Demon Hunts

by C. E. Murphy

  I turned toward her, at a loss for anything but the truth. “That was…I thought you’d gone inside. It was a forest god. Sara, I’m sorry. He says your agent is dead.”

  She stared at me a long moment, then passed a hand over her face. “Yeah. You said he probably was.” Another brief eternity passed before she shook herself. “All right. Thanks for telling me. You…you should go home for a while, Joanne.”

  Cold, not quite so bad as the storm, but abrupt and uncomfortable, clenched my gut. Sara scowled, reading denial in my face. “I’m serious. If this is what you’re doing…you should go home. See your dad. Talk to the elders. You should do that.”

  Cold turned to ice and cracked in my voice. “Is he still there? Do you see him?”

  “No, I live out here, but I go back sometimes. He was there last summer, anyway.”

  “You live here? In Seattle?” That was an easier thought than my dad back in North Carolina. “Maybe we should…” I thought of Lucas, and watching Sara’s expression, said, “Or maybe not. I’ll think about North Carolina.”

  Sara nodded and looked away, neither of us sure what to say next. We weren’t friends, not anymore, but we were maybe less antagonistic than we’d been for years. Funny how rivalries could remain, even through time and distance and living only in memory. I didn’t want to leave us with history as the last thing between us, and blurted, “What’re you going to tell your bosses?”

  She glanced back at me with a frustrated huff. “What can I tell them? Nothing. I’m going to spend the next six months or more working on this case, until it goes cold to their satisfaction. You’re sure it’s over?”

  “Yeah. Look, I’m sorry about your man, Sara.”

  “Me, too.” Sara fell a step back, precursor to escaping my presence. “I’ll see you around, okay, Joanne?”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t offer a hand, and neither did she. “I’ll see you.”

  She walked away, and I waited until she was gone before following her in, and driving home to Seattle in time for Christmas.

  Sunday, December 25, 5:20 A.M.

  I had long since gotten over leaping out of bed bright and early on Christmas morning. Someone, though, apparently hadn’t: pervasive thumping on my door dragged me out of a very nice sleep. I crawled over Coyote and into my fuzzy green robe half inclined to yell at the interloper who’d dragged me out of bed at such an unreasonable hour, but holiday cheer got the better of me before I even got to the door.

  There wasn’t even anyone there to be cheerful at. A gift-wrapped DVD-sized package sat outside my door, and I could hear somebody thudding down the apartment building’s stairs. Coyote said, “What happened, Santa forgot where the chimney is?” I shot him a sleepy smile as I tore the wrapping paper open.

  It was, in fact, a DVD. Not a popular movie sort, just a silver disc with a note that said “For Joanne” stuck to it. I shuffled to my computer and dropped it in. Coyote sat behind me and I pulled his arm around my waist as the disc spun up and began to play.

  Jeff the cameraman, it turned out, was a dab hand with a video camera. Even his crab-walked retreat from the wendigo was surprisingly steady, and Coyote looked like a native god in the moonlight as he fought the thing. I blew in from offscreen, slamming into the wendigo hard enough that I grunted again, watching it. It and I flung each other back and forth, and Jeff’s camerawork was only a half second behind as the wendigo leaped on Laurie Corvallis’s prone body.

  The next couple minutes were spent enthralled by the utter peculiarities of seeing what one of my psychic/real-world battles looked like from the outside. Every fight, every step, every gesture and every expression I made in Laurie’s garden registered itself on my face and body in the Middle World. The wendigo wasn’t visible. I just looked like the world’s most dedicated mime, flying backward when something hit me, staggering around like a drunk after a bad blow. Not until I raised the spear and drove it down toward Corvallis, awakening her, did the fight have two participants. Moments later, Coyote opened a path to the Lower World for me, and I watched myself walk along it and disappear.

  It looked, swear to God, like a magic trick. Like the audience should be peering around in search of the mirrors before applauding wildly. I was gone for a long time, long enough that Jeff panned around to the others. Coyote and Gary were all but leaning forward, both of them obviously—to me—offering strength and support and concern. Sara and Corvallis both looked grimly gobsmacked, and Laurie kept touching her breast where I’d very nearly impaled her. A clock came on in the screen’s lower right-hand corner, then jumped ahead by half an hour, footage cut out before I finally returned.

  The me on the recording looked so very sad. So tired, and so glad to hand the spear to someone else. I reached out to turn it off, and Coyote stopped me. I said, “C’mon,” quietly. I’d already watched more than I wanted to, and all I could think was how utterly insane it was going to look on the evening news. Morrison would kill me.

  The screen faded to black, then came up again in a news studio. Corvallis held a DVD between two fingers, turning it so it caught the light. “There are two copies. The one you’ve got, and this one.”

  She broke hers into pieces, and the screen went dark.

  ———

  After what seemed like a long time, I cleared my throat and turned the computer off. “Guess we scored one for the home team there.”

  “So how come you don’t sound thrilled?”

  I shook my head. “Because I don’t like making believers out of people. It’s too big a thing to ask.”

  Coyote chuckled against my shoulder. “You went and grew up, Jo. While I wasn’t looking. I didn’t expect that.”

  “Oh, believe me, neither did I. I tried hard not to.” I twisted, trying to see him, and he got to his feet, then pulled me to mine and herded me back toward the bedroom. I went, grateful he didn’t have an overwhelming urge to be up at five in the morning either, even if it was Christmas. We tucked up together, me tracing idle patterns on his chest before I mashed my nose against his pectoral and mumbled, “I can’t do things your way. You know that, right, Yote? I don’t know if I’d have been able to even if I’d stuck with studying with you all those years ago, or if the past six months had gone differently. But I don’t think so. You…you’re a healer. I’m something else.”

  “Warrior’s path.” He put his mouth against my hair. “I don’t envy that. But you’ve still got a lot you can learn. A lot I could teach you,” he amended hesitantly. “If you want.”

  I pushed up on my elbow, feeling all serious suddenly. “I can’t think of a better teacher.”

  The man had a smile like no other. I thought it had just been how happy I was to see him at first, but I’d had a few days to get used to it now, and it was definitely a grade-A smile. Bright and fleeting and all the more delicious for its quickness. He caught my hand and kissed the palm, then folded our fingers together on his chest. “Okay. I’ll stop trying to remake you in my image, and you can…”

  “Stop getting my ass kicked,” I finished firmly. “I want the shamanic handbook, Yote. I want it all.”

  He laughed. “Oh how the mighty have fallen. It’d be easier if…” A crease appeared between his eyebrows and he sat up, exhaling a sharp breath that ended ruefully. “Okay, this is going to be harder than I thought.”

  Nerves seized my heart and I sat up, too, clutching my pillow. I didn’t want him to say anything else, because I was pretty certain of what he’d say. We had, in fact, spent most of the past couple days not-quite-actively avoiding serious talk, which was made easier by me having to work. That made the hours we had together a little more precious, and neither of us had wanted to gum them up with anything other than living in the moment. It took everything I had to whisper, “What’s going to be hard?”

  “My grandfather bought me a plane ticket home last night, so I could be there for Christmas evening. It leaves SeaTac at ten-thirty.” Coyote shot me an apologetic look and I shook it off even
as a pang cut through me.

  “You’ve been unconscious for months. I don’t blame him for wanting you home for Christmas.” I wanted him here for Christmas, but I wasn’t quite selfish enough to say so aloud. Or maybe I wasn’t quite brave enough. “That’s not the hard part, is it.”

  “You’re not supposed to know me that well. No, the hard part…it’d be easier to teach you if we were together. In the same place, I mean,” he said hastily, and then, less certainly, “And maybe together, too. I know you can’t today, but…but you could come with me, Jo.”

  I bent my head over the pillow, eyes closed. That was exactly what I’d thought he was going to say, and it made a hard little helpless place inside me. It took a long time to speak, and even then my voice was small and tight. “You’re the shape of my dreams, Coyote. You came to me in my sleep when I was a girl and taught me magic, and now you’re here and alive and beautiful and I—” I stumbled over the words so hard I almost swallowed my tongue, but I met his eyes so he could see me saying them: “I love you. You’re my dreams come true. And this was going to happen,” I said even more quietly, and mostly to myself. “Right from the moment you came back, this was going to happen. And it isn’t fair, because it would break my heart to go and it’ll break my heart to stay.”

  “But you’re going to stay,” Coyote said very softly. He glanced down as I slumped over my pillow. “I knew you would. I still had to ask.” He touched my chin, making me raise my eyes, and offered a shaky smile. “Hey, I’ll be back up here, you know. I’ve got to come back up when the weather clears so I can drive the Chief home. Maybe you won’t be able to say no a second time.”

  “Maybe I won’t.” That idea hurt as much as the other. I snuffled and Coyote’s gaze softened. He pulled me against his chest, and we stayed there, silent, until the alarm went off and it was time for me to go to work.

  When I got out of the shower there was a flat rectangular black velvet box on my pillow. Not a ring box, but it didn’t have to be: even as it was, it made my stomach lurch so hard I actually got dizzy. I hung on to the bathroom door frame for a couple seconds, just staring at the box before the penny dropped and I snatched it up to run into the living room shouting, “Coyote? Cyrano? Cyrano!“

  He was gone. He was gone, and I’d known it on some level from the instant I saw the box. I knelt on the living room floor, wearing a towel and nothing else, working up the nerve to open the damned box. I was already late for work by the time I made myself do it.

  Four earrings lay inside it. Two were gold wraps. One was a bird, so stylized you had to know me to know it was a raven. The other was more obviously a snake, with a rattle and all.

  The other two were a wire pair, meant for pierced ears, which I’d never had. I got to my feet and went into the bathroom, stopping for a needle on my way.

  Popping the needle through my lobes didn’t hurt at all, nor did threading the earrings through the raw holes. It only took a whisper of healing power to seal the damage over, and then I stood looking at myself in the mirror like I was a stranger. Looking at the earrings, made of bone so smooth it seemed shaped, rather than carved.

  Coyotes, crying for the moon.

  Saturday, December 31, 11:48 P.M.

  I had yet to get used to the earrings, which brushed my jaw and made me endlessly aware of their presence. Made me more aware of everything that had to do with my ears, for that matter, and that included the radio shouting in them. Its blaring countdown was the only human contact I’d had for hours. There were better places to be—Billy and Melinda’s, for example; a New Year’s party was in full swing, and Billy had called twice to see where I was. I’d promised to be there by midnight, but at this late juncture, not even Petite would get me there in time.

  I had paperwork spread all over my desk, Google results and newspaper clippings and police files from all over the country. Missing persons reports were shuffled together like puzzle pieces, scraps of data highlighted or circled with red and yellow pens. I needed a drink of water. My eyes were dry from scowling at so much paperwork.

  The office door opened, sending me half out of my skin with fright. I clutched my chest, and Morrison, in the doorway, did a lousy job of covering a laugh. “What’re you doing here, Walker?”

  “Besides getting the life scared out of me?” I settled back down in my chair, gulping a couple deep breaths to calm my heart. “Just, ah. Just finishing up some paperwork. Sir.”

  “It’s New Year’s Eve. You’re off duty. You’re supposed to be at the Hollidays’.” He let the door drift shut behind him as he wove his way through desks to reach mine. “What’s so important?”

  “It’s just…” I gestured at my papers. “I was just trying to figure out who she was.” “Just” implied I hadn’t spent most of my off-hours since Coyote left at this very same task, although half the department had commented that I was showing a lot of dedication given that it was the holidays.

  Morrison sat on the edge of my desk, arms folded across his chest. “Any luck?”

  “I don’t know. We’re never going to know for certain.” I straightened up and pulled a handful of papers to the fore. “But this woman, Liz Gregory…she was Tlingit, from up in the Alaskan Panhandle near Juneau. She went missing last winter, during that cold snap in March. They never found her body, and…” I uncovered a newspaper photograph and handed it to Morrison. I’d long since memorized its image, a roundish, happy-faced woman sitting in front of a Native Alaskan-style block-print of a bear. She wore long black hair in a thick braid, and had a simple thong necklace with a claw pendant lying outside her T-shirt.

  “Bear totem,” he said after a moment. “Is that what I’m looking at?”

  I nodded. “I think so. The newspaper stories about her…” I sighed. “She worked outdoors a lot, did a lot of living culture work within her community. There was no mention of her being a shaman or a mystic of any sort, but I’m not sure that would’ve been reported on even if it were true. And maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe she was just someone who had a big spirit and belonged outdoors, and when she got lost, the cold took her.”

  “The cold?”

  I closed my eyes. “The place where her spirit was caught, Morrison…it was so cold. Cold enough to hurt. Cold enough that you’d do…anything. Anything at all, to get warm again. I didn’t spend very long there, but you’d go mad, boss. Anybody would. I don’t think very many people get out of there, once they’re lost, and I’m not surprised you’d become something terrible in the trying.” I shivered, trying to throw the memories off. “Anyway, the bear totem. I haven’t contacted her family to ask about it yet, but…”

  Morrison helped me change the subject, for which I was grateful. “What does this mean in practical terms, Walker? Are you going to try to pin the last two months of killings on a woman who disappeared nine months ago?”

  “I wouldn’t be able to. There’s no evidence. I just wanted to know for myself. To see if I could find out who she was. Maybe at least tell her family she’s at peace.”

  “Is she?”

  “I have no idea.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “If it was her, she’s more at peace than she was as a wendigo. That’s all I know. It’s something. Not a lot, maybe, but something.”

  Morrison nodded, not exactly satisfied, but accepting. That was just about how I felt, too. He handed the picture back. “If this woman’s from Juneau, what was she doing down here? That’s a long way to travel.”

  That was a question I’d been trying hard not to let myself think about. I had, of course, been thinking about it almost constantly as a result, and all the answers Morrison needed showed up on my face. “Because of you?”

  “Right after Halloween, Morrison. The cannibal murders started right after Halloween. Right after I blew up the cauldron, after using all that power. I mean, I could be wrong, but I see it one of two ways. Either she thought I might be able to help her move on or she thought I might be a hefty enough snack to push her back into the w
orld. She was getting closer to me, before we found her. Charlie Groleski? He used the same mechanic I do, Chelsea’s Garage. And Karin Newcomb lived in my building. They’re the only two connections I can find, and I know they’re tenuous, but I can’t help being afraid all those people are dead because of me.”

  “No.” Morrison put his hand on my shoulder, making me look at him. “Don’t do that to yourself, Walker. This thing would’ve hunted somewhere, and people would’ve died. That’s outside your control. What matters is it’s over. You stopped it. It’s all any of us can do. We don’t have the insight to stop killers before they strike, and maybe it wouldn’t be a good thing if we did. This one’s a victory. Take it.”

  I thinned my lips, then nodded. He was probably right. There was no cause without effect, but taking on the burden of being the cause and mitigating the effects would drive me crazy, especially since I couldn’t know whether I’d drawn the wendigo to Seattle or not. On the other hand, having finally taken up the mantle of responsibility, I didn’t want to find myself shirking it, either. There had to be a balance somewhere in there, but I was still a long way from finding it. “I’ll try.”

  “Some days that’s all I can ask for.” Morrison gave me a brief, almost sympathetic smile.

  I wrinkled my eyebrows at him. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Holliday sent me to get you.”

  “Really? You? Why?” I had a pretty good idea of why, but I was curious as to what he’d say.

  “It was a toss-up between me and Muldoon, but he’s three sheets to the wind and flirting with an FBI agent a quarter his age.”

  I did a brief calculation. “She can’t possibly be. Even if you say he’s seventy-four, which he won’t be for—” I turned my wrist up to look at my watch “—for another three minutes, she wouldn’t be old enough to be out of training camp. I mean, police academy takes months, wouldn’t FBI training take at least twice as l…” Morrison was failing to fight off a grin. “Oh. You’re teasing me.”