They quit talking. Charles wanted to get this encounter finished as quickly as possible. He was tired and so was Anna.
He was, under the circumstances, unsurprised to find three witches standing next to the lake. He hadn’t expected that they would be standing in the ashes left by the Singer’s tentacle, and didn’t quite know why he found that disconcerting. He suspected they did not realize what they were standing in, and he had no intention of telling them. Who knew what mischief they could brew up with the ashes of the Singer?
One of the witches was the pregnant Ms. Hardesty, which he thought had been a mistake on their part. Her pregnancy gave them something they wanted to protect.
Brother Wolf snarled in his mind; he did not like witches. Especially when he and Charles were so tired. It made Brother Wolf worry that they could not protect Anna.
“This is private property,” Anna said. “You are trespassing.” It was better if Anna talked, because Brother Wolf might say something they would regret later.
Ms. Hardesty, her lips white, strode up to them while the others hung back. Either she was in charge, or she was rash. Since she was here, he was betting on the latter.
“You killed him,” she said, her voice low with rage. “You will regret that.”
“We told you our intentions,” Anna said. “Why are you surprised? The Singer was unfinished business that belonged to my family. Ours to deal with. You have no claim.”
“He was mine,” the witch snarled, one hand wrapped around her belly.
For some reason, Brother Wolf thought it was important to make Anna’s case. To show that they had justice on their side. So Charles said, “No.”
Charles couldn’t see justice making any inroads on the intentions of the pair of older witches who were chanting—softly, as if they thought that he, a werewolf, wouldn’t notice them gathering power. Perhaps they didn’t care what Charles knew.
“He was mine,” Cathy Hardesty’s voice was raw. “He was the father of the child I carry.”
“That did not make the Singer yours,” Charles said, despite the knowledge that Anna would be a better intermediary. Brother Wolf was adamant. “You belong—belonged—to it, not the other way around. It was on our lands. Its walker carried my Alpha’s mate’s blood and was accountable for his crimes to my family. This land has been in my family’s name for two centuries. His death was spoken for long ago by my family.”
The magic the witches were conjuring increased in strength, and Charles had just about decided he needed to do something about that when it died as if it had been a candle flame smothered by a snuffer. One of the witches stifled a cry of pain.
A man strode out of the trees—and Charles was sure that there had not been a man anywhere near this place. This man smelled quite human and he moved that way, though obviously he was at home in the woods.
This is why you needed me to speak, Charles said. Why didn’t you tell me the Sasquatch was here?
Brother Wolf was smug.
“Felt a disturbance,” said Ford. “And under the circumstances, I thought I should come check.” He looked at the ground the pair of older witches were standing on, and then away. He knew what the wet ashes were.
Sasquatches were the guardians of the forest. Tag had been worried about their physical strength, Charles knew. But when they were acting for justice in their territory, they had other power that was much more impressive. They could, for instance, make it impossible for these witches to work their magic.
Normally, Sasquatches would not concern themselves in a fight between witches and werewolves—unless possibly they considered one or the other as part of their territory. He didn’t know why Ford was doing so now.
We killed the Singer, Brother Wolf said. He owes us a debt.
Indeed, Charles and Anna had just rid the forest of a disruptive force—he paused and thought about the events surrounding the death of the Singer and had an interesting idea.
“I believe,” Charles told the witches softly, “you were told that you were trespassing. If I were you, I would leave—and not come back.”
“Who are you to say so?” asked Cathy Hardesty, though she’d felt the magic die as well, Charles thought. He could hear it in the wariness of her voice.
One of the witches approached Ms. Hardesty and took her arm. That one kept a sharp eye on Ford, though she took time to give Charles a foul look.
“Come, daughter,” she murmured. “This is unproductive.”
Ms. Hardesty jerked her arm free. “Where is Zander?” she demanded harshly. “What have you done with him?”
Charles did not reply—and was glad that Anna did not, either.
“Go now,” said Ford. His voice was not ungentle, but there was force behind it.
“Come,” said the older witch. “We cannot win this battle on this ground.”
Ford gave her an affable smile. “Common sense is a rare commodity.”
They stalked off in the direction of Wild Sign, and after a moment Charles heard the sounds of dirt bikes revving up.
Ford shook his head. “They came through the wilderness area on those. We’ll see that doesn’t happen again.”
“Thank you,” said Anna. “We would not have been happy to have another fight today.”
Ford slanted an amused look at Charles. At Brother Wolf, maybe, because he said, “I’m not sure that is entirely true.” He glanced in the direction the witches had taken and said, “You have made yourself enemies there.”
“We have always been enemies,” said Charles mildly. “Water is wet. Black witches are our enemies.”
Ford nodded. “Fair enough.” He took a deep breath, then said, “We owe you thanks. This one has long been a foulness in our home.”
“Team effort,” Charles said.
Ford smiled. “This is your land, Charles and Anna Cornick. This forest welcomes you here. But I think, today, you have accomplished all you set out to do.”
“Yes,” agreed Anna.
“We found a couple of vehicles a few miles away.” He jerked his chin in the general direction of where the two cars had been left. “One of my nieces said that she knew the owner of one of them, who might be surprised to find it where it was. She has taken it back where it belongs. She is something of a tinkerer.” This was said with a look of pride. “She fixed what was wrong with the other rig—the one that brought you to the Trading Post. Good as new, she said.”
Charles, surprised, said, “Thank you. I believe a card was left with a phone number, and if the owner of the Land Rover would use it, we’ll see that they are compensated for the use of their vehicle.”
Ford smiled and nodded. “Good. Good.” He tilted his head at Charles. “You and your lady, when you come back here, you should stop in for more pie.”
“We’ll do that,” Charles said.
* * *
WHEN THEY FINALLY made it back to the hotel, they showered and went to bed. Charles slept for a couple of hours but woke with the sun in his eyes. He was still tired, but he’d have to wait for nightfall to get more rest.
Anna was deeply asleep. She’d curled away from him at some point, though she had a foot pressed against his calf to make sure she knew where he was. He took a moment, while she couldn’t see him, to watch her, to convince himself that she was safe.
She was going to wake up if he got out of bed. He stayed for a few minutes more before acknowledging that he wasn’t going to be able to lie still—and so would wake her up anyway.
He slid out of bed and dressed. Anna rolled over and half opened her eyes.
“Shh,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”
She looked at him with wolf-blue eyes for a full second. Then she rolled over to his side of the bed, grabbed his pillow, and went back to sleep.
He made sure the door was locked behind him. He stopped by the room next to them and pressed a hand against the window. He felt nothing. His wards around the grimoires were still holding.
Driven by restless thoughts,
he took the path down to the river and was somehow unsurprised to see Anna’s rock occupied by a compact man who had his back to Charles. The man was, however, wearing buckskins and had his black hair braided and hanging down to brush the rock he sat upon—so Charles had a fair idea of who he was.
“Coyote,” he said. “Better late than never.”
“Do you think so?” said Coyote, turning to look up into Charles’s face. He had been chewing on a stick, and he tossed it into the river without looking. “I think I came in exactly when I wanted.”
“Too late to help?” Charles said. He hadn’t quite kept the growl out of his voice.
Coyote laughed heartily and slapped his leg. “You sure are a happy camper, aren’t you?” He took in Charles’s expression and laughed some more. “You get it, right? We’re in Happy Camp, but you aren’t a happy camper. I have been waiting all day to say that.”
“Why,” Charles asked, “are you here now?”
Coyote held up a finger. “Wait a moment.” He looked expectantly up the trail.
And Anna came hurrying down the path, sleep-tossed and bleary-eyed. “Where were you—” Her eyes fell on Coyote and she quit talking. She stopped a little to the side of Charles, giving him room if he needed to defend them.
She is smart, said Brother Wolf.
“She is,” agreed Coyote.
Charles wasn’t sure how he felt knowing Coyote could hear Brother Wolf.
“Well,” said Coyote impatiently, “are you going to introduce us?”
Then, without waiting, he said, “I’m Coyote. You’re Anna.”
“You are he,” she agreed. “And I certainly am.”
“I could come,” Coyote said, “because you put right what was wrong here. And because I didn’t want to have to deal with the Singer. That is two ‘becauses.’ I will answer two questions. One for you.” He looked at Anna. “And one for you. You were here first. Ask your question.”
To his surprise, Charles did have something he wanted to know.
“Mercy is a walker,” Charles said.
“Ah, excellent question,” said Coyote, even though it hadn’t been a question at all. “Yes. We have children so they can go out and do our will. They walk in the world, messengers and … What’s that word? Ah, yes, henchmen. And henchwomen, of course. My walkers tend to be disobedient and more effective than other walkers.” He preened, then raised his eyebrows at Charles, inviting him to speak again.
Charles decided they might get further if he waited for Coyote to tell them what Coyote wanted to tell them.
“You talk like words cost money,” Coyote observed sourly when Charles didn’t speak. “Wolf is like that, too.”
“What happens to your children if one of you die?” asked Anna suddenly.
Coyote gave her a surprisingly sweet smile. “That’s the right question, even if it’s the one Charles is supposed to ask. My death would not kill my children.” He looked coy. “I’ve tried that. But the Singer had not yet Become. He wasn’t quite like me. He required Zander—or some other living man—to even get women pregnant. When he died, the life force in those children he fathered on mortal women died, too.”
“All of them?” Charles asked.
Coyote gave him a narrow look. “You are pushing the extent of your one question with all of your questions.”
Anna started to speak and Coyote waved a finger. “Uh-uh. Not yet. You have a different question you want to ask.” He looked at Charles and sighed. For the first time, Coyote looked truly serious. “I want you to know this, so it can still be part of your question. None of the children the witches bear will survive. Your Dr. Connors miscarried about an hour ago.”
Charles nodded slowly. He could not be sorry. He should not be sorry.
“Walkers reflect some of the aspects of their parentage,” Coyote said. “Wolf’s children are fierce—and not too bright, for instance.” He gave Charles a smile that showed his teeth. When Charles did not react, Coyote heaved a sigh. “You really are not any fun at all, are you? Fine. Zander reflected the Singer’s aspects—I cannot find it in me to feel bad that there will be no more of his walkers in our world.”
Anna nodded.
“You have a question?” Coyote asked.
“I’ve seen too many horror films,” she said. “Is the Singer dead?”
“Absolutely,” Coyote said. “And now that I have answered your question, I have a task for you.”
He leaned over until he could reach his back pocket and pulled out a silver necklace with a single moonstone in a very plain setting. “She said—and I quote—‘Tell them that I didn’t have the power to make the other one very strong, but you are welcome to try it. This one my great-grandmother made. I have no daughter to pass it on to. I would very much like Sissy Connors to have it. Her father worried about her so.’”
Charles took it gingerly. “From Carrie Green.”
“Yes,” Coyote said.
“I’ll see that she gets it,” Charles promised. He knew that Anna would want to check on Dr. Connors before they left for home anyway. This would be a good excuse.
“Why didn’t it protect Carrie?” Anna asked. “It’s protection from evil, right?”
Coyote gave her an exasperated huff. “Two questions. Two. We might as well sit down and have an entire conversation. Ah well, I don’t like rules very much anyway. The necklace is protection from black witches who want to steal your magic. That’s all.”
Anna nodded at him. “You spoke to her? To Carrie Green?” There was a wobble in her voice.
Charles put his hand on her shoulder.
Coyote nodded and gave Anna that sweet smile again. “They are all safe now.” He tipped his head up toward the sun, closing his eyes. “We’re done now. You go away. I think I will sit on this rock and digest my breakfast. Maybe dream a bit, who knows?”
Charles knew stories of Coyote. “Isn’t that dangerous?” he said.
Coyote smiled at Charles this time, his eyes laughing. “You do have a sense of humor. I knew it.” He turned his back on them both, wrapping his arms around his knees as he stared out over the river.
As they headed back to the hotel, Charles heard Coyote singing “We Will Rock You.” He decided he wasn’t going to think too hard about what that might mean.
THAT NIGHT, THE coyote easily hopped over the stone wall that encased the garden. He trotted over to the raised pool, looked at his reflection backlit by the moon for a moment, and drank. When he had drunk his fill, he hopped on the ledge—no longer a coyote, but Coyote in his human guise.
He hadn’t lied to Charles and Anna, but he had concealed this thing from them. All of the Singer’s children had not died. This one last child had survived.
“Heya,” he told the listening garden. “I am Coyote. I think we should talk.”
* * *
LEAH LEFT TAG sleeping in the guest bedroom. He would recover, though it would be a week or more before he was up and moving with anything like his old strength. She was distantly glad of it. The pack was safer with Tag in it.
For lack of other tasks, she wandered into her bedroom and caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. She walked over and stared.
She’d showered and put on makeup. Like Tag, she had weight she needed to regain—though nowhere near the same amount. Outside of the gauntness and a hollowness in her eyes that might only be her imagination, she didn’t look any different than she ever had.
But now she remembered. The moment the Singer died, she had remembered everything. And yet that woman in the mirror was more of a stranger than she had ever been. She reached up and put her fingertips against her jawbone, just to make sure that it was really her.
Bran didn’t make any sound approaching her room, though like the good werewolf she was, she knew he was there. Of course she knew. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to find a center of normalcy. But she had killed her own son and used his heart to kill a god. She wasn’t sure where normal was in that.
“We need to talk,” her mate said.
And that quickly, she couldn’t breathe. She did not want to have this talk with him. With anyone. Her chest ached as she forced herself to calm.
She might be a stranger to herself, but she knew Bran. Her mate. He had violated his own rules when he had forced her to live through her Change and convinced her to be his mate. For two centuries both of them had ignored that. These last few days had shoved his sins down his throat. Now he would need to fix it. And that terrified her.
“I don’t want to talk now,” she told him truthfully. She looked down at her fingers and regretted painting her nails red. Like blood. It had seemed fitting at the time—but she regretted it now.
“Nevertheless,” he said.
She bowed her head and closed her eyes, but forced herself not to hug her chest, too. He would already know how unhappy and defensive she was, but she didn’t need to shove it in his face.
She inhaled to give herself strength and could have cursed because her breath hitched. Damn it.
She turned around.
He hadn’t come all the way into the room, but leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. He watched her with hooded eyes. Started to say something and clearly reconsidered.
“You have been greatly wronged,” he said finally. “Not just by me, but I did my part. And I don’t want to lose you.”
That first part she had expected, but not the second. She would have to be very stupid not to have understood that he did not particularly like her. He needed her—or someone in her place. Someone to balance his fierce and too-powerful wolf—and also someone to bear some of the burden of his various offices: Marrok, Alpha, guardian of the wildlings. She was useful.
She’d thought that he would take this opportunity to set her aside “for her own sake.” He had wronged her, forced her because she had not been in any condition to give consent, either to being Changed or to mating with him. She deserved better. She should go out in the real world and find better. And then he could find someone he’d be happier with.
Maybe she could convince him that she wanted things to stay as they were because she was ambitious. Any role she held after being the Marrok’s mate would be lowering her position. Both of those things were true.
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