by Faith Hunter
The stranger looked at me. His squint was less and his color was almost normal. He leaned in and sipped the coffee through the straw. “If it’s poisoned, it’s good poison,” he said.
I thought about the muscle power of a skinwalker at full strength, and any weak link on the cuffs. “He’s just about healed enough to get free. He’ll be fast. And though you’ve had the hand of Uncle Sam in your training, he could be decades old. He’ll have experience in multiple martial art forms.”
“I’ve sparred with you, Babe. He’s going no place fast, not without a hole in him and leaking a blood trail.” Eli sipped, slouched, seeming relaxed, gun pointed at our violent visitor. “What she said. Talk.”
The man ignored my partner, which showed stupidity on his part, as he studied me. “Not u’tlun’ta? So why do you smell of predator?”
“Talk,” I said, so softly he would have missed it had he been human. “Now.”
His eyes tightened in surprise. For sure he had golden eyes, not black, not eyes of The People, but eyes of a skinwalker. My heart ached. If he was a trap, he was a good one. “I had a speech all prepared,” he said, a swift hint of humor appearing in those golden eyes, “and despite the unfortunate way we have made our acquaintance, I would like to speak the words.”
I nodded. He leaned and sucked up coffee through his straw. Eli sipped. I gulped. Headache eased some more.
The man sat back and tossed a lost strand of hair from his face. It wasn’t a feminine gesture. It stirred a memory in me, one that was tied to the Tsalagi and to my past. A memory of my true youth, before my grandmother had forced me into the shape of the bobcat and cast me into the snow to live or die. That had been on the Trail of Tears. Nunna Daul Tsuny. But the memory was from before that. Just the vision of a man’s long hair being tossed back against a sunset sky.
Then the vision of golden hands braiding that hair before a crackling fire, the strands picking up the light of the comforting flames. My father’s hair. My mother’s hands. Edoda had let no one touch his hair but her. Braiding hair was a spiritual exercise for the Tsalagi, a sharing of power and energy. I had forgotten that. I had let lots of people braid my hair.
The visitor spoke, shattering the memory. “Few people outside of my family know this, and no one in PsyLED except my mentor, who keeps secrets of her own. It isn’t in my PsyLED personnel folder. It isn’t in my records. I’m sharing this with you so you will know I mean it when I say I come to make peace with you. I speak the truth.”
As he talked, the cadence of his speech had changed, the rhythm altering. It was the unconscious linguistic dance of a speaker of The People speaking English.
“I am Cherokee skinwalker,” he said. “I was named at birth Nvdayeli Tlivdatsi of Ani Gilogi, or Nantahala Panther of the Panther Clan. But the name was a thing of sadness, as the Nantahala River was only a memory, lost to our people since the yunega forced the tribal peoples away from their lands to the territories. And since the panthers had been hunted to extinction. It was a name of failure, of loss, a name I hated.”
His eyes were holding mine, trying to read me, trying to tell me something, but I had no idea what. He shifted and his cuffs clinked softly as he rearranged his position. Eli’s weapon followed, as if anticipating the movement.
“When I grew up, I took the name Ayatas Nvgitsvle, or One Who Dreams of Fire Wind, for the raging fires I saw in my dreams.” His lips were chiseled, sharply defined, the tissue dry and smooth, and they moved in familiar ways when he spoke the Cherokee words of his name. The syllables were murmured, just as they ought to be. “I left home, from the Indian Territory, west of the Mississippi, and out to the Wild West, where I stayed for some years.”
My eyes flew to the man’s at the words Indian Territory and Wild West. Eli centered his weapon on the man’s chest in a two-handed grip. I didn’t have to ask if there was a round in the chamber. The use of the words suggested that the man was far older than expected. Maybe nearly as old as I was and I’d been around some one hundred seventy years, not that I remembered much about the first hundred fifty. He had called me e-igido. That felt important, though I couldn’t say why, the word prying at my mind.
I sipped my tea, but I no longer tasted it. Wild West. Terms of an older man. Manners of an older man. Eyes of an older man, one who had seen too much, lost too much. Ayatas was old. Hope spiraled up again, signaling a desire I had forgotten I ever had. Hope, traitorous and volatile, insubstantial as smoke and as difficult to grasp. Hope was a well-baited trap.
“Let him talk,” I said softly. I slurped again, positioned the tea a little to my side, pushed it away, and leaned in. I had his scent now. I had it when he was calm, had it fearful and angry and full of fight-or-flight pheromones, had him pained. If he lied, I’d detect it in his scent. If my head didn’t explode, that is. “Go on.”
“I am Senior Special Agent Ayatas FireWind of PsyLED, in charge of the states east of the Mississippi. My up-line boss is the newly appointed assistant director in charge of all paranormal investigations. Soul. No last name. You know her.”
I nodded, a single drop of my chin in the tribal way. “How are you classified species-wise with PsyLED?”
PsyLED had once been a human-only law enforcement organization created to deal with paranormal creatures who attacked humans or broke human laws. In the last few years, when it became apparent that humans without heavy artillery were no match for paras, the agency had begun to draw on the paranormal community for agents, whom it classified according to species and gift. They might not know he was skinwalker, but they could read his magical energies with a device called a psy-meter. I knew because I’d been read by the device. There was no hiding paranormal abilities, not anymore.
“You’re well versed in PsyLED internal policies,” he said. When I didn’t reply, he added, “I am an unclassified, noncontagious, non-moon-called shape-shifter. No mention of a Cherokee skinwalker in my dossier.”
Skinwalkers weren’t unknown in the mythos. That had to be willful blindness or the influence of someone in high places. “Go on.”
“I had heard of the woman who killed a sabertooth lion. Had heard rumors of the woman who changed shape into a mountain lion in the car of the Master of the City of New Orleans. I had heard she claimed to be Chelokay. Yet had yellow eyes.”
I nodded, breathing slowly through nose and mouth, letting his scent trace over my tongue. As well as I could tell on such short acquaintance, he was speaking the truth. And Soul had been present when I shifted. So Soul was a likely source of his intel. Had she sent him to me? And if so, why not an official meet-and-greet? Why the personal ambush, followed by a weapon-based one? Had Soul expected this? Allowed it to happen?
“The woman’s name was Jane Yellowrock. My research took time to compile, but once it was together, it all suggested she was like me. Skinwalker.”
He seemed to be waiting for me to respond, but I said nothing.
“I have lived in Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Wyoming for decades, in law enforcement, as a teacher, a lawyer.” He frowned slightly. “I joined PsyLED ten years ago, and . . .” He shrugged, a very Cherokee gesture, lifting the shoulder blades in back, tilting the head, eyebrows quirking just a bit. “They discovered I was a para. They kept me on. And then there was the evidence of you on YouTube. A video of you walking from a cave, injured, your eyes glowing.”
I knew the video he was talking about and gave him the same shrug back. I wasn’t ready to show interest or ask questions. Not yet. Because I knew way more than this guy seemed to think I knew.
“I made changes and requested this PsyLED territory. Was assigned to New Orleans when the European Mithran emperor showed up offshore. I came here today to make peace with Jane Yellowrock, should she turn out to be who I thought she might be. Soul told me—several times—that she knew you and offered to introduce us, but I thought . . . I hoped . . . it might be a high
ly personal meeting and wanted it to be private.”
Soul had wanted us to meet. Soul, who knew what I was. Soul, who, despite our sorta friendship, might have had a stronger tie to this man than to me, and let him decide how and when to proceed with an intro.
The frisson of energies that had begun when I first saw the man swept through me again and unexpected tears gathered in my eyes. I blinked them away. He was skinwalker. He was of The People. He had come to make peace with me. This was the first time this had ever happened to me. The first time any one of The People had ever come to me. Had ever wanted to come to me.
Yet, the same words that seemed to offer kinship and tribal welcome made my heart tumble with disappointment, and I struggled to understand why.
“You had an unusual history,” he continued before I could speak. “I wanted to meet you. And if things went well, ask you to take me when I presented papers and letters to Leonard Pellissier, letters of introduction.”
That, I thought. That was what was wrong with this entire scenario. Ayatas wanted info and maybe the opportunity to be present at the fight to the death between the Master of the City, Leo Pellissier, and the European vampire emperor, Titus Flavius Vespasianus. And he wanted me to give it to him.
“So you show up here, planning to give PsyLED a finger on the pulse of the upcoming Sangre Duello,” Eli said. It was his battle voice, soft, unforgiving, ready to kill. He was angry that the man had intended to forge and then use a personal relationship with me to get to Leo. Using me. Why not ask Rick to do this? My ex had his fingers in every pie there was.
“Yes. I . . . I reacted badly to your scent. I shot you. At you. I don’t know why I shot at you or why I missed.” He closed his eyes, his scent smelling of shock and fear, strong and harsh on the air. He had shot at someone while technically on the job, revealing an unexpected lack of control. Professional suicide. That seemed to be sinking in. Ayatas went on. “I put too many of my hopes in this one small basket, in this one meeting. I ruined it and I can’t even explain to you why, except that your scent triggered something in me. I thought you were black magic. The thing our kind fears most. I am sorry, e-igido.”
“What’s eigido?” Eli asked, mangling the word.
The tears I was trying to blink away spilled over and dashed down my cheeks.
I remembered the word as he spoke. The word in his first line when he still stood uninjured at the door.
“E-igido,” I whispered, finally placing the term. “E-igido means ‘my sister.’” I was an only child. My father died when I was five years old, killed by white men in front of me. He might smell of truth, but this man lied. For reasons I couldn’t explain, that final lie cut deep.
CHAPTER 2
Lots of Bloody Bubbles
The man claiming to be my brother was no longer in the room with us, though to be fair, with skinwalker hearing he probably could hear us chatting.
Littermate, Beast thought at me. I ignored her. It was impossible.
“He knows just enough to have done his research,” Alex said. “Most everything he said is either on video on YouTube or in Reach’s data files. Just because Reach is hiding from us doesn’t mean he’s dead. He might have sold the info to PsyLED.”
Reach had been the best researcher in the paranormal world. He maintained he had been tortured for his data and then had disappeared, not that we had undisputed evidence of his claim. We had acquired most of his files, and Alex, the electronic genius of Yellowrock Securities, had married the files into our own, making Alex the researcher at the top of the heap.
“His scent,” I said, laying back my head on the sofa and closing my eyes against the headache. I was exhausted and even the hazy daylight through the windows still hurt. “He has a natural floral scent. Just like the vamps said.” There had been a yellow-eyed Cherokee in the city over a hundred years ago, and she had smelled like flowers. “I don’t think my Tsalagi birth name or my clan name is on record anywhere. Aggie One Feather hasn’t shared it. I insulted her when I called to ask. And Beast called him littermate. He’s my kinsman. If not my brother, then half brother. Cousin at the very least. But I was an only child. I didn’t have a brother or sister; only hints and blurred images of my mother and not much more of my father. I don’t know how . . . I don’t know anything.” I raised my voice though it sent a spike of pain through my head. “Edmund, you making nice-nice?”
The shelving unit blocking the vamp’s stone-lined sleeping quarters opened just enough to allow his voice to emerge. “No, my mistress.”
Ayatas shouted from the same place, “I’m not letting a fanghead suck on me!”
The door shut. I was Edmund Hartley’s mistress—not his lover, but his master—and I could have ordered the vampire to drink Ayatas down and read him like a book. But I hated the idea of abusing a PsyLED officer, even one who had tried to kill me. I also detested the idea of forcing Ed to do something that he found to be inexcusable. “I loathe the very concept of drinking down someone who might be your brother. This is family and family are sacrosanct, even when they try to kill us,” he’d said. Which was weird, but knowing Ed’s history, the statement sorta made sense. He was right. I was ashamed.
I laid an arm over my eyes, and a moment later Alex murmured, “Lift your arm. I have a cold compress for your head.”
I dropped my arm and something cool and gel-like settled in its place. No one said anything else about my little problem. My headaches were scary to the boys, since they might mean the genetic damage that had resulted from playing around in time had given me some kind of brain trauma. Or not. Maybe I was just getting migraines. Timewalking and headaches didn’t have to be cause and effect.
Eli’s cell rang. “It’s Soul. Okay if I do the talking?”
“Knock yourself out,” I said.
“Eli Younger here. Thank you for calling us back. We have a visitor, a man who claims to be PsyLED.” He didn’t mention that Alex had already been inside PsyLED’s databases and confirmed Ayatas’s identity and employment records and the claims about his personnel folder. “Claims he’s Rick LaFleur’s boss and your direct underling. Ayatas FireWind.”
“That is correct.” Soul’s voice came over the speaker. We heard clicking as she tapped on a keyboard. “He was originally in charge of five western states, but last year he requested a move to the eastern seaboard. The transfer was granted only a few weeks ago. I see from an e-mail earlier today that he was going to request assistance in meeting Leo Pellissier from Jane.” There was an odd tone in her voice, an eagerness I hadn’t expected. “Is that why you’re calling?”
“Not exactly. He tried to kill Jane.”
There was silence after his words, and if silence had a sharp edge, this one would have cut the air. “An officer of PsyLED tried to kill the Enforcer of the Master of the City of New Orleans?” Soul was carefully using titles now. I had to wonder why. “He was unsuccessful? How?”
“Yes and yes. With his service weapon.”
“Why?”
“Said her scent triggered something in him. Couldn’t really say.”
“I see. Jane’s scent is . . . unusual and—” Her voice cut off abruptly. “FireWind is dead?”
“No. Jane dodged the bullet.”
“Dodged a bullet. I see.” There was another silence as Soul put things together. She knew I could timewalk. That was the name she had given to what some species could do, including her species, the arcenciels, or rainbow dragons. We had chatted a week ago, getting me up to speed on what was happening to me, though I hadn’t told her about the headaches. Soul wasn’t part of Yellowrock Securities, so that was still under wraps.
“He can’t dodge bullets?” Eli said, asking if Ayatas could step outside of time.
She didn’t answer the question, saying instead, “Ayatas had hoped that his possible relationship with Jane would speed a meeting with Leo. Time is short.”
“You know Leo. Rick LaFleur knows Leo. Why does PsyLED need Jane?”
“PsyLED has tried three times in the last week to arrange a meeting with the Master of the City of New Orleans, through formal channels, and we’ve been shut down.”
That was interesting, but not surprising. Every law enforcement and government agency from the feds down wanted to talk to Leo ASAP, if not sooner. Plus . . . Leo currently had possession of Adan, a witch-vampire everyone wanted access to. Adan had once kept a skinwalker as personal blood-servant, making him high on my personal chat list. He’d also imprisoned an arcenciel, one of Soul’s species, and forced her to timewalk for him, making him high on Soul’s personal chat list. So personal, business, and legal reasons all at once. Everything Leo did had multilayered reasoning. “Why does PsyLED need to chat with the MOC?” Eli asked.
“Not just PsyLED, but FireWind in particular. Ayatas is more than a special agent at this particular point in time. He is the liaison between PsyLED, CIA, FBI, and ICE for the European/American blood duel.”
Soul had told me nothing useful, except that Ayatas had a lot of pull to have the backing of so many federal agencies. I figured she was giving me bits and pieces in hopes of info on the Sangre Duello. Leo was working hard to keep the government out of the duel. And—Ayatas was here to use me. I had known it. Yet, some small piece of innocence and hope died inside me. The coffin that was my chest ached.
Eli said nothing and Soul continued. “We understand that the Sangre Duello may be held offshore. Normally, of course, no one in a government position would be involved in anything offshore, in foreign countries or international waters.”
I lifted a corner of my eye cover and Eli gave me a wolfish grin. He’d been in combat in places where maybe he shouldn’t have been sent. The government wasn’t always true to international law. I pushed the gel pack away and sat up, ignoring the spears that lanced through my brain and throbbed like a heavy metal band of agony. Eli was watching me. I blinked and forced my eyes to focus together.