by Zoë Archer
Astrid drew her revolver, cocked it, and waited. The wolf’s growls grew louder as the hoofbeats drew closer.
The trees at the edge of the campsite exploded. The air filled with awful screams as a beast plunged out of the night, straight toward Astrid. Lesperance darted forward with a snarl, shoving her aside, and snapped his wicked teeth at the creature.
It was a horse, but no ordinary horse. Bigger than even the sturdiest draft horse, black as tar, with eyes blazing like an inferno and hooves the size of trenchers. Its mane was a black tangle, and about its neck swung heavy iron chains. The fetid smell of the underworld clung to its flecked hide.
She heard, distantly, the sounds of their horses and mule neighing and braying in fright. At least they were hobbled so they couldn’t run off, but they surely wanted to. Astrid could not blame them.
“Hell,” she muttered. “A púca.” A particularly nasty creature from Ireland. And she knew precisely who had summoned it. She leapt backward to shield herself from its flying hooves and hot breath. Its mouth was full of cutting fangs that tore at the air.
Lesperance shot toward the monster, snarling, lunging for its legs. The púca clumsily dodged the wolf’s advances and let out a screeching whinny when Lesperance tore a chunk from its front leg. Sticky black blood spurted onto the ground and Lesperance’s fur.
So the beast could be harmed. Good. Some magical creatures couldn’t be affected by such things as knives, teeth, or bullets. But this one could. Steadying herself, Astrid took aim with her revolver.
The púca bolted toward her as she readied her shot. Abruptly, the chains about its neck unwound themselves and flew at her. Astrid cursed and flung up an arm for protection. A heavy chain wrapped itself around her forearm. Astrid clawed at it, but the chain would not release her.
Then it was pulling at her, dragging her toward the púca. She dug her heels into the ground, scattering their gear lying there, but could not stop the chain’s relentless tugs. Her arm blazed with pain as she fought to liberate herself. She had to get free before she was forced onto the beast’s back. Anyone who mounted a púca would be carried off, never to be seen again—alive.
The Heirs must want her out of the way to get to Lesperance, but like hell would she let that happen. She pulled harder against the chain. Yet it made it damned difficult to aim her revolver.
A wild growl tore the night, something silver and black flew through the air, and the púca shrieked. Astrid was tugged off her feet as the monstrous horse reared up, the wolf gripping the púca’s back with sharp nails. Astrid fell to the ground and rolled, dodging hooves as the beast tried to shake Lesperance from its back. But he held firm, digging into the creature’s flesh. He plunged his teeth into the púca’s neck. The monster screamed.
Drops of thick blood spattered onto Astrid as she struggled to avoid the careening, wounded creature’s enormous hooves. She might have her head smashed in by the panicked beast.
She pulled again on the chain around her arm and let out a gust of relief when she found she could tug free. The wolf’s attack distracted the púca and its dark magic. Without the chain’s restraint, she rolled away, out of the path of the bucking monster. Astrid leapt to her feet and steadied herself, legs braced wide, as she aimed her gun.
“Jävlar,” she cursed. Lesperance still clung to the creature’s back, biting whatever he could sink his teeth into. No matter how hard the púca bucked, it couldn’t dislodge him. But it was too dark and the monster too frenzied for Astrid to take a proper shot, not without possibly hitting Lesperance.
“Let go,” she shouted.
The wolf’s ears swiveled to catch her words, but the animal didn’t release its hold on the púca. In fact, the damned wolf snarled at her.
“Let go,” she yelled again, “so I can put a bullet in its damned head!”
That seemed to convince him. With a final growl, Lesperance released his death grip and sprang away. The moment he was clear, Astrid fired. Her bullet slammed into the púca’s eye.
An ordinary horse would have fallen to the ground, dead, in an instant. Even, perhaps, in other circumstances the púca would have been killed. But the world’s magic was stronger now. The púca shrieked once more and wheeled away. It dove for the shelter of the trees, and Astrid shot again. If she hit the creature, she couldn’t tell, because it evaporated into a noxious mist. In a few seconds, the only thing remaining of the beast was the smell of putrid, stagnant water.
She let out a slow breath, holstering her gun. The wolf trotted up to her.
They stared at each other in the sudden silence of night. It licked at the blood on its muzzle as it gazed levelly at her—almost a challenge, both to itself and to her. This is what I am.
And this is what I am, she thought in answer.
Lesperance let out a small woof of understanding. She almost smiled. Both of them, barely civilized.
Astrid reached out as if to scratch between the wolf’s ears, then stopped herself. He was not a pet. This was a man within a wolf. As for the man…she and he were allies, but not friends.
He must have seen this in her face. Lesperance backed up, then cast a glance over to the pile of clothing he’d left behind earlier. He made a soft whine of distress, looking back at her. She understood.
Astrid turned away and heard the sounds of shifting, movement. Clothing being gathered and donned. When she turned back, Lesperance in his human form stood by the remains of the camp, dressed. A curious and uncharacteristic vulnerability hung about him, even though he still had blood on his mouth, blood he’d drawn with his wolf’s teeth and wolf’s nails.
“Still hard to believe I can do that,” he said, low. He wiped at his mouth and smiled grimly at the dark smears left on his sleeve. Yet another bloodstain on his clothing.
“You did, and did it well.” She also dabbed at the gore on her clothes. She began to move through the camp, gathering up the things that had been scattered during the fight.
He snarled, “The Heirs sent that…thing.” Heglared toward where the púca had dispersed. “I’ll rip their fucking guts out. You could’ve been killed.”
“I have faced worse,” she noted, but did not miss how his outrage was on her behalf.
“That’s not a consolation,” he growled, dragging his hands through his hair.
She had to disabuse him of the notion that he was her sole means of protection and safety. She’d done perfectly well before he slammed into her life. “Truly, Lesperance, far more dangerous magic exists. Not only does it exist, but I’ve faced it and survived.”
“You’ve seen that creature before?” he demanded.
“The púca? No. But many other magical creatures.”
“Demon horses,” he said with a shake of his head. At least he’d calmed down and wasn’t threatening to single-handedly take on the Heirs. “I shouldn’t be amazed, considering.” He glanced down at the blood on his garments and on the ground. “But I am amazed. Amazed and furious.”
“The púca is merely the first of what will be many,” she cautioned, “so save your fight for another day. They are determined to have you.”
His mouth flattened. “And I’m determined to be rid of the Heirs. I can find their camp, go after them.”
“Even though you are a powerful wolf, you could never defeat them.” She rubbed at her arm where the chain had dug into her flesh. “Magic such as the púca is nothing to what they are capable of.”
“Why don’t the Heirs send more?”
She sunk down onto her heels, suddenly exhausted. She knew she should thank Lesperance for coming to her aid, but all she could feel now was weariness in the aftermath of the fight. If she needed convincing that the Heirs were truly in pursuit, she had her proof now. “They will.”
Chapter 5
Astrid Awakened
A strange mood the following morning. She awoke in the gray of dawn to find Lesperance sitting across from her, cross-legged, feeding kindling to the fire. His face looked carved from ja
sper, hard and immobile.
Their morning meal was wordless. Too much had happened the night before—their argument, the fight with the púca, the fact that the Heirs snapped at their heels—and the weight of everything pressed down upon them. She cooked bannock over the fire and they ate it without speaking or even truly looking at each other. Astrid distracted herself with other thoughts. Soon, she would have to forage to supplement their stores. Autumn frosts hadn’t come yet, so there would be enough to sustain them.
After tending to their personal needs, they readied their horses and struck camp. The process went much faster now. Lesperance’s skills in the wild grew hourly. No wonder he had been able to break past societal boundaries to become a learned professional. His mind was as forceful as his determination. Yet she knew the other side of him, the side that had charged and attacked the púca, spilled the monster’s blood.
He was both, beast and man. But it was the man that disturbed her most. He cut to the very heart of her, through force of will as well as softer, subtler means. One of the few men who accepted her as she was, yet challenged her. And, reluctantly, she admired him. Courageous, almost to the point of being reckless. A deep generosity despite having so many barriers set before him. Perceptive—too much so, for her comfort.
She said none of this. They went on in labored silence. She could not feel the same restorative joy in the glinting snow atop the mountains, nor the lush green depths of the woods, not while she and Lesperance both clung to their stubborn silence. She had been so used to going without words. No longer. Damn and damn again. He’d taken her perfectly good isolation and punctured it, making her aware of the hollowness at its center.
They sought his true people, the tribe to which he belonged. And where did she belong? She knew, but did not want to know.
At midday, as they followed a creek, he drew up short on the reins, narrowing his eyes and drawing in a breath.
“Smoke,” he said. “Dogs and horses. And people.”
Sure enough, as they pushed around the bend of the creek, there it was. A collection of elk-hide tepees rising close to the creek’s bend like conical mushrooms. Strips of meat dried in the sun as women in beaded deerskin dresses scraped at more elk hides, preparing them for tanning. Horses roamed at the edges of the camp, guarded by boys in fringed leggings. As Astrid and Lesperance slowly rode closer, their appearance was noted by a small girl, who ran, shouting their arrival, with a dog barking excitedly at the girl’s heels.
Astrid could see the encampment was already in the process of being broken down for a move to the winter grounds. Several women were packing travois to be hitched to the backs of horses.
“This is the tribe we’re looking for?” he asked.
She nodded. “They might know where to find the Earth Spirits.”
“You’ve dealt with them before?” he pressed.
“Not this band,” Astrid answered. She could well imagine what a good attorney he might be, demanding answers, exacting information through strength of will.
Two men on horseback, wearing the feathers of warriors in their braided hair, trotted toward them.
“Friendly?” Lesperance asked, low. She followed his eyes to the rifles the men carried, and the heavy, blunt war clubs hanging from their saddles.
“The Stoneys here are peaceful,” she answered, equally low. “They want to be left alone.” But she did not want to push them. Even a peaceful creature grew fierce when it perceived an attack.
The warriors stopped their horses in front of Astrid and Lesperance. They gave a quick look at Astrid, noting her men’s garb with barely revealed curiosity, before turning to Lesperance and speaking.
Lesperance could only frown when the men spoke Nakota to him. He glanced, frustrated, at Astrid.
“Forgive me, warriors,” Astrid said in Nakota. “This man is not of your tribe. He comes from the Western Sea and cannot speak Nakota.”
If the Native warriors were surprised, they did not show it. “We know some English,” one said, “from the trappers and the men who tell us of their God and His dead son.” He took note of the furs still hanging on the pack mule. “You are a trapper, though,” he glanced back at Lesperance, “you have the look of a warrior.”
Astrid wondered how to properly phrase who, or what, she and Lesperance were. Something much more complicated than she knew how to describe.
“We are travelers,” Lesperance answered, while she debated with herself. A fitting description.
The second warrior spoke. “You are far from your tribal lands, friend.”
Again, Lesperance took command of the exchange. “I seek answers about myself.”
Both warriors nodded with understanding. The pursuit of one’s truth was well regarded.
“And you mourn as well?” the first warrior asked.
Lesperance looked puzzled.
“This man was taken and raised by the white man,” Astrid interjected. “He wears his hair short as they do.” She whispered to Lesperance, “When a Native grieves, they cut their hair.”
She saw him struggle not to touch the back of his neck self-consciously. It was such a boyish gesture of uncertainty, so unlike him, especially given the way he took charge of their dialogue with the warriors, she almost smiled.
“You speak much for a woman,” the second warrior noted.
At that, Lesperance chuckled, then composed himself when the Natives stared at him in perplexity. Most Natives retained a good deal of reserve, especially in the presence of strangers, and warriors were famed for their stoicism.
“She is Hunter Shadow Woman,” Lesperance said.
Astrid turned to him, surprised. “How do you know that?”
“Sergeant Williamson at the trading post.”
She had no idea she had developed a reputation. And, judging by the slight shifting in the Native warrior’s expression, the barest hint of esteem glinting beneath the smooth surface of their impassivity, her reputation was a good one. How odd, but somehow gratifying.
The first warrior called something over his shoulder. Another man near a tepee answered, then went into the tent. Within a few moments, he emerged and shouted back to the mounted warriors.
“Hunter Shadow Woman and He Who Is Far are welcome,” the second warrior said. “Our chief will smoke a pipe with you.”
Both murmuring their thanks, Astrid and Lesperance followed at a slight distance. As they rode into the encampment, they drew the unconcealed stares of everyone. But it wasn’t Astrid, with her white skin, blond hair, and men’s clothing, that attracted attention. It was Lesperance, a Native man dressed like a European, hair shorn, who, it was already known, could not speak Nakota and was taken by white men and raised as one of them. He was more alien to the Indians than she.
He bore their staring with restraint, though she could detect, in the slight tightening of his jaw, his discomfort. This troubled her for many reasons—including the fact that she was coming to know him well enough to read his emotions, and that his unease should bother her at all.
They were led toward one of the larger tepees. Several boys came forward to take their horses and mule. As the animals were led away, the chief emerged from the tepee, wearing the beads and eagle feathers of his office. Through the opening to the tent, faces of women and children peered out with interest. One of the women was only just on the side of marriageable age, no doubt the chief’s eldest daughter, and she looked at Lesperance with sizable attention.
“It is a shame about his hair,” she whispered in Nakota to her mother. “He would be most handsome with warrior’s braids.”
Her mother hushed her, and the daughter disappeared into the recesses of the tepee.
The chief gestured that they were to sit. Some nearby women giggled when they watched Astrid sit cross-legged, like a man, and not with her legs tucked under like a modest woman, but she paid them no heed. But, again, Astrid held much less fascination than Lesperance. Judging by their discreet but admiring glances, it was
n’t only Lesperance’s curious amalgamation of Native and white man that held their interest. Astrid wondered if it was the beast inside him that made his presence so arresting, so fascinating. No, it was not that, but his inner strength that glowed with an unseen heat. This was a man who fought for his beliefs, with the face and body of temptation. Lord knew she was tempted.
“You frown, Hunter Shadow Woman,” said the chief in Nakota. “Does something displease you?”
“No,” she answered quickly. “Your band is prosperous, and the smoke of many fires may sting my weak eyes.”
That answer pleased him. As the pipe was being prepared by one of the warriors who met them, the chief introduced himself. “I am Thunder Eagle, and I have heard tales of you, Hunter Shadow Woman. Your companion—my warriors say he searches for answers about himself.”
Astrid glanced quickly at Lesperance, who was attempting to follow the conversation despite the language barrier. How strange it must be to not speak the language of one’s people, even if the divide of generations separated them. She would not exclude him, as others had done. “Wise Thunder Eagle, if you have the knowledge of English, I humbly ask you to use it,” she said, with a meaningful look toward Lesperance.
The chief nodded, taking up the prepared pipe. It was decorated with feathers but was not as elaborate as some war or peace pipes Astrid had seen. Thunder Eagle took several draws upon the pipe before handing it to Lesperance, who mirrored the chief’s actions. Astrid gave a tiny shake of her head when Lesperance started to hand the pipe to her. She might be an anomaly to the Natives, but male rituals were still forbidden to her.
“I have made such searches, He Who Is Far,” Thunder Eagle said to Lesperance in careful English. “When I was only allowed to hunt with a bow, still a boy, I had dreams that I was meant for more than being a hunter or warrior. So I went away for seven nights to seek my answer in fasting and prayer. My brother Eagle showed me I was to be chief.”
