Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience)

by Noordeloos, Chantal

  “So are you, William.” There was sadness in Westwood’s tone of voice. “You’re scum as much as I am.” The fingers squeezed Coyote’s tight shoulder muscles. “And you’ve become too dangerous. I didn’t want to do this in front of your girl, but you leave me no choice . . . ”

  His words made Coyote’s stomach sink. She felt the strong hands grip her and turn her around. With his right hand, he held her arm. With his left, he pushed her chin up and forced her to look at him, into the face of the man she hated. James Westwood.

  He was about six years her senior. He had a handsome face, topped with an unruly mop of black hair, and his bright green eyes held hers as if he were trying to hypnotize her.

  “No,” she cried and struggled. Westwood’s hand let go of her chin, and his arms wrapped around her, holding her to his chest the way a mother held a child. She tried to get away from him, putting her full force into doing so, kicking and pushing him, but he was so strong, so very strong. Fight him, her mind screamed, don’t let him win. But it was of no use. She couldn’t break free, and he wouldn’t let go. She buried her face in his cotton shirt and smelled his strong masculine scent. It was almost sweet.

  “Papa.” The fabric of Westwood’s shirt muffled her voice, and her scream was no more than a whimper. Her saliva moistened the cotton; she could taste his shirt between her lips as she moaned. She tried to turn to her father, but the hands held her in an iron grip. There was a deafening sound, louder than any shot should ever be, and then . . . a scream, already fading as James Westwood released her. He moved his warm body away from hers and left her to feel the cold breeze. Coyote did not turn around, not right away. She stood frozen in her fear for minutes that felt like hours. Then, slowly, her knees shaking, she turned and walked toward the place where her father had stood only moments ago. She sank to her knees, the rough, rocky sand skinning them through her trousers and scraping the soft flesh of her hands. Ignoring the pain, she crawled toward the rim and peered over.

  Her father’s corpse lay sprawled at the bottom of the ravine, his plaid shirt blossoming with a moist flower of fresh blood and his skull cracked open like a ripe watermelon. His limbs were twisted in unnatural positions, making him look like a broken doll.

  “Father!” she cried.

  “Can you see it?” the voices whispered. “Did you see it?”

  The sight of him was just as horrendous as it had been seven years ago. Hot tears cascaded down her burning face and mixed with the dust on her skin. She could not stop weeping. Wisps of smoke swirled around her. She felt a hand on her back, not Westwood’s. Rougher, smaller, gentler.

  “What happened?” This voice, louder, real, not some echo of a memory. Caesar’s voice.

  Coyote opened eyes she hadn’t known she’d closed. She was on her knees in the sweat lodge, bent forward, her forehead touching the swept dirt. Anguish tore at her soul. Tears ran from her eyes in slick, wet trails and mixed with the soil. Strings of snot and saliva dangled from her nose and mouth, connecting her to the earth beneath her. The pain in her heart exploded in her head and throat.

  “Did you see it?” the voices whispered again.

  “It is best we stop.” This time it was Tokala who spoke. “Coyote has seen what she needed to see.”

  There was a sound like wings flapping in the wind. Pale grey light entered the sweat lodge, and a welcome cool breeze penetrated the smoke.

  Coyote allowed the two men to lead her, coughing and crying, from the lodge, her undergarments drenched in sweat.

  Wea women grabbed her and wrapped her in furs, leading her to a place where she could cleanse herself with cold water. Their voices were calming and their touch motherly. The sun peered over the horizon, casting soft, grey light over the Indian village. Like the hero in a story, it chased away the darkness and the painful memories.

  The cold water helped her collect herself. She washed the snot and the tears from her face, her hands lingering on her eyes. Why the visions had taken her back to that day, she didn’t know, but the memory of her father made her all the more determined to catch this Outlander. Coyote righted herself and watched the rising sun, surprised that her vision had taken all night, and when the pale light turned into a rich golden color that bathed the land in warmth, she knew it was time to go.

  Tokala urged Coyote to stay, to rest. “The visions you have encountered have drained you. You haven’t slept at all.”

  His pleas fell on deaf ears.

  “I said I would leave in the morning,” she said, all tears forgotten in the daylight. Her determined finger pointed at the rising sun. “It’s now morning.” She put on her clothes with a ferocity normally reserved for fighting a foe. Her heart pounded as if it wanted to escape her chest, and she battled a growing aggression. “I have to find this Outlander.”

  Tokala took her face between his hands and forced her to look at him. His deep amber eyes held hers, and Coyote felt her muscles relax.

  “I understand, Coyote. But you must heed what the visions told you.” His tone was warm and soothed her senses; there was something mystical about the way he spoke, and Coyote imagined she heard a thousand other voices mingling with his.

  “What is there to heed, Tokala?” Her own words were dreamy. “The visions told me of the past, of things that have already occurred—things I already knew. They revealed nothing.”

  “We don’t always see what is in front of us. Sometimes there is novelty in memory.” He shook his head and took his warm hands off her face. She felt the wind cool down the spots where his palms had held her.

  “Just tell me what I need to know about my Outlander, Tokala.” Her heart was heavy. “You know the information I need, don’t you?”

  “You will find him with the one you hate most,” Tokala said. Coyote nodded and placed her hands on her hips as a gesture of impatience.

  “He’s with Westwood; this is not the information I seek.” She blew a loosened strand of hair from her cheek. “Give me something I can work with, Tokala.”

  The shaman sighed and ran a shaky hand across his weary brow. “You are an unreasonable and stubborn woman. Is there nothing I can do to convince you to stay a few days? At least until you have figured out what the visions have tried to convey to you . . . ”

  Coyote softened, but shook her head. “No, I’m restless, and this Outlander can be a great danger to his surroundings. He likes to eat children; you confirmed this yourself. I can’t risk him running around any longer than absolutely necessary.”

  “Very well.” His thin lips curled slightly at the edges, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. There was a heartbreaking sadness in them.

  “Information, please.” Her voice was cold.

  Tokala shrugged and looked her in the eyes. “You will need a particle beam pistol to kill him. Normal weapons won’t penetrate his skin, nor will any of the Outlander weapons you know. It’s too tough and too flexible for any weapon created on Earth, or in most other realms. But a particle beam pistol should do the trick. They’re very powerful.”

  “I’ll see if one of my contacts has one.” She adjusted her derby.

  “Be careful, Coyote.” Tokala’s eyes pleaded with her. “You are at a crossroads.”

  “I’m always at a crossroads. Indiana is the crossroads of America,” Coyote said with a bitter smile as she mounted Shenanigans. The creature stirred nervously, whinnying a little. “Thank you for your help.”

  There were no hugs, no tender goodbyes. Not this time. Coyote was grateful for Tokala’s help, but she had been stung by the visions and her reaction to them. She hated losing control, and she had lost it that night. It made her feel weak, and that was something she struggled to deal with.

  “The spirits have shown you what you saw for a reason, Coyote.” Tokala grabbed her leg, his fingers digging strongly into her calf. “Listen to them. Don’t just dismiss what you’ve seen, even if you don’t understand it yet.”

  “No . . . I won’t. I promise. Though I’m not sur
e what they were trying to tell me, Tokala,” she answered honestly. Tokala shook his head and then reached for a chain around his neck. He pulled it off and held it up to Coyote.

  “This is one of the last things I have left from my true home,” he said. “And certainly one of the most precious things.” The necklace dangled in the air, a black leather thong with a small, silver triangle hanging on the bottom. It looked a little like a very fine point of an arrow, and yet it was different. The lines were too crisp, the make too exotic. The silver-grey color was almost translucent, giving the alien object a crystalline appearance.

  “It belonged to my mother.” His eyes went misty as he spoke. “It is a healing crystal, also known as a healing stone.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Coyote held her breath as she admired it.

  “I want you to have it.” His offer surprised her, and Coyote shook her head.

  “I can’t take your mother’s necklace.” Her eyes darted over the Wea tribe, who observed them from a distance. “It belongs to you. It’s one of the last things you have of your people.”

  “You can take this.” Tokala held the necklace toward her. “You can use this as a trade for the weapon you need.”

  She shook her head again then looked at Caesar.

  “Say something about this,” she pleaded with her partner.

  “To deny a gift of such magnitude is to deny an offer of friendship.” Caesar spoke with his soft calm voice, and Coyote threw her hands in the air.

  “Tokala, please . . . ”

  The Outlander shook his head and placed the necklace in her hand. He grabbed Coyote’s long, thin fingers and wrapped them around the precious trinket, his hands cupping her fist. The crystal gave off a little heat, pulsating against her skin like a gentle heartbeat. There was something about the thing that gave her sense of peace and happiness. It broke her heart to take such a precious item from a friend she held so dear. She held her hand out, torn between what she wanted and what she believed to be right.

  “This is only an object, Coyote.” His words urged her on, though she knew he had to be lying. Her eyes met his, and she pleaded silently with him to take it back, to not let her trade such a precious thing for a weapon, but his face was a mask of resolve.

  “The true bond to my people lies in my memories, in me.” He tapped his chest. “I wouldn’t be your friend if I let you face this foe without my aid. The Quavar are my enemies too. They have harmed many of my people. Avenge them, Coyote.”

  A moment passed between them, a moment of perfect understanding. Coyote squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. Her hand reached the brim of her hat, and she adjusted it as she nodded.

  “As you wish.” She held out the stone, letting it hang from her fingers.

  “It is my wish.” The crystal dangled between them for a moment, and then the bounty hunter put the chain around her neck. She paused, her head cocked to one side, and considered Tokala with some interest.

  “You know what the spirits were trying to tell me, don’t you?” Coyote’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  There was a spark in Tokala’s dark eyes. “Yes, I have seen the visions myself. Soon you will know what they meant too.” His brown hand patted the large stallion. “Now, go if you must go, or stop being stubborn and get off that horse so that you can rest here.”

  Coyote shot Tokala her infamous crooked smile. “Are you ready, Caesar?”

  The black man yawned and pulled on his reins.

  “Coyote?” Tokala held up his hand.

  “What?”

  “Be careful. The Quavar are very dangerous. This one will be no exception.” He took a deep breath.

  “I know.” She pulled on her derby. “I wouldn’t be hunting him if he wasn’t.” She spurred her horse on and rode away.

  The Wea people watched the two visitors go. The Outlander shaman shed wet, hot tears as the stone of his people was taken farther and farther away from his heart, but a faint smile indicated that he did not regret making it a gift.

  TOKALA

  Fatigue played with his senses, but Tokala wanted to speak to his own spirits before the day was up. Being tired would work in his favor, make him more susceptible to the message he needed to hear. He stripped off his long, colorful robe, its beads banging together in the dull melody of hollow wood. The air was crisp and made his skin break into goose bumps. He still marveled over the workings of the human body, even after all these years. He was a shape changer, just like all his kind, and he enjoyed the subtle changes of the vessel he’d crafted for himself. It was a perfect replica. Everything worked exactly the same way as a human body did, well . . . almost everything. Tokala still had very keen senses—and two hearts, which were pounding rapidly.

  The cold nipped at him as he made his way through the village. The air cleansed his body, and the walk was a part of the ritual he was about to perform. The people, his people now, looked at him with silent understanding. They knew he was different, though only the chief knew Tokala’s real face. To them, he was a man of magic, a mystical being. He was sure that even if he were to show them his true self, their view of him would not change. It didn’t matter what world he came from; they were his people and he belonged to them.

  The sweat lodge smelled strongly from the night before. Tokala picked out the sweet scent of Coyote’s sweat and the heavy masculine smell of Caesar’s. He wouldn’t need a fire, not this time; the lingering scent of smoke was enough for his purposes.

  Tokala walked to the ashes, lowering himself in the center to sit cross-legged in the remains of the previous night’s fire. A sob escaped his lips, and he needed to take a deep breath to collect himself.

  The face he had seen stare at him from the flames, together with the name Coyote had mentioned, made his blood run cold.

  Qu’arth Slevanko

  The memory encased his hearts with ice. He hadn’t told Coyote that he knew this Quavar personally, he just couldn’t. After all these years, he walked the same earth as the creature who’d ruined his life. It didn’t come as a surprise to him that the Quavar’s journey led to this plane. He had seen this in his visions many times . . . but he never knew when it would happen.

  Calm yourself, he thought. Your foe is not here for you. He is here for a different reason. Our paths will never cross again. Still, the mere presence of the Quavar unnerved him.

  Qu’arth Slevanko had been one of the three men who had killed his family, and he was personally responsible for driving Tokala through the rip that led him to this world. Now he was here himself, and Tokala could not avenge his mother and father. It was not part of his path.

  No, his path was to send someone, someone he held very dear, to do his dirty work for him, a friend who was at her own crossroads. The idea of Coyote facing his old enemy made Tokala queasy.

  I should have told her all I knew, he thought with regret. He had wanted to keep her close to him for a few days more, knowing what she would have to face.

  She’s different than I was, Tokala thought, she’s prepared. A bounty hunter. I was too young, too afraid. He closed his eyes and relaxed his muscles, concentrating on every part of his body. He wanted to speak to his spirits with his own face, so he focused on reshaping his body to its true form. His skin rippled, changing from a deep caramel color to a soft grayish lilac. Bones cracked as they found their original place. His body stretched, becoming thinner.

  The change wasn’t painful. His body was meant to reform, and it only took several seconds to settle down into its new—or rather, old—shape. Once the transformation was complete, he sighed deeply and stayed very still for several seconds, then he opened his many eyes and looked at his surroundings with clear vision. The hut was alive with different colors, tints only his Outlander eyes could see. The familiarity made him homesick. Tokala opened his mouth as wide as he could. His fingers, topped with thick black nails, reached for the back of his throat, searching the soft flesh for a hard lump. When he found it, he dug his fingers i
nto the skin and forced a small, seven-pointed gem from its hiding place. The pressure of his fingers made him gag, and one of the points had wedged into his throat, but after a few tries, he managed to loosen it.

  His trembling hand held the stone in front of his six eyes. Each eye viewed the stone in a different color, seeing distinctive meaning. The colors would be triggered by the right sounds. He smiled. It had been too long since he had used the gem.

  Tokala spoke the words of his true people, calling forth his bloodline. An image appeared, not quite transparent, but not quite solid either.

  “Hello, Mother,” Tokala said in the tongue of the Shinnon. “I have missed you.”

  “I am here whenever you need me, my son. All you have to do is call me.”

  “The journey between where you are and here is taxing on you, Mother.” Tokala’s voice was heavy with the sadness he felt. “I can’t demand you waste your energy to come and console me whenever I need it.”

  The figure floated closer and extended a long arm to him, its face filled with love and kindness. “You are the last of our bloodline, Cueltor. There is no one left for me to console. We have all passed on to our second life.”

  She knelt by him, her ethereal body not really touching the ground, but she mimicked his body language. Her eyes held his, and he knew what she was going to say.

  “Cueltor . . . ” The words drifted forth with a sigh of pain.

  “I know.” He nodded his head, a very human behavior. “If I die here, I will not join you in the life beyond. I will become lost in the limbo of this world.”

  “My vision can’t reach into that plane, Cueltor. For all I know, you will be destroyed.” Her voice trembled, and he saw the four slits on her temples, through which she breathed, flair open, a sign of grief.

  “What would you have me do?” Tokala asked, his fists clenching.

  “Come back to us, Son. Come back home.”

  “My destiny is here, Mother.”