Raven took it as triumph, fluffed out all his feathers until he was twice his normal size and sat with a smug klok! that reverberated in the small bones of my ears.
One drummer hit a note that echoed the tone and pitch of Raven’s call perfectly, and the theater ripped down the middle, folded away and left me in the midst of a harsh white desert.
I had been here before.
Past experience didn’t make sipping at searing air any easier. It didn’t make the unrelenting brilliance of the too-close sun any easier to bear, either. I still didn’t want to look at myself for fear I’d see the very bones outlined in my flesh, light so intense it could only burn me away. Tears, precious liquid, drained from my mostly-closed eyes because the light was simply more than could be borne. They ran across my nose and dropped to gleaming white earth, sizzling into nothingness within an instant. I was very nearly as physically miserable as I’d ever been, and that included having gotten hit by a semi less than an hour earlier.
On the other hand, I wasn’t dangling upside-down from the only tree in Creation. I could feel its roots under my ribs and thigh, and if I dared open my eyes that much, I knew I’d see its bleached-out spirally bones reaching for the nearby sun and providing no shade at all. I didn’t want to look that hard. For the moment, I didn’t have a headache so bad it seemed likely to split my skull in half, and wisdom seemed the better part of valor. Instead I peeked through my lashes at the close horizon, and conceded that overall, magic-drained or not, I was in much better condition than I’d been the first time I came to this place.
And this time, I wasn’t surprised at all when a coyote trotted out of the desert whiteness to greet me.
He was, once again, possibly the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. Coyotes in general were tawny, good for blending into shrub-infested yellow deserts. This one might blend into a precious metals mine if he tried hard enough. Every strand of fur glittered like they’d been hand-painted in gold and copper and bronze. His eyes were black, not coyote-gold, and stars lay within them, shining pinpoints from all edges of the sky.
He moved like a dream, not convincingly bound to the earth, and brought slightly cooler air with him, the difference between coughing on each breath and being able to swallow it down. When he breathed, the air expanded, shimmering like a heat mirage and expanding the pocket of cooler air. I wanted very much for him to lie down next to me so I could pull enough air into my lungs, but I had to settle for him sitting, paws tidily aligned a few centimeters from my nose.
It helped. After a minute or three I pushed up on an elbow, then into a sitting position, and croaked, “Hey, big guy.”
This archetype of the Trickster, this primal chaos force of the universe, this prophet and world-maker whom I called Big Coyote, closed his starry eyes in a slow greeting blink, then bashed his head against mine hard enough to give me starry eyes, too.
I had the brief thought that, though I’d never say so out loud, I was becoming rather more fond of spirit animals who actually spoke to me, like Rattler, than of ones who used brute physical force to get their points across. Then the expected ache from Big Coyote’s head-butt kicked in, and I didn’t think very much at all, just remembered.
Remembered the past thirty-six hours, specifically. Starting with pulling the trigger to bring Patty Raleigh down, and speeding through every moment thereafter both linearly and statically, so I was caught up in a barrage of everything happening now. I saw every action I’d taken illuminated by the close white sun, no shadows to hide in, no excuses to be made. Blood misted from Raleigh’s shoulder, the most appalling violence I’d ever done to a human being. Morrison shifted, caught up in my magic. Naomi Allison collapsed, too far gone for me to rescue. Rita Wagner asked for help and Tia Carley didn’t, but they both offered possible redemption for my failures with Raleigh and Allison alike. The ghost dance killer’s trail bled hunter-moon orange and faded away. I walked away from Patricia Raleigh’s sleeping form with no regrets. Bare skin shredded as I bounced across the pavement, pain exploding through my bones. Emotion sluiced through me, exhaustive, pulling in a dozen directions at once as Big Coyote sat over me like a curious god, examining each choice I’d made in the last couple days.
I suddenly felt like a grad student defending her thesis. I wasn’t absolutely certain I needed to defend myself, but there was a distinct on-the-spot sensation about the whole thing. Warily, I said, “I’d do it again.”
Memory went still, and Big Coyote cocked his head at me, one ear flicked: which part?
“All of it.” I rubbed my eyes, knocking some of the mental imagery away. When I dropped my hand again, Big Coyote was predominant, his hard white desert a little duller and easier to look at. “Not shapeshifting Morrison, not if I could help it, but that was an honest mistake and as long as we get him back safe I’m not going to beat myself up over it. I’m tired of that crap. The rest of it, though, you know what? You want to hang me out to dry? Fine. You’ve got the tree right there.”
I gestured without looking, trusting that the hanging tree was indeed still there. Big Coyote’s wiry gold eyebrow spot shot upward, and he did look at the hanging tree. Thumped his tail once against the ground, then bared his teeth in a wide coyote smile. Very white clean teeth, like he was a rock star who’d had them bleached, not like he was the Platonic ideal of a predator/scavenger. Though I supposed a Platonic coyote would, in fact, have flawlessly white teeth, since all other coyotes would have to try—and fail—to live up to its perfect image.
By the time I’d run through that entire mental machination, Big Coyote’s threatening smile had sort of faltered. Apparently I wasn’t supposed to get caught up in the details of impossible perfection when he was trying to intimidate me. Another one for the handbook.
“I am doing my best,” I said in a low, level voice. “I’ve got two worlds I’m trying to balance here. You—somebody—put me on this path. Shaman and warrior. They’re conflicting interests, big guy. If you don’t like how I’m handling it, take away the cosmic powers.”
Big Coyote’s ears flattened, and I sighed, understanding him perfectly. No wonder half the spirit creatures I’d encountered didn’t speak aloud. They didn’t have to.
“No,” I said to his flat ears. “I don’t really want you to, not at this point. I’d miss them, if you want to know the truth. I’d miss being able to help people the way I’ve learned to, and believe me, a year ago I never thought I’d hear myself say that. Could I live with it? Yeah, I could, because hey, I managed to get through most of my life without being some kind of shamanic superstar. There are things not being a shaman would make a lot easier.”
Like my job, at least the mundane part of it. Like whatever was going on with Morrison. Like hanging out with people who had once been my friends and who were now just a little scared of me. My life was maybe a lot more interesting now, but it sure as hell wasn’t any easier. I’d gotten past resenting that, but I still missed the old sane world I’d been part of. I didn’t say any of that out loud, but Big Coyote’s ears twitched again, and I thought he’d gotten the message as clearly as I got his own nonverbal communication. Buoyed, I leaned forward and poked him in the chest. “So if you’re not going to take them away, stop standing over me like judge, jury and executioner, because I am doing my best.”
A glint of satisfaction sparked in Big Coyote’s eyes. Fishhooks settled into my belly and yanked hard.