he said.
“So.”
“You just happened to be passing by—flying by—at night, in the Rez, a place which you have avoided for ten years and which you left in a storm of anger earlier today.”
Ellery smiled, mischievous and wry. “Aren’t there laws that say you have to read me my rights before you interrogate me?”
“Sorry,” he said with a little laugh. “You’re not under interrogation. It’s a habit, I guess.”
There were a few coasters spread along the coffee table; Ellery set her lemonade on the nearest one and dabbed her damp fingertips surreptitiously on the sofa’s upholstery.
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave in a huff. Suspicion of the Rez is my habit, I suppose. And I wanted to tell you I’m grateful that you’re working on this case. I wish there was more I could do to help, but—”
“There is,” Hosteen broke in, leaning eagerly toward her. “At least, I think there is. If you’re willing.”
She paused, biting her lip. “I really want to help you, Hosteen, but I’m trying to find my friend. She’s missing, and none of us—my Para friends, I mean—can find any trace of her.”
“A friend from Flagstaff, I assume.”
“Yes.”
Ellery wondered whether he knew anything about the other murder—the trader in Flagstaff who’d been found dead in his own home, tokens missing, mauled by some animal—just like William Roanhorse. But she decided to hold her cards close to her vest, just in case. Habit.
“Have you filed a report with the Flagstaff police?”
Ellery laughed bitterly. “The police? What do they care? They won’t do a thing about it. My missing friend a Para like me; we’re the scum of the Earth, as far as Typical cops are concerned.”
“Not as far as I’m concerned,” Hosteen said softly.
That was true, and Ellery felt a twinge of guilt for having spoken so rashly. Wasn’t Hosteen trying his best to find Roanhorse’s killer? Wasn’t he willing to do anything he could think of—including tracking down Ellery in Flagstaff, the only Changer he had any knowledge of—in order to solve the case?
As Ellery remained silent, Hosteen went on cautiously. “What I could really use is more knowledge about Changers. Traders, specifically. You seemed as convinced as I am that it was a Changer who killed Mr. Roanhorse. But I don’t know the first think about your kind.”
At least he was willing to admit that. On the rare occasions when Ellery had spoken to Typs about magic use, they thought they had it all figured out, even when their assumptions were laughably off-base.
“My kind doesn’t usually talk to your kind about magic,” Ellery said. “You Typs don’t get it. And it’s doubly dangerous for me—a Changer, right here in Navajo country, talking to a Navajo man. What if you don’t believe what I tell you? What if you decide you know it all, that I’ve got it all wrong, and you’ve got it all right? What if you decide after all that I’m a skinwalker—that I’m evil? I’d have to be a total idiot to trust a Diné with this kind of information. Believe me, Hosteen, I know all too well what our people are capable of when they think they’ve got Paras figured out.”
Ellery clamped her mouth shut, unwilling to say any more. She cursed herself inwardly; she had said enough. Too much. She didn’t want to get angry with Hosteen again, but she wasn’t dumb enough to put herself in harm’s way, either.
“Would it help,” Hosteen said slowly, “if I told you that I don’t believe in evil at all?”
She blinked at him suspiciously. “You don’t?”
He ran a hand through his damp hair. “No, not really. At least, not the way traditionalists believe in evil. Oh, I’m absolutely certain that human evil exists—that people can be monsters to one another, whether those people are Typical or Paranormal. You can’t spend ten years on the police force without witnessing humanity at its worst. But evil as a spiritual force?” He shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense to me. People choose how to treat one another, how to react to the world around them. I may be in awe of Paranormal abilities, but it’s not in my nature to deem them evil simply because they are beyond my understanding.”
Ellery’s eyes stung with the beginning of tears, quite against her will. She blinked hard to clear her vision. “You’re right; humans can be monsters to each other. Do you know why I left the Rez in the first place?”
“I don’t.” He paused. “Would you like to tell me?”
Ellery chewed her lip again. She had never told this story to anyone—not even her friends in Flagstaff. She had kept her painful memories close to her heart for so many years. But now, faced with Hosteen’s smooth logic and calm acceptance, she wanted to unburden herself… even as she feared Hosteen, as she feared all Diné.
He didn’t pressure her to speak. He only sipped his coffee, waiting for her to talk. Or to not talk, whichever suited her best.
And it was that patient understanding that finally made up Ellery’s mind.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ellery took a deep, shaking breath, held it for a moment, and then began.
“My parents died in a car crash when I was very young. I don’t remember much about them, but I do remember my sister, Taylor. She was eleven years older than me, and after we found ourselves orphans, she raised me so I wouldn’t end up in the foster system. She was so much more than a sister to me. She was the mother I didn’t get to have. She was my only family.
“She was also a Changer—a trader, like me. Together with William Roanhorse, she taught me all about our magic. How to use it, how to control it—and most importantly, how to keep it secret, because although it was our greatest gift, it was also our greatest danger.”
Ellery fell silent. She stared at the glass of lemonade; moisture beaded on the outside of the glass and ran down its slick sides, soaking into the cork coaster below. She could still taste the lemonade’s sweetness on her tongue, but a terrible bitterness was rising in the back of her throat.
Hosteen kept silent, but although Ellery couldn’t meet his eye, she could feel sympathy pouring from him in waves—could sense his emotions almost as easily as if she were a fae.
If Taylor and Roanhorse and I had known anyone on the Rez who sympathized with us back then… anybody who had tried to understand us instead of acting out of fear… then everything would have worked out differently.
At length, Ellery drew a shaky breath and continued.
“After a few years, Taylor ran into trouble. I don’t know exactly what happened—maybe
she got careless with her shifting, and somebody saw her turn into one of her animals. However it came about, accusations began to roll in. People called her a skinwalker, a witch. They sent us hate mail and vandalized her car and made threatening phone calls. Soon we didn’t feel safe in our own home—not even all the way out in Black Mesa. We always lived as isolated as we could, you know, far away from other houses, other people. But once the rumors started circulating, there was no escape from the persecution, even in the middle of nowhere.”
“Did you ever report the harassment to the police?”
Now Ellery did look at Hosteen, meeting his eye with a hard, condescending glare.
He flinched back from the unveiled anger in her eyes. “Okay,” he amended. “Stupid question.”
“The police wouldn’t have done anything about it. Paras get no love out in the Anglo world, either—did you know there’s an app now that can read our energy and alert Typs to our dangerous presence?”
Hosteen rolled his eyes. “There’s an app for everything these days.”
“Right? But as bad as things are out there, we Paras have it twice as tough in communities like this one, where old traditions paint us as something we’re not. The Diné aren’t the only people in the world who make life extra-hard for shapeshifters and witches and fae. Even when I was just a kid, even when we lived way out in the desert, I heard plenty of stories about Paras being persecuted all around the world. And stories of Paras being blown off by local police, even when death threats were involved. Why do you think I haven’t reported my friend Vivi as missing yet? The police won’t care. They won’t do a thing about it. If you’re a Para in trouble, you’re on your own. It’s do or die; nobody will help you.”
Hosteen pressed his lips together. His face paled, and his eyes were shaded by sadness.
“Anyway,” Ellery said, “we couldn’t get away from the harassment. It grew worse and worse, building up over two, three months. Finally it reached the boiling point. A mob of people came for us—for my sister. They blocked the road from our house so there was no way to escape them, except to run out into the desert. Taylor took me out back and told me to shift and run to Roanhorse for help.
“I knew right then what she intended to do: distract the mob so I could get away. I don’t think any of the people in the mob knew that I was a Changer, too, you see. They were focused on Taylor, and she was willing to stand in their path so I could escape, even if it meant…”
Ellery trailed off, unwilling to say the words. Even if it meant her death.
After a few moments, she mustered the will to continue. “In my coyote form, I ran all the way down the mesa to Roanhorse’s place. I knew I’d never see my sister again—that she wouldn’t make it out of that situation alive. I decided as I ran that I’d convince Roanhorse to come with me, and we’d leave the Rez for good. It was just too dangerous for people like us to live among those who had no interest in learning about Changers—no interest in accepting us for who we truly are.
“And as I ran from my home, I hear the sound of a rifle shot. That was when I knew my sister was gone.”
Ellery picked up the glass and downed half the lemonade in one long draft. Her throat was dry and constricted. Now it tasted too sweet, so sweet she could have choked on it.
“Well,” she said lightly as she set the glass back down, “now you understand why I don’t talk to Typs much—not about this kind of thing. People like you don’t want to understand people like me. You Typs think you’ve got Paras all figured out, that you’re right and we’re wrong, and your righteousness is all that matters to you. It’s better for Paras to keep their mouths shut, to keep our heads down and avoid the danger. If we can.”
Hosteen nodded in bleak acceptance of Ellery’s stance. After a moment of thoughtful silence, he said, “I can see how that makes sense, from your perspective. But now… now there’s a killer on the loose. And we know that killer is a Changer—or at least we suspect it. The danger isn’t just from the Typicals. Not anymore.”
“I know.” Ellery sighed, suddenly flooded by an unspeakable weariness. The ache of two long flights surged up in her body. “There’s more to tell, too. But it’s stuff I really don’t think a Typ can understand. Something has changed about our magic, and I don’t know what or why, or even how to explain to you why it’s different, why it’s so frightening. Everything is changing so fast. I barely recognize my own world anymore.”
“Can you try to explain it to me?” Hosteen asked. “I want to help, if I can. And maybe that difference will lead to some clues about Mr. Roanhorse’s murder.”
Ellery fiddled with her owl bracelet, twisting it around her wrist. “Maybe. Though it’s hard to trust you, Hosteen.”
He held up his hands in a gesture of apology. “I know I should have told you in advance that I’d asked my partner to meet us at the crime scene.”
“It’s not only that. It’s… everything I’ve gone through in my life. No Typ can be trusted—not completely.”
“I wish you could see me as more than just a Typ, Ellery. I take my work seriously; I want to find this killer before he strikes again. Whatever some people might think of Changers like Mr. Roanhorse, I respected him as a member of our tribe and our community. And you might think this makes me a rarity among police, but I don’t take the loss of any life lightly, whether Typical or Paranormal. Roanhorse is just as important to me as any other murder victim. I want to do my job, and do it well. I want to catch his killer, no matter what it takes. And I think if I’m going to catch him, I need to understand Changers a whole lot better than I currently do.”
Ellery sagged back against the sofa, relenting. “All right. I’ll tell you what I can, if you promise to believe what I tell you. Forget everything you think you know about shapeshifters.”
“You’re the authority,” Hosteen said. “I promise.”
“Well,” she began, feeling more than a little uncertain, “I already explained the differences between Chanters, Casters, and Changers.”
He nodded. “Can you tell me exactly how Changing works? Maybe that will give me some direction in pinpointing a suspect.”
“I don’t think I can tell you, and not because you’re a Typical. The truth is, I don’t think anybody really knows how it works. I mean, one Changer can teach another how to use a token to communicate with their animal spirits, and how to shift. But we Changers might have just as many questions as you Typs do when it comes to the specifics.”
“Let’s start with the basics, then. Where does your human body go when you…?” He made a vague gesture, his hands fluttering off into the air.
Ellery shrugged. “That’s one of the great mysteries. Roanhorse certainly had his opinions on the subject. He taught me that different worlds touch—that the world we see right now, the one we live in day-to-day, is like a room in an Anglo-style house. There are other rooms beyond its walls, and our world—our room—shares walls with the worlds beside it. He told me that when I shift, it’s like stepping through a door into an adjoining room, and bringing my animal through the door at the same time, to take my place in this world.
“Roanhorse told me, ‘That’s why we’re called traders; because we trade places with our animal spirits.’ We go to where the dead animals now live, and they come to this world, where they used to exist. We just… swap places for a while. That’s the best way I know how to explain it.”
Hosteen said nothing. He rubbed his chin with one finger, his eyes distant and thoughtful as he processed what Ellery had said.
After a moment, she added, “I don’t know how accurate Roanhorse’s theory is. I’ve heard other explanations from other Changers, and they make just as much sense as anything else. I only know that when I work with my animal spirits, I’m focused on what they’re seeing and feeling, what they’re sensing in this world. I have no real awareness of wherever I am when we trade.”
Hosteen’s eyes came back into focus. He watched Ellery in silence, and his should
ers and chest seemed tense. Ellery could tell that such frank discussion of magic made him anxious, but to his credit, he remained open-minded, listening attentively, just as he had promised.
At length, Hosteen said, “I suppose that does explain why your clothes—and other things, like your phone, your knife—vanish along with your body when you shift.”
“Right,” Ellery said. “‘Shapeshifter’ isn’t really an accurate term—not for us, anyway, the traders. Weres might be a different story; werewolves and were-bears and were-bunnies might actually transform their physical shape, for all I know. You’d have to ask a were about that. But traders don’t change. If Roanhorse was right, then we simply step through the doors between worlds.”
Hosteen shook his head slowly. “Fascinating. Is the ability genetic, then? Inherited?”
“No one has ever been able to find a clear example of inherited magical abilities, but some families do seem to have an affinity for magic, with more Paras than average. My sister and I might be an example of that affinity. But Taylor and I weren’t aware of any other Paras in our extended family. Who can say where the ability comes from? As far as anyone can tell, it’s a roll of the dice.”
Again Ellery fidgeted with her bracelet. She opened her mouth, then shut it again, uncertain what else she ought to say—if anything. Maybe she had told this Typical man far too much already.
Hosteen was quick to pick up on her discomfiture. “Is there more you want to say?”
Damn it. Ellery was never very good at hiding her thoughts. I really need to work on that.
“Up until recently—very recently,” she said, “we all took it for granted that Paras stuck to their own thing.”
Hosteen’s brow furrowed in a deep frown. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… Changers can’t use spells the way Casters can. Casters don’t have the natural enchantments that fae and vampires have. Chanters can’t shape-shift, or trade places with animal spirits. That’s what I mean.”
Hosteen seemed to sense that a disturbing revelation was coming. He leaned back in his chair and said cautiously, “But…?”
