by C. E. Murphy
I expected Cernunnos to answer. Instead, it was the Boy Rider, who shared his mount with my father, who turned and touched a fingertip to Dad’s forehead.
Most of the adepts I knew went gold-eyed when they used magic. Dad had, back on the Qualla. But beneath the Boy’s touch, his eyes turned fiery white, power visibly curling away from the corners like a thing with life of its own. He gave a raw gasp like he’d sipped flame, and without warning a block’s worth of rubble became air.
It had a sound, which I didn’t expect. Soft, surprised, not unlike the gasp Dad had just uttered. Buildings did not, it seemed, expect to become something else. But a thrill of power rushed through the change, too, as all the broken windows and walls gave up their sorrow at having failed in their duty, and became something other. Something freed.
In the same moment, under the white power of Dad’s make-it-vanish act, I poured magic through the threads I’d built, healing those who had survived this long. The threads flexed, reaching for one another and becoming a net that briefly united the survivors. Maybe more than briefly: I heard voices cry out in astonishment and relieved pain, in confusion and hope, and then people who seconds earlier had been trapped began scrambling toward one another, tears of joy and disbelief and loss streaking their faces.
My head went wobbly, but Cernunnos touched my knee and the world straightened out again. He nudged the stallion into a walk, and we went on to the next stretch of devastated city. Over and over we stopped and changed and healed, and left believers behind when we rode on. They were tied together now, all of the survivors, the strands of my healing magic touching them and reminding them we were all in the same boat together. They were tied together because they stood as one, watching a new-old god walk the earth, and watching magic happen in his wake. Their awe and hope and love—and their fear and hatred and despair—built a massive wave of power throughout the city, helping to replenish me and my father long after we should have collapsed.
We rode all day, never going very fast and never stopping for more than a few minutes. I was distantly aware that sooner or later I was going to become the Joanne Who Ate Seattle, since the Chinese food of the day before was a distant memory, but for the nonce I seemed to be existing on universal love and magic. Occasionally universal love and magic announced I really needed to pee, but the need kept fading into inconsequentiality. I bet I would regret that a lot, later on, unless some hind brain part of my magic was keeping everything in working order.
By the end of the day all I could really remember was that a lot of people had died, a lot had been saved, and that Seattle was going to have to be rebuilt from the ground up. The worst of it was clearly the downtown area, but I had no idea how far the damage ranged. Even hopped up on god-power, I couldn’t fix it all. We’d smoothed a lot of streets and vanished a lot of buildings, which meant the more mundane emergency services could do their jobs. I would come back out and help tomorrow.
I must’ve said the last word aloud, because Cernunnos turned his head, then slipped his hand over mine at his waist. “At last you weaken? I wondered if we might ride together forever after all, from this day onward. Thou hast done far more than any might expect of you, and then gave more still. For my part, I thank you. For theirs, they lack the words.”
“S’okay.” I hadn’t noticed that I was leaning against him, my cheek against his shoulder and my eyes so heavy they pressed my jaw into slackness. “Can you bring me home?”
“We are there.”
I pried my eyes open and stared, befuddled, at my apartment. Not my apartment building, but my apartment. The inside of it. I knew Cernunnos could walk through walls, but I still couldn’t wrap my exhausted mind around being inside the apartment. The stallion stood very, very still, as if fully aware one misstep would break my furniture to bits and tangle him in a most undignified way.
Cernunnos slid from the beast’s back and caught me as I, no longer supported by him, fell. I curled into his arms, too tired to even be surprised that he carried me into my bedroom and settled me on the bed as if he’d done it a thousand times. My eyes were already closed again as he drew the covers up, and his whisper was a benediction. “Fare thee well, Siobhán Walkingstick. I’ll see thee anon.”
I felt a silver kiss press against my forehead, and slept.
Chapter Thirty
Monday, April 3, 11:22 a.m.
I awoke to the smell of pancakes and maple syrup.
It was so incongruous I just lay there for a while in the warm dark, wondering if I’d lost my mind. A lost mind that provided heavenly olfactory illusions didn’t sound half bad. My covers weighed a ton, preventing me from throwing them off and getting up. In fact, it was a struggle to not allow them to just sink me back into sleep, but I heard the occasional clank and bang in the kitchen, suggesting someone else was here. I probably hadn’t lost my mind, then. That was probably good.
I still didn’t get up, because as long as there was clanking, someone was presumably still cooking, which meant breakfast wasn’t quite ready yet. Voices roses and fell, quietly, but enough to suggest there was more than one person out there. Mostly men, but Annie’s soprano was easy to distinguish, even if I couldn’t understand the words. Morrison. Gary.
But not Coyote. My eyes got hot and I pressed them closed even harder, trying not to cry. Trying not to think, honestly, because I was too tired and, I suspected, still far too overwhelmed to think about what had happened over the past couple of days.
The scent of bacon, and then after a bit, eggs fried in bacon grease, joined the pancakes and syrup. My stomach growled, but I wasn’t really all that sure I could move. The covers were heavy and I felt weak as water, like I’d used up every last bit of energy within me and then wrung myself out for more.
Which was more or less what had happened, even if I’d been given a great deal of power that wasn’t my own to work with. Raven, I said inside my head, tiredly. Rattler. Renee?
Raven didn’t respond. Rattler didn’t respond. Renee, very quietly, appeared at the back of my mind, but she had nothing to say. That was okay. I didn’t really have any goddamned words for her, either. Maybe she could take the long view. Maybe she could see a necessity in their deaths that I couldn’t, because I sure as hell couldn’t. I would have found a way. I always found a way.
I could not, at the moment, even begin to consider that asking Rattler and Raven to die was the way I might have had to find. I shut Renee away from me and lay in the semiquiet warm darkness with tears leaking down my temples and into my ears.
An exceedingly loud and unpleasant mechanical sound finally drove me out of bed. I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, including my coat. I shrugged the coat off, noticing that at some point during the night I’d attained enough consciousness to remove my boots, although I had no memory of that at all. Still, they were under the covers, trapped at the foot of my bed by the sheets, so I had to deduce I’d taken them off without Cernunnos’s assistance. For a minute I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my socks and wondering if I should just head out to the kitchen or if I should shower first. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d showered, even if I was sure of what day it was, which I wasn’t.
The bacon and eggs could wait another few minutes. I threw the rest of my clothes on the floor and wobbled to the bathroom.
Coyote did not visit me in the shower. I sat on the bottom of the tub and cried for a long time, steam helping keep my snotty nose clear. My head hurt and my eyes were raw before sobs finally turned to shudders and then to exhausted leaning against the side of the tub. Only the eventual cooling of the water was enough to get me on my feet again. I hoped breakfast would still be there. I dried off without looking at myself in the mirror, got dressed and walked tiredly out to the kitchen.
Morrison, in a T-shirt, jeans and sneakers, the latter of which I’d never even suspected he owned, looked up from a truly
impressive table of food and smiled at me. “There you are.” There was more relief in his voice than I bet he cared to cop to. He stood, came around the table and oofed slightly as I stepped into him and put my arms around his waist. “Welcome back,” he said quietly. “How’re you doing?”
That wasn’t a question I was yet prepared to answer, so I only nodded. He nodded, too, then held on while I peered over his shoulder at the food-laden kitchen table.
He obviously remembered the sheer volume of food I’d put away post-adventure in the Qualla. There were pancakes, eggs, bacon, toast, milk, cereal, oatmeal, fruit—some of which I couldn’t even put a name to—and an assortment of store-bought muffins, croissants and doughnuts. At least, I assumed they were store-bought. If Morrison was capable of making fresh croissants in my wreck of a kitchen, I was luckier than humanly possible. And he was in the wrong business.
“What was that awful noise?” I sounded like I’d been on a three-night bender. Clearing my throat didn’t help.
Morrison offered me a very tall glass of very orange juice that, when I brought it to my lips, smelled unbelievably good. “The juicer.”
I drained the entirety of what was obviously fresh orange juice and handed the glass back to him. “I don’t own a juicer.”
“You do now.”
“Ah.” Of course I did. I wondered if I actually owned a brand-new juicer or if he’d brought one over from his house or what. He handed me another equally tall glass of juice and I decided it didn’t matter. I drank the juice and sat down to eat.
The maple syrup was in a small ceramic jug, not a bottle. I poured some over my pancakes, took a huge bite, then stopped with the next mouthful already at my lips, even if my mouth was still full. “Thaff nah nurml srrp.”
“Old family recipe,” Morrison said. “Cup of water, two cups of sugar, teaspoon of mapleine. Boil the first two, add the last.”
I swallowed incredulously. “You make your own maple syrup?”
“In lieu of growing maple trees, yes.”
I was going to marry this man. The thought popped into my head and I turned crimson. Morrison’s eyebrows rose. I stuffed most of three pancakes into my mouth so I didn’t have to say anything, and after a moment he went back to cooking. After about fifteen minutes of steady, silent eating, I dared another comment. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
He flashed a startlingly bright grin over his shoulder. “Good thing one of us can.”
Yes. Yes, it was. I smiled back a little idiotically and returned to eating without surcease. Another fifteen minutes took the edge off, and I ventured, “Didn’t I hear Gary and Annie?”
“You did. They went for a walk when they heard you getting out of the shower. Annie thought you might want some alone time.” His mouth twisted and he made a deprecating gesture at himself that either meant “Don’t mind me, I’m only chopped liver,” or “Presumably she thought present company would be excluded.”
“That was nice of her. Of them. I mean, it would’ve been fine if they’d stayed, but...” My appetite faded and I pushed the plate a few inches away. “What did I miss yesterday? Yesterday?”
“Yesterday. It’s Monday morning now. Suzanne’s staying with her friend Kiseko Petterson until her aunt can get up here to pick her up. She’s all right. Shaken up, but all right. Annie’s...” Morrison poured himself a cup of coffee. Not, I thought, out of thirst, but out of needing something to do. “Physically she’s fine. She regained a lot of strength during your...”
I offered, “Healing spate?” and Morrison chuckled.
“I’d been thinking more along the lines of ‘miracle of loaves and fishes,’ but I thought you might not like that. Yes, your healing spate.”
He was right. Miracles were not my department. Except after yesterday, even with only a foggy sense of what we’d really accomplished in our journey through Seattle, I was fairly certain it at least looked like miracles were, in fact, my department. “How’s Gary?”
“Acting like a struck ox. Not that I blame him, but I think this is harder on him than on Annie. He’s had years to become accustomed to her absence. He won’t let go of her hand, like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he does.”
I nodded. “I wonder if we know any good paranormal psychologists. I can’t believe I just used that phrase straight-faced, but they’re going to need to talk to somebody.”
“Neither can I.” Morrison sat down kitty-corner from me and tangled our legs together under the table. “Your father’s still sleeping it off at my place. He called around one in the morning from the parking lot where he’d left Petite. Said he’d woken up there, and that he didn’t know where you were or where you lived. He drove Petite over—she’s fine,” he assured me. I was pretty sure the quirk of his lips said volumes about how my expression had gone all worried over Petite, but not over my own father. Well, I’d dealt myself those cards a long time ago. It would take some practice to prioritize family over the car. “He drove her over and I gave him the spare room. I left a note in case he wakes up before I get back.”
Of course he had. Morrison was more responsible than any other three people I knew put together. “Thank you. Is Petite still at your place?”
“I drove her here.”
I shot out of my chair and was halfway to the door before I’d even conveyed a proper expression of gratitude in Morrison’s direction. When I glanced back, he was smiling and collecting a croissant and orange juice before ambling after me. I let him amble, and ran down five flights of stairs to burst into early-April afternoon sunshine.
Petite was in her proper parking place under one of the shady trees. She was dusty, but otherwise none the worse for the wear. I ran across the parking lot, only belatedly noticing I was barefoot, and flung myself on her dusty hood. It was still just a little warm from travel, gasoline fumes rising up and clogging my throat. At least, I blamed the fumes for the clogging. After a couple of dusty sniffles, I patted the hood and whispered, “Okay, baby. No more cross-country trips without me, okay? We’re gonna go do the salt flats in Utah. Just you and me, babe. Well. Morrison can come, too, if he wants, huh? Except I’m not sure he really gets the need for speed. Which reminds me. You didn’t tell him about the drag racing, did you? Because that’s gonna go over like a lead balloon....”
“You really think I don’t know about that, Walker?”
I levitated two feet into the air and twisted around guiltily before landing on Petite’s hood again. Morrison examined me solemnly. “You’re filthy, Walker.”
I looked down at myself. I was, indeed, filthy. Hugging unwashed cars would do that to a girl. I started to try to explain how she, or possibly I, had needed a hug, but gave up immediately. Morrison already knew the depths of my relationship with my car. He didn’t need any more reason to roll his eyes or look amused at me. Besides, there was something more important to pursue. “Um. You know about that?”
“How many purple classic Mustangs do you think there are in this city, Walker?”
That was three times in a row he’d pulled out my last name. We were really going to have to learn to call each other by our given names. “I, um. Well. She looks black enough under the amber streetlights....”
“Yes, and you cover her license plates, which gets into a level of illegal I don’t even want to discuss.”
I bristled. “So does everybody else!”
Something that narrowly avoided being a twinkle sparkled in Morrison’s eyes. “And do you really think I don’t know who they are, either? There are traffic cameras everywhere. We have a database of you people, Walker. A top ten list of the most regular racers in the city.”
My bristles faded into a squint. “I shouldn’t be on that list, then. I only race a couple times a year.”
It was definitely a twinkle this time. “That’s true, but if I said you were on the top ten
list of the best drivers in the city it would be too much like a compliment.”
My eyebrows shot up. “I better be number one on that list!”
Morrison gave up any attempt at being stern and let out a shout of laughter. “Your priorities need some work, Walker, but I love you anyway. Oh, no, you don’t, you’re covered in—” I hugged him anyway. He grunted, then put an arm around my waist and gave me a kiss. “You now owe me a shower.”
“It’s a date.” I sat back on Petite’s hood, pulling Morrison with me. He sat more gingerly, though his two-hundred-pound frame wasn’t going to do any damage to her solid steel body. I considered his now-dusty hip. “Maybe I owe you a car wash first.”
“Only,” he said straight-faced, “if you’re wearing a bikini. And singing ‘Shaman’s Blues.’”
I laughed. “Singing what? Ba-da-da—DA-dum!” I did my best blues riff, then laughed again. “Is that a real song? I don’t even know it, so your bikini-and-serenade scenario seems unlikely to me.”
“You asked my favorite song. That’s it.”
“...seriously? Your favorite song is called ‘Shaman’s Blues’? Since when? Seriously?”
“Since I was about seventeen, Walker. It’s got nothing to do with you. Or it didn’t. It’s a Doors song.” Morrison looked faintly abashed when I laughed again. “I know, but it was either learn their music or change my name completely. I’ll play it for you sometime.”
“Don’t tell me. You’ve got it on vinyl? Or wait, do you play the guitar?”
“I do, but I meant the record. Which is, yes, on vinyl. How did you know?”
A grin split my face. “Lucky guess, but you never get to tease me about my car again.”
“Fair enough.” Morrison put his arm around my shoulders and I leaned in, glad to just sit there in the sunshine with him awhile.
Not that long, though, because there was something I hadn’t brought myself up to asking yet, and it needed doing. “What about Coyote?”