Windigo Thrall

by Cate Culpepper

  “Maggie’s right.” Now Grady sounded pissed too. “Try to control yourself, Jo. This is not the time to give in to hallucinations, or what—”

  “You enjoyed the hell out of mocking me after class, didn’t you?” Jo’s tone still held that frightening hush, and her eyes were still on Grady. “You and those cretinous jocks in the back row.”

  “What?” Grady sputtered. “Jo, you’re certifiable. I never—”

  “And that’s scene.” Becca stalked over to Grady, and Maggie could see it cost her great effort to speak clearly and walk without staggering. “Listen, people, we have a geysher—a geyser of fire to deal with, and that damn orange bitch is still floating on our ceiling, so could we…”

  Becca had reached Grady and now she turned as if to protect her, to stand between her and Jo. But Becca stumbled and took a ragged step back, and Grady moved fast and took her shoulders to steady her.

  Becca went still in Grady’s grasp, and Maggie saw her eyes flutter shut. She let her head drop back on Grady’s chest.

  A low growl rose in Jo’s throat, and Maggie was very glad Pat hadn’t removed her wrist ties.

  Then Grady closed her eyes too, and rested her chin in Becca’s hair. Her hands moved toward her breasts.

  Maggie yelled again for Pat and spun toward her. Pat was still standing at the mantel. Maggie had lost track of Elena, but she saw her now, moving silently up beside Pat.

  Elena slipped the long knife out of Pat’s loose-fingered hand.

  *

  Jo has a lot of courage, more than you know. Trust her. She’ll do right.

  Pat’s grandmother still looked at her with that grave sense of command. Then her eyes shifted over Pat’s shoulder, toward the ceiling.

  She’s got part of the answer too, our old friend there, so you can trust her also. You can trust the fire she sends you. But mostly, Patricia, you trust your sewa.

  Maggie’s voice in Pat’s mind. The Windigo has a heart of ice.

  Her grandmother. It’s already done its worst to you two. It can’t touch you again, so maybe you can beat it. I don’t know. They don’t tell me these things. But you’d be surprised how much this place here is like a good school, and I learned some stuff.

  The wise old eyes Pat remembered so well took her measure, and her own filled with tears at the love in the lisping voice. You were plenty brave and strong enough, the first time. But you doubted yourself. Be that stupid again, and your friends are going to die tonight. It’s your turn to look out for Jo, kid.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Maggie smacked the back of Pat’s shoulder powerfully with her fist, hard enough to rock her, but she couldn’t linger to see if it was hard enough to wake the stupid woman up. She whirled before Pat’s gasp faded.

  Elena’s back was to Maggie, but she had lifted the knife high enough to be seen in the roar of the column of firelight. Jo had planted herself solidly in front of Becca and Grady, blocking Elena’s way to them, bound wrists or not.

  “Elena, you stop!” Jo commanded, but Elena was shrieking curses at Becca, spittle flying through her clenched teeth. The cacophony of flame and their strident voices were all Maggie had time to register before she measured the angle of the blade and lunged for Elena’s wrist.

  Maggie had been in more than one street fight herself, and she hadn’t grown up with two dozen cousins without learning about knives. She squeezed the bones of Elena’s wrist as hard as she could and the knife clattered to the hearth, just as her weight on Elena’s back toppled them both to the floor. They knocked into Jo’s legs, who in turn fell back against Grady and Becca, and they all went down in a cascade of flailing limbs.

  “Knock it off!” Pat bellowed, and it was over.

  Elena moved beneath Maggie, but more with the sluggish confusion of a woman waking up than one bent on murder. Jo levered herself to a seated position and looked around immediately for Becca, who huddled against her side.

  “J-Jesus,” Grady stammered, straightening her glasses with oddly endearing propriety. “What was that?”

  “Is anyone not injured?” Pat stood glaring down at their sprawled bodies, her fists on her hips. She looked taller.

  Maggie realized she was seeing Pat through a reasonable wash of firelight. The column of flame had subsided, and the iron grate now held logs that crackled with a blessedly natural light. She clambered off Elena and scanned the high, dark ceiling. “I think our trespasser left.” Her thumb brushed a shape on the floor and she lifted her hand. A chill went through her. “Yeek. I mean, our trespasser is right here.”

  She picked up the small mask with squeamish trepidation, but it was restored to a harmless oval of thin pine and feathers. She nodded toward the far corner of the room. “It looks like that weird light’s gone too.”

  “Grady, I lost time. Are you all right?” Elena looked shaken. She sat up and leaned against the hearth, and Grady scrambled to her. She slid her arm around Elena’s shoulders and held her.

  “The last thing I remember is that spooky-as-hell face.” Becca’s diction was clear, and the flush had faded from her cheeks. Maggie stood two feet away from her, and she smelled nothing. The fumes of hard liquor that had surrounded Becca were gone. “Pat, what happened to us?”

  “Yes, Pat, what happened to you all?” Maggie had been almost as rattled by Pat’s zombie impersonation as she stared at that photograph as anything else in this freak show.

  “I know what I saw when I turned around.” Pat was absurdly calm. “Maggie, am I correct? Tell us what Jo was doing.”

  “What Jo was doing? You mean, after Elena took your knife and went for Becca’s throat?” Maggie heard Elena gasp, but the tension was gushing out of her chest with her words and she couldn’t stop. “Well, Patsy, Becca was drunk off her ass, and she was coming on hard to Grady. Who seemed just fine with that. And you went into some kind of freaking trance…” Then Maggie remembered Jo’s face in that moment, her determination to place herself between Becca and the knife. “Wait. Jo was shielding Becca.”

  Pat looked around, then lifted her knife from the hearth. “Jo, I’m taking those ties off.”

  A squeak of protest escaped Maggie before she could stop it. Pat knelt behind Jo and freed her wrists.

  “Pat.” Jo grimaced. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “I’m not sure of anything, yet.” Pat straightened and returned the knife to her belt. “But I think I have a plan.”

  “Elena.” Grady sounded worried, and then Maggie was too. The color had fallen out of Elena’s face in an alarming rush, and she sagged against Grady.

  “It’s not possible,” Elena whispered, closing her eyes. “Becca, you must know I’d never hurt you.”

  “Hey.” Becca’s voice was clear and firm, and so was her hand on Elena’s shoulder. “Of course you wouldn’t hurt me, Elena. You’d never harm anyone. And I wouldn’t drink, and I’d never betray Jo. It’s time, Pat, isn’t it?” She looked up at Pat with hollow fear in her eyes. “This isn’t some mass psychosis. This is spirit shit. It’s time we accepted that.”

  Pat nodded. “You guys just rest for a moment.”

  Moving with the same assured quiet, Pat tilted the fire screen and began to add fresh wood to the grate. Maggie shifted from foot to foot, tapping the mask nervously against her palm as she waited, but the others relaxed against each other. No one seemed in a hurry to get up. Outside, the wind remained banked but could still be heard, a sinister and distant whistle.

  “Becca, you mentioned The Shining earlier,” Pat observed, apropos of nothing, as she poked at the logs. “Are you a Stephen King fan?”

  “Well, not tonight,” Becca said pointedly.

  Pat grinned. “Did you know King wrote a story about the Windigo? Scary as hell. But something bothered me about that story. Same thing that bothers me about most stories with demons in them.”

  “Um, Pat,” Grady said politely. “This might be more words than I’ve ever heard you put together at one time, and I ha
te to interrupt. But will you be getting to that plan you mentioned soon?”

  “Soon.” Pat replaced the fire screen and brushed off her gloved hands, her face austere and lovely in the red firelight. “It’s never seemed fair to me that demons get all this power in our stories, but normal human ghosts can never help us fight them.” She looked up over her shoulder at the painting. “So tonight, we’re listening to a new story. We’re going to follow the advice of a ghost.”

  “Pat, I don’t know what you heard.” Jo’s tone was entirely respectful. “But ghosts don’t give advice. The voices of the dead are electrical impulses, data that can be measured. Please don’t base our safety on some random message.”

  “Maybe Pat is listening to this message with wiser ears than ours.” Elena lifted her head from Grady’s shoulder. “Tell us what to do, amiga.”

  “We don’t have much time.” Pat swallowed visibly, and Maggie could see that in spite of this strange new confidence, she was as afraid as any of them. “And I don’t know how to explain. I’m asking you guys for trust, and that’s the hardest thing in the world to give.”

  She held out her hand to Maggie, and that disorienting déjà vu happened again. Maggie had seen this tall figure before, outlined by firelight, extending a hand toward her. She would have followed him anywhere. She would follow Pat now. When their hands touched, Maggie half-expected the pillar of fire to erupt again, but Pat just smiled at her.

  “Becca, please take this.” Pat took the little Makah mask from Maggie and handed it to Becca. “Keep it with you. It’s all right. There’s no harm in the Cannibal Woman. I think her story can help us.”

  Becca accepted the mask with a sickly smile and slid it into the pocket of her jacket.

  “The four of you need to separate,” Pat said, pointing. “Sit farther apart. Each of you, get out of arm’s reach and stay there.”

  The others complied, shifting across the wood floor, probably with the same numbness Maggie felt.

  “Watch each other,” Pat ordered. “Jo, you’re in charge.”

  “Me?” Jo squeaked.

  “You. If anything happens in the next fifteen minutes—if anyone starts to look funny, feel funny, breathe funny, anything—yell out for us. Loud.”

  “Us?” Maggie repeated. “You and me? Where will we be?”

  “Nearby. You and I have some history to address.” Pat picked up a candle and turned, but Maggie tugged her back.

  “We’re leaving these guys?” Maggie had no desire to see either of them outside the safety of the clan, the company of the four women who were watching them with open concern. “Can’t we address our history right here?”

  “We couldn’t possibly.” The high planes of Pat’s face filled with color. She led Maggie out of the circle of firelight, toward the guest bedroom. “Remember,” she called back. “Watch each other. We won’t be far away.”

  *

  “Pat, it’s a f-fucking freezer in here.” Maggie had her arms clenched across her chest. “What do you want?”

  “To be able to see you, for one thing,” Pat made sure the door to the guest room was firmly shut, then rested the candle on a high shelf so its meager light fell on them both. “Would you take off your clothes, please?”

  “Eat shit and fart fire,” Maggie suggested.

  “I’m serious.” Pat bit the fingertip of her glove and pulled it off. She began to undress methodically, thinking harder and faster than she ever had in her life. Remembering her grandmother’s words and trusting them, because there was no other choice.

  Maggie was incredulous. “You want to do this here and now?”

  “I know you.” Pat could see the steam of Maggie’s breath, and her lips were turning blue. She continued shedding her clothes, dropping her long coat to the floor, snaking out of her two flannel shirts. “I let you down once. I let it win, and it took me. My grandmother says it’s already done its worst to me, and to you. It can’t touch us again.”

  “Your grand…what the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been dreaming about us for weeks. The wasps flew for the others, Maggie, but they couldn’t come near us.”

  “You’re a crazy woman.” Maggie was shivering spasmodically, staring at Pat’s pale shoulders. “You’re going to freeze to death in—”

  “Maggie, I know you.” Pat had to settle for removing her belt and unfastening her jeans. “You know me. We’ve been through this before. I’m telling you the truth.”

  She had to trust that Maggie would yell “no” or punch her or kick her in the crotch if she truly objected, because they couldn’t waste more time on negotiation. Half-naked herself, Pat began undressing Maggie, swiftly and well.

  Maggie didn’t resist. She looked up into Pat’s face, her eyes wide and searching, but she stood still beneath her hands. Pat reached the T-shirt Maggie wore and she simply ripped it open, baring her breasts. She slid her hands around beneath the soft fabric to press Maggie’s naked back.

  Maggie gasped and arched at the chill of her fingers. When their lips met, in the moment before Pat closed her eyes, she saw the frost coating the outside of the window begin to melt and recede. Maggie moaned into her open mouth.

  The bed was right next to them but it was too far away, so they stayed on their feet. Pat opened her eyes because she wanted to see Maggie’s body, her hands roaming feverishly over the cool swells of her breasts. They drew in air in harsh gasps, the steam of their blended breath gusting across their faces.

  Maggie’s features grew luminous in the candlelight. “Our baby saw the sun rise,” she whispered.

  “Yes, sewa.” Pat was faintly aware that neither of them were speaking in English. She also realized she could no longer see Maggie’s breath. The room was warming. She slipped her hands beneath Maggie’s hair and kissed her again. Maggie’s fingers skated up her bare back and she shivered, hard.

  “We can’t let it hurt them,” Maggie murmured.

  “We won’t.” Pat’s fingers delved between Maggie’s thighs and found her center, and her own sex tightened in welcome. Physical sensations more blissful than she had ever known, or at least hadn’t known for over a century, surged through her sinew and filled her with liquid heat.

  Steam swirled, rose, and enveloped them.

  *

  “Are you guys hearing this?” Becca whispered.

  Shivering on the floor, she gaped at the closed bedroom door. That dark corner of the large cabin was emitting an alarming series of wooden creaks and whistles, as if the walls holding it up were expanding suddenly with heat.

  “Jesus. Is that smoke?” Grady pointed to the white vapor streaming beneath the door. Before anyone could respond, the door opened and Pat and Maggie emerged. Their figures were shrouded in a steamy mist, which dissipated swiftly in the cold air of the living room.

  “Well, that answers that question.” Pat held Maggie’s hand and led her back to their circle, sounding almost cheerful. “Looks like we’ve got heat covered.”

  A high-pitched squeak of laughter escaped Becca, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. “S-sorry,” she stammered. “I’m sorry. Do you two…need anything? Like clothing?”

  Pat was still wearing her long coat, but in terms of attire, both she and Maggie looked recently and quickly reassembled. A sense of fragile relief coursed through Becca, her maternal worry easing as they returned unscathed.

  “We need to bundle up, all of us.” Pat stuffed her shirttail beneath her belt. The wind was kicking hard again, slapping against the cabin. “We’re going out to the trough.”

  Becca turned automatically to the painting over the hearth, the metal trough now featured prominently in its foreground. It no longer appeared to hold steaming, boiling water, and its slanted sides glowed with a subdued gold-red light. No one commented on this, and Becca figured at this point they were so saturated in strangeness, a continually changing canvas was almost routine. She was not, however, getting a good vibe from any of this.

 
; “Pat, honey, honestly.” Becca folded her arms. “We’ll take you tubing in the morning. What are you thinking we should do out there, with this trough?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Elena’s distinctive brows were furrowed. “None of us should leave the cabin, Pat. We discussed this.”

  “We have to go outside,” Pat said. “Hiding in here won’t keep us safe. We’ve seen that. This Windigo is a bully. Like all bullies, it counts on fear to get its way. We’re not going to let it trap us here. We’re going out there to face it, head on.”

  “What are you thinking we should do out there, Pat?” Becca repeated herself, her pronunciation diamond clear.

  “We’re going to dunk Jo in boiling water.”

  Silence.

  Jo nodded. “Okay.”

  Wind gasped and barked against the walls.

  Pat went to the maple pegs that held their coats and began filling her arms. “The Windigo has a heart of ice, and now Jo does too. We have to melt that heart.”

  “By boiling her to death?” Maggie had one hand on her hip and she seemed to be shooting for sarcasm, but her voice was shaking. The flush that had filled her cheeks when she first emerged from the bedroom had faded to pale. “This is your big plan?”

  “It worked for the Cannibal Woman.” Pat tossed Maggie a heavy nylon jacket. “Put that on. But no, I don’t think we’re going to kill Jo.”

  “Mind you, I’m fine with the prospect of killing Jo,” Grady said stiffly, “But, Pat, where are you getting all this? From your Makah legend? For one thing, how would we boil water out—”

  “I’m not a physics major.” Pat threw Grady a hooded coat, arcing it cleanly through the air into her hands. “The laws of nature are pretty fucked up around here right now. That painting’s telling us the bad guys don’t get to write all the rules.”

  Becca’s mouth had gone paper-dry.

  Instead of hurling a parka at Elena, Pat carried it to her and held it out politely. Elena still looked sorely troubled, but she turned and allowed Pat to slip it up over her arms.