Demon Hunts wp-5

by C. E. Murphy

  Coyote-Big Coyote, the Trickster himself-might have appreciated that ruthless game. My Coyote didn’t, and I didn’t blame him at all. I was afraid that in finding him again, I’d lost him for good.

  A lush dark purple forest had come up around me as I walked. There were vines beneath my feet, leaves so dark they were almost black, and red sun filtered down through the trees above so shadows danced across my skin and played tricks with my vision. I wanted the forest; that was where a wendigo belonged, but I didn’t know if winter ever came to the Lower World at all. Not that I had any desire to re-enter the storm, even with Raven at my side.

  Which he was, skittering above the trees, diving through the branches so he was one of the objects mucking with my sight. I didn’t mind. His presence made me more confident. I’d been walking without thought as to how I would end this thing, but a nugget of a plan formed at the back of my mind. I left it alone, afraid that if I focused on it too hard, it would disappear.

  The forest broke abruptly, leaving me on a rock face in the full blasting sun. My rattlesnake was coiled there, baking away, and I sat beside him, eyes half-closed as I turned my face toward the sky. Despite the heat, I wasn’t sweating. A gift, I supposed, from my cold-blooded spirit animal. I reached over to stroke his back, and he flattened out, scales rippling in the boiling light. Raven dropped on my other side and head-butted my knee, impatient as a cat, then quarked happily when I rubbed the top of his head, too.

  They were the tools I needed. The snake, representative of healing and change, and the raven, able to wing between life and death. I tucked the spear by my thigh and took my drum into my lap, knocking it with my knuckles.

  I had fought and fought and fought the wendigo, and each time it had been, at best, a draw, where “draw” really meant “Joanne lost, big-time.” There were other paths open to me. I’d learned that, if nothing else, from Begochidi. All this time I’d been taking it to the wendigo’s territory. This time I wanted her on mine, and for once-maybe for the first time-I was confident of what and where that territory was. Rattler and Raven helped define it, and with them beside me, I believed nothing could take it away.

  Drum in hand, spirit guides at my side, I called the storm.

  I knew it now. I’d been there often enough that I recognized the static scream warning me of its arrival long before the cold hit. There were so many voices in that storm, so many people lost beyond the boundaries of the worlds they’d belonged to. Most were echoes carried by shrieking wind, just a memory giving strength to the squall. I wondered if, with enough time, enough care, enough shamans, the whole of it might be dismantled, and if no one would ever be lost to the cold universe again.

  And discarded the thought almost instantly. I believed it could be done. I also believed that the moment it was, the moment magic-users stepped away from the emptiness they’d left behind, a new soul would find its way through, and the storm would begin again. Nature abhorred a vacuum, even in levels of reality where nature seemed to play no part.

  The cold wanted inside me, the way it had been accepted before. It slammed toward me and was rebuffed by the Lower World’s warmth still clinging to my skin. I sat on the yellow stone cliff beneath the red sun’s amazing heat while winter raged around me. Even my rattlesnake seemed undisturbed by the wind and weather, untouched when by all rights he should have frozen solid within moments. Raven, on my other side, hopped at the edges of our safe little circle, thrusting his head out to bite at flying snowflakes in an act that looked like pure silly defiance.

  “There’s a warmer world waiting for you, wendigo.” I finally took up my drumstick, its raspberry-red rabbit fur end all bright and tasty as I turned the leather end against the drumhead. Raven lost interest in the storm and came to eye the waving fur hopefully, but I laughed and nudged him away with my elbow. “She’ll need you, Raven. She’ll need the cleverness you have to see her way out of the storm. But there’ll be lollipops and shiny things when we’re done. Will you watch for her?”

  He klok’d, a huge self-important sound, and bounced back to the edge of our circle, wings half-spread in anticipation. I banged the drum properly for the first time, enchanted by the reverberation of leather hitting leather, and to my own surprise, began to sing.

  I thought the idea came from Mandy, singing on solstice morning. Singing in light and warmth and life, giving the sun a reason to return, like the star itself was a lost soul searching for its way back home. I wished I knew something about the woman who’d become the monster, something more than that she had a terrible will to live. But I sang to that, first just high notes in minor keys, where love songs from musicals always reached to twist the heart a little. They had some of the right idea, that touch of longing, but I wanted something more, something compelling. The drum provided a backbone to that, and after a while I found what I was looking for: wordless, atonal, urgent. Aboriginal song, like something the elders might have sung back in Qualla Boundary to teach the kids how to recognize their culture’s music. I even managed to find a few phrases to call out in Cherokee, although it had been so long since I’d used that language I was sure I thoroughly mangled it.

  But the song, or the willpower behind it, cut a path through the storm. Not quickly, but steadily, with Raven hopping forward eagerly with every inch it gave. He bounced far enough away I shouldn’t have been able to see him, but we were bringing the Lower World into the heart of the blizzard. Proportions and distance were never quite right, in the Lower World, and he remained his full size even when he was hundreds of feet away.

  The voices crying in the storm slowly faded away. They still hungered, they still wanted, but they seemed to understand I wasn’t looking for them. As their howling shadows faded, a shape appeared at the far end of the path I was building. Raven got very excited, leaping around with his wings spread, and then suddenly dived into the storm itself, disappearing from view. The rattlesnake at my side finally stirred, lifting his head and flicking his tongue out in snaky interest. My heartbeat sped up and so did the pattern I thumped on the drum, like the two were intimately tied together.

  Raven reappeared, another form stumbling behind him. It-she-stopped when she reached the yellow-earth path of the Lower World, its intrusion into the storm so astonishing I felt her amazement all the way down the road tying us together. Unlike Raven, she was tiny with distance, or her sense of self was so fragile, so lost, that she was nothing more than a speck on the horizon. I lifted my voice again, calling to her in song, and Raven, who had a distinctive but not beautiful voice, settled on her shoulder to flap encouragement.

  The road closed up behind her, as if the storm was trying to take her back. I could feel her fear and confusion, and beneath that a thread of hope so thin it seemed impossible that it had sustained her as long as it had. Because I could only imagine hope had sustained her, a hope of returning home so very strong that it had made her into the wendigo. It was sheer cruelty that someone of such determination could be twisted into something of such horror, but if I was learning anything, it was that everyone had as much potential for dread as for beauty.

  Even I did, which wasn’t a comforting thought. Nobody who was purely full of lightness and fluff and goodness would have come so close to stuffing a spear through somebody’s heart. That was, frankly, bleak as hell, and suggested I’d turned a corner somewhere. If I was capable of making that decision, I wasn’t sure what other choices I might be able to make. I was even less sure I wanted to find out. I would have to talk to my disapproving mentor about the fine line between good and bad, and try like hell to stay on the right side of it while still acknowledging, even embracing, the need and ability to make the hard choices.

  Maturity, I decided, sucked. On the other hand, the thought brought a warble of laughter into my song, and the woman on the pathway looked up at the sound. Something about her brightened, like she recognized laughter, and she came forward more eagerly, until I could see her clearly. She was still inhuman, but no longer in the w
ay she’d been. No longer disjoined or falling apart, no longer a slavering monster of teeth and claws. She looked thin, not just physically but spiritually, like she’d almost faded away. I wasn’t sure if the storm had done that to her, or if her attempts to break free had, but I was inclined to blame the storm.

  I waited until she was only a few feet away, Raven whacking her on the head with his wings, before I set my drum aside so I could take up the spear and get to my feet. The rattlesnake finally uncoiled from his warm spot and slithered forward, wrapping around the woman’s ankles. She looked down with alarm, and I shook my head. “It’s all right. He’s a friend. A guide, just like the raven. And I’m…”

  For the first time I could remember, I wanted to hand over my full name, freely given. I wondered what that meant about this woman, about her fate, and what it meant about me, but I smiled and said, “I’m Siobhan. Siobhan Grainne MacNamarra Walkingstick, and I’ve come to take you home.”

  It sounded like such a gentle promise that it nearly broke my heart. I knotted my fingers around the spear’s haft. “Home isn’t back into the world you knew. I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about you, but if we understand what happened, I’m afraid you’ve been lost to the cold for a long time. I think your body is probably dead, and I can’t…”

  She swayed a little, but stepped closer, like she was listening hard. I took a deep breath. “I can’t let you go again unless I’m sure you’ll return to your body. If there’s no body to go back to, I’m afraid you’ll become the wendigo again, trying to break free from the storm. I can’t…let you do that. Too many people have already died. All I can do is bring you out of the storm and…set you free.” It was such a stupid phrase. Free of what? Hope? Life? Chances? Those weren’t things people sought to be set free from. We tried to escape prisons and bad situations, not gambles for survival.

  Then again, if there was a worse situation than becoming a wendigo, I never wanted to encounter it. I would want to be freed from that, if for some hideous reason I ever became such a thing.

  On the other hand, I wanted to be very, very clear about the limited options I was offering this woman, and so, voice low, I spelled it out. “You’re going to die. It’s the best I can offer you. But you’ll die here, under the red sun, instead of out there in the storm. I wish I could give you more.”

  Something in her eyes suggested she still had words. Had the capacity to speak, but chose not to. A gift, maybe, for me. Something to make it easier, a pretense that she was nothing more than the animal she’d become. That was a kindness, and a lie: it took a thinking creature to do what she did next. She reached for the spear’s neck, controlling it, and I let her. Let her bring it all the way down until the black wooden tip rested between her ribs, a certain kill shot. She lifted her gaze to mine, gave me a brief smile, and braced herself.

  This was not how soul retrievals were supposed to end. They were meant to be a reunion of body and spirit, not a violent finish, not even if that finish was the closest thing to peace a lost soul might find. I hated it. There had to be another way. A promise I could make, a magic I could build. There had to be. The woman’s gaze was clear on mine, waiting.

  I whispered, “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  And shoved.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Lower World disappeared in a silent rush, leaving me standing cold and numb in the company of mortals. My spear was unbloodied, but I could feel the wendigo’s weight against it, for all that I’d left her spirit behind in another realm. I also felt questions building up in the air, everyone around me wanting answers and not quite bold enough to ask for them. I was grateful for that. Grateful enough, in fact, that I reached for magic and brought down the power circles, hoping their fall would keep silence in place.

  Corvallis inhaled sharply, and Coyote came to my side, everything about his presence uncertain. I offered the spear, and he took it cautiously. “Jo…”

  I shook my head, trying to will him into quietness. I wasn’t ready to talk. I didn’t think I ever would be, even if I knew I’d have to sooner rather than later. Later: a little later, at least, because as he took the spear a whisper rifled the distant trees, and Herne was released into our midst.

  He nodded once toward Coyote, whose hands fisted around the spear as he thrust it forward sideways, clearly trying to rid himself of it. Herne shook his head, then turned his attention to me, putting a branchy finger to his lips as I struggled to put a thought together aloud.

  I hadn’t needed to ask. Like he’d known what I wanted, he brought us home.

  Laurie was right. The forest went all twisty. There was no better way to describe it: a violent twist of earth and trees, and we were a dozen yards from the hotel’s back door instead of out in the far reaches of nowhere. I reached for a tree to steady myself as the others scattered for the hotel’s warmth, safety and normalcy. I wanted to go with them. I wanted, really, to go close myself away somewhere silent and just be for a while. Just try to wrap my mind around the wendigo’s death, and how I felt it as a loss in a way I’d felt nothing else over the past year. I wanted to step out of time and be safe and quiet until I felt ready to face the world again.

  A breath of humor rushed through my lips. While that would be nice, it had no basis in reality. I stepped away from the hotel, closer to the forest. “Herne?”

  The god stopped, and in his stillness was nothing more than a tree, all black branches in the moonlight. I waited for him to say something, then realized he wouldn’t and blurted, “There was one other person we lost today, one of my friend’s agents. Is he still out there?”

  “I brought everyone who still walked the forest to you. If he is missing, there was no life to be found.”

  I slumped. “I was afraid of that. Okay. Thank you.”

  The tree bent a little, creaking as it did, and then was nothing but a tree, Herne’s presence from it gone. I stood there alone for a moment, gazing at where he’d been, then twitched as Sara called my name. “What was that?”

  I turned toward her, at a loss for anything but the truth. “That was…I thought you’d gone inside. It was a forest god. Sara, I’m sorry. He says your agent is dead.”

  She stared at me a long moment, then passed a hand over her face. “Yeah. You said he probably was.” Another brief eternity passed before she shook herself. “All right. Thanks for telling me. You…you should go home for a while, Joanne.”

  Cold, not quite so bad as the storm, but abrupt and uncomfortable, clenched my gut. Sara scowled, reading denial in my face. “I’m serious. If this is what you’re doing…you should go home. See your dad. Talk to the elders. You should do that.”

  Cold turned to ice and cracked in my voice. “Is he still there? Do you see him?”

  “No, I live out here, but I go back sometimes. He was there last summer, anyway.”

  “You live here? In Seattle?” That was an easier thought than my dad back in North Carolina. “Maybe we should…” I thought of Lucas, and watching Sara’s expression, said, “Or maybe not. I’ll think about North Carolina.”

  Sara nodded and looked away, neither of us sure what to say next. We weren’t friends, not anymore, but we were maybe less antagonistic than we’d been for years. Funny how rivalries could remain, even through time and distance and living only in memory. I didn’t want to leave us with history as the last thing between us, and blurted, “What’re you going to tell your bosses?”

  She glanced back at me with a frustrated huff. “What can I tell them? Nothing. I’m going to spend the next six months or more working on this case, until it goes cold to their satisfaction. You’re sure it’s over?”

  “Yeah. Look, I’m sorry about your man, Sara.”

  “Me, too.” Sara fell a step back, precursor to escaping my presence. “I’ll see you around, okay, Joanne?”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t offer a hand, and neither did she. “I’ll see you.”

  She walked away, and I waited until she was gone before follow
ing her in, and driving home to Seattle in time for Christmas.

  Sunday, December 25, 5:20 A.M.

  I had long since gotten over leaping out of bed bright and early on Christmas morning. Someone, though, apparently hadn’t: pervasive thumping on my door dragged me out of a very nice sleep. I crawled over Coyote and into my fuzzy green robe half inclined to yell at the interloper who’d dragged me out of bed at such an unreasonable hour, but holiday cheer got the better of me before I even got to the door.

  There wasn’t even anyone there to be cheerful at. A gift-wrapped DVD-sized package sat outside my door, and I could hear somebody thudding down the apartment building’s stairs. Coyote said, “What happened, Santa forgot where the chimney is?” I shot him a sleepy smile as I tore the wrapping paper open.

  It was, in fact, a DVD. Not a popular movie sort, just a silver disc with a note that said “For Joanne” stuck to it. I shuffled to my computer and dropped it in. Coyote sat behind me and I pulled his arm around my waist as the disc spun up and began to play.

  Jeff the cameraman, it turned out, was a dab hand with a video camera. Even his crab-walked retreat from the wendigo was surprisingly steady, and Coyote looked like a native god in the moonlight as he fought the thing. I blew in from offscreen, slamming into the wendigo hard enough that I grunted again, watching it. It and I flung each other back and forth, and Jeff’s camerawork was only a half second behind as the wendigo leaped on Laurie Corvallis’s prone body.

  The next couple minutes were spent enthralled by the utter peculiarities of seeing what one of my psychic/real-world battles looked like from the outside. Every fight, every step, every gesture and every expression I made in Laurie’s garden registered itself on my face and body in the Middle World. The wendigo wasn’t visible. I just looked like the world’s most dedicated mime, flying backward when something hit me, staggering around like a drunk after a bad blow. Not until I raised the spear and drove it down toward Corvallis, awakening her, did the fight have two participants. Moments later, Coyote opened a path to the Lower World for me, and I watched myself walk along it and disappear.