She called over her shoulder, “I’ll let you know. Depends on whether Sibeal can fix me up.” The mention of his competition, the other coven seer, shot a stab of pain through his impenetrable heart, which now bled a stream of grief and self-blame. Rosalie turned away and stumbled into his next client, arriving early. “’Scuse me, Chester.” She addressed the man with a lower tone, perhaps out of kindness to Keir. “Best to reschedule for later. Seer Keir isn’t quite up to snuff now, what with his coyote gone missing.” Though her words stung, the fact she could muster the kind of compassion he needed for healing frustrated him far more.
With bewildered eyes scanning Keir, Chester stepped onto the porch. “Heard from some that searched for Waapake how difficult it’s been on you. Is there anything I can do?”
“Thank you, Chester. Please let me know if you learn anything about Waapake.”
The stout coven cobbler leaned in. The firm grip of the artisan’s able hands grasped Keir’s into both of his. “Will do. But if you need anything else, please call me.” The man’s eyes gleamed with sincerity as he squeezed and released. “You take care now.”
Keir watched him leave. The people of the Hollow were good-hearted. They deserved his best. He had to find a way to cope, to not slight them with his plight.
He turned back inside, sank onto the hall seat’s cushion, and dropped his head into his hands. How in the matter of days had he lost so much: Waapake, the faith of his clients, possibly his livelihood?
There had to be a way to stop this downward spiral. What would Chuquilatague advise? Shamans were human and did face personal difficulties that hindered their ability to connect to the spirit world. How did they recover their balance? Keir swallowed hard—did some never regain their sight?
There had to be another way, something else he could try. He lifted his chest, back arched, eyes toward the heavens. Considering everything he and others had tried in the search for Waapake, his nightmare came closest to revealing useful information. His connection to whoever stood behind the shadow was tangible. If Keir could better harness the power of his dreams, he might discover the key to finding his familiar.
He rested the back of his head against the wall. He’d worked with clients’ dreams—invoking them, analyzing them, deterring them—but not with his own. He reviewed his mentor’s lessons. “Create a dream gatherer.” The new one, comprised of Waapake’s fur, had failed. The dreamcatcher picked off by the white crow might’ve helped. “Ask for guidance during a dream.” Keir had already tried—the spirit behind the shadow thwarted him in a sort of game. If it truly was a game, perhaps the spirit would enjoy a rematch—or expected one.
Eager to test the idea, Keir sat straighter. That’s it. I’ll chase the spirit through its dream world. His hands trembled so much he’d never be able to fall asleep. But he had no more client appointments today. Would a warm bath or full meal allow him to nap? Impatient, he couldn’t wait until nightfall. He rose and paced from the front parlor office and back. Images of Waapake, injured or worse, fought with Keir’s plan until the cramp in his thigh intensified and dictated. Sleep was not possible.
He massaged the muscle and employed exaggerated knee bends as he made his way to the bookcase behind his desk. There he located the notebook he’d created during his studies with Chuquilatague. Keir thumbed to their discussions about dream work and found one lesson he’d never tried: Your Life as a Dream. His handwritten notes described a practice where the shaman intentionally views everything in his waking life as a dream symbol.
Reality—manifests as a detailed and solid dream.
Sensory input—registers as hallucinations of the dream state.
Indications for use: to gain insight into worries and concerns; to better understand main themes of one’s life; to enable new perspectives that will foster solutions to difficult problems.
Keir ran a finger down the page for clarity; all of his mentor’s lessons had proved deceptively simple. Yet, even without guidance, Keir had to try.
He set the book down and surveyed the room he knew well, looking at each object with fresh eyes, as if from a distance and clouded by the haze of a dream. New features of the metallic sheen of a lamp base captivated his attention. In the rug, colors he’d never noticed before leaped up at him in vivid display. His pulse quickened. The technique worked. However, while discovering nuances of his home was interesting, that seemed unlikely to provide information about Waapake.
Despite the persistent leg cramp, Keir managed to drive to the fork of Owl’s Tail Creek. He parked in grass ruts trampled by earlier search vehicles. On the way back into the ravine, the wind strangely accelerated in the protected valley. He zipped his parka and rummaged in his pocket for hat and gloves but paused when faint, sweet notes whistled through the trees. Was that the song of the visionary woman? He followed the sound. His heartbeat, reverberating against his windpipe, matched the cadence of her melody long before his ears registered the poignant notes. Did her music hold a message as before?
He hobbled closer to the great willow, then stood quiet, opening his senses. The tune lifted from his heart to his vocal cords, and he hummed along, yet heard no words.
He checked his focus, which, in his excitement, had slipped back to viewing reality. He took a deep breath and adjusted, now seeing the area as the tableau of a dream.
Bare tree trunks near the willow glistened with thousands of fae lights. Ice patches covering the stream refracted late morning sunlight into a brilliant display of ever-changing hues. He stared, mouth agape, at the wonders of nature and fae in every direction; the winter world, placid in reality, came alive in the dreamscape.
A sudden chill came over him. The song stopped as a gust lashed his bare head. He tugged the knit cap over his ears, closed his eyes to the dazzle, and listened. A single, soft note resonated within his heart, then his vocal cords picked up the second and following tones. He hummed a melodic phrase and opened his entire being to the music.
The woman’s song slowed to a mournful dirge that rattled Keir with sorrow. His self-blame resurfaced, the cramping in his leg spreading across both legs and arms. He shook out his limbs in an attempt to dispel the discomfort. A tidal wave of sobs rushed from his diaphragm and flooded his chest. Despite all, he kept his eyes shut tight to maintain contact with the clairvoyant spirit’s message. Even when the song triggered tears of grief to drip from beneath his lids. Who was he channeling? Was it a faery intent upon having a laugh at his folly? Or the nightmare’s shadow spirit reopening their game?
He ceased his humming and sucked in a breath in order to demand her identity. The moment he stopped his accompaniment, she changed the song. The rhythm quickened with such a joyful emotion that Keir couldn’t help but rejoin; the lively reel tempted his feet to tap, his knees to bend, arms to sway. All traces of cramping vanished. Euphoria intensified his humming. He sang, matching her phonetic vocalizations that morphed into words: pardon, unchain, spring, freedom. Whatever their meaning, he didn’t care, intoxicated by bliss, his wall of self-blame crumbling.
When his throat rasped from shouting those words, again the woman altered their song. This time to a tranquil, lilting cadence, which brought Keir to settle himself in a seated position amid a patch of sunlight. One phrase comprised her lyrics—accept peace. Only his heart sang along with her, but that was more than enough to fill him with all the hope he needed.
She brought her tune to a close, and the air stood silent, filled with an afterglow of serenity. In that still point, he understood her message: in his life he had only been open to the extremes of duality, at the expense of embracing abiding peace; while caught in a web of grief, he had forsaken acceptance. Her message rang true, yet puzzled him. How could this help solve the problem he faced?
The woman answered, softly, not in song, as though from within the willow behind him. “If you use this mindfulness to fight Waapake’s captor, you will win.”
He flinched and twisted to look back but saw no one. Wi
th eyes clamped shut in case his connection to her required deep listening, he blurted, “Who are you?”
“I am Unole, whom you need not remember.” Her voice blew to him upon a breeze.
“I do remember you. You’re the daughter of Chuquilatague, and also of the wind. Thank you so much for helping me. Is my Waapake alive?”
“The Coyote Stars sought me on his behalf. It is possible he is alive, or not. What I know is, to keep your balance and find him, you must accept either outcome: death is a rite of passage as much as birth.”
“Yes, it is. Do you know where Waapake is?” He dug a boot in the dirt, an outward display of raging impatience which he quickly checked.
“Sadly, no. I only tasted his captor’s energy—extreme, relentless, and vain—a dangerous yet weak foe.”
“Then, if I understand you, I must remain mindful to outsmart the captor—a simple but demanding task. You are certainly your father’s daughter.” He waited, hoping she’d accept the compliment. “And I wish to always remember you.”
A faint giggle sounded nearby, although he may have imagined what was only twigs clattering as bits of melting ice dropped.
“In thanks, I want to offer you a blessing: as the sun rises and warms the earth, as the moon rises and blesses all life, may my soul fill with gratitude for the goodness and kindness that is all of you.”
A soft “thank you” followed more tinkling of twigs. Her heart still held the purity of youth, like the girl her remembered, but he marveled at how her powers had developed.
“May I reach out to you again?”
“Yes, upon the wind of the willows.”
Keir opened his eyes to reality, trusting her song would remain in his heart.
Free from any physical pain, he climbed the hillside and drove home. In the calm of nightfall, he would call upon Waapake’s captor and initiate their game holding a new advantage. Like Rosalie said, I can see in the dark.
After parking the car in the garage, he checked the box for mail. In addition to usual bills, he found a curious letter bearing a heady energy. It was addressed with a familiar cursive script and smelled of a vanilla and patchouli perfume that triggered a reflex—heat prickling the back of his neck—he fought to deny. While walking toward the porch, he slid a finger under the envelope flap and withdrew the note.
Dearest Keir,
Please be informed that I have possession of Waapake. I have every intention of returning him but for a price. I hope you might find my terms pleasing, so we can resume our previous clandestine relations. Once my offer has been met, I will return the coyote unharmed. If not, I cannot guarantee his safety.
Yours,
Adara M. Tabard
Keir crumpled the note inside his fist.
Chapter Seven: Sanguine-hued Regret
With Adara’s letter wadded into Keir’s fist, heat blazed across his face. Fierce winter air bit into the resulting sweat on his exposed skin before he could reach his front porch. He shivered with a clammy chill—a reaction he’d experienced too many times around the high priestess years ago. Recognizing the response, coarse sandpaper scratched his soul with loathing for her, but also for himself—allowing her to still affect him.
Inside, he strode toward the office, making a too-sharp turn into the doorway. His injured knee caught and sent a jag of pain up his thigh. He groaned and rubbed the sore muscle, limping through the room to where he tossed her note onto the desk. The leather chair made a like noise as he sank into it, his hands clutching the injury, body trembling.
“Shit.” That badger in Tall Sam’s snuffbox. Keir should’ve known. She stayed around in her animal form after her grand entrance at the Yule party at Fable resort’s opening. Why didn’t she leave him alone? Keir winced at both his stupidity and pain.
How could he fight her?
He leaned into the support of the chair’s high back, his knee drawn close, fingers methodically working the knotted tendons. His mind grappled for ways to rescue his coyote from that woman. He considered the direct approach: standing up to her was long overdue. Jaw set, he resolved to go to her home and demand Waapake’s release. She would laugh in his face, raucous notes accompanied by the caw of her ruthless crow familiar Dearg. He could handle that; he was no longer the boy-trying-to-become-a-man he was when they met. However, could he stand firm if her pitch guttered to that raspy trill which rendered him a virtual Pavlov’s dog amenable to her bidding? He wiped a hand over his still damp forehead, unsure.
He never knew whether she’d captivated him with her incredible magic or her high standing in the community or both. As a young man wanting to establish himself as a seer, Keir stood in awe of her power, unlike that of any witch he’d encountered. The slightest curl of sanguine-hued lips warming her alabaster complexion and chiseled cheekbones beguiled both men and women alike: as if her lipstick contained an ineluctable ingredient; or the blue gleam of her raven-black hair emitted an enchantment; or the scent of her perfume, a potion. He aspired to command attention as she did, to be as vital to the coven. Her essence intrigued him, though he knew better and regretted. Chuquilatague had taught him to deal with tribespeople who would scale a shaman’s shoulders for political gain, the silver-tongued and golden-eyed as he spoke of them.
Needing a place to practice besides his father’s home, Keir accepted Adara’s offer and rented a room within the Coven Council building—which conveniently housed her own office. He’d been naïve, not comprehending the agenda she hid behind the black satin of her priestess robe.
He cursed himself for taking too long to understand Adara was a woman people loved to hate: dangerous yet so compelling, they struggled to turn away. She did little to improve life for Coon Hollow’s residents, aside from providing extravagant sabbat and esbat celebrations, where she displayed her charms and reaped their adoration. Unknowingly, he’d been her pawn, playing a key role in those festivities.
He reached for the coat stand near his desk, brushing a hand over the display of crystal talismans and velvet robes edged in braided trims. He winced, remembering how she’d dressed him to look every part her equal. Before the end of his first year, with her endorsement, he built enough clientele to earn a living, a good one—a bittersweet achievement after his father’s fatal accident months before.
Keir returned to the desk and buried his head in his hands. Minutes ago, Unole convinced him of her method, principled and moral. It was likely her father’s method as well. Each of Chuquilatague’s lessons proved invaluable, yet so direct, they required skill and practice to implement. Keir rubbed his temples. How could he remain mindful? Sure, he knew Adara’s weaknesses and well. Definitely enough to use them against her. But she possessed the trump card and meager compassion. She could destroy him by divulging just a few words.
Under the desk, the pain in his knee throbbed anew. The intensity roiled his gut, and he clutched a hand to his abdomen. Fever burned a trail across his forehead, and saliva pooled in his mouth. He swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat and staggered from the office. With sweating palms, he grappled to hold the cold porcelain of the powder room’s toilet, dry heaving. He rested a cheek against the rim and waited to regain steadiness. When at last able to stand, he leaned on the lavatory. A splash of icy water onto his face realigned his priorities: he had to get Waapake back. Dragging a towel over his skin, Keir returned to the parlor office desk.
He snatched the phone and dialed Logan’s number. There had to be a way for the current high priest to protect Keir, some legal means to stop Adara’s bribery. Could he admit it all to Logan, tell one of his best buddies that he’d withheld secrets? Keir let out a sigh. Logan and his friends would understand, after the stories were wrenched from his gut.
Worse than that, far worse—the truth Keir had worked hard to conceal would become known to the community. Not everyone would accept his explanation, and they’d churn the Hollow’s gossip mill. Clients would be lost. His reputation ruined. Damn her. He slammed the receive
r into its cradle. Why now?
Since last autumn at the Mabon sabbat, when Jancie had fought and won a battle that unseated Adara and sent her into exile, his life had taken a positive turn. He began to enjoy his profession as he’d originally embraced it with his soul, according to his own values. Stepping out of her shadow, he moved his practice into his home. Residents came to understand he offered them more than her devious brand of glamour; he accepted their most difficult requests, rolled his sleeves and got dirty using his magic at their houses, barns, and cellars. His sincerity and dedication persuaded many of Sibeal’s patrons to employ his services. For the first time, he tasted the sweetness of hard-won pride.
Keir shook his head. Why did he think he deserved that anyway—after failing the loved ones he’d lost? A throb of regret sliced through his temples. The pain was too great. He couldn’t face more, couldn’t lose Waapake.
Keir unfurled the crumpled letter. The script made his eyes burn with rage. Her perfume on the paper, heady vanilla and patchouli tantalizing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, elicited a new kind of suffering deep within him.
“Damn her.” His voice cracked as he shoved her note and all that lay behind it onto the floor: he had to see her and face the consequences. There was no other way.
He rose and glared at the snarl of books and pens, where Adara’s handwriting perched in undisputed dominion. He stuffed it into his pants pocket and prepared to leave.
Chapter Eight: The Inner World
Keir threaded his arms into a jacket, swung open his back door and narrowly missed colliding with Rowe on the stoop.
“Whoa. You’re going somewhere in a hurry.” Rowe spun aside and grabbed for the railing. “Did you find where Waapake is?”
“Yes. Adara has him.” Not wanting Rowe to read anything from his inflection, Keir kept his tone flat.
Witch's Windsong (Coon Hollow Coven Tales Book 5) Page 6