by C. E. Murphy
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 f
eet 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?”
A line of tension I hadn’t even realized was there slipped out of Morrison, like he’d been waiting for the question and couldn’t really relax until it had been asked. “I called his family. It was just him and his grandfather, I gather, and his grandfather flew in last night. He’s supposed to bring him home this evening, but he’d like to meet you first.”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course. I want to meet him, too. I wish...”
“I know, Jo. I do, too.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I guess I should get ready to do that. Where’s he staying?”
“In my guest room.”
“I thought my da—” No, Morrison had said Dad was in the spare room. “You have a guest room and a spare room? How many bedrooms does your place have?”
“Three. Is that enough?”
There were all sorts of blush-inducing implications to that question. “It’ll do for now. I need to go see Suzy, too.” Two points to me for awkward conversational direction changes.
“You have a lot to do,” Morrison agreed. “Maybe you should go put some clean clothes on.”
“Maybe I should wash Petite first.”
Morrison looked like he wanted to object to my priorities, but gave it up before he even got started. “I’ll get a bucket.”
“You’re an angel among men, Captain Michael Morrison.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” But he did go get a bucket, and didn’t say anything when halfway through washing Petite it all hit me again and I slid down against her front wheel to hide my face in soapy hands and cry again. He just came and sat beside me, an arm around my shoulders, and after a while said, “Over here,” to someone I couldn’t see.
I looked up into a tear-blurred world to find Gary and Annie coming toward us. A snotty smile broke through my sniffles and I got up to fling my slightly dirty, very soapy self into Gary’s arms. These emotional ups and downs were already exhausting, even though I’d only been up an hour. I was going to need to go back to bed by five o’clock.
Gary kissed the top of my head. “You’re wet, doll.”
“Petite needed a bath.” I hadn’t done a good job of it, either, but she was sparklier than she’d been. Maybe I’d go over her with a Q-tip on the weekend. Although I didn’t have a job anymore, so I didn’t really have to wait for the weekend. For a moment that, too, was overwhelming. I heaved some gasps into Gary’s chest, trying to keep myself from crying again, and he tightened his arms around me. When I was in less danger of sobbing, he let go, smiled and said, “You okay, sweetheart?”
I nodded, then shook my head. “I mean, you know. I’m a horrible mess, but I’m okay. I’ll be okay.”
“Good.” Gary’s eyes shone. “So I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Annie Muldoon.”
I blurted wet laughter and turned to Annie, offering a hand and the straightest face I could. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Muldoon.”
Annie took my hand and, with considerably more strength than I might have expected, pulled me into a hug. “Thank you, Miss Walker.”
I sniffled over the top of her head. “Call me Jo.”
“Call me Annie.” She didn’t exactly let go, but she put a little distance between us and looked up at me with soft eyes. “Thank you, Jo. For everything. Gary’s been catching me up a little, the past day. You’re an extraordinary young woman.”
“There’s a quote about that. About people having extraordinary things thrust upon them. That’s me, not the other way around.”
General derision met my comment, but nobody actually argued with me. I leaned against Petite, not caring that my butt got wet. Annie looked wonderful. She barely topped five feet in height, but she glowed with presence. In fact, when that word ran through my mind I stopped to check her with the Sight, wondering if she was actually glowing.
Not quite. Cernunnos’s green made faint sparks around her edges, maybe, but that could have been the blur of new leaves in the distance, too. Mostly she was just copper and flame, healthy and gaining strength like a young horse.
Or a young stag. Her spirit animals appeared at the thought, a stag who stretched forth one leg and bowed, and the cheetah, whose black spots had stars in them, and who wound around Annie’s legs like any oversized housecat might do. Like the stag, it met my eyes, then wound back into Annie, followed by the stag’s more delicate steps.
“What do you See?” she asked curiously. I startled and she waved her hands at her eyes. “Your eyes are gold. What do you See?”
I’d forgotten that I had a tell-tale sign of using magic. Morrison
’s cell phone rang and we all blinked at him a moment. He stepped away to answer it and I looked back at Annie. “I see your spirit animals. You. Just in general. You look good. And Gary looks like he’s full of helium and about to float off.” Honestly, the two of them looked like a walking advertisement for healthy living over seventy. Or sixty-five. I wasn’t sure how old Annie was, technically, what with having taken most of five years out of the usual time line. Either way, they really did look like an ad, with Annie in a nip-waisted print dress and Gary in a flannel shirt and jeans that looked suspiciously like they’d been ironed recently. They were both completely silver-headed, and Gary’s white-winged raven sat on his shoulder, eyeing all that silver hair covetously. “You look good,” I said again, smiling.
The Muldoons beamed back at me. “How are you feeling? Both of you, just...how are you doing?”
“We’re all right, doll. Got a lot to figure out, but we’re gonna be okay. Don’t you worry about us, arright? How’re you?”
“Like I could not worry about my best friend.”
Annie smiled. “Perhaps you should put off worrying about us for a few days. I’m not sure any of this has really sunk in for us yet. It’s hard to understand that most of five years have passed while you were sleeping. It probably won’t all really come home to us for a little while yet. You can worry about us then. How are you, Joanne? You look peaked.”
“I am peaked. And...” And I felt like I should probably grill them and take them apart psychologically to investigate their state of okayness, but since I lacked the doctoral credentials, I thought maybe I’d let them have their way. Whatever scarring they would have to deal with could wait a few days. I pushed away from Petite and brushed at my wet hiney to no avail. “I have to go talk to Suzy. And Coyote’s grandpa. And...” My eyes welled up again, but I was too tired to cry. I wiped the tears away with a sigh. “And Billy and Melinda and Dad and probably a hundred million other people, too. Maybe we could all just get together in my apartment and have a group hug.” I was only half kidding. A group hug sounded like the best possible therapy available.