The man went down for the last time.
Sean watched Charlie Two Horses bundle three of the vandals in the back of the tribal police car.
“They’ll be set free,” his grandfather said softly from where he stood beside him.
“I know.” Sean’s mouth tightened in a grim line. “They’re white and they’re barely eighteen. I imagine if they’re tried at all, it will be as juveniles and the charge will be malicious mischief. Not much of a penalty for that.”
“Did you recognize them?”
“One is the grandson of the man who owns the motel. He was also involved in the vandalism last night, but we can’t prove it.”
“You came close to losing this time, Akecheta.”
He gave his grandfather a nudge. “But we didn’t.” His eyes travelled to R.J., leaning against the side of her Jeep. “She helped.”
His grandfather stiffened. “What if she tells her story?”
“She won’t. She gave me her word.”
“Ha! The word of a white woman.”
“She saved my life, grandfather,” he replied in a quiet voice.
The tension in his grandfather’s stance eased. “Hmm, we’ll see.”
“I’m going to go say goodbye.”
R.J. pushed away from the Jeep as he approached. A soft smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. One dimple showed.
“Got to say this for you, Swifthawk,” she said, shoving her hands in her pockets. “You sure know how to show a girl a good time.”
“And you, R.J. Baxter,” he answered with a smile and a tap to the end of her nose, “don’t know how to follow instructions.” He sobered. “And I’m glad you don’t. Thanks for saving my life.”
Her face tinged with pink. “No problem.” Shifting her attention to the patrol car slowly leaving the parking lot, she gave her head a shake. “What will happen now?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean ‘nothing’?” she asked, indignant. “They tried to burn down the Center.”
“They’re white. Charlie will turn them over to the sheriff and at most, they’ll get a slap on the wrist.”
“That’s not fair.”
He lifted his shoulder in a shrug.
She watched the patrol with a speculative look. “I could do a story about the injustice of it all?”
“Don’t,” he replied, placing a hand on her shoulder to draw her attention away from the departing vandals. “It won’t do any good. We know them now — they’ll be watched.”
R.J. crossed her arms over her chest and arched an eyebrow at him. “I’ll agree you have some pretty unusual talents, Bird Man,” she said in a low voice, “but you and your grandfather can’t be everywhere.”
“There are others.”
Her eyes flew wide. “What?” she hissed, “Some secret society of shapeshifters?”
Sean allowed a smirk. “Let’s just say we have ‘friends’.”
“But—”
The hand on her shoulder squeezed lightly, cutting her off. “Let it go, R.J.”
She glanced towards the Center with a light glinting in her eye. “Okay, I won’t write about the plot to destroy the Center,” she said, slapping him on the arm, “but I’ll tell you what I am going to do — I’m going to write a story that’ll make this place sound better than Disneyland.” She chuckled and gave a quick nod. “And I can do it. You’re going to have so many tourists to fleece, the tribe won’t know what to do with all the money.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Yup,” she said with a broad smile, “this place is going to be so popular that whoever’s behind this attack won’t dare try and destroy it again.” Her smile fell away. “You really can’t leave, can you?”
He shook his head, almost with remorse.
“Well,” she said, and shot a glance towards his grandfather.
Then, before he could react, she grabbed the front of his shirt and, standing on tiptoes, planted a kiss that shook him to his core. With a satisfied smile, she turned and hopped in her Jeep. Starting the engine, she winked. “See you around, Bird Man.”
He watched as she slowly pulled away and turned on to the highway.
“Did she call you Bird Man?” his grandfather asked in shocked tones.
“Yes,” Sean answered with a low chuckle.
His grandfather scratched his head, his attention on the retreating Jeep. “Even for a white, she’s a strange woman. It’s good we’ve seen the last of her.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Sean replied, more to himself than his grandfather. With a jerk of his head, he motioned towards the rise. “Come on, let’s go home.”
Together, they walked across the prairie as the sun brightened the horizon. At the top of the rise, they looked down at the highway winding its way out of the reservation and the Jeep speeding away.
Above it, in a golden sky, a white owl circled.
Nathalie Gray
The Demon’s Secret
Demons usually didn’t take so many bullets to die.
“Damn. I don’t have all night,” Cain muttered.
He emptied his magazine into the flying monstrosity as it swooped past, and scowled at the horrid smell that hit him like a slap of hot wind. Pausing only to slam in place a spare drum magazine, he leaped from one building to the next. The boom-boom-boom of his shotgun thundered in the winter night. Nickel-plated, custom-fitted, this combat shotgun was nicknamed “the jackhammer”. Who the hell named guns?
Around him, snow-covered east end Montreal rooftops resembled clouds. Like running in heaven. Except he’d never be allowed in heaven. There were books written about him, even the Book mentioned him.
If Cain didn’t kill the spawn, that’d make him look bad. And weak. In his line of work, looking weak invited all kinds of bad press and the attention of some beings even worse than he was. His own master would love nothing better than to punish him.
“Come on,” he hollered. “I’m freezing my nuts off!”
The demonic spawn came back for another dive, hoping perhaps Cain was too busy trying not to fall off the building. Cain straightened his arm, took aim and didn’t let his finger off the trigger until a sizable chunk of the creature had been blown off. The monster crashed on to a tin roof, tumbled several times and sent a geyser of snow ten feet high before stopping in a flailing, writhing heap. Cain skidded to a halt, pinned one of the demon’s ruined, leathery wings beneath his Italian shoe. The magazine was empty, so he methodically hand-loaded one of the special shells.
He called these rosaries.
“Next time you come after me, you piece of hell-shit, bring a few buddies along, okay?” Cain aimed at the creature’s neck and fired.
The shot dispersed in a stainless steel wire, dotted with silver-plated ball bearings. Like a flying garrote, it hit the creature across the neck, severing it. Black blood sprayed outwards and melted snow over a foot-wide radius. Like an overripe melon bursting. The smell of sulphur and smoke stung Cain’s nose. The black creature’s glistening body caved in on itself and then broke in several smouldering embers that blew away in the wind. No traces of it remained except for despoiled snow.
Not much could hurt those demonic creatures. Holy water, silver, gold, direct sunlight and a couple of other things he never would’ve guessed before becoming. . Whatever he was now.
Cain checked his watch. Maybe he wouldn’t be too late for the harvest.
After retracing his steps to the private clinic’s roof, he opened the door leading into the service stairwell, knocked his feet, one by one, against the jamb to dislodge what he could of snow — and black, viscous blood. Heat like a wave greeted him when he climbed down the stairs to the second floor. He hadn’t realized how cold he was. His fingertips tingled, as did his toes. Cain smoothed down his felt coat, pushed the door leading to the second floor and, staring straight ahead amidst the oblivious staff, returned to the room where he’d first spotted the spawn as it tried to get in through the window. The door was still ajar. Cain slipped in and just by smell he knew he wasn’t too late. The man still lived. Barely.